“This poetics of self-correction is a poetics of attention and imagination in equal measure, a poetics of remembering and recalling and analyzing, doing it over, keeping up a series of approximations, and living in a state of failure that could be, nevertheless, a creative endeavor. When it is not enough, or not possible, simply to correct, it is necessary to go back, rehearse (not a bird, a plane), and figure out what is still possible to say. Along with Bishop, I’m thinking about this way of writing in contexts, personal and political and ecological, of things going wrong, as a way of writing into and before things that are difficult or impossible to think about—complicities, catastrophes—without being silenced by them.” [x]
Beach Houses, from Teenage Stories, 2005
No matter where French photographer Antoine d’Agata travels, he finds the same festering vein of marginalized depravity. Phnom Penh, Bangkok, Damascus, Istanbul, New York, Marseille, San Salvador, Mexico City, Haiti, Hamburg, Havana, Bosnia — he’s visited them all and the anxiety and brief pleasures of the prostitutes, homeless, addicts, and other drifting souls mingles in the same sordid mire.
"In some of the reaches of literary fiction, I feel like there is still a kind of prudishness around female appetite. That it’s somehow a problem, or it’s only interesting if it’s a problem—if it’s the source of suffering, betrayal, someone getting a bottle cracked over her head, someone self-mutilating. It must have harm attached to it to be considered serious. It’s not necessarily true in other media. In television right now, there are some amazing female characters who are very robust. It’s not necessarily true in music, it’s not true in a lot of places. But in literary culture, there’s this idea that female appetite is only the stuff of serious literature if it’s connected to damage. And I object. I object as a writer. I object as a human being. It’s just simply not true. It’s a kind of censorship masquerading as taste."
No one before Bernini had managed to make marble so carnal. In his nimble hands it would flatter and stream, quiver and sweat. His figures weep and shout, their torses twist and run, and arch themselves in spasms of intense sensation. He could, like an alchemist, change one material into another - marble into trees, leaves, hair, and, of course, flesh.
- Simon Schama’s Power of Art. Bernini