Month: September 2017
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I Just Unraveled Myself: Some Moments By/With/For Ash R.T. Yergens
The moment it becomes legible, it becomes something else.
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Is Pop Music Universal? KPOP Turns Our Gaze Inward
To what degree must our celebrities look, sound, and live lives enough like ours in order for us to fetishize becoming them?
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Texting Under the Table: Reflecting on three works in conversation at the Whitney Biennial 2017
These works imagined utopias that challenge our assumptions about the limits of what we accept as reality.
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Americana Psychobabble: Alexandra Tatarsky at FringeArts Philadelphia
This place where language is familiar because of airports and tampon boxes and online preachers and being cat-called and the slow drip of consumer rhetoric.
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On Living in ‘It Didn’t Have to Come to This’ – A Response to Tiny Hornets
Aesthetically, Tiny Hornets lives in the neighborhood of a surrealist depiction of an early twentieth-century carnival—somewhere in between a sober version of Burning Man and Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue.
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Leaving Home: Do NYC Critical Standards Negate Generosity?
A response to The Krumple’s ‘YOKAI: Remedy for Despair’ via the questioning of how one responds to art and how dependent that response is on form and location.
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Dancing a History and Defining a Project: Some Notes on Netta Yerushalmy’s “Paramodernities #3”
Performance as reparation, as reconfiguration, as a way to bounce back and forge ahead.
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The Chronic Pleasure of Creating Queer Spaces
She mourns and then she is fully present, looking right through you, dancing with abandon.
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How To Build A Tea Shack with Sam: Digressing Towards Coherence
This is that Marco Polo shit, I realized. This city, we’ve inherited it. We’re in it. And I didn’t think anybody else besides Sam would care with the fervor that I did.
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Cumbe: Center for African and Diaspora Dance returns home to Brooklyn
Cumbe: Center for African and Diaspora Dance (Cumbe) returns to Brooklyn with a new home at RestorationART. Maura interviews Jimena Martinez, Cumbe’s Executive Director.
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The Resuscitation of Rhapsody; or, Can Anybody Make Art Anymore Without Someone Comparing it to Game of Thrones?
The severed head of Homer has been degraded, discarded in wintry sidewalk snow mounds and forgotten inside the walk-in refrigerator of some swank restaurant before being hung on a meat hook above the bath tub.

