Perigee

Goldsmith, Conceptualism & the Half-baked Rationalization of White Idiocy

Goldsmith, Conceptualism & the Half-baked Rationalization of White Idiocy Joey De Jesus   Kenneth Goldsmith’s so-called “uncreative” editing of Michael Brown’s autopsy report into his piece, “The Body of Michael Brown,” is an appropriation of black suffering under the waving standard of “conceptualism.” Is he aware that his appropriation of black death contributes to a long and living history of racism? Probably. Still, he opens his mouth to release his vipers into the growing snakeyard of white supremacist liberalism and its literature. Though Goldsmith has committed to donate his speaker fees to Michael Brown’s family, and has asked Interrupt 3 to withhold the video and transcripts of the event, his wavering attempts to placate the public do little to restore to Michael Brown’s family any decency after commodifying Brown’s body into cultural capital while simultaneously communicating his own sense of supremacy. His apology-via-Facebook does nothing at all to reconcile the deeply racist practices upon which he has grounded his aesthetics of conceptualism. In “Delusions of Whiteness in the Avant-Garde,” Cathy Park Hong’s says, “The avant-garde’s ‘delusion of whiteness’ is the specious belief that renouncing subject and voice is anti-authoritarian, when in fact such wholesale pronouncements are clueless that the disenfranchised...
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New Work by LiraeL O

Rumination On How I Don’t Give A Fuck LiraeL O in order to understand the ice beneath i must investigate the receptors of feminine and female energy in the atrium of the cisgender (straight) man. in the chalky landings of a school staircase or perched playfully atop a whiskey ginger, i will eavesdrop and ingest the male in the grass where he pisses on his property, where he speaks openly about the women who satiate his hungry and vasocongest his most prized vessel. the food court sesame chicken jiggles down your esophagus when she walks by. it’s summer and she’s beady and you watch, precum pushing out your pupils and instantly you’re lost in the slow rhythm of her adipose in direct conversation with bone, muscle, gravity, sunlight, pheromone…   she’s the kind of girl you jerk off to in hell, she’s the kind of girl whose mouth you want to spit in, kind of girl who’s sad but you don’t care cause sad girls fuck the best and you love fucking sad girls, she’s the kind of girl who you could see yourself impregnating in a landslide, the kind of girl who you can watch Netflix with in a...
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The Lover or the Fighter

The Lover or the Fighter by Ian E. Toledo   It happened during either my sophomore or junior year as an illustration major. I was still struggling to overcome my middle school rep as both shyest and quietest student and was taking a course called Sequential Illustration. The course was taught by a professor who I’ll call Mr. V, an elderly man that’d had a modestly successful career as an illustrator and was pretty well known and respected in some circles. One day Mr. V. gave us an assignment to do a series of comic pages on whatever subject we wanted. Despite the fact that I adored comics, nothing immediately came to mind. So when he came around to check my sketches I looked up at him helplessly, hoping that he would share one of his idea generating methods he had acquired from his career as a successful illustrator. Mr. V’s sage advice was, “Why don’t you draw something about food? Why don’t you draw egg foo young?” Then he looked at me and proceeded to laugh in my face. I was shocked that someone in such a position would say that to me or anyone. A flood of Weltschmerz...
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Bayete Ross Smith: An Interview with the Artist

  Bayete Ross Smith is a Harlem-based multi-media artist who explores constructions of identity and representations of African-American culture with his practice. Apogee Visual Arts Editor Legacy Russell spoke with Bayete on the occasion of his work being featured as the cover image in Apogee’s fourth issue.    Legacy Russell [LR]: Tell me about your background. Where did you begin your relationship with photography? Bayete Ross Smith [BRS]: I began photographing in high school. I took a black and white photography class and I just fell in love with the concept of re-creating and archiving my view of the world. It’s a typical beginning for many photographers prior to the digital SLR, I suppose. I continued photographing as a hobby throughout high school and into college. I never really thought of it as a career. Then when I was entering my junior year of college, when I was studying business administration, I realized becoming a corporate executive would be a miserable life for me, so I switched my area of study to photography and began studying photojournalism. I got my start as a newspaper photographer for the Knight Ridder Newspaper Corporation. I worked at the Tallahassee Democrat, the Philadelphia Inquirer, which...
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Sam, by Alexandra Watson

  Sam by Alexandra Watson   He grows exhausted of her: the way she squeezes toothpaste from the top instead of rolling up the bottom, how she references literature in their fights to remind him of her education, the slight click in her jaw when she chews, the rusty taste of her mouth. Before they were minor things, now they are all she is. They’d met in the teacher break room at the high school where he’d subbed for years; she’d taken a spot in the English department a little under a year ago. He didn’t get called in today, so he sits watching the Twilight Zone marathon and drinking ice cold beer, occasionally lighting the same joint he rolled right after she left that morning. She gets home early that afternoon and finds him in the kitchen, sliding the last empty beer bottle into the twelve-pack box. She looks weary in a way he recognizes; a tiredness from too much noise and too much fighting, not enough windows and not enough textbooks. When she sees him, she grabs the back of his neck to pull him towards her mouth. He recoils, as if the kiss has sent a static...
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Stagnant Blackness and the Modern Race Drama

