Quite simply, the history, not just of art in Los Angeles, but of modern American art generally will have to be reconceived on the basis of Now Dig This!, the exhibition curated by Kellie Jones, and her new book, South of Pico.
Marjorie Welish’s poetry, like Thelonious Monk’s music, is a montage of moving parts in which you’d be wise to expect the unexpected.
It’s kind of wonderful when pure chance leads you to a book that unexpectedly illuminates another one you’ve just read.
The 1950s through the mid-1970s were the great era of the unreadable novel. Kateb Yacine’s Nedjma was one of the first and most remarkable of these.
Darby English’s new book 1971 decries black nationalist demands for a unified artistic community in favor of abstraction, individualism, and personal autonomy.
Pierre Reverdy’s novel The Thief of Talant is not a novel at all, but a long poem or sequence with elusive narrative underpinnings.
Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt Norton isn’t exactly pornography, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Although the poetry in Geoffrey Nutter’s Cities at Dawn is almost always calmly descriptive, whatever it describes is somehow something else and not itself.
It’s no wonder that few things inspire as much persistent paranoia as banking. But a little paranoia might not be such a bad thing.
In case you were wondering, no, it was not by oversight that I didn’t bother to mention, when writing last week about Elena Ferrante’s The Lost Daughter, the recent brouhaha about the violation of Ferrante’s privacy.
What distinguishes the novella from the novel is not length, but the pursuit of intensity rather than breadth. A novella is devastating or it is nothing.
Before starting to make films, Robert Bresson had been a painter. Or rather, he remained one, since according to him, “It’s not possible to have been a painter and to no longer be one.”