VANITAS : a journal of poetry, writings by artists, criticism, and essays. During its decade of intervention in the public realm, VANITAS came out quasi-annually, serving as a forum for international voices with an emphasis on coming to grips with current world situations. Each issue contained writings by artists whose primary modes were non-literary and featured the work of a visual artist. [www.vanitasmagazine.net]
For the seventh and final issue of VANITAS, we examine the idea of The Self. The work featured in issue 7 tests just how far the self can be stretched, partially as an exercise in self-expression, partially in search of what used to be called experience. Self, not so much in personae as in faces, in the sense the Mods used the term — referring to someone with style, perhaps within a culture of style, but an individual expression of that culture, or perhaps someone who can seemingly invent her own style, just standing there.
This issue features new work by Bruce Andrews, Mary Jo Bang, Anselm Berrigan, Steve Dickison, Danielle Dutton, Tonya Foster, John Godfrey, Robert Hunter, Paolo Javier, Ann Lauterbach, Kimberly Lyons, Dan Machlin, Gerard Malanga, Judith Malina, Filip Marinovich, Harry Matthews, Michael McClure, Anna Moschovakis, Stephen Motika, Jennifer Moxley, Michael Palmer, Aram Saroyan, Lewis Warsh, and many more. Featuring artwork by Diana Michener, Carol Szymanski, Gerard Malanga, Rudy Burckhardt, and Vivien Bittencourt.
4 comments:
More tales from the country, re: cuddly critters.
There must be something about these furry bandits that sparks recognition in us, maybe speaking to a time when we all shared the night and a tree limb. It could be the perceived intelligence of their binocular gaze, their prehensile dexterity, their familial coherence.
As the story goes, there used to be an Italian restaurant down the block run by an old guy named Angelo that featured a nightly Raccoon Comedy Show. This consisted of a lighted platform easily viewed from the bar where, every night after the kitchen closed down, they would put out piles of leftover pasta (sans sauce) for the raccoons. The comedy obviously came from watching them load up on carbs and their near human strategies in dealing with the tangled strands of spaghetti. There were some roly-poly critters waddling around the hood in those days. When old Angelo died, the raccoon wore black arm bands for weeks afterwards.
Lovely story, Pat.
The raccoons who hang out chez nous are great carb lovers also. Three-week-old pastries are cool with them. Once one of them got into our basement and waddled right up the stairs into the house. Beyond fearless, making itself right at home.
Tom, they rule their space. We are the interlopers. They must sense that we view them as handsome beasts and that we give them the benefit of the doubt, leeway, if you will. Unfairly, on our paved motorways they are fair game, nightly. Should we fault their hubris?
Pat,
This is exactly how I see it. Their hubris is all they've got. I do my best to aid and abet it (and them) at every opportunity.
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