BOMB 142 Winter 2018
A painter talks about portraits as love letters, the poetry of country music, addiction and compulsion, drawing out painful archetypes, and finding both resentment and dignity in daily life.
The two artists consider the roles that trust and doubt play in their expressions of the ineffable.
Anointing her canvases with minerals, plants, smoke, and even animal urine, Dodd casts her installations as sites of ritual.
The playwright discusses his formative years, rejuvenation of historical material, and how race is coded into theatergoing itself.
The Indiana-based producer composes intricate music from a blank slate, but her inspirations range from Nina Simone to discrete mathematics.
Shifting between a Marie Antoinette wig, a fake mustache, and a bald cap, the sculptor and filmmaker plays all three corners of a love triangle in After the fire is gone.
Two poets reflect on colonialism, iconoclastic writers, and the political dimensions of translating literature under authoritarianism.
Yep, here I am to tell y’all about YEAH—YEAH being YEAH the magazine, that turpentine “tonic in type for young and old,” mimeographed between 1961 and 1965 by Fugs founder, poet, and anarcho-sociologist of the Lower East Side Tuli Kupferberg.
Photographer Peter Funch’s new book, 42nd and Vanderbilt, is a clever meditation on the commute, but more specifically, it’s a tightly designed experiment about routine.
The prospect of a physical music anything is dicey at best in the year 2017, which makes frozen reeds’ choice to bring out Roland Kayn’s A Little Electronic Milky Way of Sound—an object containing sixteen compact discs of nearly fourteen hours of previously unreleased material—respectably audacious.
Briggs delves into her experience translating Roland Barthes’s La Préparation du roman to offer us a poignant account of what this translation compulsion might be.
Stirring the memory of depopulated Palestinian villages, more than 400 of which were destroyed in 1948 to create what we know now as the West Bank, And Yet My Mask Is Powerful considers how time might be suspended, unrealized, or even ahistorical.
The story’s “contents” are spun from actual events: in August 1973, Klaus flies to Los Angeles to meet his then-partner, Lynda Benglis (referred to as “Her”), who was to drive cross-country with him back to New York. Instead, he drives back alone, lost in a disputatious reverie circling around language, Gertrude Stein, modernist literature, mapmaking, and the act of writing.
You are on a sidewalk packed and fierce and fueled by desire greed ambition come on come on miracle.
When I was thirteen, two missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to the house to follow up on a conversation from the week before with my mother.
Finally back in the fold of Hollywood—one imagines him advancing mistrustfully, mistrustfully looking up at the high and useless palm trees (an immoderation which serves no purpose: the palm trees “planted on both sides of the expressway in order to purge an already pure sky”).
…gossiping, type-setting, weaner, weaner of the child—heir to her / own epos—her trip round the table. Tomorrow a letter, or a few / letters to make it like an anatomy lesson even, will rip right down / this table
Years ago, desperate to find a babysitter in a short period of time, I joined two local parents’ groups on the web and remained subscribed to them long after my situation had been resolved.
In 2017, I moved for several months to Ayvalik, a seaside town in southern Turkey. My father had spent many summers there in a two-story family house that overlooked the Aegean Sea. It was a place he loved. I couldn’t save my father. I decided to save his house instead. With the help of locals, we brought it back to the way it used to be.