Gallery Diet and SBL6 contributor Daniel Feinberg are excited to present 10 artists working in the fields of drawing, painting, photography, and sculpture in the exhibition opening Wednesday February 20, 6-9pm.
Concurrent with Diamonds, Diamonds will be High Frontiers, a multisensory survey of the artist, writer and musician Claire L. Evans in the Project Room.
Featuring works by SBL6 contributor Ketuta Alexi-Meskhishvili, Nadia Ayari, Lisa Beck, Barb Choit, Evie Falci, Kathryn Garcia, Michelle Lopez, Davina Semo, Amy Yao, and Tamara Zahaykevich.
High Frontiers: A survey of Claire L. Evans
Claire L. Evans will present a multisensory survey of her technological thing-vision in objects and videos, scent and literature. Collected in one place for the first time, and largely new to the world, this presentation will be, as Mark von Schlegell writes about her work, a room of networked science fictions [where] young women’s minds will meet the shock of the “demoniac glimpse” of the technologically-accessed modern real, and in the temporary safety of this new Dark Age see the stars.
C.L.E. will be performing a new speculative fiction called “Emotional Bandwidth Solutions” at 8pm on February 20th. This will also be the occasion for the release of High Frontiers, a new collection of essays by C.L.E. published by Publication Studio.
Ketuta Alexi-Meskhishvili, Untitled, 2011, digital ilfoflex print, 50 x 60 cm
On The Satanic Verses by Salman Ushdie, 1988. (Viking Publishers)
In the early 1990s, as the furore raged, the following letter of support was written to Rushdie by novelist Norman Mailer.
Dear Salman Rushdie,
I have thought of you often over the last few years. Many of us begin writing with the inner temerity that if we keep searching for the most dangerous of our voices, why then, sooner or later we will outrage something fundamental in the world. and our lives will be in danger. That is what I thought when I started out, and so have many others, but you, however, are the only one of us who gave proof that this intimation was not ungrounded. Now you live what must me a living prison of contained paranoia, and the toughening of the will is imperative, no matter the cost to the poetry in yourself. It is no happy position for a serious and talented writer to become a living martyr. One does not need that. It is hard enough to write at one’s best without wearing a hundred pounds on one’s back each day, but such is your condition, and if I were a man who believed that prayer was productive of results, I might wish to send some sort of vigor and encouragement to you, for if you can transcend this situation, more difficult than any of us have known, if you can come up with a major piece of literary work, then you will rejuvenate all of us, and literature, to that degree, will flower.
So, my best to you, old man, wherever you are ensconced, and may the muses embrace you.
Quietly announcing the launch of a new magazine called The New York Review of Culture. Published bi-monthly beginning November 2012 (tentative).
Purchase a one-year subscription for $29. Initial subscriptions will be used to directly finance the production and printing of the first six issues.
Contributors to the first issue will be announced in time. Proposals accepted.
Jon Leon, publisher
The New York Review of Culture
Currently showing at Fotografiska in Stockholm, a beautiful exhibition of Sally Mann’s romantic and evocative work. With a particularly spellbinding film ‘What Remains’ tracing the paths, projects and family life on her farm in Virginia.
‘The face resists possession, resists my powers. In its epiphany, in expression, the sensible, still graspable, turns into total resistance to the grasp. This mutation can occur only by the opening of a new dimension. For the resistance to the grasp is not produced as an insurmountable resistance, like the hardness of the rock against which the effort of the hand comes to naught, like the remoteness of a star in the immensity of space. The expression the face introduces into the world does not defy the feebleness of my powers, but my ability for power. The face, still a thing amongst things, breaks through the form that nevertheless delimits it. This means concretely: the face speaks to me and thereby invites me to a relation incommensurate with a power exercised, be it enjoyment or knowledge.’ – Emmanuel Levinas, from Totality and Infinity.
We settle at the bar, our eyes hooded, hard-ons rising behind suit coats. A shot a Johnnie, we say to the barkeep. We’re sweating. We’d stopped to admire half-slips made of lace on plastic male torsos at Slipwreak. Then quickened to the bordello, hurrying past Pearls, a pierce and tattoo parlor. We could see ourselves, we’d said to each other, on a beach, gold hoops pierced through our penises, tattoos running delicately up and down our manly legs. We’re square jawed, linebacker-big, nearsighted undercover cops. We squint at the barkeep, now, hands in our laps holding it down. Just wait.
