Saturday, September 06, 2014
How people lived, who they really are, and how they change over time are rarely entirely known. We encounter their artifacts from time to time and look upon them in mystification: their thoughts in writing, their visage and symbols, their memories through the mediation of how others remembered them. We glimpse at the occasional laughter, sorrows, and fears in lives that are shrouded in mystery.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Monday, August 04, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Some time ago, one of my co-workers told me, as if he is doing me a big favor, that "you need to have your own opinions." To which, one would have to assume, he is the expert in judging ownership and originality. It would be an interesting exercise to deconstruct his argument. I'll get around to it later, maybe, when I am not so busy getting my opinions from everybody else.
Rather, I suspect that his complaint would go away entirely if I simply lower my sense of self-awareness and agency and start to produce ever more novel-seeming and easily digestible/commodifiable opinions at ever greater rates of turnover, while obliging the bleating of self appointed neutral parties who are really just set out to consume everything set before them and value nothing but novelty.
In other words I might to produce more 'content'. The kind that fills up space, not minds. I hear that pictures and tweets are apt for this task.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Wednesday, July 09, 2014
There was a time when artists and writers flocked to inexpensive cities to allow themselves the trials of making art over the trials of making a living. In North America today, the main site of literary activity or literary business – which more and more amount to the same thing – is Brooklyn. Yet it’s probably one of the toughest places for a writer to live cheaply and noodle about, wearing rags. What happens when artists gravitate to places where they can make art only with great financial effort; where writers have to be journalists, adjunct professors, or work in cafés to pay the rent, leaving little time to write their novel, while learning every few months that one of their herd has secured a six-figure advance for their first book? What do their relationships and values look like, and how do their love stories unfold? This is the world of Adelle Waldman’s first book.
Starving artist as an aesthetic and all round excuse for being an asshole