When you don’t have the words / what will you use to speak (to truth)? Whiteness is structured like a language
“Our bodies are graveyards of cells, the source of art, inherently finite, constantly decaying.”
Sexual panic in South Brooklyn
Writing with the body as her touchstone, the novelist channels a woman warrior in The Book of Joan.
“Obsession and fantasy, like desire and fear, happen in the mind… the most powerful, fixated erotic organ known to man.”
Inaugurating Deitch’s return to SoHo, Head proved to be little more than sexual provocation.
Around this time I became a frequent visitor to a sex-ad bulletin board. Real-life meetups were the focal point.
Homebody, the title of Mike Goodlett’s first New York solo exhibition, playfully refers to his life of relative seclusion in rural Kentucky.
It’s Corey Haim here—‘80s heartthrob, teen idol, and tragic girlish boy next door. What’s up, Schmerm?
“Women in Denmark should be both women and men at the same time, but ‘men’ and ‘women’—what does that mean?”
“In my work, there’s an awful lot of screaming to be heard.”
Bond keeps expanding a performative repertoire that’s equally personal and political. On the occasion of V’s gallery exhibit in London, Episalla queries the self-designated “trans-genre artist.”
Leigh Ledare’s projects involve interpersonal triangulations in which the camera plays a crucial role and all parties, viewers included, are implicated. Upon A.R.T. Press’s publication of a book-length dialogue between him and Rhea Anastas, Ledare revisits recent works with novelist Chris Kraus.
What’s in a name? Take Douglas Sirk’s film Imitation of Life or Christina Stead’s novel For Love Alone—these are exemplary names, for they give precise definition to their objects, the works they denote.
“I don’t think being a cynical, academically oriented deconstructor should stop one from being a wild and crazy performer.”