The art establishment was never quite sure what to do with a self-taught artist like Basquiat, who owed as much to bebop and William S. Burroughs’s cut-up technique as he did to African influences.
In this moment of racial reckoning, we cannot continue viewing Homer’s masterpiece as an apolitical seascape painting.
Tensions between resistance to Surrealism as cultural imperialism and the embrace of it as a universalist vision of freedom unfettered run through the show.
Conservative critic Gilbert T. Sewall wants to make the Met great again.
In the weeks after his death, I think of Giorno’s poetry — exuberantly queer, unabashedly pornographic, frequently hilarious, sometimes furious, and almost always as compassionate as it is sardonic.
“The Ghastlygun Tinies,” MAD magazine’s mordant riff on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, updates Edward Gorey’s book for our age of school shootings.
Ernst’s trailblazing “collage novels” employ the dreamlike conjunction — the fusion or juxtaposition of unlike elements whose collision makes perfect sense, in a free-associated way.
The passing of the old eBay is the last nail in the cyberflâneur’s coffin.
The jackhammer chatter of the song’s opening riff lets us know that the pastoral is past.
Salvador Dalí’s 1973 cookbook, now reprinted by Taschen, doesn’t seem to know what Surrealist cuisine is.