Today, neo-Nazis’s use of ancient Greek and Roman sculpture seems to be ignorant of the fact that the sculpture they are appropriating depicted the very ethnicities they hate. As most ancient sculpture was painted, those ethnicities were once plain to see.
Monotonous days flew by, and "today" became an impossible word, "today" stuck in her throat worse than an undigested D.H. Lawrence novel.
For me, poetry and art are anti-material functions, and it's their ephemerality that is relevant: they should be recyclable and renewable and impermanent. Anti-structures.
The Packing Room Prize never veers at all. The winning portrait usually depicts a person famous in the media, and it is always either the most strictly realist portrait in that range, or very occasionally a comic, but highly worked, caricature. Nothing varying from the job of accurate representation has ever made the cut.
Spotting unnatural movement, Monkey stopped and pointed towards group of giant snails-like creatures, some sprouting human limbs and faces.
a sensation of whirling and loss of balance, associated particularly with looking down from a great height, or caused by the hard life experienced by precarious asylum seekers; giddiness.
Webtoon: An inter-generational story of migration and place-making.
In all of this worry about authenticity, authority and authorial/appropriated identities, there is one identity that regularly gets forgotten: that of the reader
Decades after its original run, Mafalda, the adored comic strip created by the late Argentinian cartoonist Quino, remains timely and potent.
Are these judges…genuinely concerned about cultural appropriation? Or are they actually concerned about the accusations of cultural appropriation that are likely to result (via social media) if they award and publish a story that turns out to be written by someone who doesn’t identify clearly and directly with their subject matter?
Rather than an organic ‘culture’ with its own shared meanings, the arts ‘industry’ is an aggregate of individual interests.
The ‘artist’ is no longer simply an individual maker, an avant-garde visionary, a person exploring the specifics and limits of a medium, or indeed any of the other familiar figures of aesthetic modernity. Instead, the ‘artist’ is marked out by their success at doing exactly what late capitalism demands; that is, everything, and in a flagrantly vacuous way.