assemblage

An assemblage of Arts & Culture focused on New York & London.
Assembled by Megan N. Liberty

Submissions open today! So all you closet creatives out there now is your chance to share your fabulous ideas, words, and images. DO IT!
Somebody: Miranda July’s new messaging app
"An artist-designed app that riffs on social media, performance art, and the relationship between humans and machines […] a tool that’s rooted in the natural communication styles of today but with an infusion of the once-quotidian humanity that’s been shaped by “iPhone hand” syndrome. It’s a wake-up call that technology doesn’t have to equal reclusivity" -Cait Munro, artnetnews 
Learn more.

“A heroine in a fairy tale who went through trials and hectic adventures to find happiness, until she befriended a tortoise who helped her destroy her nemesis, a wicked king. I had never seen a tortoise and didn’t know anyone who had one. I wondered if I had to confront an evil king—who would help me?”

—   Adrienne Kennedy, The People Who Led To My Plays

Bethany Collins, She’s Trying to Fuck Her Way Into Blackness, 2014, color pencil, acrylic and wood panel

"[Bethany Collins] sifts through the dictionary-archive, selecting those words—those topics—that make us more squeamish, more desirous of fixity, and barring that, of escape. […] By this repetitive and palimpsest-like process, she creates drawing out of writing, abstraction out of representation, possibility out of narrowness." -Rujeko Hockley

On view in Material Histories at the Studio Museum in Harlem.

“A here exists only in relation to a there, not the other way around. There’s only this because there’s that; if we don’t look up, we’ll never know what’s down. Think of it boy. We find ourselves only by looking to what we’re not.”

—   Paul Auster, Moon Palace
A Window into MoMA’s Collection of Parisian Avant-Garde Theater Programs by Emily Cushman
Read about Toulouse-Lautrec’s playbill designs currently on view in the exhibition The Paris of Toulouse-Lautrec: Prints and Posters at MoMA.

Finally going to check out Charles Gaines: Gridwork at the Studio Museum in Harlem. Check back here for my thoughts on the show soon. And for all things grids and Gaines follow the tumblr for the exhibition.

Submissions open Sept. 1 for this awesome literary/arts journal run by my friends! Check out Issue 1 on the site and submit to be part of Issue 2!
Paul Auster’s Benjamin Sachs, the subject, but not narrator of Leviathan, is at once tragic and sympathetic, chauvinistic and boisterous. Structured much like Auster’s other novels, the story is a story within itself. From the very first paragraph of the book, we already know the unhappy fate of Sachs. As a consequence, the book is less about Sachs himself, but more about why, even after the narrator continues to believe in his character as a good man. As with all Auster’s heroes, they each have a fatal flaw that they cannot overcome, an Achilles heel that inevitably causes their downfall. For most of the book, I thought we were being told about Sachs’ flaw, about how he became the kind of man who would die building a car bomb. But by the end it is clear that it is the flaw of the narrator, who despite all the warnings, remains true to Sachs, even to the end, that we are being shown. In writing the very book we are reading, the narrator is placing himself in line with Sachs. After finishing the book, I was struck by how much the narrator’s steadfastness resonated with my own misplaced faith in past friends and lovers, even after it was clear that their character was not as I thought. Just as Auster’s narrator was a believable and well constructed version of myself, so to was Sachs a version of every person who I chose to see only the best in. But unlike his other novels, the book did not leave me feeling that the narrator lost as a consequence of his faith in his friend. Instead I was left feeling humbled by his need to stand by him, to be his lone defender. Perhaps this says more about me than the book; or perhaps it speaks to Auster’s strong and sympathetic characters who address the best and worst parts of each of ourselves.

Paul Auster’s Benjamin Sachs, the subject, but not narrator of Leviathan, is at once tragic and sympathetic, chauvinistic and boisterous. Structured much like Auster’s other novels, the story is a story within itself. From the very first paragraph of the book, we already know the unhappy fate of Sachs. As a consequence, the book is less about Sachs himself, but more about why, even after the narrator continues to believe in his character as a good man. As with all Auster’s heroes, they each have a fatal flaw that they cannot overcome, an Achilles heel that inevitably causes their downfall. For most of the book, I thought we were being told about Sachs’ flaw, about how he became the kind of man who would die building a car bomb. But by the end it is clear that it is the flaw of the narrator, who despite all the warnings, remains true to Sachs, even to the end, that we are being shown. In writing the very book we are reading, the narrator is placing himself in line with Sachs. After finishing the book, I was struck by how much the narrator’s steadfastness resonated with my own misplaced faith in past friends and lovers, even after it was clear that their character was not as I thought. Just as Auster’s narrator was a believable and well constructed version of myself, so to was Sachs a version of every person who I chose to see only the best in. But unlike his other novels, the book did not leave me feeling that the narrator lost as a consequence of his faith in his friend. Instead I was left feeling humbled by his need to stand by him, to be his lone defender. Perhaps this says more about me than the book; or perhaps it speaks to Auster’s strong and sympathetic characters who address the best and worst parts of each of ourselves.

Claire Harvey, Easily Removable People, 2006
Acrylic on easily-removable scotch tape
This is your last week to see the Drawing Center’s Small. This exhibition examines the ways contemporary artists examine big issues through small media. Closes Aug 24.