Why does this rather apt exegesis on (what feels a lot like) modern poetry appear in a book about shamanism?
Nothing was foreseen.
All was immanent.
One day after a time immemorial
while the sky moved on foot
from eye to eye
thinking itself from heart to heart
in the cities
the order of the void prepared
a word that did not know its name.
(That word was the size of air.)
“... something has passed from the soul to the first scent;
it smells of piano scattered in the morning ...
it smells of harp beds”
Along the way, Ion finds himself guided by Daedalus, who has temporarily imprisoned the Void ‘beneath slabs of fire.’”
Now he knows where the shore is.
One day he found it passing through his soul ...
by organic steps,
by swells of wet and living entrails,
they entered the primeval roundness.
2 from a seven we subtract in the shell:
they are five different candles
losing their leaves ...
The snail’s been broken.
It was a small snail for such great waves.
Equal to a butterfly square,
a whole host of fish
unionising at the same time every year
to swim
a full circle and disappear ...
miniature ballet dancers twirling off the sill ...
someone screaming, “I’m gonna fucking kill you
you motherfucking son of a bitch” ...
seagull shit dripping down the windows
in hot, thick tangles ...
‘Dangerous / of course / to draw parallels’ is lifted from ‘Sunset, December, 1993’ by Adrienne Rich [... Yet more dangerous to write / as if there were a steady course, we and our poems / protected: the individual life, protected’] // ‘and all the windows are open’ is reworked from the final line of Gloria Dawson’s poem ‘What Dreaming Makes.’ // ‘We cannot delegate “our” desire’ is reworked from Communiqué 7 by the Angry Brigade // ‘green was the forest drenched with shadows’ is lifted from The Spring Flowers Own by Etel Adnan. // ‘the soft lace of the air’ is reworked from ‘Poem for Haruko’ by June Jordan. // Carl Andre claimed that the artist Ana Mendieta “went out the window” of his thirty-fourth-floor apartment, wearing a blue bikini, early on the morning of September 8, 1985. He was accused and acquitted for her death, choosing a judge over a jury. “She made me change her light bulbs. She was afraid of heights. She would never go near the window,” Carolee Schneeman later said. // ‘Awareness, or blossom:’ is reworked from ‘There’s an affinity between awareness and blossom.’ in ‘Hello, the Roses’ by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge. // ‘perspective is the removed corset’ is lifted from ‘After Vuillard’ by Sarah Maclay, first shared at Community of Writers 2019. // ‘to dare imagining’ is lifted from To Dare Imagining: Rojava Revolution, edited by Dilar Dirik, David Levi Strauss, Michael Taussig and Peter Lamborn Wilson. In other words, the narrator is watching a child walking, in a strange way, down the street with his mother, wearing shoes that blink. This reminds her of a dystopian novel involving child robots. At the blacksmith’s there was a basket overflowing with Suma-phones and Ai-phones which the blacksmith was tossing, one after another, into the fire. But the blacksmith didn’t leave them to burn; after a while he took them out again, put them on his anvil, and pounded them flat. Then a dragonfly wearing welding glasses placed the flattened phones on a tray and flew them to a factory far to the back, where they were apparently used to make metal helmets. These were not ordinary helmets, though. Once they were on, they attached themselves firmly to the human skull, and could never be removed. I am human, a person. You are a boy. He, or she, is good. We are strong. You are plumed, or feathers have been glued to you. They are crying. Who told you this? Nobody. I am very happy to hear this. I think it’s the same as other languages: for some is difficult, for others it’s not. Which ones? The yellow or the black ones? The yellow ones. How can you use those to go to Congress? He had a big cough. The Iliad again. Really? Booyah! Why all this repetition? Well isn’t that the big question wherever you look? Did Bob say that? No. Maybe. His voice got in my head. You’ll see. But Jack and Jill? Someone’s gotta climb this hill. Why? The gods say so. Who are the gods? You know. Tomorrow we empty out the Grecian Urn. I mean,
Don’t be ridiculous.
No one dies from holding their breath.
For many other people things are far worse.
I roam around the town, reciting an old poem by Anita Berber.
