For everyone who chose to wear – or not to wear – green today, a reminder of those who have no choice.
The weather is discouraging and the holidays can take a toil but what really puts me in the dark and gloomies are the lists.
The father is a static recording of “Station to Station” by David Bowie, playing in an abandoned city square in winter. The mother is a worn copy of The Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology. The children look like canopic jars, are hard of hearing, and smell like the forest floor.
At that time the children – two boys – join the wrestling team where they eventually begin injecting steroid hormones to match society’s expectations of masculinity, while combatting their own thoughts and desires to grow out their hair, attend art school and watch porn in a dark basement with their friends.
Instead, here are a few ways to put your holiday shopping to good use.
An interview with Frank Lumpkin, a retired steel-worker from Chicago, from 1992. A segment of Studs Terkel’s “Race: How Blacks and Whites think and Feel About the American Obsession” (1992, New Press, New York, NY)
You should message this exhibition if…you don’t mind getting intimate with strangers.
Is the pursuit of love through emotionally detached sex so different from the immune witch playing a self-harming game because she knows she’ll no longer melt?
The problem at the heart of this question is the meaning of ‘dialogue.’ It is not entirely clear whether ‘dialogue’ is grasped, within the context of the St. Claire, as either a process (the method or way discourse unfolds) in which something other than dialogue is produced as its result (the ‘end’ or ‘purpose’ of the process that emerges when the process is disrupted); or whether dialogue is itself the result from whence the process is retroactively rendered intelligible (we make sense of dialogue as a process precisely because it is given as a fixed and meaningful term).
Why was there such a gaping empathy gap between the news and the art context, I wondered?
If you have ever tried to write about art you know it’s messy. It’s exhausting. It’s terrifying. It’s also something that we receive free of charge every single day. But art writing, and the dialogue it fosters, is not a given and without support it can easily evaporate leaving the artists of this city making and doing in a vacuum–cutting down trees in an abandoned forest. That is why on this, the first day of The St.Claire’s guest editorship of the Artblog, we are asking readers, both new and old, to take a stand in support of Philadelphia art writing. If everyone who visited the Artblog today gave just $5 we could fund a whole year of reviews, interviews, and essays.
Do you buy a beer from your favorite gallery on First Friday? It’s time to do the same for your favorite artblog. NO JOKE.