Archive for March, 2014


Wednesday, March 5th, 2014

— In October of 2000 I was sent to Japan to take photos of the 555 Soul skateboard trip. The trip got cancelled two days in and they sent everyone home. I knew one person in Tokyo so I stayed. After three days of not being able to communicate I started to become paranoid that the big black crows were trying to attack me and that people where following me. During this time I began to collect recyclable materials that were unique to there origin, making a visual journal in order to communicate through vision rather than words.

Tony Cox was born 1975, in Louisville, Kentucky. He lives and works in Mt. Tremper, New York.


Wednesday, March 5th, 2014


— Jamie and I were best friends, he was my god-brother growing up. We went on family vacations and had dinner together all the time. We grew up in Vermont in a town of about 6,000 people, so we knew everyone and everyone knew us. He was five years younger than me so when you’re a kid that’s a lot. When I moved to New York City for graduate school he started going to school at Sarah Lawrence. He’d come sleep on my floor in Brooklyn on the weekends now and then and we’d stay up all night making music. That’s when we decided we were just brothers. We became so close. I was very alone in New York for a long time and we were support systems. He encouraged me to pursue art and living with nothing and I tried to keep him healthy and in school, whatever that means. There were a few late nights I’d drive up to stay with him overnight when things were tough for him and sometimes he’d come stay with me. One time after Christmas break I drove him down to school and dropped him off on my way to Brooklyn. I found out that night I had to move out of my small room because there was an issue with the work space being discovered as a live space and I moved into my car for a week. I talked to Jamie everyday that week. He moved to New York after he finished school, the same year I moved to LA, about three years ago. Then he moved to LA almost a year ago and lived with his girlfriend. I’d become so busy I didn’t see him enough, but when we saw each other it was great every time. He had a job and seemed to be doing well. When he moved to New Orleans like nine months ago he said he had to go – that he knew it was the best place for him. Jamie was a poet and musician, he knew the world very intimately but it didn’t really know him too well. He wrote poems for all my books and recorded albums on his computer that we started to release. I’d send him pictures of projects I was working on and he’d write poems for the books. He’d send me all his music and I’d make album covers. He started a poetry blog——that we both frequently wrote poems for, along with some other friends. Before he left we went on a road trip together to make a new body of work I had been planning, hanging wind-chimes I made all across the national forests of California. We’d hike way out into the woods and I’d climb a tree to hang the chime, it was so nice being together, working together. He was writing poems along the trip, we decide haikus would be perfect for this book. Here’s a couple of poems he wrote:


1st Bite

the feeling of you

being trapped in your body

a breath of fresh air



i wonder what you

see through the window after


god closes the door


We talked a lot on the trip, listening to the radio he said, “Sometimes I hear a song and it reminds me of the past and I knew this song would be on the radio at the right time, like everything is connected.” We stopped at gas stations and I drank a lot of coffee – Jamie favored as always red bull and blue gatorade. Here’s Jamie with my dog George somewhere off the 5 freeway on our way north.


Jamie had never been to northern California and he really enjoyed it, he loved Big Sur:


and the Redwood forest was his favorite place of the trip I’d say.


We drove my car through a tree and everything. We drank Gnarly Head wine from California every night and watched TV in cheap hotels.


Soon after the trip Jamie moved to New Orleans, where he finished working on his new album, he wen’t under the name Oldd News as far as music was concerned. He went under the moniker September Spring when writing poems – here’s another good one:


black wave

when it all comes

down to it, its the


sound of the saw

in the woods when

you wake up


the feeling of drinking

too much at once; full


the feeling of falling

asleep too fast; loan


“there’s places that i

can take you that

the theater can’t”


i told them all,

crossing my legs


“it’s like, your soul

is a little paper


and where the

hole punches


the west rain

seeps through”


and no one

can never


really summit

that west rain


forever, and i

can’t help but


pour a lot of

gas in the fire



the new idea

is that people


keep having

visions, the end


has approached,

everyone is huffing,


but then one day

scientists realize


there is this giant

rock getting close


and then they realize

it’s a planet but that it


won’t collide with our

planet and when it gets


closer to us we see it is

another planet populated


by people very similar to

us who have built these


great civilizations, and they

start shooting rockets to our


earth, when they come they

tell us that is truly the end of


the world for them, sometimes

we can see the explosions on


their planet at night from earth.

this of course all is coinciding


with a child who discovers a

cave deep in the woods near


an old elegant tomb with many

stone statues that linger, cold.


in the cave there are four zones,

the first being a secret forest


where the light comes from the

bark of the beautiful white birch.


there are guardians of every

feeling, and they hold it in pure


mists, far away from humans

who could limp and yield from it.


Jamie was going to come out from New Orleans in October back to California for a while. He was going to meet me out here and we were going to go collect the wind chimes. He died at the end of September this year and I left the next day for a couple weeks to reclaim the windchimes we had hung. I repeated the exact same trip we did , stayed in the same places, and cried the whole time. It was the only thing I knew to do at the time. I left the windchime in the Redwoods to hang forever and sound as his memorial.


On the trip we did together, Jamie brought a disposable camera, per usual, and below are the pictures he took with it. Here’s a song from his last album, it’s nice visiting them together:






























I miss him so much.

