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2 B A R D PAPERS 20I5

3 WRITING BARD PAPERS IS AN ANNUAL ARTS AND LITERARY MAGAZINE DRAWING FROM UNDERGRADUATE AND FACULTY WORK AT BARD COLLEGE IN ANNANDALE-ON-HUDSON, NY. THE MAGAZINE, ORIGINALLY AN ACADEMIC JOURNAL FOUNDED IN THE 60s, HAS EVOLVED INTO A MULTIMEDIA PLATFORM ACCEPTING POETRY, PROSE, VIDEO, SOUND AND WEB-BASED WORK. SUBMISSIONS ARE VOTED ON BLINDLY BY AN ALL-STUDENT STAFF IN THE SPRING SEMESTER OF EACH YEAR; PRINTING AND DISTRIBU- TION OCCUR IN MAY. WE WILL BE READING SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 2016 ISSUE NEXT FEBRUARY. A FORM FOR SUBMISSIONS IS AVAIL- ABLE ON THE PAPERS WEBSITE: QUESTIONS AND INQUIRIES SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO : PAPERS@BARD.EDU Sophie Strand Saturations 3 Max Taylor-Milner The Floating World: Affect Tests 7 Ed Halter In Conversation With Peter Hutton 12 Anne Carson + Robert Currie Collin Leitch Wavequip Questionnaire Praise For Hold On Dim Essence Marion Albers My Stinkbug 25 Thatcher Snyder A Birthday Gift 29 Reggie Elmira Texas Spiral 35 Martha Fearnley Minnie Driver (from Ben Affleck in Mexico) 41 Collin Leitch Show About Nowhere 47 Kevin Soto Harmonies Never Heard : Reflections on Roberto Juarroz and Translations 51 Ariana Perez- Translation of Ibykos Using Words Castells on Page 123 of The Sun Also Rises 67 Pheobe Cramer Every Human Interaction I ve Had All Week (Because Mostly I Was Alone) 71 Thatcher Snyder A Family in Soho 81 Will Kettner One Lesson 87 Diego Murray Translation of Pablo Neruda s Las Alturas de Macchu Picchu 90 Collin Leitch Mineral Selfie 95 Mila Samdub Tennesse, Tibet : Two Fragments 99 Celia Bland Knot of Longing 105 Sophie Strand Instructions for Swaddling 111

4 VISUAL Sam Youkilis Sicily 1 Nellie Ostow My All-Over-Heart Buzzing 2 Sula Fay Puzzle Blocks 4 Lothar Osterburg City of Towers 5 David Sater Underworld 6 Simone Leitner A girl Walks Into a Bar 10 Simone Leitner Neglect 11 Peter Hutton 16mm film stills from At Sea 15 Peter Hutton 16mm film stills from Skajafjordur and NY Portrait Pt 3 16 Antoine Midant Timothe avec masque et tuba 18 Oscar Tine 50 Objects to Sell Out First In The Case of an Apocalypse 20 Sophie Braziunas Untitled 22 Paloma Dooley Untitled, from Plain Sight 24 Virginia Lopez Fill Your Holes For No-Body 26 Ilana Dodelson Untitled 28 Sam Youkilis Flying Birds 30 Antoine Midant Untitled (With Line Drawings) 31 Jeffrey Gibson Can t Take My Eyes Off Of You 32 Alexandra Corbett Untitled 34 Jake Nadrich Heavenly Lake 37 Paloma Dooley Untitled 38 Philip Poznansky Unstructured Chair 39 Jake Freilich Pink Lady Posing, Eliel Ford Charlie 43 Sam Williams Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge 44 Adea R. Lennox We Don t Accept American Express 46 Alexandra Wright Aerenchyma 48 Gaia Marcaccini It Didn t Hurt 49 Antonia M. Oliver Yayoi Block 50 Antonia M. Oliver Impression 55 Zyphar Chotonova Untitled from Tuberculosis in Central Asia 56 Jake Freilich Untitled, Sophia Orlow Undone Quonset 58 Nelson Doak Untitled 59 Jessica Chappe Tsfat, Israel, Jacob Small View of a Private Space: Ed S, Political Theatre and the Celebrity Archetype 61 Kenji Fujita Ray Johnson: Then And Now 62 Laila Iravani February 14, Jacob Fisher A New World of Light 65 Jurriaan Brugge Untitled 66 Judy Pfaff Belle Starr/Blue Duck 68 Judy Pfaff Somewhere Before (Detail) 69 Brendan Hunt Chalkboard 70 Lizzy Chiappini Reclining Figure II 75 Ainesh Maden Documentation from Double Bind 76 Marko Shuhan Nuances of Reciprocity 77 Sula Fay From Tactile Illusions 78 Julianne Swartz How Deep is Your 80 Hugh Hopkins Untitled 82 Ruby Jackson Buckner Stranger 83 Sam Youkilis Untitled 84 Sam Youkilis Untitled 85 Julianne Swartz Surrogate (JS), Surrogate (KRL), Surrogate (ARL) 86

5 VIDEO Daniella Dooling 3459 Macomb Street, Caity Lee Selections from Understudy 92 Sam Williams InterActivecorp Headquarters, Stephen Joyce Forbes Field 96 Stephen Joyce Magee Backstop 97 Katy Hallowell Good Mourning 98 Oscar Tine Untitled 101 Lisa Sanditz California Dry Double Tanks 102 Lisa Sanditz Toothbrushspoonscrubdaddyplastiglomerate 103 Ruby Jackson Untitled 104 Arthur Gibbons Thrice 106 Jake Nadrich Don t be shy (Pearl Tower) 107 Deana LeBlanc Tonshi 108 Enzo Shalom Not Yet Titled 109 Roman Hrab Contrail Rock 110 Rene Macioce 34th Street Station Seven Line Extension Project 112 Lucien Dante Amad Dama 114 Hannah Beerman Liquid Males Simone Leitner Don t Fall Into The Megabus Toilet (Or Love) Simone Leitner Experiments in Housekeeping Kevin Bakry Swamp Nelson Doak Pursuit Peter Schreiber Labyrinth Paris McGarry SWM Lily Konigsberg Forever Not For Good Camila Sobral Rejected and Unused Clips in No Particular Order Jake Nadrich Blood Beach available at

6 BP SAM YOUKILIS S I C I L Y, medium format film 1 6 x 1 6 i n c h e s 1

7 SATURATIONS SOPHIE STRAND a long time ago now. I am still receiving the news. every Sunday a telegram arrives. his hair was black in life and lake water in the years after. a bad feeling to know that there is no return to the country of two people with a clean table between them, fresh salmon and gin. I turn on all the faucets in the house trying to recreate his noise. a pointless activity because the bath never fills up, and the chair is still wet from his last visit, empty as it will always be. men made of water take a long time to drown. I expect he spent months in the river before breathing in. then he breathed in. the sea accidentally injected into a freshwater tributary. Who was more surprised the river, him, or me? there is, somewhere, an atlas the exact size of a summer sky. this is the country of two people with a clean table between them and spilled across its surface are blue patches. I have been told these are oceans. I know this is untrue. every blue, the atlas, the sky, the patches on the table are the water of a man and the place where he died. in the cross-hatching of a desert, a steel bruise appears in the months after his passing: the place where the sand opens up, the only gravestone I know. soon, I will pilgrimage to this place where his rain travelled and fell. standing on the shore, knowing that while gone, he is still water, still able to look like himself as the weather passes darkly over surfaces of salt. NELLIE OSTOW MY ALL-OVER-HEART BUZZING oil paint on paper 22 x 30 2inches 3

