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.
The artist talks about the genesis, composition, and execution of a recently completed work.
The performers consider memory, autobiography, and stand-up in Truscott’s groundbreaking comedy about rape, Asking for It, showing this November at NYU’s Skirball Center.
“There’s often a gap between what we’re trying to say and what we are able to say. Sometimes I’m successful and sometimes I fail. Sometimes it’s painful and sometimes I get into that space where it feels right. That’s the high.”
The filmmaker speaks about his self-portrait as a young poet
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.
The encounter between two different types of records and two different experiences—the diagram and the snapshot—is everywhere visible in and crucial to Dalal’s work.
Concerned primarily with Puerto Rico and the Caribbean, where she lives and works, her works defy categorization or any simple read. Rather, they are rich entanglements of place, history, and time.
As her mother, Monique Sindler, lay dying, the artist Sophie Calle put a camera at her bedside in order to record her last words. Having always wished to be a part of her daughter’s work, her mother responded: “Finally!”
“For these books to work, the reader needs to play at least some role in the ‘writing’ of them.”
The celebrated choreographer of Bronx Gothic explores the embodiment of psychic space, the nature of memory, and who gets to write history.
Venezuelan-born artist Javier Téllez’s first exhibition at Koenig & Clinton took its title from his recent film To Have Done with the Judgment of God (2016) and concerns an experience that marked Antonin Artaud’s life in 1936: the author’s encounter with the Rarámuri community living in the Sierra Tarahumara in northwest Mexico.
“I liked thinking about the word occupy literally. To occupy something. To occupy a sensation or a history and then to be kicked out of it and be squatting near it and trying to reinvest in it.”
In those good old days, Salvador Arcavi, the first of a long series of Salvadors—traditionally all his descendants had the same name—though respectful of the Holy Book, decided he was not to going to be a prisoner to its letters.
“Who speaks in the work of Samuel Beckett?” asks Simon Critchley in his probing 1998 essay on the nature of the Irish writer’s narrative voice.