Do you know that all history’s happening at the same time and see the future if you scry, gross matter It is 2007 someone dear having died I am on an air- plane to San Diego and suddenly see blue and orange geo- metrical formations around the periphery of my vision both eyes is this part of the poem I’m the singer of
tales of bliss and structure of the universe yet unperceived Is it built like what I’m talking is it in fact structured when I write Voices Ross, the dear dead speaks to me in the kitchen to say he’s happy the dead are happy I later believe some are sad sometimes, cyc- lically until they work it out my poems help them
that my poems help everyone that I am re- structuring whatever this is that is everything so
The Post keeps standing, filling space emptied out by more ethical actors. It’s just one example of a larger American problem. The people who insist on making sense speak in small, prim voices, trusting their listeners to understand subtleties of tone. After all, everybody’s off carving out his own personal city, made up of small but real impressions. Why try? The Post screams on, and—by the evidence of our last national election, in which almost every demographic in the city veered right, toward Donald Trump, whose profile was created, in part, in Murdoch’s pages—New York keeps hearing it out.
Maybe I read the Post because, as Ramona Garnes said, it leaves its malice naked and, therefore, shows me a more complete picture of where I and people like me really stand.
Ingmar Bergman’s “Scenes from a Marriage,” from 1973, is the greatest artistic exploration of the vicissitudes of marital loneliness. It consists of six roughly hour-long episodes, in which a married couple—Johan and Marianne—try and mostly fail to connect to each other.
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It is a profound insight on Bergman’s part to notice that loneliness involves a detachment not only from other people but from reality in general.
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It is a profound insight on Bergman’s part to notice that loneliness involves a detachment not only from other people but from reality in general.
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Can any marriage survive an honest reckoning with itself? Can you get close enough to any person for life to feel real? These are Bergman’s questions
Mahara+Co is pleased to present No Place is Far Away, a solo exhibition by Cuban photographer Evelyn Sosa, on view from May 10 – June 6, 2025. In this deeply intimate and political series, Sosa constructs a living archive of the migratory experience. The exhibition emerges from a project supported by the Cuban Migrant Artists Resilience Fellowship, granted by Artists at Risk Connection (ARC) and PEN International.
Rooted in a seemingly simple question — “What object did you take with you when you emigrated?“ — Sosa opens a window into memory, loss, and the emotional gravity of displacement. Each image in the series portrays a personal belonging filled with history and significance: a piece of clothing, a photograph, a letter, a seed. These modest, almost minimal objects serve as emotional anchors — fragments of home that persist across time and distance. They are not merely material remnants, but silent witnesses to identities that refuse to vanish.
Far from a purely documentary approach, No Place is Far Away delves into the sensory and emotional dimensions of migration. Photography becomes a mode of listening: portraits of objects are interwoven with fragments of real-life testimonies, creating a liminal space where past and present gently meet. As Paul Ricoeur once wrote, “memory is not a neutral archive,” a sentiment Sosa affirms in each image — each one an act of evocation, resistance, and care.
While firmly rooted in the Cuban migratory experience, the series resonates on a universal level. In a world increasingly shaped by displacement, this body of work asks: How does identity transform when territory disappears? What remains when everything else is gone?
When the planet is galloping through space and you gallop after it through light and dark with your time-drunk brain, nothing can end. There could be no end, there can be only circles. (Samantha Harvey)
Nous n’écrivions ni pour le romantisme de la vie d’écrivain – il s’est caricaturé –, ni pour l’argent – ce serait suicidaire –, ni pour la gloire – valeur démodée, à laquelle l’époque préfère la célébrité –, ni pour le futur – il n’avait rien demandé –, ni pour transformer le monde – ce n’est pas le monde qu’il faut transformer –, ni pour changer la vie – elle ne change jamais –, pas pour l’engagement – laissons ça aux écrivains héroïques –, non plus que nous ne célébrions l’art gratuit – qui est une illusion puisque l’art se paie toujours. Alors pour quelle raison ? On ne savait pas ; et là était peut-être notre réponse : nous écrivions parce que nous ne savions rien, nous écrivions pour dire que nous ne savions plus ce qu’il fallait faire au monde, sinon écrire, sans espoir mais sans résignation facile, avec obstination et épuisement et joie, dans le seul but de finir le mieux possible, c’est-à-dire les yeux ouverts : tout voir, ne rien rater, ne pas ciller, ne pas s’abriter sous les paupières, courir le risque d’avoir les yeux crevés à force de tout vouloir voir, pas comme voit un témoin ou un prophète, non, mais comme désire voir une sentinelle, la sentinelle seule et tremblante d’une cité misérable et perdue, qui scrute pourtant l’ombre d’où jaillira l’éclair de sa mort et la fin de sa cité.