8 SULA FAY PUZZLE BLOCKS wood and digitally printed fabrics LOTHAR OSTERBURG CITY OF TOWERS gum print 5

9 THE FLOATING WORLD:AFFECT TESTS MAXWELL TAYLOR-MILNER Waldeinsamkeit: the feeling of being alone in the woods [German] Acceleration was a latecomer to the history of the appreciation of the moon; previously, there were rocket stoves and people built their studio windows double wide and extra tall. This was the glass I was tasting. Things were very still then. The moon looked like snow before it s plowed. Then it stopped snowing. In school they taught us about art s effects, the ends of art; isn t what we desire endless? The end results, lasting effects, the ends of art and the end of art. Surfaces, textures, yes! But never twice in a row. The constant waterproofing of boots makes a patina, we skate on it. Some of those boots were moon boots; we floated on them. Some of us found dirt floors, some founded white cubes. This too, became territorial; effects toxic. Even my adobe is built out of shaky ground. Plastic entered our geology, and people stopped using the term built environment to refer only to the metropolis, suburb and outpost. Something sour crept along my mouth. I glanced back at the berries, but you just offered to build me a new tongue. This time, it tasted like ozone. Everyone says that glass doesn t have a taste, the way water doesn t have a color, but they re both wrong; water often takes on the color of the moon. Orography differs only slightly on these planes: a Celmins drawing, lunar photography, 12 Zen bulls. Climb the mountain or enter the cloud room? I kept trying to tell her about Paul Thek but she only got the part about the newspaper and the moon. Part of the pyramid, but it wasn t like pyramids are now, y know? I was trying to tell her about the early work, all the meat and Plexiglas and she just thought I was talking about the lab, and I was like, It s a critique, and she was like What s a critique? Just like that. Hurrah Vacuii. DAVID SATER UNDERWORLD graphite on paper 14 x 17 inches Meatpacking takes place in Plexiglas boxes with a pristine finish. Both the meat and Plexiglas are disposable, but neither is biodegradable. The microbes in the soil are tired and restless, often seething unseen, unspeakable. Blood used to run in the streets. Now we have PVC pipes for that. Just looking at them makes me want to throw up but I don t know why. So I just yelled va te faire foutre! and left. I don t think he understood what I was trying to say about Thek. These are not applications for visas in the windowed storefronts of an imaginary Europe. These are not the shades of some holy color theory. These are the clinical mantras of quiet desperation. Walking home in the snow with the radio on. Not climbing the slow incline with the radio on. They are the savage hors d oeuvres of a coming cold front. A billionaire proposition, the prostheses that make lunar life possible. Huddled in huts together, we trace the arc of a bright light on the moon, watching another s breath fog on the transparent panels of an inaccessible terrarium. I couldn t rub the fog off these glasses which were mine but weren t mine and maybe it was more like I couldn t rub the fog off my eyes and when I approached the Lord of Mictlan, where he sat on his throne surrounded by spiders and owls: I ve come for the bones, the precious borosilicate, the reinforced carbon-carbon... and then I woke up. 6 7

10 Every day the sky is a little more opalescent, the colors of the sunset harder to distinguish from each other. All we see is the black of the yet-unlit city stretching out under those pearly Non-Photo Blue skies. Go inside and greet the light. We wake up and the skies are Oxford Blue. I dreamed about oil again last night, sweating out of the walls, welling up out of objects, bodies formerly at rest rise, in motion. Things return to their components. Everything was dissolving into a kind of Air Superiority Blue penumbra. Birds flock together, many Indigo Black pinpoints coming out of the sky in precise harmony. Now that there s nothing else to do, humanity retreats into itself. The most radical will go for long walks outside in an augmented reality we can no longer recognize. Komorebi: the sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees [Japanese] The romantic view of the revolutionaries in Cuba in 1959: taking your dignity back from those who stole it. The game of capitalism is zero-sum. What is mine is not yours, and never will be. We will teach you to read, treat you like people. Let us greet each other as equals. Some images of dignity: this Guatemalan scarf, things in partially finished states, doing your own dishes, things that invite finishing, white and gray surfaces, things that reward finishing, the ability to cope with everyday tragedy, roughly finished surfaces. Finish, polish, friction, dignity, the katabatic Bohemian Wind shines them all. A fuzzy rub, these cycles of ruins; the aristocrat s house becomes the squatter s palace becomes the oil baron s daughter s apartment with an observatory so she can wave at her father, in his mansion on the moon, still wearing his 10-gallon with the feather of a now-extinct bird in its band. Most of us get by as we can 10 gallons here, 10 gallons there and hope for the occasional aporia, whether in Calvino or the sweet fat of the special occasion; the only eternity we have left. Some of us dangled our feet over the edge and skimmed Apache tears, chunks of volcanic glass in glimmering trajectories until they left our sight. Who knows how far down they went? What measures the long arc of desire, or clocks its ends and impacts? The secret craving for a chunk of turquoise, an exquisite slice of the moon, or other moons teeming with the choreography of Méliès. Milk might keep an ejected tooth wet, but this moon is rotting both of our mouths. Look at me, pointing at utopia, hailing it, flagging it down like a cab on a rainy summer afternoon. The driver doesn t speak my language, waves back, smiling, and splashes me as he takes the curve. Clockwise from top left: Oxford Blue, Air Superiority Blue, still from Liquidity, Inc. (Hito Steyerl, 2014), Discover Magazine illustration of hypothetical lunar colony, Indigo Black, Non-Photo Blue, Cuban revolutionaries on horseback (Osvaldo Salas, 1959), Hurrah Vacuii! (Paul Thek, 1988). 8 9

11 SIMONE LEITNER from DIGITAL DIARY series left: A GIRL WALKS INTO A BAR right: NEGLECT 10 11

12 E D H A L T E R I N C O N V E R S A T I O N WITH PETER HUTTON The following discussion occurred on February 18, 2015 at Miguel Abreu Gallery, New York, after a screening of 16mm films by Hutton, including his New York Portrait, Chapter 1 (1979), Lodz Symphony ( ), and Study of a River (1997). The event took place on the occasion of the exhibition James Benning & Peter Hutton: Nature is a Discipline, curated by myself, which ran at Miguel Abreu from January 24 to March 8, 2015, and included two installations by Hutton, At Sea ( ) and Three Landscapes (2013), along with Benning s Tulare Road (2010). Ed Halter Ed Halter: These are your personal prints. You know, watching them again, in some ways your work which you made through the seventies and nineties hearkens back to much older types of cinema. When I watch them, I can t help but think of some of the earliest film artists, like Paul Strand and Joris Ivens, Walter Ruttman. You even refer to Walter Ruttman s Berlin: Symphony of a Great City. So I m curious why those kind of forms spoke to you at that time. Peter Hutton: I think a lot of what interests me about film is the idea of making records of things you see, you know kind of collecting records of different experiences, but primarily portraits of places and cities. Through so much work, you realize that things change and there is so much emphasis on the sort of artifice of things, artifice in general, that I think sometimes the beauty of film lies in just recording. As James Agee used to say, the cruel radiance of what is. Aside from all the artifice, to make records of things. Since I was quite young, I appreciated the kind of records that gave me a window into another time and another place. And also, the older I get the more I realize its kind of timelessness there s something beautiful about a record that freezes time in a way, yet makes the act of recording valuable. It could be portraits, it could be any number of subjects, but just the idea of keeping records is important to me. And I don t even think of myself as a film maker in the traditional sense, but someone that came into film and appreciated the beauty of film to record things and leave it at that. EH: Do you think there s a tension there between wanting to capture images that seem timeless but at the same time wanting to fix a certain moment? I mean, New York Portrait is interesting because, except for a few markers, we re really unsure what decade of New York it is. It could be the 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s... PH: Right. EH: So I m curious, when you re selecting images, is there a tension there between a kind of timeless image and the image that s specific to that moment? PH: Well, I always want to go back in time. So I always want to reference the past rather than the future. And I think that s a function of black and white influencing our perception in terms of what is. There s something interesting about black and white that does tend to take us backward rather than project us forward. EH: At Sea is largely in color. Do you think that informs the sense of temporality in the piece? PH: Yes. I sort of came into color late in my career, because I was so invested in black and white. Then there were technical issues with black and white. All those films were shot on reversal print stock reversal film, subsequently reversal print stock. And about, I don t know how many years ago, Kodak stopped making reversal print in the 90s. And I thought, Oh shit, this isn t good, you can t make copies of reversal. You have to understand this is a technical thing, it s never that interesting. If you make prints off the original which I do you get a much finer quality. And when they eliminated the film stock, you couldn t make prints off the original anymore. Anyway, it s technical. It sort of said bye-bye for black and white reversal, so I switched over to black and white negative and then color negative. And I always shoot black and white, because I just like it. It s interesting when I started making films in the sixties, I thought, You know, I ll do black and white for a while, sort of get to know it, then I got addicted to it and I couldn t let it go, it was still so important to me. It s just one of those things you fall into. You fall in love with your material and it s hard to get away from. But color is so interesting. I avoided making color when I was young because it was a lot more expensive. When I started making films the idea was just to shoot, shoot as much as I could. I liked the fact that black and white abstracted reality in an interesting way, since we don t see in black and white. And I stuck with it. EH: Though you are colorblind, right? PH: Yeah. [audience laughs] But a lot of people are colorblind, it s not a big deal. EH: It s interesting a few years ago, Anthology Film Archives did a brilliant series called One-Eyed Auteurs that was all about cinematographers with only one eye. PH: We can talk about Cézanne in that regard, or Van Gogh, or a lot of artists that suffered certain impediments that manifest really exultant results. There s an interesting book called The Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman that analyzes a lot of this stuff. She does this very interesting section on different artists like Cézanne and talks about the various things happening and not happening in their brains. It contributed to a way of looking and seeing reality that might have been based on impairment. There s something about limitations that I think are good. EH: Speaking of looking, one part of your biography that s often brought up is your time as a merchant marine on ships, which is really apparent in some of your work, but especially in At Sea. How do you think that informed the way you look at things? PH: Imagine yourself out on the forepeak of a ship crossing the Pacific, late at night, looking for lights in the distance. One of my jobs as a deckhand was to report to the bridge by ringing a bell indicating how many points off the port and bow or the stub and bow were lights I perceived, to indicate a ship was coming toward us. This was an old nautical tradition. But night after night for months, looking out into the void of night, I realized I could see things I never knew I could see. I could see stars reflecting on the surface of the ocean, I would see these phosphorescent explosions and phosphorescents under the sea things I never knew my eyes were capable of. I think mariners, going back to the Vikings, had to rely on their eyes to study everything the weather, the textures, the sea to survive. So their eyes were very vital to things. When you spend a long time at sea, your eyes get activated in a really interesting way. It s a world unknown to so many people. You feel like you re almost an astronaut, you re out there looking at things most people haven t had the pleasure of seeing. But a lot of the things one sees can t be recorded on film. It s frustrating. I ve seen so many amazing things on the bows of ships at night, and I tell this long story which I won t tell again about sailing into a storm one night, crossing the Indian Ocean, and it s all about darkness. No, actually the moon was out, but then it went behind clouds and got darker and darker. I was astounded by how dark dark could be. It s darker and darker, and I m like my god, it s even darker. It got colder and the seas kicked up and I eventually went back to the bridge in the ship, then it started getting lighter and the moon came out. Visually, that was the best moment of my life. You can t do that on film. EH: One thing that this show has brought out is that both you and James Benning have very specific disciplines of looking which is what he called it. You ve known James for many years. I m curious what you think about the relationship between your works there are obvious similarities but is there a way you d articulate the difference between his discipline of looking and yours? 12 13

