From his new solo show in the United States, black-and-white selections from Takuma Nakahira’s “Circulation: Date, Place, Events,” plus a reprint of his 1973 essay, “Looking at the City or the Look From the City.”
From his new solo show in the United States, black-and-white selections from Takuma Nakahira’s “Circulation: Date, Place, Events,” plus a reprint of his 1973 essay, “Looking at the City or the Look From the City.”
People like to talk about how bad Detroit is. This city is under a demonic spell.
After six months in Leipzig, a German reporter asks the novelist what he’ll miss. But it’s back here in the United States where more dangerous questions take shape, none easily answered with good beer.
Though mothers may gnash their teeth at forgotten flowers and missing brunches, the poets still sing of the worst Mother’s Day ever: that of Oedipus and his bride.
Siam, I Am (Not)
How Amanda Bynes and the Teens Saved the Human Race
Around the World
Panang Curry Lasagna
Inlandia
This week, Detroit’s new emergency manager released his first report on the city’s dire affairs. But residents have long been accustomed to life in what’s essentially a failed state. A native author meets the motorcycle men working hard to save Detroit, one fiend at a time.
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One afternoon, my friend Corine called to see if I felt like taking a walk. Corine was a Dutch photographer who’d been living in Detroit for nearly 10 years. Recently, she had moved to South Poletown, one of the city’s most desolate neighborhoods—in Detroit, this was saying something!—and her new street (literally, a single block) had been colonized by a quirky mix of hippies, urban farmers, artists, and grassroots activists.
We started walking in the direction of Chene Street, an especially blighted former commercial strip. We passed a “No Standing” sign overgrown with weeds and vines, and Corine pointed out a towering, multi-story warehouse that some kids from San Francisco had apparently bought for 20 grand, to turn into an art space. The sidewalks were overgrown, too, with unruly weeds sprouting from the cracks—overgrown enough so that, with each step, grasshoppers exploded into the air, as if we were triggering miniature claymores. Continue Reading