“Make people think again. We may believe that we’re at the pinnacle of awareness, civilization, and knowledge. We are, in fact, in the Dark Ages. Nobody is thinking for themselves. That’s why we need institutions to provide education, to offer a forum where things are open and where we can listen to alternative voices. Make people think again. It’s a simple thing. But think again.” (Alain Servais)
Kyle Thomas Hemingway: The ephemera edit
An ongoing digital archive of 1,374 items (and counting) proving that I read, I saw, and I actually paid attention.
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Curtain call at Moulin Rouge! The Musical -
“You just got a presidential address. And it’s 1600 ‘Out of My Way, Bitch’ Boulevard!”
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Ariana Grande performs -
“Don’t look for gods in men; you’ll always be disappointed.”
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“Of course, the larger context for such visual saturation lies beyond exhibition culture. The pressure placed upon the human capacity to digest information is an inevitable outcome of the attention economy, in which businesses compete for consumers’ consideration, as measured by clicks on pop-ups, sponsored posts, personalized offers, etc. In this marketplace, the supply of information isn’t lacking; what’s scarce is the limited reserve of human attention.”
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Curtain call at Cats: The Jellicle Ball -
Andy Warhol, The Last Supper, 1986 (wall); Felix Gonzalez-Torres, “Untitled” (Placebo), 1991 (floor) Richard Serra, Equal, 2015 David Wojnarowicz, Wind (for Peter Hujar), 1987 Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night, 1889 -
Marcel Duchamp, Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2, 1912 Marcel Duchamp, Why Not Sneeze, Rose Sélavy?, 1921 Marcel Duchamp, L.H.O.O.Q., 1930 (replica, after 1919 original) Marcel Duchamp, To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for Almost an Hour, 1918 -
Curtain call at The Great Gatsby -
Curtain call at Paranormal Activity -
Curtain call at Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat -
“The rabbi, my lover, is back from Warsaw, so my concentration and self-esteem are destroyed. I wrote mythological poems in ninth grade, and the myth my lover resembles is Orpheus—not that I revere Orpheus, I think Orpheus was a failure and a turncoat, I prefer Abraham for being a semi-literalist about God’s commands. The real heartthrob is Isaac, who, if he were alive now and living in Hoboken or in this tiny town near Hoboken, a town I am devastated to admit is my permanent address, would wear studious gold-framed glasses and would have an unfashionable halo of disordered and frizzy curls; he would play the oboe and be constantly licking and biting and polishing his reeds; and he would treat me disrespectfully.”
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“Whatever shall I do? You see, the modern ownership of movables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting to a civilization of luggage, Mr. Wilcox.”
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“We better check on mother and the cats. She’s a lot of fun, I hope she doesn’t die. I hate to spend another winter here though. Oh God, another winter.”
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“Oh, you remember the awful things they said about what’s-her-name before she jumped out the window? There. You see? I can’t even remember her name so who cares?”
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“It is infuriating that your unhappiness does not turn to fat!”
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“There were these monkeys, apes, bonobos, quite fascinating. Everything they do is about sex. They meet a new bonobo, they have sex with them. Sticking it in and out, dear, ‘hello, how do you do?’ In and out, tossing each other off, fingering each other, in and out, in and out, non-stop. It’s how they make friends. And I thought ‘that’s Margaret—in and out, in and out—Margaret is a bonobo.’”
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Curtain call at Hello, Dolly!