13 PH: He was a mathematician and I wasn t. That sums it up. EH: Is that a pun? PH: No, that s not a pun. His awareness to time is much more conceptual than mine. EH: Last night we screened Benning s Natural History, (2014) which is edited to the digits of pi. PH: There you go. EH: He definitely brings more a priori elements to bear. It seems that you work outwards from the footage in the opposite way. PH: Yeah, I m responding to a kind of sensuality in what I see. I showed some films at Cal Arts in the seventies, and the audience was mystified because there wasn t a mathematical thing going on. I remember a young woman said to me, Where s the math? I was so depressed after that. EH: That s also a period in the mid-seventies coming after structural film. That s when cinema really had its own form of minimalism and conceptualism. Your work would have been out of sync with that at the time. PH: My work is out of the nineteenth century. A strain of romanticism that s long gone, I think, in terms of my own orientation in experience. 14 PETER HUTTON 16mm film stills from AT SEA 15

14 PETER HUTTON 16mm film stills from SKAJAFJORDUR and NY 16 17

15 WAVEQUIP QUESTIONNAIRE ANNE CARSON AND ROBERT CURRIE pulse is contained by wavequip and the original shape is left unaltered a the echo is cancelled taillength it s what is your favorite room in the wavequip how do nights differ from days there what smells do you notice throughout it do you sleep well in the original angle do you dream of it after the echo which represents endurance to you, the land or the sea what kind of pillow do you prefer what is your philosophy of echo or, at least, your definition of its taillength do you neaten up your bed in the morning why do you use anyone else s toothpaste, skin products or pulse when these are left in the bathroom do you approve of realistic techniques like foreshortening in tails what is the silliest/smartest thing your mother ever said to you how do you sustain morale during a long wave whose idea was the cannon do you like jam do you like the films of Eric Rohmer have you ever been tempted to live a double life will you return to the wavequip for any reason you can think of ANTOINE MIDANT TIMOTHE AVEC MASQUE ET TUBA silver gelatin print 11 x 14 inches 18 19

16 O S C A R T I N E 50 0BJECTS TO SELL OUT FIRST IN THE CASE OF AN APOCALYPSE polaroids and wood paneling 27 x 58 inches 20 21

17 A P R A I S E F O R H O L D O N DIM ESSENCE COLLIN LEITCH On the eve of the auspicious lunch, I am visited in a dream by some bears. At this stage of the creative process, we are like those bears, standing in the river, waiting for salmon to swim into our open mouths. Evidence teeters high on the bookcase. We give pencils to youths that would otherwise accost us in the street. Each time the water main breaks, a new era begins. The neurotoxin becomes anthologized. A car wreck suggests the occasion for poetry. Which brings me to your manuscript, a raucous send-up of our questionable evening conduct. Now take a few steps toward the podium and hold open this bag. SOPHIE BRAZIUNAS UNTITLED digital photograph 22

18 PALOMA DOOLEY UNTITLED from PLAIN SIGHT 8 x 10 color photograph 24 MARION ALBERS

19 VIRGINIA LOPEZ FILL YOUR HOLES FOR NO-BODY plaster casts, found and repurposed objects 27

20 A BIRTHDAY GIFT THATCHER SNYDER ILANA DODELSON UNTITLED painting I remember the scarlet thread of the chapbook you wrote for my birthday and images of your velutinous hands running a needle with dread precision through its taupe pages which built like city blocks into a loving metropolis. At a gray card table in the apartment raised islandic above New York we celebrated my transition from one year, strangled by experience, into another with blank verse lazy blank verse that shook and moithered like a sheaf of wheat crescent-bent by the storming of days. When you left, quickly and without complaint, you were simply changing lives the way one might change clothes, the relationshipped for the singleshipped, the woolen sweater for the t-shirt, carefully disintegrated from repeat washings (we are young; we can do this). I realized more than your simple-looped words I missed the freckly constellations of your smallish back, upon which I practiced a false trigonometry, delightful for us, oblivious to the entire triangular universe. And more than your picket-fence smile I missed the cracked skin of your eczematic fingers, which were dry and ringed like ancient Greek columns, and the way you fizzed at pugs trundling and pretended baby-like to drool. And now that I am binding a birthday gift for a beloved friend, I have caught myself missing the sureness of your hands that could bind a book so skillfully, with burning thread that stilled my smallchild heart, where, in that gray alone room, I gazed upon the scarlet cord of our accomplishment, escaped by the enormity of you, of us, memorialized together in the cloud-blinded sky. I am brought back by the fault of my hands, stitching uncertainly black thread into rough cut paper, dancing capriciously over pages that promise only a spare willingness, the best, I realize, that I can offer, in my apocalyptic state, my dream being over a movement from one threadbare heart to another, over a region of blank notebook paper, insufflating, and my hollow chest pulled tight

21 ANTOINE MIDANT UNTITLED (with line drawings) inkjet print, sharpie SAM YOUKILIS FLYING BIRDS d i g i t a l p h o t o g r a p h 30 31

22 32 JEFFREY GIBSON CAN T TAKE MY EYES OFF OF YOU h i g h f i r e g l a z e d c e r a m i c, r e p u r p o s e d t i p i p o l e s, d e e r r a w h i d e, w o o l, a c r y l i c p a i n t, wool blanket, glass beads, artificial sinew, copper jingles, nylon fringe 27 X 29 X 38 inches photo credit: Pete Mauney

23 TEXAS SPIRAL REGGIE ELMIRA I (White Sands) I remember the motorcycle gang At White Sands They pawed the dust Searching for something they could not yet speak of In the data fields of Western Texas ALEXANDRA CORBETT UNTITLED oil on canvas They traced a scent in their rear-view mirrors And in the chrome of their tailpipes A long ride into the Hourglass sands From Telluride or Salt Lake City In cold hardware and airbrushed leather I thought eventually I d be one of them A member of the familiar bullet train In a chambered heart, but they sped away like a fraying pack Of charred sablefish I was a creature of the strip As I would continue to be a quiet patron to the saintly vendors Who sold lime-tinted aviators And tortillas in tin foil To the real housewives of Dallas Who sold Mexican switchblades and fish tanks In all sizes Who laughed in fractured Spanish, Over the din of the national missile range that echoes over the Satellite radio system of a luxury motorcycle Like some imploded homeland security They ride, The bullet train, The feeders of the gypsum sands 34 35

24 II (Various Intonations) Violet relayed a dream of a great swimmer: A swimmer, a rescuer of the Salve Regina A swimmer who speaks on hinges Who floats lightly around a picture frame The same way one might watch a body explode in slow motion Or sit opposed, as you pull everything apart. Separation some years ago, El Paso Violet says there was somebody else in the room: When you wake, a tall man dressed in drag is sitting In a dark velvet chair across from you Telling you how beautiful you are, over and again. And for comparing prices here Is it a dullness that drives pitchforks beneath your nerves? Separation before we knew about cell division. Violet was running, somewhere in the heat plains A tireless mirage in the midseason Running by, green light through stained glass. Sometimes pre-dreams are the stones of a Spanish cathedral Sometimes the lungs skate circles until they fold. If you stick around, the man in the velvet chair will even play the piano. JAKE NADRICH HEAVENLY LAKE 35mm photograph Hallucinations are just like airport romance novels: Violet looked for Chamberlain, the old man, in a field in Marfa The great swimmer, dressed in maroon drapery Who left bent car frames in a gallery Who shows cuts, inversions, blanks, fakes There are various intonations of the heart it s a resonant vacuum This is a palace of hyper acoustics. The various intonations of automobile parts Of stained glass, blackened lipstick, or navy velvet. They are only frequencies

