Sagebrush and succulents. Rounded bushes scattered like clumps of hair. High winds; it hasn’t rained in months. The tumbleweeds are balls of fire waiting to happen.
Dirt roads in
It was 17 degrees this morning in
With little purpose, I have been here in the Mojave for days now, perhaps weeks. But, just as I wanted, things are blending together now, blurring.
Her nails are painted black. The sun is scarlet. When it drops, there will be no light. At , the sand is black but it glitters. I drink coffee at Carol’s Coffee Shop. The bar next door is called The Trap. Soon I will go there to drink. I will order straight whiskey. Nothing fancy. Bourbon. Probably Wild Turkey. When I do, the girl on the next bar stool will be weathered, but beautiful. Her nails will be painted black.
I am trying to limit my world. I think I am succeeding.
The motel is small, about a dozen rooms. I am the only occupant. She comes with me. There is nothing around the place for miles. The radio said the winds would gust tonight, up to 60 miles an hour. Sand whips against the tin-covered door. The room is furnished sparely, sparsely—a bed, a dresser, a chair. The television is bolted to the wall. We have brought in a bottle of liquor in a brown paper bag. We have already been drinking for hours. Now we drink straight from the bottle, and then from the plastic cups we find in the bathroom. A touch of class. She rubs the back of my hands with her fingertips. Her nail polish is chipped. When she takes off her shirt, her breasts are firm and round. She takes off her boots and her jeans. She lays down, clothesless, on the cheap mattress. She looks every bit like the rolling hills punctuating the landscape just outside our doorstep.
The blankets are cheap and thin. The heat barely works. We are cold and we sleep cuddling close, clumped together. The wind is loud. The gusts are likely as high as the radio said they would be.
With the wind barking and with a beautiful stranger sleeping beside me, and knowing no one else for miles, I sleep better than I have in years.
Larry Foundation is an American novelist and short story writer, concentrating largely on the dark underbelly of Los Angeles, where he has lived for fifteen years. His works include the novel Angry Nights and the short story collection Common Criminals. A third novel, Fish, Soap and Bonds, was released in 2007 by Raw Dog Screaming Press, and another short story collection in collaboration with London-based artist Kate Ruth is forthcoming. His fiction and non-fiction has appeared in publications such as Flaunt (where he is Special Correspondent), Fiction International, Quarterly West, the Los Angeles Times and the Harvard Business Review.
Wandamba yalungka.../Winds change direction...By Jillian Russo
SEPT 2021 | ArtSeen
An exhibition of 13 video works addressing todays most pressing global concerns, Wandamba yalungka/Winds change direction, takes its title from the traditional language of the Waanyi aboriginal people of Queensland. The language is on the verge of extinction, spoken by only 16 people as of 2016. Expertly curated by Maura Reilly for the Performa website, the exhibition brings together an international and multi-generational group of artists.
After the summer of smoke and fireBy Enos Nyamor
NOV 2021 | ArtSeen
A spotlight pours yellow rays on an upright Mellotron encircled by socially distanced chairs, all wrapped in a dome of controlled darkness. An arresting silence lingers, occasionally broken as gallery guests hesitantly part the velvet curtain, enter the space, and interact with the organ. The Instrument of Troubled Dreams, 2018, is the acutely engaging centerpiece in Janet Cardiff and George Buress Millers After the summer of smoke and fire on view at Luhring Augustine gallery in Chelsea, which documents a selection of recent productions by the British-Columbia-based duo who have been collaborating since 1995.
I Continue My “Auto-phagy” and Winds Gust Over My Own AshesBy Caetano Dias
FEB 2021 | Critics Page
I first wish to make reference to my work process. This is essential commentary. Between the end of the 90s and the beginning of the next decade, I started to work on the digital mundane, which I denominated at that moment Popular Saints. This was a type of fantasy that remains present in my current work. The process itself was quite simple.
Elizabeth Hinton’s America on FireBy Jarrod Shanahan and Zhandarka Kurti
SEPT 2021 | Field Notes
Elizabeth Hintons America on Fire, packaged as the untold story of police violence and Black rebellion since the 1960s, is a timely meditation on historical continuities and differences between previous cycles of urban rebellion and the present.