We’d just stumbled out of Cremaster, brains still melting from Matthew Barney’s latex and petroleum jelly fever dream, trying to articulate what the fuck we’d just witnessed, all that obsessive bodily mythology, those baroque genital landscapes, when the alley starts filling with them. White painted bodies coming at us like a slow motion avalanche of […]
Continue Reading →July in Avignon, watching Belgian weirdo Jan Fabre, the festival’s designated madman-in-residence, make his performers roll around in their own sweat while reciting what I can only assume was poetry, though my French was drowning after the third pastis. The whole goddamn city had become one sprawling theatrical acid trip, and I was here for […]
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Look at them up there in the white nothing, those figures scattered across snow that doesn’t give a shit about their aspirations or their carefully calibrated sense of adventure. They’re having what they’ve decided to call a party, because that’s what you do when you’re off somewhere expensive, you give it a name, make it […]
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I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more Franz Kafka, The Castle (1926) Those tombstones piled on top of […]
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Solipsism with on the Mabou Mines Brazil Tour of Gospel at Colonus and Hajj. The Mabou Mines Hajj crew + Waj. When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too. Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
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Psychedelic Art: Bill Ham inventor of the Light Show. Maybe this is how it all started. Me thinking I’m a photographer. That I have what it takes to make pictures that other people actually see. Not the travel snapshots everybody takes, the trite bullshit clogging up social media feeds from here to eternity. But real […]
Continue Reading →I was the advance man for Mabou Mines, stumbling off an Aeroflot red eye from Seattle, my brain doing somersaults somewhere over Siberia while my body arrived in Moscow like a sack of wet cement. Nineteen ninety-seven. Yeltsin was still clinging to power, the Soviet Union was barely cold in its grave, and Moscow was […]
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