25 PALOMA DOOLEY UNTITLED 8 x 10 color photograph PHILIP POZNANSKY UNSTRUCTURED CHAIR steel rod 38 39

26 MINNIE DRIVER (excerpt from Ben Affleck in Mexico ) MARTHA FEARNLEY JAKE FREILICH PINK LADY POSING 35mm photograph Minnie was our first choice. We were so unprofessional, I think we were, what, an hour and a half late to her audition? Gus - Van Sant - was waiting with her and afterwards he scolded us. He was like, never do that to me or to one of your actors again. He and Robin were like our parents on set. Minnie was too, eventually, when she got comfortable. When we got to the audition she was so riled up, sitting there for an hour, she just gave us so much energy and was like, walking through some scenes with us not even doing her lines just asking questions and answering them for us. We loved her, she was so smart, and Matt immediately had a crush on her I think. I did too, I think we all did, we tried to joke with her about it. She was game, she tolerated us. We were both so young at the time, I was twenty-four when we started shooting, Matt was twenty-six, and I think that dynamic always worked in our favor on set. We were always checking each other on shit, neither of us got away with anything, and adding Casey and Minnie and Cole to that dynamic was pretty powerful in terms of having this very young, very smart group of people surrounding us. We had to rewrite for Minnie, obviously, because she s got a very, ah, strong personality and she couldn t do an American accent for shit. We had a house that we were renting in Southie for the shoot, where Casey, Matt, Cole and I were staying. I think it was a romantic idea, that Matt and I would get this house and like, pace the empty living room working on our characters and writing more stuff, but mostly we drank. Minnie invited herself over after the second day of shooting. She knew she was in a boy s club, and I think she knew she would have to make her presence known in order to participate on set. We were very collaborative, and we told her that on the first day, like, we wanted to offset how out of our control it was starting to feel. And by no means do I think that anyone who was working with us was working against us or trying to take over creative control but you know, we didn t know how to deal with the studios really, or how a day gets organized, we had people helping us. So, the realm where Matt and I felt like we had some kind of, ah, ability to dictate was with the writing and the acting and the way the movie was going to come across and the spirit behind it. Minnie went right into it. Her first scene, the first one we shot with her is the one where she meets Chuckie and Morgan and Cole and tells this lewd joke. That joke wasn t even in the script, Minnie already had it in her, her repertoire and the first take whips it out and Matt and I were like, where the fuck did she come from? It was April, really rainy and cold that month. Minnie had rented a car and was still terrible at driving in the states. She used to hit things all the time, like backing up into mailboxes and the crew s truck on location, she even got a ticket because she parked with her wheels half up on the curb. When she came to the house she brought all this whisky. Could barely make her way around Boston but did manage to find the liquor store. We did a shot from each one, she got us wasted and made us listen to David Bowie. Minnie: My father s Irish. Me father s Irish. I have something in cahmman with you Boston boys

27 Minnie sways against the fireplace an unused fireplace in a house rented by three twenty-somethings. There is something studied about the disarray, the emptiness of the room. They are smart and Ben, she s looking at you a little eager. Minnie wears a red t-shirt and holds a glass of whisky; they have abandoned the shots and are drinking the liquor from water glasses. A little later: You know what Peter O Toole said about marriage? Minnie sits upright in an armchair. In a deep timbre, a posh accent: Find a woman you loathe and give her your house. All three men laugh. Matt says something along the lines of an offer, Does she want this one? I was taken with her right away. How could I not, right? I mean, she was like, this firecracker. At that time in my life and I think in that particular situation she was just so perfect, for the role and for the film. She was smart, she was really passionate very sincere, sometimes took things a little too seriously, maybe, took things to heart. And that can be good and bad to work with. Yeah, yeah, great girl, Matt was smitten. He dated a lot of girls, and they were all kind of like Skylar, that part, very quick witted, outspoken, brunette. But you idealize people when you write about them, I think. There s an artistic tendency to fantasize and to sort of place yourself into this role, or place your own outlook onto this person. All the girls Matt dated were these, these quasi-skylar prototypes. And then here s Minnie Driver and it s like, oh, she s real! Skylar s real, she s a real person! the rookie, he said. His name was Roger Holgerson, old PR guy. Never act like you expected it, but don t be stupid - don t act like you didn t deserve it. That was the gist. The shock of it that you can see on our faces is totally genuine, we weren t prepared for it even though we thought we were. I just remember walking through that fucking room all those tables. I said to Matt, I don t know how the TV people do it. The walk up there is long, and we were pretty drunk by then. But everyone from TV is in the back, and sometimes the music just runs out before they even get to the mic. Anyway, I guess it became very well known after the fact that Matt and Minnie were together during the shoot, and afterwards, for a time. By that point I think they d been broken up for a while and it wasn t very amicable. He announced it on Oprah. To be perfectly honest, they were people who had conversations outside of the media, you know? It was over before. But I think Minnie was angry that he said anything at all. She was a little more media-literate at that point in her career than he was. Than either of us, we had no idea, you know? Anyway, we get up there and I m thanking everyone. I forget Minnie, I was just rushing through this list we wrote on a napkin like half an hour before, just trying to get through the producers and writers and directors and execs that we had to mention, and Matt mutters and Minnie at me under his breath. And yet, I did thank Boston twice at the Oscars, so, there you go. Minnie begins to sing, Elton John s Candle In The Wind. It is three months before Princess Diana of Wales will be killed in a car crash, before the song will become her pop elegy. Her death will affect Minnie greatly, but abstractly she wavers between sadness for the woman and sadness for the country, neither feeling manages to settle, as she knows neither very well. I m the last of the British diaspora, she will say in an interview, conducted after she lands the Oscar nod for Good Will. It will go un-printed - ELLE does not print politicisms, least of all obtuse ones but Minnie will nevertheless think about it a lot. The phrase will ring around her head at the health food store, in traffic on the 10 from Santa Monica, when she s having sex. The Last of the British Diaspora. Just like when she makes jokes about Maggie Thatcher to her American friends, the words seem hollow and bizarre; she knows better what the words can conjure than what they actually mean. Matt invites her to sit next to him on the couch. They play a game where one person names a film, and the next names an actor in that film, and the next in line names another film with that actor. Whoever makes a mistake or is too slow on the uptake, takes a drink. The boys play in loud, enthusiastic interruptions. Then, it is twelve-thirty and Minnie elects to take a cab back to her hotel. Matt walks her to the pay phone on the corner. When the cab pulls up Matt hands her twenty dollars and says that it s from petty cash. There s this moment, I m not sure you would have caught it, but when we got up at the Golden Globes aw, man. I ll never forget this. You d think that once you get up there your brain would just evacuate everything that isn t readily available, or right in front of you. And it is like that, at least at first. When they called our names, you know, to be honest we were prepared for the possibility that we would win. It was talked about. We went through some pretty rigorous training just for awards season, how to conduct ourselves at the shows, whether or not we lost. The guy we worked with was very insistent that if we were to win, and that didn t seem unlikely in the weeks leading up, when the buzz starts to get around to you, finally, that we had to really play up how new we were to this. Play the newcomer, play ELIEL FORD CHARLIE 35mm photograph 42

28 SAM WILLIAMS KINGSTON RHINECLIFF BRIDGE digital photograph

29 SHOW ABOUT NOWHERE COLLIN LEITCH In a 1991 episode of Seinfeld we find our familiar cast of contemptible city drones lost in a parking structure seemingly without end. Production designer Tom Azzari perhaps mistakenly told the show s creator Larry David if you write it, we ll shoot it and failing to find a garage to accommodate filming on-location, Azzari and his team set about dismantling Jerry s apartment an impossible crown of walls that pull away from each other at obtuse angles and in its place they erected a single repeatable unit of parking garage with concrete supports, a drop-ceiling, and to clinch the illusion, a perimeter of mirrors, amounting to a room that matches the specifications of the one described in Kafka s The Cell, a room wherein we are told I move. I feel my body. Into the scored basin of the divan with ash mounting between my legs, each time I look away from the television, I feel myself darkening toward sleep and the possibility of certain rooms. Of course every room presents itself as possible. Only as the corners draw apart and I appear behind the scrim, as the lights pulse and alarms practice their nightly solfège, do I question if the room I have passed through existed only to contain me. What if every room I have ever inhabited was built on a dark soundstage in Queens and promptly dissembled upon my exit? A twitter account perennially wonders, What if Seinfeld still on TV? Would I continue to see my reflection in unlimited takes as one room cedes to the next? The garage is burst open. I do not have to go back again. ADEA R. LENNOX WE DON T ACCEPT AMERICAN EXPRESS digital photograph 46 47

