I have become more attentive to the pace at which artworks unfold. I remain aesthetically attracted to work that would translate well on a Xerox machine, but I’m more interested in spending time with images, objects, and sounds that reveal themselves slowly. Art that sustains my attention often has a drone about it and seems comfortable steeping in grief.

“I would trouble the idea that artists need institutions. I think it’s the other way around. I think institutions need artists. They don’t have anything without us,” she said to a rousing cheer from the audience.

The Black aesthetic is bought, sold, traded, and disregarded like a commodity. It feels like everyone else is profiting from our culture except us. “Drifting on a Memory” is a celebration of our collective expression despite attempts to silence, isolate, destroy, and re-tell our stories.

What role remains for the wild-hearted artist in a world that may no longer have any use for them?

But to truly rely on [museums] to build systems that benefit us would be much like asking questions posed in this tweet: Is Mastercard a queer ally? Is [insert corporation] my friend? Is the Speed Art Museum a feminist?

I had enjoyed watching the show as I’m sure it enjoyed watching me. I can imagine a similar relationship between the past and present. Our history creating our moment, and our moment informing our history, both relishing in the control they have over the other. A staring contest where everyone can win if no one blinks.

Healthy systems have a tendency to root and spread, even beneath heavily set constructions.

It feels like work that could be enjoyed by the snobbiest New York critic and by your uncle sucking back his second doobie and putting on an Emmerson Lake and Palmer vinyl.

What Double Life reveals is that the various worlds we inhabit and the lives we live are not as distant as we might imagine, and that what we return to, again and again, ultimately forms the shape of a life.

Perhaps quilts that appear unconventional to us now are ushering in a future of quiltmaking techniques that shy away from presupposed restrictions.

What activates or is transmitted in the exchange between skinny-dipper and pond, or painter and painting, or seeker and finder, is the dynamic, cosmic, primordial, feminine energy that pervades all aspects of life.

I am drawn in by landscapes familiar to this fictional home; images of Southern suburbia in autumn beckon associations of Halloween, trickery, and the all-too-familiar damp heat that brings creatures to the surface.

Foster shows the warping of history and the heroism that can so easily be clung to when reflecting on bloodline lineage.

The friction behind what makes this place home and what can make it feel threatening can be found in the places where our inherent natures go against Southern hegemony – a hegemony made up of whiteness, hetero- and cis-normativity, and Christianity.

I have a tendency to hold things back, to wait for the right moment. In Japan, I observed a deep respect for process and for work that is still evolving. Seeing others who took initiative to start their projects, exhibitions, or galleries inspired me.

I step into the clear, caustic night and realize that’s what this whole event has been: a dispatch from some place of harmony we all sense but struggle so mightily to attain.

Anderson’s visual language of strain and suspended motion reveals a carcass of American idealism. Repetition that persists without momentum builds an irresolvable tension that grinds hollow promises of prosperity into trails of burning rubber and collective exhaustion. 

The dancers shuddered and convulsed, breathing life into the harrowing experience of the young Black girls that descended from the third-floor in the pursuit of new freedoms.