The young and the angry mosh the vote for the November election.
Three years ago I saw a work by the late Swiss-German artist Dieter Roth
that so captivated me that I am determined to write a book just to be
able to reproduce it on the jacket.
Most faces can simply be described, but some (like Jean Dominique's)
need explaining. When did the lips shrink away, and the light brown skin
start clinging to the bones?
Several of the recent Whitney Biennials have aspired to something more than a display of "the latest in American Art," to cite the phrase used to advertise the current show.
"This is a book written in the presence of music." So begins Geoffrey
O'Brien's sprawling memoir-cum-critical essay, and the reader is tempted
to ask: What book isn't?
Antiquarian mishmash lathers the April screen. In Kill Bill Vol.
In early 1966, Leonard
Bernstein threw a birthday party for Dmitri Shostakovich in Lincoln
Center's Philharmonic Hall.
Since I'm from California, I sometimes dare to dispute the seemingly popular East Coast belief that my home state is a cultural wasteland.
A rough but accurate gauge of national resilience: When dictators fall, how soon do filmmakers rise again? In the case of Argentina, the recovery was impressively quick.