30 ALEXANDRA WRIGHT AERENCHYMA GAIA MARCACCINI IT DIDN T HURT digital photograph T h e s e a r e s a m p l e s w e c o l l e c t e d i n a s p a r t o f a b i o d i v e r s i t y a n d c l i m a t e c h a n g e p r o j e c t. W e c o l l e c t e d r o o t s a m p l e s f r o m a n e x p e r i m e n t a l g r a s s l a n d d u r i n g a y e a r - f l o o d i n g e v e n t i n J e n a, G e r m a n y. O n e o f t h e a d a p t a t i o n s t h a t p l a n t s c a n e m p l o y d u r i n g f l o o d s i s t h e a b i l i t y t o l y s e s o m e o f t h e i r o w n c e l l s i n o r d e r t o m a k e c o n t i n u o u s a i r p a s s a g e s t h a t c a n d i f f u s e o x y g e n a n d c a r b o n d i o x i d e f r o m aboveground shoots into belowground roots. These structures are called aerenchyma

31 HARMONIES NEVER HEARD: R E F L E C T I O N S O N R O B E R T O J U A R R O Z and TRANSLATION KEVIN SOTO The way up and the way down are one and the same. Heraclitus You must realize that the poem is nothing and that translation is possible which is not to say that it s easy; it is merely poetry re-begun. Yves Bonnefoy Two Images Shortly after flying back home from visiting a friend, I suffered a severe migraine attack. I was in the passenger seat of the car looking out on a crowded freeway when I felt my plane of sight dissolve in seconds like a film reel caught fire. I covered my eyes for a few minutes and opened them to see that all objects were obscured by the halation of street lamps radiating slowly outwards. Back home I turned out the lights in my room and retreated into the comfort of my bed under the sheets the dark distended and I felt myself to be at the center of an endless space. I fell asleep and woke up a few hours later. When my sister asked if I was feeling better, I made out to be like I was fine, merely dazed, but my head was being compressed by light. ANTONIA MACHADO OLIVER YAYOI BLOCK A/C pine ply block, printing ink A few weeks later I was invited to speak at a conference in Montevideo about a newly discovered manuscript of a novel by Lautreamont that was found among the possessions of a book collector in Paris who turned out to be, as fate would have it, a nephew of Artaud, a writer who found a kindred spirit in the author of Maldoror. On the plane to Montevideo I quickly fell asleep and dreamt that I had died. In the moment of my death I grasped a truth that is beyond all words, nestled deep within a quiet desert. I woke up shortly before arriving at the airport, where my colleague picked me up and took me out for dinner. Throughout our conversation I could not shake the feeling that my every action was a grotesque performance; language was a cruel punishment that only served to push us further away from whatever hidden desires crystallized deep within us. If there was a pleasure to be found in death, I thought, it was a return to a singular pre-verbal state. Yet I found myself clinging to meaningless signifiers out of some perverse desire

32 Exegesis: The Void in the Word A Stain on Silence and Nothingness In this emotional state I found myself drawn to the poems of Roberto Juarroz, whose name came up during a talk with a friend about poetry that dealt closely with philosophical themes (specifically Wallace Stevens and his stubborn insistence on the yawning abyss that separates (or binds) reality and imagination). On his recommendation I picked up a collection of Vertical Poetry and read through most of it quickly. About Juarroz not much is known and what scant information is left to plumb about his life holds little interest both for the academics and those drawn to thrilling narratives. Juarroz was born in Argentina in 1925 and studied philosophy and library science. He taught at the University of Buenos Aires until his death in His first collection of Vertical Poetry was published in 1958 at the age of 33, following much deliberation over finding a voice that approached poetry not as an activity but as absolute deliverance to a space that sought answers to major metaphysical questions. His insistence on finding a voice paid off although Juarroz is frequently grouped with his contemporary avant-garde poets in South America, he remains unclassifiable. His complete aversion to the personal, the anecdotal, the historical, and the emotional lends his vertical poems an aphoristic quality found in Zen koans and the fragments of pre-socratic philosophers (much more can be said about the philosophical affinities between Heraclitus and Juarroz and their obsession with paradox and uncertainty, with Juarroz going as far as to borrow an image of a road going up and down from Heraclitus). Perhaps one of the most remarkable elements in Juarroz s body of work is a consistency in tone and themes. Like Kafka and Bernhard, his work comes to us fully realized from its first appearance in 1958; the first collection of Vertical Poetry serves as a template for the following fourteen collections of the same name, using many of the same images and motifs to expound a certain set of ideas prominently at the center of Juarroz s work is a suspicion toward language and any kind of reality/identity that is not rooted in uncertainty and constant flux. Unlike Neruda and Vallejo, he never experiments with socially-oriented poetry his work remains defiantly inward, devoid of any authorial I, preferring instead we or one. If his style makes it difficult to place him in an artistic movement in Latin American letters, it seems far appropriate to place him in a philosophical tradition whose members have sought ceaselessly to mark the limits of reason and logic part of an old tradition that begins with the apophatic writings of Pseudo-Dionysius and that has been carried out in the past century by anti-systemic philosophers like Heidegger and Derrida, who have sought to dismantle a humanist tradition that places man and reason at the center of being. Out of these writers, perhaps Derrida s project is the closest to being Juarroz s poetic counterpart in philosophy and critical theory. Both writers are interested in the third disruptive element that unsettles fixed binaries and creates a playful friction between the two oppositions, preferring to dwell in uncertainty rather than privilege one meaning over the other. And it is always this tertiary element that casts the poem into uncertainty at times the disruption is a concrete image that has no clear relationship with the pair that its joined with: birth, death, and a flower (Vert. Poetry 5:10). In other poems the third element cannot be named; it can only be approached through negation and unanswerable questions. One of the major difficulties I faced in translating Juarroz was the danger of making the poem about something, turning an abstract image into a concrete one. This problem came up in the first poem from 12th Vertical Poetry. The line reads in Spanish: en el atrás sin sueño de los pájaros My first attempt at translation read: in the dreamless back of birds. I felt satisfied with the line, even pleased with the alliterative back of birds. Upon revising, a colleague pointed out the problem with back and its association with the physical body, which was out of a place in a poem that dealt explicitly with edges and silence. Ultimately, I decided to rework the line into: in the dreamless space behind birds, which on the surface loses the plainness of back of birds, but, much to its advantage, loses the physical dimension that threatens to subvert the delicate explorations of empty spaces. The language of Vertical Poetry is accessible and despite its complex philosophical themes, is free of jargon and gongorisms. But the contradictory images in a Juarroz poem always fail to resolve; efforts toward a clear explication lead inevitably to doubt and disquietude, which seem like integral parts in the experience of reading Juarroz. In the face of these textual difficulties I found comfort in a quote from Bonnefoy s essay on translating poetry: Where a text has its felicities (accidental or not), its cruxes, its density its unconscious the translation must stick to the surface, even if its own cruxes crop up anywhere. So I attempted to recreate the image in English as literally as possible, resisting all impulses to simplify or unpack an image, hoping that the enigmatic quality of the poems would translate unconsciously into English. But as was demonstrated by the previous example, this approach toward literalness is not without its dangers if not paired with a careful reading of the poems, keeping constantly in mind Juarroz s exploration of the interstices between life and death, sound and silence, presence and absence. Regarding poetic language, I would often have to remind myself that I was translating a lyrical poem and not a dry, philosophical tract. Given Juarroz s metaphysical explorations that are often dealt with in philosophical texts, there was always the temptation to use the language that I associated with philosophers when translating Juarroz resulting in a verse that was at moments less than graceful, using thinking (with Heidegger s What is Called Thinking in mind) when thought was the better option. The sixth poem from Ninth Vertical Poetry consists of a variation on the structure: X se apoya en Y pero en verdad cuelga de Z. Apoya has strong connotations of a physical action that is conveyed by lean on. More importantly, there is a tension in the image of abstractions like a center or a presence partaking in a concrete action. But the word I used in the first draft was rest which was taken from Aristotle s discussion of motion and absolute rest in his Physics. The connection between Aristotle and Juarroz is most likely a false invention of mine. Ultimately, I decided that rest was steeped too deeply in the world of the scientific and the abstract; both lean and hang convey a physicality that stands in stark contrast with Juarroz s typical explorations of the void and the center it seemed like my concern with making the abstract into something concrete returned in an inverted form

33 An Experiment in Translating Desire: Return to Pure Image In the waning autumn days of 2019 I came down with several migraines of unprecedented intensity within the span of a few days. My doctor later blamed the changes in atmospheric conditions that came with an abrupt transition of the seasons, but that explanation ignored the fact that the migraines and their accompanying visions followed a period of intense work that resulted in a novel and several translations. In my waking-dream state I thought that the migraines were my punishment for having been so arrogant as to think I was able to write with the intention of communicating an inner life that could never have its place in language. The instant that a sound exits my mouth its meaning is lost before it reaches someone s ears. But I cannot commit to silence, there is no such thing as the absence of sound in any case, I thought, because the absence of sound presupposes a presence of sound, and if there was no sound in the first place there was no self to give up to language, no self that translated the poems of Roberto Juarroz and no self that tortured itself with a mad desire to speak its life in hoarse cries. I have abandoned my home in search of mysterious things and with me I have taken the roses, the sirens, the light that hangs in the center of a vacuum, and my translations of the Juarroz poems, which will continue to be revised until I arrive in that space where the word and desire come together. ANTONIA MACHADO OLIVER IMPRESSION n e w s p a p e r, p r i n t i n g i n k 54 55

