Mónica De La Torre
Embracing boredom and creative constraints, Katchadourian tells of in-flight artwork and other conceptual projects.
Incorporating poems by Maureen McLane, Dorothea von Moltke, Geoffrey Nutter, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, Sal Randolph, Mónica de la Torre, and Monica Youn
You don’t have to be a connoisseur of erotica to recognize its tropes: wet, swelling pussies; budding breasts; hot, tight holes; massive rods … Do they seem all the more worn-out because they’re aimed at conveying sexual stamina?
Pythagoras taught behind a veil to avoid distracting his students with his bodily appearance, which he considered an impediment to their pursuit of pure knowledge. His voice was an acousmatic one—its origin could not be identified.
“When we walk around with all this weight on our shoulders, we justify our boots.”
Mónica de la Torre interviews the late Elsa Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven (yes, you read that correctly) in honor of the publication of Body Sweats, a collection of her uncensored writings.
A brief prose masterpiece by Borges comes to mind when pondering the quandary behind Robert Walser’s nearly indecipherable hand-scrawled microscripts.
“Meow!” might serve as the inscrutable sound bite of this traveling exhibition curated by Anthony Huberman which started at the Contemporary Art Museum in St. Louis last fall and ends at the Culturgest—Fundação Caixa Geral de Depósitos in Lisbon this summer.
So much to say about this book touching on the deadening effects of mindless employment, on marital dysfunction, middle-class preoccupations, dipsomania, and realty.
BOMB visits the studio of visual artist Shoshanna Dentz, to talk about Beckett, content, and the human relationship to fences.
Monica de la Torre chats with Brandon Downing about his videos and poems.
“Vocal Executive Chides Critics of Detroit” reads a recent New York Times headline, confirming a synecdoche firmly engrained in the American imagination substituting industry for place.
Walking the hardware store
aisles, past busted boxes
of finishing nails and mole
traps, he wonders if his penis
is still masculine if it resides
in a male mouth still warm
from casserole and coffee.
Brazil was a giant torpedo, green,
and several World War II soldiers at its feet.
In a library with at least eleven windows
less than eleven women who knew each other not
told each other secrets
Anyone living in Mexico City knows that policemen not only epitomize official corruption, but are also noted actors and emitters of unsurpassable oxymorons and redundancies.