Photo by Saul Leiter
Everybody Street, 2013
Someone just knocked on the door of one of the
living I mean reading rooms: [soft-spoken] “let me in!”
Reminded me of neighbors in Romania dropping in, knocking on each other’s door just like that. “Hey!” “Hey!” “How’s your wife / dog / car [etc]” “Good, good” “Did you ever fix that leak or whatever was wrong with your heater …?” “Ah, yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it. You know how it goes.” “Yeah, yeah.” “So, ummm, do you have a egg / tool / vacuum cleaner / keys to the basement [etc] I could borrow? Mine’s …”
[Not that I miss it necessarily but] Does anyone drop in anymore?
Duchamp vs. Man Ray with a view [year unknown]
I couldn’t secure evidence, but internet rumor has it Duchamp played a game of chess against Deep Blue, less famously than Kasparov, significant enough to prompt the fortunate (mis)(re)placement above.
Errata: Duchamp vs. Deep Blue couldn’t have happened because the computer wasn’t born before the time of the artist’s death.
Alexander Lieberman, Marcel Duchamp playing chess, 1959
In my dream last night I walked into a room where Garry Kasparov was ready to begin a game of chess. I could only see his profile. He approached the table, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt. I stayed to watch.
It occurred to me that the chess player could have equally been Marcel Duchamp, since I thought about him recently. Has anyone attempted to statistically determine how often art historians think about artists per day?
I’m broke but I’m happy I’m poor but I’m kind I’m short but I’m healthy, yeah I’m high but I’m grounded I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed I’m lost but I’m hopeful baby What it all comes down to Is that everything’s gonna be fine fine fine 'cause I've got one hand in my pocket And the other one is giving a high five I feel drunk but I’m sober I’m young and I’m underpaid I’m tired but I’m working, yeah I care but I’m restless I’m here but I’m really gone I’m wrong and I’m sorry baby
not even idealistic, and oh so wrong Alanis, oh so wrong
'cause heaven knows i'm miserable now
Once upon a time, a few years back in Arad RO, my friend Stefana and I were about to leave her parents’ house, headed for our favorite basement disqoteque - a placecommonly referred to as Tub [trans. Tube]. We got delayed, and then our delay got even more delayed, as I vividly remember searching for a while for the … remote. We left, TV still on, zooming, buzzing, hissing. No TV likes to be left alone. Top that with the eerie feeling of walking into a room with the TV on, no-one there. TV induced seizures? Fine, maybe it’s just me. Apoca-freak. Yours truly.
Later that night, while ordering a beer at the bar, l reach for my wallet, only to find, stuck inside my (clearly oversized) pocket, the remote!
This morning I found the remote to Amanda’s TV stuck inside my calendar book. Was it making an escape? Is Roxy [resident dog] watching TV in our absence? Has our LCD screen TV developed some form of AI / cognition, self-governing scopophilic stare? Stranger things have happened.