What literature can (and can’t) tell us about America’s criminal justice system.
I first met Rachel Kushner in Toronto McCarren airport in, I think, 2007. We were both there for the International Festival of Authors (IFOA). I’d just spent several hours in US immigration detention (the asshole border guard had opined that I “didn’t deserve” my visa) and I was heartily pissed off at missing a flight to New York.
An eight hour interview with Gilles Delueze was saved for release until after the philosopher’s death. The posthumous talk covers everything from A to Z. Literally.
Remember the old pulp novels—two-in-one, back-to-back and upside-down? When you finished one, you could flip the book over and read the other.
Remember the old pulp novels—two-in-one, back-to-back and upside-down?
In the title story of Janet Sarbanes’s stingingly funny fiction debut, a character starts her own army as a way of separating from a lover and consolidating “self.”
The blue lights flippes on. Smoky haze drifted above the tables.
“Introducing, from Paris, zazou dancer Rachel K!”
Cannon Hudson paints architectural interiors. On first glance, many of his paintings look like pictorial space populated by shapes resembling Sol LeWitt sculptures.
Writer Rachel Kushner examines the lineage of common themes and recurrent imagery in July’s extraordinary body of work.
In 1946 Yves Klein lay on the beach at Nice, an 18-year-old on an outing with friends.
Holly Block’s survey of contemporary Cuban art highlights artists, such as González, Álvarez, and Suarez, who neither explicitly support Castro’s reign nor obviously oppose it, but find a middle ground of artistic expression.
Ukrainian American band Gogol Bordello blends punk music, absurdist theater, and the accordion to create their self-described “rural Transylvanian avant-hard” sound.
Viewing Alex Brown’s paintings can be compared to spying an image through a heat wave, or through the blur of tears, creating a sense of “pleasurably anxious wavering between the discernable and the barely there,” writes reviewer Rachel Kushner.
I wish I could say of the integrity in Kenneth Lonergan’s dramas that all the separate works are like blocks of marble from the same quarry, showing the same veins and faults as the mother rock, but Malcolm Cowley already said it about William Faulkner.
Often regarded as a Southern artist, William Eggleston does not consider himself as such in any traditional sense of the term.
When I first saw David Lynch’s Lost Highway upon its theater release in 1998, I found myself seduced by what have become classic Lynchean touches: the opening sequence of bifurcated highway strip, its noirish titles, its lushly choreographed scenes and hearty use of the sexual and the grotesque—in sum, its unimpeachable stylishness.