
The artifice of art, the artifice with which it invents symbols to express the way humans are in community, is consistent with the movement whereby a world becomes a world (JR)

You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?

The artifice of art, the artifice with which it invents symbols to express the way humans are in community, is consistent with the movement whereby a world becomes a world (JR)


“Being John Smith” at Secession, Vienna by Ana Teixeira Pinto. (Mousse)
“Like John Smith, I am unhappy with my own name and thought often about changing it. Also like John Smith, “I have always been desperate for fame” but too embarrassed to chase it. Perhaps Leo Tolstoy was wrong, and we are all unhappy in the same way. Perhaps the desire for fame masks a deeper, entirely valid human need, namely to be seen without the discomfort of rejection. A spotlight can be a shield against loneliness, or at least against those awkward companionless moments at social events. One used to pretend enjoying a cigarette. Now I see a lot of people clutching small dogs. If I had to describe Being John Smith, I would say it’s about the failure to cohere—the awkward moments, the missed connections, the sheer difficulty of alignment. The fractures that are the constant, ungainly companions to our most polished fantasies.”
2025 Hasselblad Award Laureate.
Galeri Poggi. What the Fuck!. Paris Photo.


WB #10, 2005. tirage argentique couleur, contrecollé sur aluminium, encadré. 120 x 150 cm. Edition of 3 plus 1 AP (#1/3).

So many things had a way of looking finer, when they were not so close.
was there any point in being alive without helping one another?
(CK)

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
[…]
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
Song of Myself, V, Walt Whitman

Your eyes are just
like bees, and I
feel like a flower.
Their brown power makes
a breeze go over
my skin. When your
lashes ride down and
rise like brown bees’
legs, your pronged gaze
makes my eyes gauze.
I wish we were
in some shade and
no swarm of other
eyes to know that
I’m a flower breathing
bare, laid open to
your bees’ warm stare.
I’d let you wade
in me and seize
with your eager brown
bees’ power a sweet
glistening at my core.
The reopening of the Studio Museum in Harlem. Holland Cotter, NYTimes.
Histoire du 2, place du Palais-Royal, Paris. Thanks Paola Sisterna Marques for the tour.
GUIDE-DE-VISITE_FR_FONDATION_CARTIER.pdf




THE DEEP STATE: ART, CULTURE & FLORIDA — Published by Cultural Counsel

Graceful landscaping kept the house just under a surfeit of beauty.
Every corner was a possibility
Anarchic, wandering
(TM)