August 5, 2024 · FalseArt
I’m still hung up on Poulet, Bachelard, and Barthes, specifically that Sur Racine moment when they briefly gathered under what they called the Geneva School of existential phenomenology. The name sounds like something you’d find scratched into a bathroom stall in some Left Bank shithole, and maybe that’s fitting. But the work matters, pulls at […]
Continue Reading →
June 10, 2024 · Resistance
We met in prison. San Quentin. Which sounds like the opening line of either a really good story or a really bad one, depending on your tolerance for irony and how much faith you’ve still got left in coincidence as a delivery mechanism for the divine. So far it’s been the former, knock wood, spit […]
Continue Reading →
April 1, 2024 · Cinematics
Shooting dance rehearsal is like trying to bottle lightning while someone keeps striking the match over and over again. Répétition. The French got it right. Repetition, yes, but also something more… a ritual of refinement, of searching. Watch these LINES dancers move through Alonzo King‘s choreography and you’re watching the same phrase fifty times, but […]
Continue Reading →
March 19, 2024 · Collusion
The light up here doesn’t give a shit about my plans. It’s volcanic, primal, the kind of unforgiving brilliance that strips away pretense and leaves me with nothing but the raw fact of a human body suspended against oblivion. Babatunji of LINES Ballet is launching himself into that void above Mafate, and my finger’s on […]
Continue Reading →
January 16, 2024 · Resistance
I am shooting a ballet rehearsal at LINES. Beautiful people doing beautiful things. It’s all very controlled, very precise. Art with a capital A. Then I walk outside. City Hall steps are packed. West Coast March for Gaza. Thousands of people, and they’re pissed. Not the polite, NPR-liberal kind of protest. This is urgent. Raw. […]
Continue Reading →
December 8, 2023 · Collusion
Here’s the thing about Aleta Hayes and those Stanford Facilities Operations workers that nobody wants to say out loud because it makes the PhD crowd uncomfortable as hell: these guys with their hands in the dirt, their backs bent over root systems and drainage patterns, thirty to fifty feet up in the goddamn canopy where […]
Continue Reading →
November 19, 2023 · FalseArt
The Blood of a Poet is the kind of beautiful, pretentious mindfuck that makes you want to simultaneously punch a wall and weep into your bourbon at 3 AM. Cocteau made this thing in 1930, and it’s still got that raw, narcotic pull, like stumbling into someone else’s nightmare at the exact moment it gets […]
Continue Reading →