The barkeep drains Johnnie Walker into two shots, popping the bottle up in the air with an elfin smile between pours. He slides them exactly in front of us, little streaks of water trailing. We hoist the Johnnie. Toss it down. Sit motionless, like the whiskey’s cast a spell. We stare into the shots. Revolve them. They are like fireflies in our huge hands. We nod slightly to each other. Set the shot glasses down.
How much? we ask the barkeep.
Two Georges per Johnnie.
Not for the whiskey, mamby pamby. How much for you?
A black-haired man in a taffeta gown rustles close. Name’s Crow, he says. Got fully equipped rooms above. Certified clean. He waves his hand around the bar. Our eyes follow and we see men’s tongues licking the air. Some hands are down pants. Pick me, they all say with their faces.
We spin on our bar stools toward the mamby pambys, tongues snaking out against our will, eyebrows up. Hard-ons hydraulic. Crow caws at the men. They press against us like tiny pebbles at the base of boulders. Stroke our arms. Climb on stools near us. They are mamby pambys with leather suspenders and their bare chests heave with desire. A pale man sits across our laps. Another lies on the bar. Bats fake eyelashes heavy with rhinestones. We could have swept them all away with a bash of our huge arms. But they are like school children. Postures of sex drip from perfectly pointed noses and we become weak-kneed, nearly forgetting our mission. Our bust. Our hard-ons are like erector sets. Crow leaps aside and the men we’d seen outside the bar drawing daintily on cigarettes under umbrellas advertising the floorshow, come in and overrun us completely: twenty ants on sugar. We want to be two men without pants. Muscular mannequins. Want our penises festooned with necklaces, faces licked, our butch haircuts lovingly tended by many hands. We want to ram these mamby pambys. Be gladiators sparring. Smash tables. Be two giant, naked men on our stomachs head-to-head, inviting them with our fingers to come on. Come on. Fuck us good. Crow waves like he’s granting our wish.
But what we do instead is brush them off. We smile, pat down our hard-ons. Pat them as we head to the door. See ya in the clink, we say and radio for reinforcements. With our pants still jumping, our eyes hooded, we and the squad close down the bordello. We’re out cleaning up the scene, flashing our badges, disposing of the elfin men. But later, when we retire from the force, we may need them and, by God, we hope enough of them survive.
Text by AJ ATWATER
Yesterday, Publish and Be Damned presented a new edition of their fairs, displaying an impressing declension of artist-led and self-published magazines, journals, periodicals and other printed format experimentations… Mountains and mountains of them. Too much. So much, I suspect ICA went way beyond their maximum visitors allowances during the afternoon as between 3 and 6, waves of people were coming in and only very few coming out, not to mention the fact that this is a sunny Spring saturday in London we’re talking about.
Paper hustle and paper chaos, fingers looking for change (only cash in that market place, of course) in addition to the frenetic insecurity of most of the artists, publishers, writers, etc. on spot, us, our usual mad scramble for status, position, affirmation, and attention. On top of it all, add in the tekila shots drinking that started at 6pm…
What are some tropes we’re tired of as publishers? Things we wish we’d see more often as editors? Things we wish our readers would see more often? Are conceptual poems and flash political manifestos scrutinized differently when submitted? Yesterday was an intense attempt to (briefly, of course) characterize the landscape of contemporary independent publishing and share advice.
More details here.
1. Lie down on your bed.
2. Position unlit cigarette between first and second fingers of right hand; grasp lighter in left hand.
3. Lean head forward until forehead touches knee.
4. Extend arms forward, flicking lighter. Slowly rise, and bend backwards. Cigarette is lit.
5. Place cigarette between upper and lower lips and inhale; cough on exhale.
6. Focus on the release of tension attained through the power of totally organic nicotine.
Faye smoked 3924 cigarettes. I smoked 2024. Taken together in two hours, it was probably the single greatest of cigarette smoking in history. We made a list of the top ten greatest songs of the month and the songs are from number ten to number one: Make Me Proud; All I Really Want; More; Thinking About You; What We Do; Let Me See the Booty; Why Were Fighting; Too Easy; Have Your Way; Rockin’ That Shit.
