BOMB 145 Fall 2018
The second issue of Canadian cartoonist Julie Doucet’s Dirty Plotte begins with a four-panel strip called “Month of December.” We see the author standing on the edge of a highway overpass, looking down. She remarks “Christmas is coming… / Snif, it’s cold.…” She hurls herself off the ramp, yelling “And I’m gonna die!!!?”
At the risk of using a common critical canard: Leigh Ledare’s The Task is “a movie for anyone who” has ever been paralyzed with resentment when told they need to check their privilege—but then, maybe it’s for those whose disabusement has yet to begin.
In the aftermath of Eric Garner’s murder, a Black protester shouts at a group of cops, “Black officers, Puerto Rican officers, nobody likes you! Nobody. You are hated. You’re hated in New York and throughout the United States. This isn’t ignorance. This is anger, officer!” This scene from Stephen Maing’s character-driven documentary Crime + Punishment is another testimony to the rampant racial inequity in the United States.
Capaurisces (pronounced “kuh-pour-i-ces”)—a combination of a far-flung galaxy made of “99.99 percent dark matter” and an artist colony in New Hampshire—is the unlikely setting for Daaimah Mubashshir’s The Immeasurable Want of Light, a collection of short plays recently published in book form as part of the playwright’s ongoing project Everyday Afroplay. Beginning in 2016, Mubashshir developed a daily writing practice in response to Chris Ofili’s Afro Muses painting series, offering a sustained meditation on Blackness and the Black body.
Ever the reductionist, three decades deep into a sprawling, marrowy discography, Japanese noise legend Tori Kudo has produced what he’s called a “life work” that, unsurprisingly, defies simple classification.
In the molten golden hour, a row of Santhal tribeswomen dance in an open field. Arms interlocked, they bounce as one centipedal body to the beat of a dhol, cymbals, and a purring bamboo flute. The musicians wear flowers in their turbans, while the dancers don expressionless metallic masks that impart an otherworldly timbre to the pastoral scene.
It’s possible that like John the Divine—aka John of Patmos, author of the Book of Revelation—Shiv Kotecha has been plunged into boiling oil and suffered nothing from it, his audience converted into sweet lambs upon witnessing the miracle, and the prophet-poet cast forever unto the brightness of exile.
Fashioning ersatz artifacts and museological displays, two artists dispense with individual authorship to inhabit the “speculative nature of history” with an eye on the future.
On occasion of Sniadecki’s current project, A Shape of Things to Come, the two filmmakers trade insights on “sensorial cinema” and working with reclusive desert-dwelling subjects.
Reassembled fragments of texts and vocalizations invite audiences into the immersive installations of these two artists.
An artist and a choreographer challenge the term collaboration, which they see as an approach rather than an outcome or frame of interpretation.
Sisters Lydela and Michel Nonó conduct performative interventions at their art space/home in Puerto Rico, using improvisation to process family memories and trace the wounds of colonialism.
Delving into public arts funding, resentment of “cultural elites,” and campaign finance, artist and curator discuss 2016 in Museums, Money, and Politics—Fraser’s examination of the intersection of cultural and political patronage.
Navajo language, photography, and the shifting landscape of the Southwest guide the poet’s latest collection, Dissolve.
In 2010, Mexican artist Alejandro Luperca Morales began rubber-erasing human remains out of the frequent crime-scene reports published by P.M., his local Juarez newspaper. Often behind police barricade tape, these ghostly voids resemble eddies of dust, bald patches of earth, or gauzy shrouds illuminated from within. Over the past eight years, Morales has collected a significant archive, performing this gesture on more than 500 images.
You are a color-blind social worker in a small town and your secret is you stopped giving a fuck. A man you loved more than you knew was possible has left you, but so what, right?
Yavush dressed like a girl who didn’t really love herself—in short, strappy dresses that flashed meaty upper thigh, with a clip-on swoop bang and acrylic fingernails that curved into the future, dripping rhinestones, gold hearts, and glitter.
Winner of BOMB’s 2018 Poetry Contest, selected by Dawn Lundy Martin.
The internet does a better job of documenting / the way we feel when something soft, especially / a mammal, is very cute, than poetry does.
yours in torchlight / we audit our equipment / note how few genuine distractions / present as distraction first
An embarrassing incident at the Kremlin (from 2015? was it 2016?): in which women invited to an International Woman’s Day photo with Mr. Vladimir Putin arrive in high heels, much to the fear of Mr. Putin’s staff who are there to witness several tall women towering over the Russian Federation president.
A bilingual excerpt from the Russian graphic journalist’s forthcoming memoir on her hometown of Serpukhov (translated by Bela Shayevich), exploring post-Soviet space and the closure of the village’s state printing press