On resisting the limitations of genre and shifting toward a more spatial approach to composition.
“You could dance to it, mourn with it, revel in it, or march alongside it.”
A perfect hybrid of minimalism and spiritual jazz.
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.
If you’ve ever taken a course about modern and contemporary art history, chances are you know that Minimalist sculptor Donald Judd wrote the lively essay “Specific Objects” in 1965. But you may not know that Judd wrote throughout his thirty-five-year career.
Whether you’re drawing a straight line or zig-zagging through the history of American Minimalist music, there is one person you’re bound to meet.
“Every time you remember something, it’s not like you’re being teleported to the past—you’re actually physically experiencing it in the present.”
Architectural space, intermedia, and the artistry of kinesis.
Nostalgia for the future, bluegrass, and hating the term “minimalism.”
It was a relationship that, from the outset, was not fated to last. She knew that.
It was not so long ago and not so far back in the last century that the minimalist composers were the “bad boys” of modern music.
A painter colleague, Fabian Marcaccio, uses a phrase to describe a certain kind of artist. He says that they are “long runners.” Stanley Whitney is a long runner.
Ostrow visits Feher at his Bronx studio, where he muses about his past, contemplates his future, and pinpoints the exact moment when he discovered to be an artist meant to believe “I was right, even when I was wrong.”