Arts

A ring of hefty paint cans on the floor confronted me upon walking into the Ezra Johnson show at the Freight & Volume Gallery on Lispenard. A deft Duchampian touch, I felt upon departure. So wrong. “They are made of cardboard,” Johnson would tell me later. “There’s a little papier mache … some plaster, resin. […]

  Small Pleasures of a Long Marriage I asked my husband: Cumulus and cirrus, but what’s the third one? Thromboid, he replied. Immaculate Conception On a wall in our bedroom in a wooden frame hangs a photograph of Gus the neurotic polar bear, who spent his life swimming from one side of his tank in

“Here we go. Here comes the sober. I hate this part, when the dam breaks and the questions come pouring in: How long was the blackout? Hours? Days? How did I get this cut? …” Those words are spoken by Josh, protagonist of Jake Brasch’s new play, The Reservoir, at Atlantic Theater Company (February 5

Feeling Violated, Authors? “Move fast and break things” has been a recurring motif in the rise of tech moguls. In the case of artificial intelligence, this philosophy, if one can call it that, may have hit a wall. The result could be the same as a car doing 90 miles an hour hitting a wall—not

I spent the first week of October aka the official beginnings of spooky season reading The Brood, Rebecca Baum’s latest surrealist horror novel. Baum is a writer and author, her recent work includes Lifelike Creatures (Regal House Publishing, September 2020) and now The Brood, the latest in her repertoire, a body-bug forward horror novel which

Review of “Green Lankton: Could It Be Love,” edited by Francis Schichtel, Jordan Weitzman, and Nan Goldin A photograph shows three women sitting on a couch: one fat, one emaciated, one somewhere in between. They are topless, wearing a coquettish combination of heels, ribboned stockings, and flowers in their hair. Are they waving at us,

Sometimes a bohemian has to jump right in with both feet and enjoy the splash. Something tells me that 2026 could well be one of those times. So, without further ado, here is a curated selection of some possibilities, happenings, and acknowledgements that prove bohemianism is alive and well, and perhaps susceptible to pursuing healthy

Nostalgia slop, from AI-generated trash to IP-leveraging franchise flicks, is belched out so regularly our culture practically runs on the stuff. From the outside, Obex, Albert Birney’s lo-fi, black-and-white ‘80s-set 90-minute valentine to pre-Internet culture, might be mistaken for more of the same, albeit in an indie vein, especially with a press pitch that insists the

The well-made theater at Hudson Guild hides unassumingly inside the Community Center in the NYCHA Elliott-Chelsea Houses on West 26th Street. It has professional lights and sound booth, a deep and well-proportioned stage, men’s and women’s dressing rooms, 100 comfortable orange upholstered seats, and not a bad sight line in the house. I didn’t know

I always had this fantasy about becoming an official tour guide in the Village. But I never got beyond taking friends on informal tours of Westbeth Artists Housing (my building) and leading them through the quaint cobblestone streets of the West Village. Instead, I’m an armchair guide who hangs out in the active Facebook group