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.
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.
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.
Myriam Gurba’s Mean is the latest in a tear of recent autofiction (including Rachel Cusk’s Transit and Barbara Browning’s The Gift) that employ the genre to showcase the complications of modern women’s lives.
Following loosely in the tradition of the book-length photo-essay yoking images to text in a documentary mode, Cole has gently torqued this form.
The Wake—Paul Kingsnorth’s 2014 debut novel, which chronicles the life of an Anglo-Saxon during the Norman Conquest—has since gained a disturbing resonance with the recent surge and codification of nationalism that is Brexit.
I met Mark in 2012 on a two-week tour from Montreal to Kentucky. He had just released a set of home recordings from 1976 called Digging in the Dust on the Tompkins Square label, and we had a great time driving around and getting to know each other.
It is both a memoir of Lindon’s literary friendships and a treatise on survival, a tribute to the friends whose care and love, in Lindon’s words, saved his life, even as they were themselves lost.
If you’re craving a larger dose of antihero than the typical binge watch can offer, you might turn your gaze back to Sondheim and Weidman’s Assassins.
Comics have a good chance of surviving ecological disaster. Unlike, for example, blue-chip video art, there may be a place for hand-drawn sequential graphics after floodwaters recede.
In the early 1960s, Eduardo Coutinho began shooting a film about the murder of Brazilian trade unionist João Pedro Teixeira.
Partly inspired by the Greek surrealist Yorgos Makris’s 1944 manifesto, “Let’s Blow Up the Acropolis!,” Christos Chrissopoulos’s novella, The Parthenon Bomber, sets out to imagine just what might lead a young man to write himself into history by blowing up an ur-symbol of Western civilization.
A modestly sized but nonetheless ambitious blend of catalog, monograph, and artist’s project, the book accompanies a touring exhibition of the same name which opened at the Contemporary Arts Center, New Orleans, in March 2016.
Over the course of six years, filmmaker Laura Poitras had unparalleled access to WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange and his closest confidantes. What she captured became Risk, the follow-up to her Oscar-winning Edward Snowden exposé, Citizenfour (2014).
If the experimental French writing group Oulipo were to be reborn today, would they return as performance artists? Anne Garréta’s 2002 Prix Médicis–winning novel, Not One Day, marks her as a literary acrobat suspended between those who hold on to the group’s relevance and those who have let it go in favor of conceptual art practices.
Mourning seeps in like water, but Clemmons skillfully draws on the humor that stems from the duality of conflicting cultures. Her prose is funny, fragile, and unflinchingly candid.
From deep within Louis XIV’s billowing gray afro—more a cloud than a sun—the once lively eyes of Jean-Pierre Léaud gaze out vacantly. Over the course of Serra’s simultaneously tedious and fascinating film, Léaud’s Sun King drifts and snoozes through his remaining days in a state of almost catatonic nonchalance, occasionally stopping to doff his hat or eat a fig to the great applause of courtiers.
Carrington’s matter-of-fact presentation of the bizarre and the gruesome lends a distinctive black humor to her short stories, here collected in their entirety for the first time, including three that have never before been published.