34 Z Y P H A R J A K E C H OTO N OVA UNTITLED from TUBERCULOSIS IN CENTRAL ASIA digital photograph F R E I L I C H UNTITLED, mm photograph

35 SOPHIA ORLOV UNDONE QUONSET plaster, burlap, corrugated aluminum, styrofoam NELSON DOAK UNTITLED, 2015 digital photograph 58 59

36 JESSICA CHAPPE TSFAT, ISRAEL digital photograph 60 JACOB SMALL VIEW OF A PRIVATE SPACE: ED S, POLITICAL THEATRE AND THE CELEBRITY ARCHETYPE fo r d v a n e , p l a s t e r c a s t s, d o n u t s, c o f fe e, a u d i o e q i u p m e n t, p o w e r a m p, a r t i s t s u r i n e, m i n i - f r i d g e, police radio, monitors, laser-cut mirror desks, chairs, vhs players

37 Ray Johnson ca Google Street View ca KENJI FUJITA Ray Johnson: Then and Now (2010)

38 LAILA IRAVANI FEBRUARY 14, 2015 large format film gelatin silver print JACOB FISHER A NEW WORLD OF LIGHT p l e x i g l a s s, t w o - w a y m i r r o r, l i g h t b u l b s, w o o d 24 X 30 inches 64 65

39 T R A N S L A T I O N O F I B Y K O S U S I N G W O R D S ON 123 OF THE SUN ALSO RISES ARIANA PEREZ - CASTELLS for Anne Carson in spring, on the one hill, the field of buckwheat out from a dam that crossed the river was a white house and wine in that wooded valley hot under some trees plenty. on the one hill, beyond, I, ready and sure Bill against the noise of the damn no, nobody on a fly, down the bank very fine flick flowed out of Rio de la Fabrica tied hot, up or down no numbed shouted very firmly up over where the water lowered it waved and numbed the full iron eye.* JURRIAAN BRUGGE UNTITLED oil on canvas 22 x 30 inches *this word not found on page

40 JUDY PFAFF BELLE STARR / BLUE DUCK p i g m e n t e d e x p a n d e d f o a m, h o n e y c o m b c a r d b o a r d, p a i n t, paper lanterns 141 x 116 inches 68 SOMEWHERE BEFORE (DETAIL) pigmented expanded foam, plexiglss, plster, steel, fluorescent bulbs 69

41 E V E R Y H U M A N I N T E R A C T I O N I V E H A D A L L WEEK (BECAUSE MOSTLY I WAS ALONE) PHOEBE CRAMER I Met an Old Man at the Market on Monday He was waiting in line for the deli. I was waiting in line for the deli. He sneezed on the back of my neck. I turned around and said, bless you. He mumbled something I couldn t quite hear. I wiped his mucus off the back of my neck. The line was taking forever and so I gave up. I Made Small Talk with the Clerk at the Market on Monday He said, Hello. I gave him my card. I said, Thank you. He said, Yup. Have a good one. I said, You re welcome. started walking, turned back. I mean, uh, you too. Have a. Yeah. I Called my Mom on the Phone on Wednesday (But She Did Not Pick-Up) I said, Hey Mom, it s me. You re probably at work. Because it s, uh, almost 2. Just callin. Checkin in. I have that interview tomorrow so, getting ready for that, and I ll, uh, let you know how it goes. So. Yep. Talk soon. Bye. I love you. Bye. I Got Hollered at as I Walked to my Interview He said, Hey lady! Where you headed to looking so good? I thought, lady? I stared at the ground. He said, C mon, baby, don t be like that! I thought, baby? I sped up my walk. BRENDAN HUNT CHALKBOARD inkjet print 13 x 19 inches He said, Give me a smile, girl! I passed him. I didn t smile. I didn t look up. He said, Fine, you ugly bitch! Fuck off, then. I thought, bitch. I left him behind.

42 I Had an Interview with a Man Who Told Me How to Live We met at a coffee shop. I said, Hi Sorry, I m late. I He said, No, no, you re right on time. I said, Oh, I guess it s just a reflex to apologize for lateness, then. Which I guess is probably a bad sign. He laughed, thank god. I said So. He said So? There was a long, unfortunate pause. He said, So, you are interested in working in marketing? I said, I m interested in working anywhere. I said, I mean, especially marketing. I said, Thank you so much for taking this time to meet with me. He said a lot of things then. He said what I should do and not do to get a job. He said what I should do and not do to be a better person. He said what I should do and not do to have a better life. He said what I should do and not do to find a husband. He said what I should do and not do with my money. I said, Oh. I said, Uh huh. Uh huh. I said, Right. I said, Interesting. I said, Really? I said, Thank you very much, again. I left. I Called My Mom on the Phone After That (She Did Pick-Up This Time) She said, How was the interview, sweetie? I said, I guess it was okay. She said, You didn t think it was helpful? I said, No, I guess it was helpful. She said, Oh honey. Should I worry? I said, No no! I said, Mom I m fine! I said, The interview was so helpful and interesting! I said, You were right, he could be a great connection! I said, I mean if I wanted to go into marketing. I said, Which wouldn t be so bad! I said, Cause then I d have some money! I said, Not that I need money to be happy. I said, Cause I am happy, mom. I m doing well. I said, I m even going to a party tomorrow night. I said, I love you. 72 Then I Met this Guy at the Party Last Night He said, Hey. I said, Hi, uh He said, So what s your name? And I told him mine and he told me his. He said, I like your tattoo. I said, Thanks. He said, Do you ever lie awake in bed really late at night and feel like you can t breathe or like there s something sitting on your lungs and then you start imagining the funerals of everyone you ve ever loved and what you d say and how you d feel and then you start crying? I did do exactly that like all the time, like every night, and told him so. I said, You know how scientists say the universe is constantly expanding? Well, like, into what? He said, Huh? I said, What space is there for the universe to be expanding into? I felt proud of myself, then. This seemed like a great way to pick up a guy. He said, Woah. I smiled. It was working. He said, What are you drinking? I said, Whiskey. He said, Vodka, me. I said, What? He said, Huh? I said, It s loud. I said, You know when it s late August and you re twelve and it s ninety degrees out and you spread peanut butter on the top of an ice cream sandwich and then eat it in your back yard? He said, Yeah. I said, I really miss that. He said, Yeah, I know. Me too. He said, Sometimes I don t even think I really like any of the people I like. I said, I get so freaked out by needles. Or really anything that s sharp and metal and pointy and could puncture skin. Like I can t even hand people push pins. He said, I wet the bed until an embarrassingly late age. I said, I didn t know how to put a tampon in until my senior year of high school. He said, I get really scared that everyone s having more fun than me. Should I be having more fun? Are you having a ton of fun right now? But then I think that s stupid and everything is fine. I said, I believed in fairies, like completely with my whole being, until I was 16. Also as a child I thought there was a monster living in the toilet that would come out if I flushed so I never flushed. He said, I was always more scared of real-world stuff. Like I was more scared about burglars and serial killers and acid rain than I ever was of monsters. I said, Well that s the difference between you and me. I said, I ve got a really good relationship with my parents. 73

43 He said, That s so great! He got us both more to drink. I said, I really want someone who I can have great, like, amazing sex with but also who would be happy just to bring me a cup of tea and sit in an armchair and talk about the day. He said, I really want someone who I can have great, like, amazing sex with but also who I can just sit up with in bed late at night and watch Netflix and eat Doritos. I said, And take day trips to aquariums. He said, And play Boggle for cash. I said, And adopt a rescue dog and name him Trouble. He said, Yes! And then when we don t know where he is we ll say We re looking for trouble. I said, And make mozzarella sandwiches. He said, And get overwhelmed thinking about the universe. I said, And throw each other into snowbanks. He said, And calm each other down when we re either of us freaking out. I said, And cheer each other up when we re either of us crying. He said, And make out in libraries. We smiled at each other for a second then, in silence. He said, Do you wanna get outta here? I panicked and made up a lie about having to find the friend I came with. (I came to the party alone.) (I left the party alone.) LIZZY CHIAPPINI RECLINING FIGURE II collagraph print 74 75

44 MARKO SHUHAN NUANCES OF RECIPROCITY oil on canvas AINESH MADEN DOCUMENTATION FROM BIND

45 left reads: rock solid, erect nipple, masculine, artificial skin right reads: diamond tears 78 79

