For all its faults, Kraus argues, the “art world remains the last frontier for the desire to live differently.” The claim is ambitious.
The letters of Rosa Luxemburg will give those unfamiliar with their author’s importance valuable insight into her brilliant and unfashionable way of thinking.
Groys’ skill lies in framing scenarios rather than proposing solutions, and lacking a single thesis, he constellates his writing around the idea that the artist is disappearing quickly.
Collectively, gamers worldwide have spent over 5.93 billion years playing World of Warcraft—about as long as humans have spent evolving as a species.
The photographs no longer functioned as trophies, but as records of animal life, glimpses into the natural world unsullied by humans. And this, for Bower, is where the trouble begins.
The obituaries, one feels, are all wrong. As though the death notice of one so avidly alive could be anything but. “Caribbean militant”, “Martiniquan writer.” I suppose he is those things, journalistic shorthand for a man who explained to us, its makers, just what the world could be.
For the majority of the images here, however, women occupy spaces where erotic fulfillment is combined with violence and death. For Dix, sex was a carnal danse macabre, where mortality lay housed within the sordid, lustful rituals of copulation. Nowhere in the exhibition is this more apparent than in Dix’s small watercolor, Portrait of Lovers (1923), a vivid, frenetic scene in which a rotting, fetid female corpse straddles an emaciated, skeletal man.