New York Live Arts presents
BOMB 126 Winter 2014
Cuba’s detective-fiction author spins an epic tale on Trotsky and his assassin in The Man Who Loved Dogs.
On sculpture’s theatricality and refusal to be imaged.
Althoff engages multiple art modes—from painting to making music, as a band member of Workshop and under the pseudonym Fanal.
The author of Cunt Norton and the forthcoming TV Sutras on how to mess with the poetry canon.
Claire of the Sea Light and the mysteries the ancestors share.
The winter after our father and Kenny died, my sister decided she was going to be the Cherry Blossom Queen of Japantown.
Winner of BOMB’s 2013 Fiction Contest, judged by Ben Marcus.
We’re losing time
like drunk pirates who
wake in a rowboat
My metallic body pale green like the death of underpainting / leprous corrosion of rosy / skin
The streets, the falls. / The trewes, the gifts, the gavels. / The coming down, the first part.
With the intention of writing another of those works that belong to the ineffable category of the latest literary revelations, Nonici Murla brushes everything aside and begins to toil without interruption on his first book, a novelized biography of Gottfried von Gennrich, sorcerer in the service of Henri I, ”The Fowler.”
How do I write on another painter without the jargon or obscure art-speak? I have no idea.
The primary challenge of any William Kentridge monograph might seem to be getting images on the page to represent the South African artist’s oeuvre, which spans performance by puppets and opera singers, immersive film installations, stereoscopic and anamorphic drawings, crank-activated kinetic sculptures that play music (recently on view at Marian Goodman in New York), and virtuosic charcoal-on-paper animations.
In Janine Antoni’s Within, the interplay of the industrial with the organic acts as a metaphor for the building of a human.
A swarm of biotechnological robot drones defends a fragile Eden from invasive species. The Earth’s hydrology cycles through a vast suspended infrastructure; 2,000 synchronized parts dance for droughts, rains, and floods.
Lav Diaz’s film could have been longer. A lot of people online seem to be troubled by its length of over four hours, but from my vantage point near the back of the theater, almost everyone at the 51st New York Film Festival’s nearly full showing on a Sunday morning stayed seated the entire time.
There were three. One was holding a cup full of his own semen; another, a burnt branch of sage; and the other, a solid block of quartz. Their intentions weren’t congealing as intended. This hasn’t been done before, a portal to another realm, another time, another space.
It was not so long ago and not so far back in the last century that the minimalist composers were the “bad boys” of modern music.
I’m sitting in the BAM Opera House among the rustling of bodies settling into their seats when the lights suddenly cut out.
“To a small village, at the end of winter, comes a mysterious package addressed to no one.” Thus begins Damnation, Janice’s Lee’s new novella.
While filming, Pedro Costa met people there who led him to Fontainhas, a now-vanished slum on the outskirts of Lisbon where many Cape Verdean immigrants used to live. Even as it was being torn down, this place became the location and actual subject of Costa’s future projects.
Great to see you as always. A few questions came to me, typically after all was said and done. I thought I’d send them over while our very interesting conversation was still fresh in my mind.