We can only learn and advance with contradictions.
The faithful inside should meet the doubtful. The doubtful should meet the faithful. Human slowly advances and becomes mature when he accepts his contradictions.
The Orlando-Shooting Victims Who May Have Been Outed by the Attacks
My gay friends from that time and place in my life have similar stories—we’re children of immigrants, once closeted and fearful of how our families would react when they found out. I can’t stop thinking about the possibility that someone like us was hurt or murdered at Pulse on Sunday morning, outed in the very worst way, in a phone call every family dreads. For some parents, such a call would be a double heartbreak.I have no idea whether it happened, but the mere potential that it might is wrenching. A New York Times story about the 49 people who died on Sunday tells the story of one young man whose parents in Mexico don’t know about his boyfriend of roughly three years. He escaped the massacre, but his boyfriend did not.I have many queer friends whose American roots are generations deep, but who struggled as much as my friends and I did to reveal themselves to their families.
I come from people burned at the stake, I come from people who were stoned, I come from men and women who were forced into loveless marriages, I come from hidden loves and love that dares not speak its name. I come from Michelangelo and DaVinci and James Baldwin and Bayard Rustin and Alexander the Great. Bessie Smith and Audre Lorde and Joan of Arc and Sappho and Lily Tomlin. I come from Rabbis who secretly wrote poems about how they wish they were born women and blues men who sang about having “sissy man” blues and berdaches, drag kings and drag queens. I am the burned out nightclub in New Orleans that left 43 dead, I am the Oscar Wilde going to jail and special ordering gay books by phone as a teenager, picnics at Roosevelt Island, kisses at the rain at the National Zoo, holding hands at an art museum, making dinner for his family, I am dancing at the gay club–and voguing–and walking runway and attempted death drops and blowing a whistle at 20, VIP at 25, dancing until I almost died at 39, making a happy fool out of myself at Pride.
This show does not argue for a better art world; it argues for giving up on art entirely
At the very least, no one seems to have read an art history textbook. There is a century of precedents for artistic intercessions into mass culture that undermine the fetishised “newness” paraded here. The most obvious and important is dada: with his Monte Carlo Bond of 1924, Marcel Duchamp turned himself into not just a brand but a corporation. Think of the commercial mashups of modernist collage, or the deceptions of Paris’s situationists in the 60s; think of the redeployed images of 80s appropriation, or even Jeff Koons’s all-surface sculpture. DIS’s mid-market, mass-sophisticate pose reboots 90s collective Art Club 2000, who staged mock fashion shoots with clothes from The Gap. Even the glib inclusion of an outdoor gym (yes, the biennial offers training sessions) rehashes the Documenta of 1992, which featured a boxing ring.
Historical indifference is a venial sin. The mortal sin is DIS’s noxious metaphysics. For them, art is hopelessly tainted by commerce and the past is for suckers. Continue reading
Many of the 49 victims of the United States’s worst mass shooting share much in common: Young Latino men in their 20s and 30s, most of them gay, who gathered at an Orlando club to dance. But the victims’ stories — promising artists, a young couple in love, a devoted father of three among them — are richly varied.
“The world is a violent and mercurial — it will have its way with you. We are saved only by love — love for each other and the love that we pour into the art we feel compelled to share: being a parent; being a writer; being a painter; being a friend. We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”
— Tennessee Williams
Image originally from Sara Bareilles Instagram account 
Photo by Chris Tuttle/Twitter
Behind the façade of this literary Potemkin village, the mainstream of American poetry, with its sources in Baudelaire, Lautréamont, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Jammes, Reverdy, Salmon, and later Breton and Éluard, has flowed on unperturbed, though visible only at rare intervals between the interstices of the academic hoax.