Eric Wendel describes his predilection for abstraction despite its contradictory nature, while Steve DiBenedetto imagines his own abstract exchange.
William Powhida, known for the work created by his alter-ego, also named William Powhida, blends a celebrity’s sense of entitlement with a too smart for his own good attitude problem, much like an old-school criminal mastermind from a Batman comic book.
Paul Auster is one of America’s more fascinating living authors—his ability to blend narrative with materialized existential crisis is as unique as it is captivating, and his new novel, Invisible, is no exception. Back in 1988 when BOMB interviewed Auster, Joseph Mallia gave a pretty good whirlwind tour of Auster’s great achievements, writing that “Auster has worked in a wide range of genres—a half-dozen volumes of dense, highly crafted lyric poems; numerous books of translation from the French, and the editorship of the Random House Book of Twentieth Century French Poetry; The Art of Hunger, critical essays written when he was in his early twenties; a moving, deeply personal yet intellectually rigorous ‘experiment in autobiography,’ The Invention of Solitude; The New York Trilogy, an acclaimed series of sparse, evocative mysteries; a one-act play, produced in New York (and which he refuses to talk about).” It’s true; Auster is a man of many doctrines, and if I have anything to say about Invisible to sum exactly what I thought of it, I would just say that in true Auster form, Invisible is unlike anything he’s written before, albeit with his own distinctive touch.
As a world-renowned DJ, Hip-hop savant, media artist, writer and cultural critic, the work of Paul Miller, aka DJ Spooky is a process of discovery as much as it is an explosion of new forms of personal expression, celebration, and thought.
Take Robert Greene’s bucolic fields populated with pals, poodles, and picnic fare suddenly cleared to monochromatic fields of texture.
BOMBlog’s Word Choice features original works of poetry, fiction, and art. This edition of Word Choice, selected by Peter Moysaenko, features poetry by Jacob Boyd and art by Leah Oates.
Peter Moysaenko Can poetry, as genre, achieve popular cultural appeal while retaining the import of its communication; or, for instance, does one’s foray into new mass media effectively preclude the possibility of an authentic artistic venture?
Jacob Boyd I’ve learned by listening to people who excel at their jobs not to concern myself with other artists’ intentions. Whether an artistic venture is “authentic,” whether a poem is worth taking seriously, I judge on an individual basis—based on a gut reaction. I do value sincerity, openness, and accessibility, and I don’t see any reason why new mass media would limit their presence in poems. It’s interesting that while slam poetry and rap have gained momentum, the internet and graphic design have also allowed for poetry to test its visual mettle. I have no doubt, though, that I will always prefer poetry that looks and behaves something like Robert Frost’s poems. Something moderate, in terms of presentation. Which leads me to the initial question: can poetry achieve popular cultural appeal without losing relevance? I think so. One of these days it will win Prom Queen and the Nobel Peace Prize.
In this installment, Jessica Dickinson and Philip Taaffe answer the question “What is the current state of abstraction?”
What happens to us as we age and eventually die? This question we all ask is at the forefront of Alicia Suskin Ostriker’s new collection The Book of Seventy (University of Pittsburgh Press 2009).
This Sunday, November 29, Anthology Film Archives will be screening a whole day’s worth of shorts surveying Chaplin’s earliest filmmaking period, from his 1914 arrival at Mack Sennett’s Keystone Studios to the start of his feature-length filmmaking in 1921.