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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