I said, I will need many millions of dollars. Faye said, Why should I give them you? I will build up an infinite Nicotiana trees forest that will embrace all aspects of ultimate truth and beauty, I said, we will then chew the tobacco, smoke the tobacco and and people will give you money to view us chewing and smoking. Faye said, I’ve heard these promises before. Many times. Daily. Watch this, I said. And Faye burst into flames. I can respect this kind of power, she responded, but I am not convinced, she said. Watch this, I said. And outside our panoramic conference room the sun set behind a perfect, amazing bluff that we had never seen before and soon the stars rose in a bright and hazy streak across the forest smokey sky.
Terius walked up the driveway and went to the front door and knocked the knocker and asked the Mom: Is Faye home? The Mom said, They’re in the forest, Terius. We said: Hi, I’m The-Dream and I’ve got a nice purple splotch on my face. Hi, I’m The-Dream and I walked in the Nicotiana forest and Elvira and Faye spit warm and wet chewed tobacco at me and I didn’t even realize it. The Mom said, Don’t chew too much tobacco kids or you’ll get sick. Terius said, Can I have some? He stepped foot in direction of the forest and tried to approach the sacred route. We told him: You’re not allowed until you pass the test. What test? asked Terius. The test took place underneath the back porch, right next to the forest. Terius got on the ground and pulled down his pants. Don’t give me a wedgie, he said. Faye sat on Terius’ legs and struck the little green garden hose that attaches to the big black garden hose in his butt. She dropped three stones one by one into the hose. The stones rattled and clanked. She poured a handful of dirt into the hose. The dirt sifted and slid slowly. Terius yelled: Cut it out. Hey, cut it out, Faye, it hurts. Faye said, pussy. Confirmed, I said. We told him: Rule number one. Never pronounce the E when a name ends with E. Tiger got up and went into the corner and bent over and made a face. Faye said, Jeezy’s greatest line from Standing Ovation is, “Calculate my every step, I’m a mathematician, Make them pigeons disappear, I’m a damn magician (yeah)”. I said, “I’m the author of the book, yea a genius wrote it ‘jeah’, There’s a message in my words you gotta decode it ay’”. Thug Motivation, Faye said. “Ay” she repeated. Correct, said I. Terius said, can I enter the forest now? We told him: You got a pussy. That means you have to pass set number two. Terius said, What’s test umber two? Faye said, Do you know what the best song is? Terius said, No. Faye said, The Night Chicago Died. Terius said, So? Faye said, Do you know what the best movie is? Terius said, No. Faye said, The best movie is Total Recall. Terius said, So? Faye picked up the bicycle pump and showed it to Terius. Faye said, Do you know what this is? Terius said: Bicycle pump. Faye said: Wrong. This is the most unbelievable farting machine ever created. I said, You won’t believe it. Faye said, This is the best. I said, It’s unbelievable. Faye said, Bend over. Terius bent over. Faye took the end of the bicycle pump and stuck it in his butt. Stay still, I said. I started pumping. I pumped and Terius started giggling and I pumped and he grabbed his stomach and giggled and I pumped and Terius said, That’s enough and I pumped a couple more times until it got hard to pump the lever and Terius reached around and pulled out the end of the bicycle pump and cut the single greatest fart in the history of farting. He farted one long fart which didn’t change in pitch or volume but just kept going and Terius held his stomach which was puffed up and said, Make it go down. Faye and I hit the dirt. We rolled in the dirt and laughed the soundless laugh. Then we went on youtube, watched bits of Total Recall and ruled that it was not the best film. However we agreed that the best lines were:
Elvira: Open the goddamn door!
Faye: I can’t.
Elvira: Open it!
Faye: They’re all connected.
Then we changed our minds. The best lines were actually:
Elvira: What is it that is exactly the same about every single vacation you have ever taken?
Faye: I give up.
Elvira: You! You’re the same. No matter where you go, there you are. It’s always the same old you. Let me suggest that you take a vacation from yourself. I know it sounds wild. It is the latest thing in travel. We call it the Ego Trip.
We confirmed. We began to watch bits of Basic Instinct but did not really finish because Faye got the runs and had to go home.
The myth if you is broken, I said. The myth if you is broken too Elvira, Faye said. You’re still young I said, It could be a phase. Faye looked at me: The smell of the dentures, she said. What’s with the smell of the dentures, I said. I can’t take it anymore, she replied. For you, I would improve my brushing technique, I said. Faye said, We need security. You are ineffectual and silly. She stuck a toothpick between her teeth and hopped a passing wagon train. She waved her arm twice, long and slow, then did the same with one of her legs, long and slow, before turning away and vanishing into the dusty horizon ahead.
