question: why do we do it, that ugly thing we call art?
answer: because we must. because art is in our human lifeblood. because you are nothing but a dream incarnate and the magic that makes you need, and art is the only thing you can do to pour that forth into a world of suffering and cruelty to make it a world of color, where there are eyes to be opened and hearts to be won and goddamnit, you
must. draw and sing and dance and act and love until you can't. your thankful joy depends on it.
excerpts from lidia yuknavitch's study of memory, and my own study of myself, post-Eternal-Sunshine:
"memory is a constant overwrite, a program more concerned with now than then.
I'm a photographer. I like to tell myself I'm a memory documentarian, but my thumbs don't type and my eyes don't water from my own memories; just from the pixels of them in my phone.
this is known as reconsolidation theory.
I am running in the rain with my love. no. I'm dancing…
for a movie that thinks it's really weird this bitch is pretty by the book!*
*ugly by the book
baz is a frenzied force of nature with his trigger finger on a fanatic young dicaprio, a master of mood when he can stay out of midass montageland. glad to see someone understand that this isn't a story to be told with any subtlety--these are the most important days of anyone's lives, these are the strongest feelings ANY of them have ever felt-- and it's nice that no statement tossed in from the Americanization other than the eternality of the…
“When I think about that stuff, I feel like someone took a shovel and dug out my insides. I know there’s nothing there, but I’m still too nervous to open myself up to check.”
in the livestream Q&A I had the pleasure of witnessing, Jane Schoenbrun drops a casual thesis that-- alongside the neon images that precede my jaw dropping for the entire third act-- I'll be thinking about for months: "I just, like, got dropped in a Burger King…
"we're always talking about tennis."
life is a game. at least, it is to guadagnino, who puts us on a court of sexuality, volleys us through time, and drags us along a dangerous chess board of disgraceful desire to the tune of ross and reznor's venereal synths. you have no fucking idea what side you're on.
luca's timeless queer stories are often whirlwinded through lenses of graphic metaphorical distance (age, ballet, cannibalism), but he spares no expense here to beat…
