Jun
17

My sister said I do last weekend. When people pointed out to her that her dress was getting dirty from trailing in the rain, she smiled and shrugged as if it was her plan or an amendment to a plan she drew up when she was a girl. I know this to be part of her radiance. Others know. This is here for her to find.

My sister said I do last weekend. When people pointed out to her that her dress was getting dirty from trailing in the rain, she smiled and shrugged as if it was her plan or an amendment to a plan she drew up when she was a girl. I know this to be part of her radiance. Others know. This is here for her to find.

Jun
10

“When I was a small child there was a box in the attic containing neatly trimmed scraps of material that had once belonged to dresses, aprons, blouses, dishtowels, and which were apparently intended for a quilt that never got made. I was fascinated by them and used to pore over them with the zeal of an Egyptologist. There was a language there. The fact that certain dots were so close together that they took up more space than the colored ground; the way the stripes in gingham went over or under each other to make checks; the way the prickly flowers nudged each other; the way a flimsy dishtowel displayed the fact that it was starting to unravel, a little proud to be showing off how it was made — these things meant something. That they had been used and discarded and then rescued for future use; that women had worn those dresses and aprons, worn them out, meanwhile caring for them, washing, ironing, mending and finally choosing what deserved to be saved, added to their strange drama. I envied whoever had had charge of them and had gotten to know them intimately during their life cycle until they were faded and frayed. That person could understand their language.” John Ashbery in his review of Anne Ryan’s work for ARTnews, 1970 Above: Anne Ryan. Untitled (no. 67), collage, 8 3/4 x 7 1/2 in

“When I was a small child there was a box in the attic containing neatly trimmed scraps of material that had once belonged to dresses, aprons, blouses, dishtowels, and which were apparently intended for a quilt that never got made. I was fascinated by them and used to pore over them with the zeal of an Egyptologist. There was a language there. The fact that certain dots were so close together that they took up more space than the colored ground; the way the stripes in gingham went over or under each other to make checks; the way the prickly flowers nudged each other; the way a flimsy dishtowel displayed the fact that it was starting to unravel, a little proud to be showing off how it was made — these things meant something. That they had been used and discarded and then rescued for future use; that women had worn those dresses and aprons, worn them out, meanwhile caring for them, washing, ironing, mending and finally choosing what deserved to be saved, added to their strange drama. I envied whoever had had charge of them and had gotten to know them intimately during their life cycle until they were faded and frayed. That person could understand their language.” John Ashbery in his review of Anne Ryan’s work for ARTnews, 1970

Above: Anne Ryan. Untitled (no. 67), collage, 8 3/4 x 7 1/2 in

Jun
08

May
30

Laura Owens Talking w/ Rachel Kushner

BLVR: I’m a painter, and sometimes I think about paintings within paintings, and something I really noticed in this book was how many stories within the novel there are. There’s this amazing story of a meteorite crashing into a woman’s home, and probably several others that I’m not remembering right now. You seamlessly weave together these beautiful little stories.

RK: Oh thanks. Well, I love it when you have done that, put paintings inside paintings. I mean, even as a child if there was a children’s book with paintings on the wall inside the image—like in Goodnight Moon—I always felt entranced, like I was seeing something more, a surplus of viewing that was not being controlled for presentation: as if the pictures inside the picture were “real” views, less authorized, because incidental. I guess that’s part of the playfulness when you, Laura, paint paintings inside of paintings—it suggests access to a more insightful view if you can see inside the picture something that wasn’t drawn by the hand of the picture maker. Of course it was drawn by the artist, but there’s the implication that it wasn’t. That the artist is revealing this other thing she did not draw.

via The Believer

Source logger.believermag.com

May
26

May
23

May
22

May
17

May
16

More about my first full-length collection of poems, For Another Writing Back, is at Sidebrow Books. Thank you to Jennifer Kronovet for tagging me to do this self-interview. (Who started this “Next Big Thing” poetry chain/virus anyway?) Please also check out Jessica Baran, another poet tagged by JK. I tag poets Chris Dombrowski and Steven Manuel to do the odd task of interviewing oneself next. 

Source sidebrow.net

May
15

May
14

I love these notes from artist Lydia Moyer about her experience curating Terrestrial Transmissions at UVA last fall. The notes dial into how six video artists—Meredith Drum, Stephanie Hough, Krista Caballero, “Madam X,” Ashley Brett Chipman, and Julia Oldham— mess with gender roles in the greeny fields of science fiction. Still from Krista Caballero’s All Appears Orange

I love these notes from artist Lydia Moyer about her experience curating Terrestrial Transmissions at UVA last fall. The notes dial into how six video artists—Meredith Drum, Stephanie Hough, Krista Caballero, “Madam X,” Ashley Brett Chipman, and Julia Oldham— mess with gender roles in the greeny fields of science fiction.

Still from Krista Caballero’s All Appears Orange

May
12