The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum
congratulates BOMB Gala honorees
James Keith Brown
and Eric G. Diefenbach
BOMB 132 Summer 2015
Breaking the Frame, a film by Marielle Nitoslawska about Schneemann’s unique legacy, serves as a departure point for an exchange about the “beauty paradox,” historical and contemporary patriarchies, and the artist’s ongoing subversion of gender codes.
“What expression isn’t a negotiation of some sort?”
Bond keeps expanding a performative repertoire that’s equally personal and political. On the occasion of V’s gallery exhibit in London, Episalla queries the self-designated “trans-genre artist.”
Leigh Ledare’s projects involve interpersonal triangulations in which the camera plays a crucial role and all parties, viewers included, are implicated. Upon A.R.T. Press’s publication of a book-length dialogue between him and Rhea Anastas, Ledare revisits recent works with novelist Chris Kraus.
CAMBRIDGE M’ASS, originally published by Lyn Hejinian’s Tuumba Press in 1979, marked Robert Grenier’s shift to visual poetry. Celebrating its recent reprint, Paul Stephens talks with him about the oversize poster-poem, where poetry is both map and maze.
Grew rather stout from a
Artists generally fall into two groups: the makers (of objects) and doers (of activities). They survive, more or less, on the largesse of the art world.
Images by Archie Rand with excerpts from John Ashbery’s FLOW CHART,
So they invite you to Nueva York, all expenses paid, to participate in an event for Stonewall, twenty years after the police brawl starring the gay girls who, in 1964, took over a bar in the Village.
The very first days following my mother’s death, my father and I were alone.
I wrote: “Do permit me to address a letter to you.”
“Dear Aaron,” writes Henry. “The first thing I realized was that I didn’t want to be out of touch, and the next thing I realized was that I had no one left but you to be in touch with.
He spoke of neighborhood thieves and his passion for a singer / whose name we’ve long forgotten.
Something / unearthly / about / today / so I buy / a Diet Coke & / a newspaper / a version of “me”
An illustrious French intellectual once called for a moratorium on the authorial attribution of texts.
As the title of a literary publication, this word—Pry—must serve as a kind of invitation, an invitation to read.
Over the past two years I’ve been captivated by the work of Polish filmmakers.
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?
Though she wouldn’t join the Oulipo for another fourteen years, Anne Garréta’s 1986 novel, Sphinx, is quintessentially Oulipian.
What’s in a name? Take Douglas Sirk’s film Imitation of Life or Christina Stead’s novel For Love Alone—these are exemplary names, for they give precise definition to their objects, the works they denote.
Brooklyn-based Shelley Marlow, a first-time novelist, has created a memorable protagonist in Philomena/Phillip, a late-bloomer if ever there was one, a performance artist and researcher in 2001 New York.
It’s been two years since Taylor Mead left us to take his role as the Jester Fool Poet of the Great Bohemia in the Sky, but he is still a very living presence on the Lower East Side.
Words Without Music is a sustained performance with fascinating scenes and a lucid text.