CORPSE. KNIFE. CORPSE. KNIFE. LIGHT. COINS. MIRRORS. LIGHT,
running on / devotion / and / antidepressants / i read / George Jackson’s / prison letters / on the 124 / bus / where the / working classes / ride far away from the city / for low wage / jobs / learning to think differently / this tremendous / exhaustion / which is actually my / body / saying i don’t give a fuck / about money or / poetry / i don’t care about anything / but on the other muhfuckin’ hand, / neoliberalism is a concerted attempt / to obscure the essential and essentially / exclusionary relation of identity and / politics, which is better known as / liberalism, which is less well known / as fascism / It’s ashamed / of where it comes from, a cold city on a / dry marsh. Lots of loose talk about hills / and light, and here we come and go, the / wet / recrudescence of the marsh, the much / more + less than malarial life of drops of / nonlocal gold, as anti- and ante-aristocratic / swarm laid open to natural, natal, univocal / return. Beside the little spells cast by backcountry sorcerers, / there are the great periods of world spell-casting, in which / all alerted consciousness periodically takes part. / So during a war, a revolution, a social upheaval still in / its infancy, the collective consciousness is questioned and / questions itself, and also passes judgement. / It can also be provoked and taken out of itself in / some resounding individual cases. / So there were the collective spells cast on Baudelaire, / Poe, Gérard de Nerval, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Hölderlin, / Coleridge, / and there was one on Van Gogh. / It can happen during the day, but preferably, / generally, it happens at night. / Strange forces are lifted and brought into the astral / vault, into that kind of dark cupola that constitutes the moon’s face burnt onto their arms. / We know the Nazis loved / America; Hitler yearned to paint a twin, // a green room where the dead are everywhere. / Asked Abraham before the flame, to the obedient tribe // What are these statues you cling to? / Why calico, why Spanish moss, why the crickets scream. // In a segregated graveyard, no stone reads / private or public; the local jail is everywhere. // Before another body is buried, a window is broken. / A window was broken. The window is broken. // In a high school history class, white children raised / their eyebrows when I raised my voice. // I don’t know what they thought I was capable of; / I wish I was more capable of it. I suffered a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain and had to undergo life-saving brain surgery. After almost dying at the hands of the police, they then arrested me on a charge that carries a sentence of up to 5 years in prison. After 2 years of trials I was unanimously acquitted. But 9 years later the cop who almost killed me has still not been held accountable, and nor have the metropolitan police been held accountable for the dangerous and violent policing of the protest. The sad truth is that my experience of the compounding of state injustice is in no way unique. Through my experience I have met many families who, after suffering the devastating injustice of losing their loved one in state custody, are met with the same response from the authorities: blame and criminalise the victim, and delay, obstruct, and deny. But I have also been inspired and supported by these same families, such as Sean Rigg’s, Olaseni Lewis’s, and Julian Cole’s, who have refused to give up in their struggle for justice. I hope that this hearing will finally provide accountability and acknowledgment of the truth. I would like to thank everyone who has supported me over many years. No Justice No Peace. As with many Hollywood films, the Pentagon lent a great deal of equipment and personnel for the making of the two GI Joes, including Apache helicopters, Humvees, and even members of the Army’s 21st Cavalry Brigade. The synergy of the Paramount / Pentagon partnership was simple but powerful: free high-tech stage props in exchange for a two-hour recruitment ad. Dear Diary,
today wasn’t such a good idea. Not to seem ungrateful,
not that I’m not breathing in love, breathing out hate,
inhaling trust, exhaling doubt, but. Dear Diary, the ibuprofen
isn’t doing shit. Nervous conditions conturbat me. The
Library of Alexandria burns, but only for 15 seconds,
and we’re on to the monastery, where animatronic monks
copy manuscripts. One monk has fallen asleep at his desk.
