The child mistakes knowledge for affection. The child lives in an apartment leaking with water that he calls blood. The child locks doors behind him and says nothing inappropriate.v   →

Feeling bad about one’s self is not the same as being an artist, a critic had written in a review of her last show, slouched metal sculptures deformed, which—despite being massive, looming and architectonic in scale—read popularly as bodies, frequently her own. She had worked handily on them, that was true. She wondered to what […]

The artist recalled scant philosophy readings from graduate school, slant memories of art theory. “Verbs surface in the description,” she remembered one art historian, the very obscure one, or, no, the one who wrote obscurely, she was prominent, writing in defense of the public sculpture everyone hated.iii “A kind of projectile of the gaze…”iv That […]

The child exceeds tutoring. What’s this color called, he’d be asked, the instructor or mother pointing to the sky, and in place of blue, cerulean, azure, sapphire, he’d reply, “everything.” “All of them, you mean.” →

The street in front of the site conflagrated with cabs, moving vans, electric bicycles, masses. It is said that the first traffic jam on Broadway was precipitated by the excitement over Henri Bergson’s lecture “Spirituality and Liberty” at Columbia University. “The essence of pity is thus a need for self-abasement, an aspiration downward,” Bergson had […]

EXPERIENCE ERROR / HARMONY IN RED Drew Zeiba →