Editor’s Choice
The first time I heard something on Nyege Nyege Tapes was on computer speakers. For once, the promotional blurb wasn’t hyperbolic …
Much silence fills the exquisite visual tableaus in German filmmaker Angela Schanelec’s I Was at Home, But…
Chavisa Woods tells a linear but fragmented personal story of growing up and coming of age in a misogynist culture
Long neglected poet Stephen Jonas created a complex web of self-mythologized identities to escape any form of categorization …
In a leafy courtyard at Cairo University, the philosopher Graham Harman explains that politics is just another object among a level field of objects …
The Bauhaus tends to be presented through the lens of its creative and intellectual diaspora.
In a 1988 interview for the LA Times, self-taught artist Reverend Howard Finster explained his creative predicament …
My Young Life is a memoir of becoming…
In New York, everything sounds back to Vietnam…
The story is contagious and the imaging tells it…
The insurgent Argentine documentarian’s retrospective screens at Anthology Film Archives from February 22 through 28.
A pose recurs in Christos Ikonomou’s Good Will Come From the Sea: one character after another finds themselves on their knees, waiting. For the dawn, for mercy, for love.
Invited to examine the human geography of lower Louisiana for the 2017 Prospect New Orleans triennial, Jeff Whetstone set off for the batture, a patch of land that separates the Mississippi from the city’s levee.
For Marwa Helal and me, the histories of our two countries—Egypt and Sudan—are inextricably linked, our shared Nile both the most obvious and fertile metaphor.
From Andrei Tarkovsky to Lucrecia Martel, Peter Hutton to Nathaniel Dorsky, entire aesthetic philosophies, genres, and approaches to filmmaking have been rooted in the elements.
It’s rare that as a writer I am left speechless by a performance. Writing becomes like swimming for the first time: relearning how to breathe. What can abandonment by words afford a writer besides drowning? Perhaps a lesson in listening.
On August 16, the Hikianalia, a seventy-two-foot dual-hulled Polynesian voyaging canoe from Hawaii set out across the Pacific for California, powered by the winds, tides, two solar-charged propellers (for emergencies), and a thirteen-person crew.
When I arrive in the lobby of Kalimpong’s famed Himalayan Hotel, I move around clumsily and with caution. I’m wary of touching objects left behind by long-gone visitors, and the pop-up ghosts of soldiers, businessmen, and mountaineers startle me.
I first encountered Sesshu Foster through his cotranslation of Juan Felipe Herrera’s masterpiece Akrilica and an anthology he coedited, Invocation L.A.: Urban Multicultural Poetry. It was 1990: I’d just returned from six years of intense political and cultural involvement outside the US. The Gulf War was right on the horizon, and in the hyper-stratified world of US poetry, where class and cosmos had taken backseats to an almost purely theoretical politics and poetics, I was in search of allies and kindred spirits. With Foster’s work, I felt I’d struck pay dirt.
