Jon Rutzmoser’s thin book of poetry packed with thick descriptions of dicks, dire and dramatic Oedipal complexes, heavy-petting psychoanalytic theory references, and Disneyland descriptors made me laugh, pissed me off, had me rolling my eyes, and had me wondering what it means to write poetry today.
CHICAGO — Last week we looked at a few self-portraits by famous artists, classifying these as predecessors to the selfie. Now that anyone can take a photo of themselves and upload it to social media for an insta-audience, the notion of what’s an arty smartphone self-portrait and what’s “art” is up for debate. Everyone can make what they want to call art, but not everyone is an artist, right? Who can and should make these selfies? This new set toys with these questions. Who’s an artist, and who’s just playing around with the smartphone camera?