Ange Mlinko

RIP

Ingmar Bergman directed Smiles of a Summer Night and Fanny and Alexander, among other films. (“You must see The Virgin Spring!” a friend pleads.) But so purely do these two films vouch for the magical influence of art, dreams and dressing rooms: without which no eros, no childhood, and no intuition of justice.

07.30.07 PERMALINK | NO COMMENTS

Kenneth Goldsmith

The Xenotext Experiment: An Interview with Christian Bök

Christian Bök: Postmodern life has utterly recoded the avant-garde demand for radical newness. Innovation in art no longer differs from the kind of manufactured obsolescence that has come to justify advertisements for “improved” products; nevertheless, we have to find a new way to contribute by generating a “surprise” (a term that almost conforms to the cybernetic definition of “information”). The future of poetry may no longer reside in the standard lyricism of emotional anecdotes, but in other exploratory procedures, some of which may seem entirely unpoetic, because they work, not by expressing subjective thoughts, but by exploiting unthinking machines, by colonizing unfamiliar lexicons, or by simulating unliterary art forms.
The Xenotext Experiment: An Interview with Christian Bök in Postmodern Culture | PDF Archive

07.28.07 PERMALINK | NO COMMENTS

Kenneth Goldsmith

To Be (Un)Real

I recently gave a lecture recently to a group of poetry MFAs on uncreative writing, appropriation, information management and unoriginality. During the Q&A, a student declaimed, “C’mon, man, be real. Drop all that stuff and be real, you know, artist to artist.” To which I responded, “If you can give me a definition of what real is then I can be real with you.” I thought to myself, wow, writing is so far behind other art forms in this regard. Could you imagine after a lecture someone say to Jeff Koons, “Hey, Jeff, drop all that stuff and be real.” Never. No one expects Jeff Koons to “be real.” Jeff Koons has made a career out of being “unreal.” Likewise, during a pop concert — say, a Madonna concert — it’s hard to imagine someone shouting out to Madonna to be real. No one expects Madonna to really sing, rather they revel in the image of her while listening to a pre-recorded vocal track. Would the “real” Madonna please stand up? For the past two decades, “realness” has ceased to be an issue in music, art and fashion. But in writing we’re still expected to “be real.” Twenty five years after Baudrillard, these poetry students were still prioritizing Romantic notions of authenticity — “truth”, “individuality” and “honesty” — over any other form of expression. My god! Is it a case of naivety, amnesia or just plain ignorance?

07.26.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (11)

Kwame Dawes

The Still Point

Lately, so many lives I know have been strained by what have become ordinary tragedies—fatal accidents, sudden deaths, collapsing marriages, unexpected illness, prison, unemployment, crippling depression and it goes on and on. Nothing much, I know has changed in the world. I imagine that for a pastor, a doctor, a therapist, a lawyer, a nurse, or police officer, this is the way the world is organized, this is the norm. I, however, exist in a space of the uneventful as the norm, such that all events can become just that, events. It is a way of shaping my life into an arc of dramatic consequence: Today all was well, then suddenly, the world was no longer the same. Come tomorrow, calm is restored, and then suddenly the world is no longer the same, and so on.

07.26.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (1)

Patricia Smith

I miss the Temptations.

Recently reflecting rather gleefully on the second half of my first century, I felt exactly one twinge of regret. The Motown era is over.
Of course, it’s been over for some time. Diana Ross is now officially deranged. Smokey Robinson seems to have gone the Vegas route, and the Miracles are no more. The Four Tops are no longer four, or on top. Stevie Wonder flashes his brilliance about once every couple of years. And the Jackson 5–well, it’s now basically the Jackson 1, and his nose is missing.
Plus, I spent last year in the company of some very precocious 7th and 8th graders who not only didn’t know what “records” were, but had never heard of Motown. Am I the only one who believes that “My Girl” and “Tears of a Clown” should be a part of every budding teen’s curriculum?
Anyways, as far as I’m concerned, the Temptations were Motown. Check out the video…isn’t it the coolest, slickest, sexiest thing you’ve seen in years? Those handsome lads in sharkskin were my introduction to poetry. Their songs were lyrical, their songs told the bestest boy-meet-girl-boy-loses-girl-boy-begs-relentlessly stories, their songs were where I first learned that life could sound pretty damned good.
But the modern-day Temps, full of imposters and also-rans, are simply a hollow whisper of the original. From left to right in the opening moment of the YouTube clip–Melvin Franklin, the bassman, was the most recent to die, of heart failure; Eddie Kendricks succumbed to lung cancer; Otis Williams is the only original Temp still alive; Paul Williams committed suicide and David Ruffin died in a Philly crack house. Damn.
So what kind of a Motown baby am I? Obsessed. I”m madly obsessed with Otis Williams, because he’s all that’s left, because he represents a time when everything was starkly choreographed and poured into passionate little stanzas. Love, passion, deceit, heartbreak, all of it trapped in a glistening black disc, released by the plop of a needle, and played over and over again. And a little colored girl on the west side of Chicago listened, and felt the song in everything.
I want to grab hold to the moment that began this, the moment when I felt that poetry could tell it all. That’s why I’m the gal at the jukebox, wailing every Motown song long and aloud, trying to hold onto something that slipping away.
Am I crazy? Is it just me?

07.25.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)