BOMB 152 Summer 2020
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“Are you in pain?”
The first words spoken in Nina Menkes’s 1991 film, Queen of Diamonds, treated to a recent 4k restoration, slice through minutes of opening silence.
Bernadette Mayer’s Memory was never meant to be a book.
“You look really different than your picture.” This skewering statement is delivered at the outset of a doomed Tinder date by Anne, the impish protagonist of Kazik Radwanski’s Anne at 13,000 Ft.
Capitalism is fundamentally unsustainable. In the spring of 2020, the world began experiencing this fact more acutely than ever, as humankind struggled to control the COVID-19 pandemic.
In a career spanning over two decades, Wayne Koestenbaum has copped to a lot.
One hundred years later, Hartman revisits W.E.B. Du Bois’s 1920 short story, “The Comet”—”a speculative fiction about the end of the world written after the pandemic of 1918, after the Red Summer of 1919, and in the context of colonial expansion and atrocity.”
After researching climate change and survival psychology for her novel Weather, Offill asks if we might imagine a different way to live.
The painter looks back on five decades of experimentation and how that’s generated new levels of confidence and clarity in her art.
Boafo, who studied painting in Accra and then in Vienna, evokes Egon Schiele in his intimate portraits. Now back in Accra, he reflects on the people who inspire him.
Two sound artists on noise, fractals, Bach, Cecil Taylor, the new 7 PM ritual, and whether we still have use for the word improvisation.
The performance artist aka Dynasty Handbag recounts her journey from the San Francisco DIY scene to New York’s avant-garde theater world and ultimately to Hollywood.
From epics to lyrics, Rowan Ricardo Phillips considers poetry’s reckoning with history and how writing will reflect our current crisis for future generations.
At the appointed time, the team members left their rooms and followed Phillip’s directions. They walked down the hallway and up the stairs to a room at the end of the corridor.
I have just read a diary entry from fifteen years ago, in which I wrote that I had just read some diary entries from many more years before that, written at a time when I was staying by myself in a small town near Caen, in Normandy.
“What’s a dinner party without a bit of schadenfreude?”
My favorites are the ones you see, but I have a lot you don’t see unless I’m naked. And I’m not going to get naked now. I’m too embarrassed with you.
No one lives every day as the person they want to be. It is rare that a full hour should pass in such a feeling.