46 A FAMILY IN SOHO, BERHYMED THATCHER SNYDER previous page: JULIANNE SWARTZ HOW DEEP IS YOUR p v c a n d p l a s t i c t u b i n g, p l e x i g l a s s, f u n n e l, p a i n t, l e d s, record player, mirror, soundtrack photo credit: Stewart Clememts SULA FAY from TACTILE ILLUSIONS digitally printed images with embroidered braille There s the one child with wealthy skin and 200$ hair plus product expenses smoking a slim and fashionable cigarette and noting with his father that this purchased greatcoat folded above the tailored carrier bag is not really black but bistre. He, wearing carelessness weaponized, and his father who has been levitating on a cloud of wealth for so long that he has forgotten the toughness of concrete, who has pants cut to spill down thigh and shin like oil off a knife s edge, anointing this particular corner with the gelid air of fabric that knows what it is doing, is speaking to the mother (she of the white-haired asymmetrical bob) about countries with names like shadows grasped at by a naïve english, and she is styling Nike Frees like just about everyone else in the world today not setting the trends so much as surfing upon them. I can imagine this family taking up residency in a café whose speciality is colombian coffee and 25$ quiche. These diamond people compressed from new born mewling carbon by the gaze of daedal faces and stories of melting wax, feathers slowly floating slowly into the sea (and of course oppressive beauty of course), who storm haute fashion boutiques with dictatorial courtesy, as though in a foreign land visiting, exclaiming of nothing except beauty, though also working weekly at the local soup kitchen, modeling the knit yellow infinity scarf, the Burberry coat, Nike track pants, serving the homeless and disempowered, conversing with eyes aglow about politics and the weather, smiling evenly, almost angelically, administering hope by means of just presence. Instinctively, though not outwardly, I cower before the healthy glow of good taste. But, there is a way of walking in SoHo, on the balls of my bony feet, shoulders arched, insouciance leveled missile-like at the eyes, taking note of the buildings, white and square like teeth, viewing the skyline as receding gold, sighing at the paradise that is slightly out of reach. 81

47 HUGH HOPKINS UNTITLED medium format film RUBY JACKSON BUCKNER STRANGER clay, spray foam, packing peanuts 38 x 17 inches 82 83

48 SAM YOUKILIS l e f t : U N T I T L E D right: UNTITLED inkjet prints 17 x 22 inches 84 85

49 ONE LESSON WILL KETTNER Boys, he cautioned (forearms in a gambrel from the table to his shoulders; ears) turning his hands to pinch the tufts before his eyes for us to see as well: one was of grass, and the other he d torn from his head in a misery neither of us saw (and a little rain of earth from the former in the coffee was matterless as pigeons spattering the pulpit from an unattended rafter) Boys, he cautioned (patch where the hair was pulled was bringing me to think: though he had taught us in the best of his states, there were episodes, all that I remember, him prodding that despondent thing for example on the side of a bridge with a cane we figured must be something s breast; traffic atrophied; repeatedly he fired up his vision to a narrowing window from the smoke to see the same hand, builder of a heap of exhausted cigarettes, vanishing, music being severed like a homingpigeon s bond; or another when his eyes were dead, afloat as peeled potatoes in a flush, while the gray beard scoured on his right hand tensed against solder as the left was contortedly consumed in the mouth of a mailbox) Boys, he said, and lowering a hand There s only one of you. JULIANNE SWARTZ SURROGATE (JS), SURROGATE (KRL), SURROGATE (ARL) white cement, grey cement, mica and 143 clock movements JS: 68 x 18 x 12 inches, KRL: 72 x 24 x 14 inches, ARL 40 x 17 x 8 inches photo credit: Andres Ramirez 86 87

50 DANIELLA DOOLING 3459 MACOMB STREET fire escape ladders, boom boxes, audio cassette recorders, audio cassette tapes, flashlights, belt holders, cable wire dimensions variable photo credit: Gary Gold 88 89

51 SELECTIONS FROM LAS ALTURAS DE MACCHU PICCHU written by PABLO NERUDA S translated by DIEGO MURRAY I Del aire al aire, como una red vacía, iba yo entre las calles y la atmósfera, llegando y despidiendo, en el advenimiento del otoño la moneda extendida de las hojas, y entre la primavera y las espigas, lo que el más grande amor, como dentro de un guante que cae, nos entrega como una larga luna. (Días de fulgor vivo en la intemperie de los cuerpos: aceros convertidos al silencio del ácido: noches desdichadas hasta la última harina: estambres agredidos de la patria nupcial.) Alguien que me esperó entre los violines encontró un mundo como una torre enterrada hundiendo su espiral más abajo de todas las hojas de color de ronco azufre: más abajo, en el oro de la geología, como una espada envuelta en meteoros, hundí la mano turbulenta y dulce en lo más genital de lo terrestre. Puse la frente entre las olas profundas, descendí como gota entre la paz sulfúrica, y, como un ciego, regresé al jazmín de la gastada primavera humana. I From air to air, like an empty net, in the coming of autumn, I drifted between the streets and the atmosphere, arriving and departing, the coin extending from the leaves, between spring and fresh shoots, all this the boundless love delivers to us like an endless moon, as if held within a tumbling glove. (Days of living splendor during the weathering of bodies: lengths of steel recast into silent acid: nights unraveled down to the last speck of flour: battered stamens in the nuptial land.) Someone who awaited me amidst the violins found a world like a buried tower sinking its spire below all the raspy leaves drowned in hues of sulphur: even lower, in the golden geological layer, like a sword wrapped in meteors I thrust my sweet and volatile hand into the earth s deepest genital cove. I placed my forehead between the deepest waves, I descended like a droplet into sulfuric peace and, like one who is blind, I went back to the jasmine of our worn out human springtime. III El ser como el maíz se desgranaba en el incansable granero de los hechos perdidos, de los acontecimientos miserables, del uno al siete, al ocho, y no una muerte, sino muchas muertes llegaba a cada uno: cada día una muerte pequeña, polvo, gusano, lámpara que se apaga en el lodo del suburbio, una pequeña muerte de alas gruesas entraba en cada hombre como una corta lanza y era el hombre asediado del pan o del cuchillo, el ganadero: el hijo de los puertos, o el capitán oscuro del arado, o el roedor de las calles espesas: todos desfallecieron esperando su muerte, su corta muerte diaria: y su quebranto aciago de cada día era como una copa negra que bebían temblando. III Being, like corn, would be threshed into the tireless granary of lost deeds, of miserable events, from one to seven, to eight, and not one death would come to every one, but many: every day a little death, a speck of dust, a worm, a lamp stamped out in the suburban mud, a little death with bulky wings would enter each man like a short spear and he was the man besieged by the bread or by the knife, the rancher: the child of the ports, or the dark captain of the plow, or the rodent of dense streets: Every one of them fainted awaiting their death, their quick daily death: and their fateful daily damage was like a black cup they would drink trembling

52 CAITY LEE selections from UNDERSTUDY digital photographs 92 93

53 MINERAL SELFIE COLLIN LEITCH In addition to being an aggregator of web content, I am an invasive species of arthropod living in your city, brought here in the ballast tanks of a cargo ship. At each opportunity for participation, I affirm my neoliberal complacency by offering polished stones, and when lacking a suitable artifact, my own purple blood, renowned for its many medical applications. My father always said his was a simpler time to be a crab. He died in his crude shack of hardened plant resin with only a small volume of Engels to his name. While I am his survivor, I want boutique cultural products, more traffic to my website, higher thread count, the constant affirmation of image, greater and fresher selection of sub-tropical produce at no additional cost to myself, and to show my neighbor the life I have bought, and that my possessions out-match his by piles. I have also like the idea of a flexible schedule, and stackable vacation days, so that soon I may take my family to the waters and sands of my birth, where by the throb and pulse we know we are warm, and we are free. SAM WILLIAMS INTERACTIVECORP HEADQUARTERS, 2015 digital photograph 94 95