  Literary Editor Chris Prioleau has an essay up on The Awl this week: It feels as if, where the modern race drama is concerned, we’re not as firmly central in our own stories as one might think. These stories are still coming from the same set of antiquated notions that wrote Hattie McDaniel’s speech for her, notions that dictate that a dramatic non-white narrative is only successful in so far as it speaks to the good-intentioned but ultimately reductive theme of racial progress, which in this case is a euphemism for proving one’s worth to the white population. Read the rest here.

Undocupoets Petition Against Contest Discrimination

We are proud to publish a petition from Undocupoets, the group fighting to end citizenship-based discrimination in poetry publishing and contests.  Too often, the submission guidelines read “Proof of US Citizenship” or “Legal Residents Only.” This small, but powerful, statement serves to exclude 11.7 million undocumented people (according to the Pew Research Center Hispanic Trends Project in 2013) from participating in a multitude of poetry opportunities—from first book contests to applying for major grants. Most documented poets and organizers justify this discrimination by saying something along the lines of “large poetry organizations cannot include undocumented people because they (the large poetry organizations) receive government funding and must follow government regulations.” But this should be no excuse for exclusion. We must strive, as a poetry community, to allow ALL of our comrades the same opportunities that documented poets are afforded. No poet should have their opportunities limited because of their immigration status! What we are asking for is simple—give us the best poems (regardless of the author’s citizenship)! It should be the duty of poetry organizations to find ways to support poets, not to mimic the nation state. The immediate action which we would like to see take place, is this:...
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Share This, Please, by Juan Carlos Rincón Escalante

  Share this, Please Juan Carlos Rincón Escalante   “And so….” He typed. “Goodbye.” “So long.” He paused, contemplating the screen. He read the whole thing. “Farewell.” He pushed the blue publish button. His profile picture appeared next to the letter. He read it again. It was good. The warmth of satisfaction took over him. He put his phone in his pocket, wondering if it would break badly with the fall. That thought entertained him. As if the phone were the most important thing on the verge of breaking. Or was it? He chased that question away as he walked towards the edge. The sky was clean and lonely. The night made his nose drip. He regretted not wearing his scarf, but, then again, regret had always been useless. He stopped when there was no more room to continue. The city lights blinked at him, indifferent to his pain. Their beauty, he thought, as all beauty tends to be, was numb. A rush of thoughts flooded his mind, but they were all passers-by, none staying or changing anything. He was ready to surrender to the darkness. But then, one thought stuck. He laughed a little and backed away. He had...
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Issue 04 Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements We would like to thank everyone who donated privately through Fractured Atlas and at our 2014 benefit with the Museum of Contemporary African Diasporan Arts for helping us fund our work on Issue Four. In particular we’d like to thank: Robert Watson, Laura Jean Moore, Morgan and Karole Larsson, and Grant Bergland for their generous contributions. We’d also like to thank Stacy Parker Le Melle for her continued support, all the readers of our blog and issues, and attendees of Apogee events. Apogee Journal is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non‐profit arts service organization. Contributions for the charitable purposes of Apogee Journal must be made payable to “Fractured Atlas” only and are tax‐deductible to the extent permitted by law.   Cover Image: “Got The Power: Brooklyn”, 2014 by Bayeté Ross Smith. sculpture installed at BRIC Arts Gallery, Brooklyn, NY, 2’ x 8’ x 11’

Dispatch by Tsitsi Jaji

By Tsitsi Jaji When last in dooryards jacarandas bloomed. Hanzi? The heart is in thanks to the cat. Kutenda kwakitsi kuri mumwoyo. Shredded? Only in the privacy of its own box. “Above all, strive for a room of your own,” said Mr. Jabavu. Or a library reading room. Gloved hands are rare, as are needles. However when funds are released the RNs will be paid. Vakafa? Rini? Those one hundred lonely years. Those days of loverly, loverly. I facebook you. You handcushion me. I kneejab you. You bottompoke me. In the time of loverly loverly all I wished for were gloves. Where is the dentist? Vakafa. Where is uncle engineer? Vakafa. Where is blind auntie? Vakafa. Wet noodles sound love(r)ly. These days tinodya macaroni without complaint. I sent you a Freezit on Facebook. Do you miss me? I sent you the cherry plum Sparletta. These one hundred lost years. We miss. There’s no pack of broken Lobels Biscuits on Facebook yet. Do you miss me? Next Christmas, for sure, I will come. Honestly, we are just coping up. It is better if you send cash. Dispatch: Scarce work needles.