i dreamed a pearl
that made me sad
about myself and the first few
friends in the tiles of a geodesic
dome such a poem is more like the lacèd belt
than the cup it arrives
a question of jewelry faceted
with what strings of pearl perceive
when exposed to certain afective
and cognitive background radiation
are blueprints for some highly
dreamed complicated pearled percepts
the dreamer of the poem has melted brains
in the garden because the globe of a fair region breaks in
and dreams up this one
a rock-garland fair region
a peerless vision arrayed
in percepts more and more the pearl is a tent
of irradiated calcium
In other words, the invertebrate marine biology Dion refers to is in fact plastic toys of all sorts (children’s toys, dog toys, sex toys, you know what I’m sayin) that are found in our oceans. By putting plastics in glass specimen jars with polyurethane, he carefully preserves items that will never decay. The Liotta-Cooley Artificial Heart — the first artificial heart that was implanted in a patient — is now preserved in a similar manner. But in the heart’s case, the polyurethane container is degrading its synthetic material rather than conserving it. The full record of combined Scripps data and NOAA data are shown in the second graph. The dashed red lines with diamond symbols represent the monthly mean values, centered on the middle of each month. The black lines with the square symbols represent the same, after correction for the average seasonal cycle. The latter is determined as a moving average of SEVEN adjacent seasonal cycles centered on the month to be corrected, except for the first and last THREE and one-half years of the record, where the seasonal cycle has been averaged over the first and last SEVEN years, respectively. So here’s my question. How could Melania Trump wear UKIP colors to the NATO meeting except on purpose? I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t have a freaking staff. Sean’s writing followed the traces of this hyperhistory that wrapped around the world and back, from the high culture of decolonial revolutionism back in to cosmopolitan centre where bourgeois savages feast greedily on expropriated wares; into the dark sociality of the prison, and out again into every antisocial moment that we call “society”; sometimes making the earth small within a frozen cosmos ringing out noise as signal to nobody and everyone; His poems are full of these things: bombs, mouths, wires, bones, birds, walls, suns, etc — an enormous bas-relief of black polished marble jutting out from some monstrously disproportioned body, angled between buildings. There are any number of crossings here, from Brooklyn Ferry to other shared spaces, “trans-locating the thorax.” Or, put another way, somebody or other is the ghost of Hamlet’s father, “agape at the burning bank,”
acchh agog.
So we begin under this time signature, in this key, and from here we can travel into psychotherapy, hypnosis, prosody, poetry, medicine, consciousness, cosmology, social injustice, because all these things are and always have been (historically) symptomatic of each other. That’s when I closed my eyes and started praying to la Santa Muerte, mi divina guardiana, for protection and guidance. Señora Blanca, Señora Negra, a tus pies me postro para pedirte, para suplicarte, que hagas sentir tu fuerza, tu poder y tu omnipotencia contra los que intenten destruirme. I felt better, calmer, more aware of everything. I kept going, the familiar words pouring from my mouth and dragging some of the fear out with them. Señora te imploro seas mi escudo y mi resguardo contra el mal, que tu guadaña protectora corte lo obstáculos que se interpongan, que se abran las puertas cerradas y se muestren los caminos. The scythe was with me, la santa y afilada guadaña. It would keep other sharp things away from my neck, shield me from bad intentions and danger. Mi Santa Muerte had done it many times before and would do it again now. I had nothing to fear. Señora mía, no hay mal que tu no puedas vencer ni imposible que no se doble ante tu voluntad, a ella me entrego y espero tu benevolencia ... The remains of David S. Buckel, 60, were found near Prospect Park West in a field near baseball diamonds and the main loop used by joggers and bikers. He left a note in a shopping cart not far from his body and also emailed it to several news media outlets, including The NY Times. “Pollution ravages our planet, oozing inhabitability via air, soil, water and weather,” he wrote. “Most humans on the planet now breathe air made unhealthy by fossil fuels, and many die early deaths as a result — [mine, here, also] by fossil fuel reflect[s] what we are doing to ourselves.” The earth around his remains was burned in a nearly perfect circle. The police said the ground was too scorched to tell, but it is possible that when he went to Prospect Park that day, he took some soil with him, hauling it in the cart. It is possible Buckel’s last moments were spent spreading it out, making a ring around himself, so that the flames wouldn’t spread. Joel Sternfeld happened to be in Prospect Park on that day with his nine-year-old son. Returning the next day, he began to document the gradual regeneration of the site to honor the non-hopepunk hope slash desperation expressed in Buckel’s act. The result, Our Loss, is the latest book in his ongoing exploration of the effects of climate change, following Oxbow Archive and When it Changed. In exactly this way, the many paths back to the City of Many People became one, from the grove to the outer wall by way of the red forest, following the doe like a leopard: one path like Rammanu, white sun behind him and black sun in his right eye, black and white in his outstretched white hand, not quite straight ahead. It all had to be in his head, which path was it today and what is its shape, and where is the Pile of Stones. Where is the Pile of Stones? How can he miss it? Major cities now cover nearly five million square kilometers. If you clustered them all together, they would cover an area 50 percent larger than India. He will die in one of them, in Paris on a rainy day, in Paris with a rainstorm, in Paris with hard dirty rain,
on a day I already remember,
César Vallejo has died,
César Vallejo is dead,
they kept hitting him,
everyone beat him,
they beat him,
everyone, even though he does nothing to them,
he never does anything to them,
they gave it to him hard with a club and hard
also with a rope, they beat him hard
with a stick and hard also
with a rope. These are the witnesses,
the witnesses are
the Thursday days, the Thursdays and the humerus bones,
the bones of my arms,
the solitude, the rain, the roads,
the solitude, the loneliness, the solitudes crowded with loneliness,
the solitudes, and the rain, and the roads ...