I said to Terius: Faye’s left. Who’s Faye? He said. Still, I sat on the forest floor. I developed a sudden need to smoke. My teeth rattled in my palm like dice. Welcome, Terius said. Shut up, I said, I am a girl, if I was not a girl I would tear at my guts, but there are none. I am a girl. Terius replied, I have never been so happy. The forest is a failure, I said. Fuck the forest, Terius said. My name is The-Dream, for Christ’s sake. We stared at each other for a long moment. Red juice stained his chin. You’re bleeding, Terius. Show me your tongue, I said. I don’t want to be unseemly, he replied and sighed. I said, If there was some place we could cleanse. Plant what I have taken from you in the forest Elvira, he said. I buried my teeth, small and worn now, under a young Nicotiana tree. We lied down, it rained, and afterwards, a rainbow.
I woke up I said, Hi Terius. He was now sitting in his new car, listening to the radio. He said, My mother says I can’t play with you anymore. I lit a cigarette, we shared it and rode to Faye’s house, pushed the doorbell but no one answered. We moved around, climbed onto the house’s wall over the garage and looked throughout the window and saw Faye. She was smoking a huge cigarette and watching an unspecified episode of Episodes. She was wearing braids and therefore looked a little bit like Ludacris. Hi, I’m Faye and I look a little bit like Ludacris. Hi, I’m Faye and I have very bad breath. Hi, I’m Faye and that’s the way it is for now. Hello you two, I’m Faye’s father. We startled, my hand slid on the edge of the window, I fell and grabbed The-Dream’s foot, his hand slid too and we both fell in front of the garage like bird craps. The father said: She’s lying down. She’s nauseous. Her tongue was dark brown when she came home and she made in her pants because she couldn’t help it. I want you to promise me to stay out of the Nicotiana forest for two days. Promise me, Terius. Promise me, Elvira. Promise me that you won’t let Faye enter the forest.
My phone rang. I startled again, jumped off the edge of the driveway’s wall as if to pounce on my own pocket where the phone was ringing. Then I hear Faye’s shrill voice speaking to me, and I withdraw to a dark corner of the garden. Yo E, it’s me Faye, Pick up… I think she’s not answering… no, I think it’s a Beverly Hills number… who the fuck knows? E-E, I’m doing book signing tonight and wanted to see if we could hook up after… E? This is the only chance I got. I won’t be in town for a couple of weeks, book tour in Italy. Who knew that pomodori could also read? Ha ha. I can send a car, E. OK, I’m running out of time here, Seven o’clock, I’d love to see-
Phone ran out of battery. Now Faye was listening with her headphones to the Elton John album Elton John, which should have been at least number twenty-five on the all-time top 100 album list. There was no noise except for Faye’s breathing. She nodded when she saw me. I sat on the sofa across from her sofa. I lied down. Faye said very loudly although she thought she was speaking normally: Baby, you make me wish I had three hands. I am not a three-breasted hooker, Faye. There was a plate on the living room table with fruits in it. I took a banana and pretended to smoke it. Then I took a mandarin and placed it between my breasts. Then I went to the window and peeled two other mandarins, well one mandarin and an orange, and threw the peels towards Terius’ house. It landed in the bushes and on the father’s car. I wound up and threw another. Then i threw the naked fruit itself. It all bounced off the side of the house. Faye removed the headphones and picked up a orange peel and hurled it. It bounced off Terius’ window. Then I threw an orange and a mandarin and they both hit the window. There were no more mandarins, no more oranges, no more peels. A couple of minutes later the doorbell rang and we looked out the window and saw Terius’ mother standing on the doorstep with a pile of dripping orange and mandarin peels in her hand. We went into Faye’s father’s closet and closed the door and pulled the rope to make the ladder come down and climbed the ladder into the attic and crawled into the crawl space beside he attic window where absolutely no one I repeat no one could possibly find us no matter how long they looked especially not Terius’ Fat Ass Mother and her stinky fruit peels. Faye said: I got the runs but it was worth it. 3924 cigarettes, a new all-time record. A shiver ran down my spine, as it always did. I could never tell for sure whether she could read my thoughts or not. We lied there patiently.