Sam Falls
February 4th, 2014

Sam Falls was born in 1984, in San Diego, CA and lives and works in Brooklyn. Selected solo exhibitions include; T293, Rome (2013); Balice Hertling, Paris (2013); Galerie Eva Presenhuber, Zurich (2013); FINAL FOREVER, Michael Benevento, Los Angeles (2013), Ribordy Contemporary, Geneva (2013); Luce Gallery, Turin (2012); China Art Objects, Los Angeles (2012); Printed Matter, New York (2012); Marta Cervera, Madrid (2012); M+B, Los Angeles (2012); West Street Gallery, New York (2011); EVERYTHING KEEPS BEING NOTHING, Higher Pictures, New York (2011). Recent publications include; STUDIO SPACE PRINT TIME, published by Printed Matter; LATTICE, published by Gottlund Verlag; LIFE SIZE, published by Karma.


Wednesday, March 5th, 2014


The realism was disturbed by dust collecting on the ice floe and water. In the Hall of North American Mammals I wandered among the glass-fronted dioramas observing the minutely detailed replicas of animal life in native habitat. But the still setting and stuffed animals collected dust.

Gazing at an Arctic scene visible quantities of dust on the floating ice alerted me. Instinctively I knew that dust can only play at being a representation; instinctively I knew it was authentic dust.

As a child I observed the persistent presence of dust on everything at my steadily rising eye-level. Dust was especially visible on hard and reflective surfaces. I liked the way it mottled and muted reflection. When I sat on upholstered furnishings I knew the dust was there even though I couldn’t see it. I imagined it a neat filling, topping off each threadwork intersection. The soft things in the house were softer under dust and the hard things were as well. Dust reserved its most exotic forms and prolific expression for the more secret and unused places in the house. Under my bed, in my closets dust gathered— fluffy nuggets spawned and crowded. Through this youthful and intimate exposure I learned that dust never mingled. Even down among the long fibers of my mother’s rugs, dust was always on top.

Now, as I sit in my living room observing the dust I recognize how like my mother’s dust it is, how familiar and how plain. How it too sticks to eye-level vantage giving the feeling of endless déjà vu. And like my mother’s dust, my dust is authentic. And no matter what surface it garnishes, dust’s character is never changed.

As I sit in the evening light watching dusk settle around me a fly, noisy and casual, alights on the arm of my chair. Gross characteristics of the buzz are few. It’s constant with only a beginning and an end; it starts instantaneously with no prelude; it comes to you— to you personally. And though I can’t remember my first experience of buzz, a familiar quality attaches itself to the sound the moment I hear it.

It’s hard to get near a buzz though a buzz can come to you. In the past I may have followed one or two out the door. The smack of the screen ushered the buzz from earshot; the fly was gone.

As a child I associated the sound with a bit of aerial punctuation, a period perhaps— on the move, an end note. As a teenager I learned that a fly defecates twenty to thirty times an hour. The instant a fly would land I thought to myself: that fly is shitting on my table, my apple, on me. Sometime later, when I lived briefly in a log cabin upstate, I shared the living room on a seasonal basis with a large population of flies that settled on the windows. When I let the room temperature drop the flies would fall to the sills in a thick stupor leaving the glass mottled in a translucent fog of compost.

I was lying on my mother’s sofa reading when I heard a fly die. It was a summer afternoon, hot and rainy. Drops of water falling from the eaves softly thudded the glass. On the inside the dot-like body of a fly popped quietly against the window. The buzz resonated in the damp air compressing slightly each time the fly hit the glass. At length the buzz stopped. The black dot dropped onto the sill with a crisp, finite sound.

Reykjavík, Iceland,
July 1994

Roni Horn was born in New York in 1955. She lives and works in New York and Reykjavik, Iceland. In a career spanning thirty years, Roni Horn has produced drawings, photography, sculpture and installations, as well as works involving words and writing. Drawing, however, has a particularly important place within her practice. Horn is especially interested in the relationships and associations that can be established though this medium. Horn’s work, which has an emotional and psychological dimension, can be seen an engagement with post-Minimalist forms as containers for affective perception. A major solo exhibition RONI HORN AKA RONI HORN (2009-2010) was jointly organised by Tate Modern in London and the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, and was also presented at the ICA in Boston and Collection Lambert in Avignon.


Wednesday, March 5th, 2014

Here are two pages from my notebook, from 1992. I was working in the former Soviet Union. This resulted in my 1994 book A hundred summers, a hundred winters and later in 2011, Let’s sit down before we go.

The first page is from when I was in Sochi, where the Olympics are taking place at the moment. I was in the old sanatoria and I was staying with a woman, Nina, who talked very discriminatory about the refugees coming in from the Kaukasian countries. These wars were starting then.

The second page is about my staying with a photographer and his parents in a datcha, in a little village in Siberia. We slept all together in a small room, we went for mushrooms for our meal, we had to do our business in the bushes and after 4 days without washing, we made the sauna work. I loved all of it.

Bertien van Manen projects include; A HUNDRED SUMMERS, A HUNDRED WINTERS, photographs taken in the ex-Soviet Union; EAST WIND WEST WIND, made in China; and GIVE ME YOUR IMAGE, which was photographed in Europe and shown as part of NEW PHOTOGRAPHY, MoMA, 2005. In October 2011 her book, LET’S SIT DOWN BEFORE WE GO, was published by MACK London. The following year EASTER ON OAK TREES, was published, also by MACK London, and shows intimate, black and white images of van Manen’s family in the Seventies. These projects resulted in photo-albums and exhibitions over the world. In April, 2014 van Manen’s latest book, MOONSHINE, will be released by MACK, photographs taken over the years in the Appalachian Mountains. Van Manen lives in Amsterdam and is currently working in Ireland.


Wednesday, March 5th, 2014

this is my dad