The film of which was developed on my favorite paper, and the noise was also completed as part of the work. It was filled with the urge to reconstruct the shattered self from the gap between the paper and special ink. It is.
It is a balloon that swells and swells,
it is time to follow countless dots that
flow when floating.
Which is why one of his first vivid memories from the job was seeing the canned food that the migrants carried. In his first two years there, agents collected the cans and brought them to a local food bank. But under new leadership, they were told to stop. “For the next two years, I witnessed all this food being needlessly thrown out,” Kiefer said. After asking for permission to collect the food again, he came into contact with other belongings. The first items to pull Kiefer’s attention were 15 to 20 toothbrushes. At the time, he didn’t think about photographing them. He just felt compelled to remove them from the trash. “When I started seeing a rosary, or a Bible, or a wallet, I realized that no one would believe me if I had not collected these items.” It took about six years of collecting — blankets, cellphones, toilet paper, depression medication, shoelaces — before Kiefer began photographing. The first subject was a mountainous pile of water bottles. About 10 images into the project, something clicked. He assembled brushes and combs over a black background. “After I shot it and looked at it, it was like, ‘Oh my God, this is it,’” Kiefer said. Color is an essential component of the photos, a way to inject humanity into each personal belonging, Kiefer said. Shooting the items on the same background “wouldn’t feel right, it would it would feel like it was a scientific observation of something.” The color and composition of the everyday objects in the photographs draw people in, said Skirball curator Laura Mart. But it’s also “like a knife to the gut, and that’s precisely something that I think gives this work its power — that it draws you in with its beauty and then it has this really profoundly sad backstory.” One of the show’s biggest tragedies, Mart said, “is that we have no way of knowing really who these people are, who carried these things, what happened to them, and what they’re doing now.” Kiefer estimates he has more than 100,000 items collected and stored in his studio and other spaces around Ajo. About 90% of the belongings have not been photographed. “El Sueño Americano” is an ongoing project Kiefer plans to continue for a long time. “It’s not physically possible,” the photographer, 60, said. “And to do it in the manner in which I’m doing, these objects are sacred and I come from a place of deep reverence and respect ... I’d have to live to be 100.” Kiefer plans to donate the items to an institution or university so they can live on as historical documents of how the government has treated migrants. He hopes the exhibition will educate viewers and possibly inspire them to action. “Our government is actually taking away a Bible or rosary,” he said. “I mean, how twisted is that?” It changes you. Which is to say that what sometimes happens when you cross la frontera is that you go to work the night after some assholes kidnapped you and chopped someone’s head off right in front of you. Being there is weird and your butt clenches every time you think about walking to your car alone after all the rich white drunks have gone back to their homes and dorms, but it also makes you feel like life is already doing its thing and moving on. Because the thing about life is that time gets between facts and memories and as memories turn into what they are, facts start sliding back, moving into a space full of images from películas and skeletons from bad dreams and imagined monstruos and stuff that someone told you. That makes the fear lessen. Besides, you’re in the corazón of a large city, completely exposed for hours to thousands of faces that come to 6th Street to drink and dance and try to fuck someone, but no one pays attention to you. You’re a darker spot moving within a charco de sombra, just another brown face in a town where brown faces look out at you from every drive thru window and brown hands clean every car and a woman from a country south of the border cleans every mansion and every landscaping crew is full of guys who look just like you and every precious toddler at the park knows a bit of Spanish because his nanny only speaks Spanish when mommy and daddy aren’t around. What happens when you cross la frontera is that you don’t know what’s going to happen to you and you hustle harder than you ever hustled before and you pray to la Santa Muerte and ask for protección and you convince yourself that things are not that bad because la frontera crossed your abuelos first and no one is really pinche ilegal because people can’t be ilegal and we’re all atrapados en este puto mundo ... by the 2016 election, the richest 100th of 1% of Americans — 24,949 very wealthy people — accounted for 40% of all campaign contributions? That same year, corporate donations to presidential, Senate and House elections totalled $3.4bn in donations. Labor unions no longer provided any countervailing power, contributing only $213m — one union dollar for every 16 corporate. Why? because Republicans promised them a giant tax cut. As Lindsey Graham warned his colleagues, “financial contributions will stop” if his party didn’t come through. The investments paid off big. Pfizer, whose 2016 contributions to the GOP totaled $16m, will reap an estimated $39bn in tax savings by 2022. GE contributed $20m and will get back $16bn. Chevron donated $13m and will receive $9bn. Groups supported by Charles and the late David Koch spent more than $20m promoting the tax cut, which will save them and their heirs between $1bn and $1.4bn every year. As for Amazon, it paid zero in taxes on $11bn on profits in 2018 and even got some kind of huge rebate worth hundreds of million dollars. Speaking of shit jokes, an artwork that sold last week for a mere $120,000 and which was hailed as “a symbol of global trade” has been eaten, in what might seem a fitting end for something that was an ever-ripening banana duct-taped to a wall. The piece, by Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan was on show at the international gallery Perrotin at Art Basel in Miami when performance artist David Datuna ate it, saying he was hungry. The stunt on Saturday afforded a whole new meaning to gallery founder Emmanuel Perrotin’s comments earlier this week, when he said: “Maurizio’s work is not just about objects, but about how objects move through the world.” All is not lost for the buyer, who, let’s face it, was going to have to deal with the demise of the banana at some point. At least they get a certificate of authenticity, whatever that means (I’ve already got a title for the essay: “The Work of Art in an Era of Monocropped Reproduction”). Cattelan — who bought the banana at a local fruit market — is known for his fully functional 18-carat gold toilet titled America, which visitors to the Guggenheim were encouraged to use. The project is titled “+1,5ºC Lo Cambia Todo,” “+1.5ºC Changes Everything.” Paintings by three Spanish artists (Francisco de Goya, Diego Velázquez, and Joaquín Sorolla) and one Flemish Renaissance painter (Joachim Patinir) were chosen for the project by WWF and Prado experts. The altered works were installed on billboards in Madrid and shared online using the hashtag #LoCambioToto in the hope that this will expand and continue political and social conversations these images might start.
Landscape with Charon Crossing the Styx (c. 1515-1524), Joachim Patinir
Boys on the Beach (1909), Joaquín Sorolla
The Parasol (1777), Francisco de Goya
So take, for instance, Labour’s proposal to fight the climate crisis by planting two billion trees by 2040. This is, apparently, so ridiculous that a BBC presenter laughed in John McDonnell’s face when he suggested it. As some have pointed out, planting two billion trees in twenty years means one hundred million every year, or two million every week, or two hundred trees every minute, 24 hours a day. Which is in fact completely doable. First, because planting a tree is actually not very hard. It involves putting a seed in the ground, a procedure so simple animals have managed to do it entirely by accident, without any large-scale government intervention, for hundreds of millions of years of years. Second, because it’s not just one person planting all the trees. Compare planting trees with this: in the UK, we produce nearly sixty billion pieces of plastic packaging every year. The scale and ambition of this exercise is vast. Way vaster than planting two billion trees over twenty years would be. You have to drill deep underground for oil, refine it, collect the ethylene, polymerise it, form it into beads, extrude the beads into a film, form the film into a bag, and disperse the bags through a planet-sized consumer network — five thousand times every minute, fifty million times a week. All this to create something whose main purpose is to end up clogging a gutter or getting slimy in a canal. Planting trees is far simpler. In a single day, volunteers in India planted fifty million; the government of Ethiopia claims to have planted three hundred and fifty million in a single day earlier this year. And we have no reason besides racism to doubt that claim. Our world is very large, and the realm of the possible is bigger than we might have imagined. It’s the other proposal –— the idea that we can just do nothing, let our forests fall to fire and loggers as the earth becomes slowly uninhabitable — that’s unsustainable and unrealistic. Labour’s tree-planting programme is ambitious, but we need to totally decarbonise our economy within twenty years, which of course we won’t do, just to limit the scale of the disaster. But we can plant trees. We’d be fucking nitwits to not.
