“I love the idea of “problematic.” Problematic art isn’t bad art, it’s art that has problems. “Problematic” is an idea that lets us lower the cost of acknowledging and fixing bad and wicked things in our world. Without “problematic,” all you have is “bad” and “good,” and that means that any stain on a piece of art that moved you, improved you, opened your horizons and lifted you up is a disqualifier — being virtuous means that you have to reject the art because of its irredeemable sins.”
An exercise in extreme reduction. My favourite is the title split. (PS: the Heptapod symbol translates to “you have chosen life.” More here.)
I want to sing Brass in Pocket on karaoke in a baby-pink wig. I want the freedom of an unknown city; a small girl anonymous amid the crowds under the neon billboards. I want to steal Bill Murray’s jacket and return it to him with tears in my eyes in a hotel foyer, and all of this in the intimate soft focus of an Aaton camera. I want to figure stuff out and I want everything to be OK.
I came across Michael Brown’s autopsy report a few years ago and was flattened by its bleak summary of a man’s life. This piece attempts to reverse those feelings. #blacklivesmatter
Finished Love. Great ride. I’ll miss those two.
Deleted Facebook today. Dropped Tumblr. Dumped a bunch of apps off the phone and limited my use of Twitter.
Rebooting at WordPress to simplify and invest in a platform with a (reasonably) good steward and a business model that isn’t inherently at odds with its base.
Bowie’s the inaugural image because the iconoclast was driven by money and fame as much as the next guy—just charmingly indifferent to the machinery he operated.
Feels like a useful enough metaphor. We’re all operating someone else’s kit until it’s taken away, trying to sing and dance and not acknowledge the lights, cameras, or slowly melting make-up.