54 S T E P H E N J OY C E left: FORBES FIELD r i g h t : M A G E E B A C K S TO P inkjet prints 20 x 24 inches 96 97

55 TENNESSEE, TIBET: TWO FRAGMENTS M I L A S A M D U B Here are two central fragments from my senior project, a creative oral history about my grandmother (Momola, in Tibetan), the food she cooks, and identity in diaspora. Last summer I flew down to Tennessee, where my grandmother spends a few months every year at my aunt s home, to interview her and learn how to cook. Tennessee and Tibet, which are geographically on opposite sides of the world, are not always so distinct, I learned, and this is reflected in what we do in the kitchen, in how we live. Distinction Momola sometimes dismisses her own central Tibetan cuisine as peasant food. Which is not to say she doesn t like it, or feels that it is not her own. It continues to occupy the privileged place which practices from childhood carve out for themselves. In Tennessee for breakfast, with toast and a boiled egg, she eats two slices of mozzarella cheese (the best my aunt can find in the area), microwaved for a minute and with all the water wrung out of it. It makes a chak-chak-chak sound, like meat, she tells me. One morning I am given a slice, squeezed out and folded over on itself, and Momola asks, in expectant confirmation, isn t it just like meat? I m not sure, but something about its stringiness and rich, animal-protein flavour makes the comparison apt. It reminds her of the fresh cheeses the nomads made when she was young. She remembers out loud, over breakfast one morning, her youth and the late summer festival of Ongkor, when there were horse races and archery competitions and meat was boiled in large quantities and, if you had nomad friends, they brought you fresh cheese as a gift. Sometimes, she says, she likes this village food better and, eyes atwinkle, smiles a wry smile, as if she knows this is a silly thing to think. It is only in moments like these, at breakfast or when she is alone at home, that she makes these foods. When other people need to be fed she always cooks the sinicized, garlic-heavy dishes of my grandfather s homeland in the Chinese borderlands. That cuisine is more refined, according to her, a view that has a history stretching back at least to the Qing period, in the 18th and 19th centuries, when ties between China and Tibet were particularly close, Chinese troops were garrisoned in Lhasa, and the food consumed by the central Tibetan aristocracy began to taste more and more Chinese. Other Tibetans don t know how to cook like this, Momola will say, their dumpling skins are too thick. Oral Traditions KATY HALLOWELL GOOD MOURNING 35mm photograph I wonder to myself: in what way is the microwaved, squeezed-out, folded-over mozzarella related to the fresh cheese my grandmother ate in Tibet? Or, equally, in what way is the boiled lamb we eat at picnics in Tennessee related to the boiled lamb in Tibet? A book or a film or a photograph: these remain more or less the same regardless of context. In contrast to these fixed containers of meaning, which lend themselves more readily to analysis, food, especially as my grandmother does it, without written recipes, is constantly changing. Like the tale of King Gesar of Ling, the Tibetan epic which is still performed and passed on orally and exists in different forms, subject to countless permutations, in Tibet and Mongolia, in Bhutan, in the Russian republic of Buryatia and beyond; like this and other epics, food is an oral tradition. The story of the boiled lamb changes with each retelling. The one constant is the debt to the previous iteration. Thus, we might, theoretically, if we had a perfect memory for flavours, trace a genealogy of boiled lamb, from iteration to iteration, and find a common ancestor from which both boiled lambs, the Tibetan and the Tennessean, are 98 99

56 descended. But on second thoughts this would be a pointless exercise, and bad history to boot. Better not to imagine an eater endowed with perfect flavour-memory, not to look for a definite history of an indefinite thing, and to think instead of my own memory of boiled lambs, no matter how limited and incomplete. As I try to recall the boiled lambs I have eaten by a waterfall in Dharamshala, at a park in Delhi, at home in Kumbum and Tennessee the flavour of the meat and the context in which it was eaten meld into one. And the flavour of the boiled lamb somehow unites these disparate moments in my past, so that all these picnics come together as a single flavour-memory-experience. I know that the next time I taste boiled lamb, all the previous memories will float out on a breeze of ovine pungency, and the new encounter will join the others, ready to be called up at a later date. So maybe that s all: the boiled lamb in Tibet and Tennessee are similar only insofar as they are remembered as one, for it is in memory that the identity of past experiences can be discerned. The same goes for the mozzarella and the Tibetan nomads fresh cheese. As Maurice Halbwachs, the pioneering theorist of collective memory, puts it we preserve memories... and these are continually reproduced; through them, as by a continual relationship, a sense of our identity is perpetuated. And Halbwachs would no doubt go further, and say that this is also how collective identities are created, through memory. Which is to say our traditions in exile are a continuation of our traditions in Tibet only to the extent that we remember them as such. Sometimes it is difficult to discern this continuity. In Tennessee, a few days after our picnic, Momola is preparing for a sangsol, an incense offering to the deities. One Saturday morning, when the last prayer flags have been strung together and the juniper is dry, we descend freshly bathed from the wrap-around deck and gather in the yard. My aunt builds a fire in a charcoal grill, my uncle and I hang up the prayer flags, my cousins, who have been charged with videotaping the event, are fiddling with the camera, and my grandmother rushes around as usual, yelling instructions at all of us. The dried juniper branches are placed on the fire and a little home-made rice wine is poured over it. A thick white column of smoke billows out into the morning. The air is charged with juniper s peppery scent. We take the tsampa, roasted barley flour, in our right hands. My uncle recites the prayers, altogether we intone the syllables, and we throw the tsampa up into the sky. Like that, the ritual is complete. But it feels wrong something about this lush southern clime. These tree-covered Appalachian mountains feel stunted to me. How can our incense and our offerings possibly reach the deities from down here? Namtso, my aunt s younger daughter, finds the exoskeleton of a cicada among the knotted roots of a tree and gleefully picks it up and throws it into the still-smoking embers. Momola s face turns, from post-ritual serenity to deeply furrowed brows. She gives the little girl her blackest look. Who told her to do that, she shouts at everyone, now it will be carried up to the gods! Seeing her response, the way she turned, I realise that for her there is no question about the authenticity of the ceremony. It does not matter that the sangsol happened in a charcoal grill and not in a traditional stone structure. She still believes the smoke is going up to the deities. OSCAR TINE U N T I T L E D digital photograph

57 LISA SANDITZ C A L I F O R N I A D R Y D O U B L E T A N K S oil on canvas 30 x 40 inches 102 T O O T H B R U S H S P O O N S C R U B D A D D Y P L A S T I G L O M E R A T E ceramic and found materials 12 x 12 x 18 inches 103

58 KNOT OF LONGING CELIA BLAND We are made in a thin thread. Cole Swenson i. Long before he had just cause he let himself long for Out. For the cardinal in & Out of the yard splash of blood against the high wall clouds describing the curve of Out. He recused himself from petty quarrels over contraband precedence mops and spatulas and tasted clots of eggs, felt again the crisp give of driver s seat. On his bunk he was the crosshatch of this fifth year of In, dreaming scraggly ends of branches then under his sleep-soft hands the chub trunk of evergreen, turpentang of needles. RUBY JACKSON UNTITLED monoprint 24 x 18 inches 104 (following page) l e f t : ARTHUR GIBBONS THRICE, 2014 steel and weather balloon 48 x 22 x 22 inches r i g h t : JAKE NADRICH DON T BE SHY (PEARL TOWER) 35mm photograph

59

60 DEANA LEBLANC video stills from TONSHI ENZO SHALOM NOT YET TITLED

61 INSTRUCTIONS FOR SWADDLING SOPHIE STRAND a chemical inconsistency, sometimes mistaken for the hand of god, had shuttered me tightly as a night gladiolus in full noon; white tepals locked together in a prayer against the world. I was the opposite of skinned: I still stand in the same dress. no one seemed affected by the momentary flash that, in an act of alchemy, made our moisture into a single rectangle of ourselves. I found that I could no longer remove my clothes. when the time came for love, every touch was a touch away. even when the blouse was unbuttoned another blouse lived below. imagine an insect invisibly inside the stomach of a bigger insect encased in amber that is me. whole nights spent sitting heavy in layers of wet clothe while trying to delight in the simplicity of a bath. I couldn t help but wonder whether fire would be a better way of getting undressed, perhaps this is the reason virgin saints go on dates with their own death days court the funeral pyre not because of their innocence, but rather because they have discovered that they are Russian dolls. a marginalia from the final trial of joan of arc reads: we removed her boyish clothing and found, not a girl, but another boy within. a photograph of our lady of sorrows shows her swaddled in a bolt of indigo. soseki says a female puppet consists of only a head and a pair of hands; when you drape a long stick in the skin of a kimono there is no longer any need of a body. but - oh my heart - how I need a body to fight the good war. imagine the astonishment of the guards when joan s burning was done and no ash lay below but that of the shift they had put her in. many days when I wish I could unbutton my collar to the cold wind. ROMAN HRAB CONTRAIL ROCK, 2014 foam, steel, colorshift paint, alabaster 70 x 16 x 16 inches 111

62 RENE MACIOCE 34TH STREET STATION SEVEN LINE EXTENSION PROJECT digital photographs following page: (left and right) LUCIEN DANTE AMAD DAMA wool and alpaca 24 x 11 and 18 x 13 inches

63

64 V I D E O + S O U N D

65 HANNAH BEERMAN stills from LIQUID MALES digital video SIMONE LEITNER s t i l l s f r o m D O N T F A L L I N T O THE MEGABUS TOILET (OR LOVE) digital video

66 SIMONE LEITNER stills from EXPERIMENTS IN HOUSEKEEPING digital video KEVIN BAKRY stills from SWAMP found footage

67 NELSON DOAK still from PURSUIT digital video

68 PETER SCHREIBER + ORI CARLIN still from LABYRINTH digital video PARIS MCGARRY still from SWM flash animation material sourced from craigslist men seeking women ads

69 LILY KONIGSBERG stills from FOREVER NOT FOR GOOD music video CAMILA SOBRAL s t i l l s f r o m R E J E C T E D A N D U N U S E D C L I P S IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER digitally manipulated found 35mm slides

70 SOUND JAKE NADRICH Heat Death DOUG FRIEDMAN Benthos Gentle Ascent YASHAR HASHEMI Minecraft Song PAUL SYLVESTER J A K E N A D R I C H stills from BLOOD BEACH digital video

This is a vocabulary test. Please select the option a, b, c, or d which has the closest meaning to the word in bold.

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