Tag: Art
William H. Gass Reads from His Novel The Tunnel (Video)
So this weekend I started auditing William Gass’s novel The Tunnel on mp3, read by the author: Sonorous, strange, ugly, beautiful, poetic, abyssal, phallic, anal, fragmented, rich. Here he is in 2007 reading from the beast of a book at The Village Voice Bookshop in Paris (RIP). More on The Tunnel.
“The Maid” — Robert Walser
The Open Book — Juan Gris
Salted Salmon and Mice — Katsushika Hokusai
The Book — Juan Gris
Book Shelves #34, 8.19.2012
Book shelves series #34, thirty-fourth Sunday of 2012
A little end table next to the couch in our family room.
The books on top are little art books we keep out for the kids to look at, including People—
On the second shelf, along with a cooking magazine: The People Could Fly and Lynda Barry’s One Hundred Demons:
There are two drawers; one holds electronic manuals. The second holds McSweeney’s #33, the newspaper issue, which was pretty damn unwieldy:
A comic from the McSweeney’s by Michael Kupperman:
The Nereids — Joaquín Sorolla
Nude with Book — Zinaida Serebriakova
The Dog — Francisco Goya
A Green Neck Duck with a Seville Orange — Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin
Alejandro Jodorowsky: “The Only Exile I Know Is the Exile from Myself”
The thing is, I grew up as a foreigner. Look, my father was a Jew who tried to pass for a Russian. My mother was half-Russian, because a Cossack raped her mother, and she tried to pass for a Jew. So, I was Chilean and not Chilean, because I was the son of immigrants. I was trying to pass for a Chilean, but never completely. I was never anything. Therefore, the only exile I know is the exile from myself. Because I was never myself. The nostalgia I would have to get back to myself, what am I? But not what am I as nationality. What am I as a spirit without limits. I have limits. So, each day I try more and more to go toward the anonymous which is precisely the impersonal. To try to be an impersonal person. I don’t think in terms of cities now. I think of the planet. I don’t think in terms of nationality. I think of human beings.
From a 1995 interview with Alejandro Jodorowsky by Jason Weiss (who was kind enough to forward a link to me).
A Monk with a Book — Titian
Five Words in Green Neon — Joseph Kosuth
Migrations Kirghiz — Vasily Vereshchagin
Bukowski: Born Into This (Full Film)
Black and White Futurist Forcefield — Giacomo Balla
Biblioklept