[Note: Sources: Sharon Mesmer, and Eunice Odio, “The Creation of Herself: Eunice Odio’s Mythopoetics”, at The American Poetry Review, vol. 45 no. 3; Eunice Odio, The Fire’s Journey (trs. Keith Ekiss and Sonia P. Ticas); Lotte L.S., “Twelve Days of 21st Century Rain”, at Chicago Review; Yoko Tawada, Memoirs of a Polar Bear, quoted in Chad Post, “Book 7 [The No Context Project]”, at Three Percent, 11 Nov 019; Faustino Galicia Chimalpopoca, from The Náhuatl Exercises (tr. Heriberto Yépez); Rae Armantrout, and Bob Perelman, blurbs for Jack and Jill in Troy and The Future of Memory, at The Segue Foundation; JBR; Miyó Vestrini, Grenade in Mouth (ed. Faride Mereb, trs. Anne Boyer and Cassandra Gillig), Sean Bonney, Our Death, Marion Bell, Austerity, Fred Moten, All That Beauty, Antonin Artaud, Van Gogh the man suicided by society (trs. Paul Buck & Catherine Petit), Jerome Rothenberg, Polen 1931, Zaina Alsous, A Theory of Birds, quoted in Peter Bouscheljong, “Best Books of 2019”, at BLACKOUT ((poetry & politics)), 2 Dec 019; Alfie Meadows, quoted in “Justice For Alfie Meadows”, at Defend the Right to Protest, 3 Dec 019; Roberto J. González and Hugh Gusterson, “Introduction”, in Militarization: A Reader (eds. Roberto J. González, Hugh Gusterson Gustaaf Houtman), at Duke University Press; Martha Silano, “Dear Diary”, at Los Angeles Review; Richard Owens, “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”, in Ballads; Catherine Pierce, “Spaceship Earth”, at Los Angeles Review; Daniel C. Remein, “Pearl”, in Cotton Nero A.x; JBR; Natalie Wright, “Art for Our Plastic Present”, at Edge Effects, 5 Dec 019 (re the Chazen Museum of Art’s exhitibion, Plastic Entanglements: Ecology, Aesthetics, and Materials, which includes Mark Dion’s Institute for invertebrate marine biology); “Trends in Atmospheric Carbon Dioxide”, at NOAA Earth Systems Research Laboratory; JBR; Jacob Bard-Rosenberg, “Notes to Sean Bonney (1969-2019)”, at Prolapsarian, 5 Dec 019; Michael Scharf, review of Julian T. Brolaski, gowanus atropolis, and Kristin Prevallet, review of Eleni Stecopoulos, Armies of Compassion, in The Poetry Project Newsletter, December 2011/January 2012; JBR; Gabino Iglesias, Zero Saints; “Prominent Lawyer in Fight for Gay Rights Dies After Setting Himself on Fire in Prospect Park”, NY Times, 14 Apr 018, at Joel Sternfeld; “publisher’s note, © Steidl, 2019”, blurb for Joel Sternfeld, Our Loss, at Café Lehmitz Photobooks; Joel Newberger, “Wayiqra”, in Hexateuch; JBR; Jonathan Watts, “Vaclav Smil: ‘Growth must end. Our economist friends don’t seem to realise that’”, at Guardian, 21 Sept 019; JBR; César Vallejo, “Black Stone on a White Stone”, (trs. Rebecca Seiferle, Robert Bly, Clayton Eshleman, with a touch of Bob Kaufman); Anrakuji Emi, blurb for Balloon Position (tr. Google), at AKAAKA Art Publishing Inc.; JBR; Makeda Easter, “Border Patrol threw away migrants’belongings. A janitor saved and photographed them”, at LA Times, 2 Dec 019; JBR; Gabino Iglesias, Zero Saints; JBR; Robert Reich, “Trump is the natural consequence of our anti-democracy decade”, at Guardian, 8 Dec 019; JBR; Graham Russell, “Banana artwork that fetched $120,000 is eaten by ‘hungry’ artist”, at Guardian, 8 Dec 019; Andrew Lasane, “Paintings From Prado Museum Collection Given Climate Change Makeovers”, at Colossal, 8 Dec 019; JBR; Sam Kriss, “For the Many”, at Idiot Joy Showland, 8 Dec 019; JBR]
