► Monday: Kreuzberg – Amerika As a part of the collaborative project Werkstatt für Photographie 1976 – 1986, this exhibition traces the history and influences of the Berlin based photography institute to commemorate its 40th anniversary. The renown of this institute is a result of its innovative approach towards photography as an independent form of
A poem in two parts. Pt. I I was born to this old and broken house and now it sits, aflame, and I weep. we live in a mostly burning neighborhood; we watch as we set our own fires; we know we have been swimming in gasoline since we moved in. “why are you shocked?”
Backless chairs are a bold choice for a theater, I thought as I sat on a stiff ledge at English Theater Berlin, the city’s international performing arts center. Backless chairs say, “You will be so riveted by this play that you won’t even consider leaning back.” Backless chairs also say, “Comfort is not the point
The following poem is an extract from the chapbook metaphors, metonymies, & anthropomorphisms. It is published here with the kind permission of the poet, second-year EPST student Alexandria Sisson, in celebration and anticipation of the season to come.
The writer and Bard College Berlin student Osman Ali Chaudhry gives an interview on his work and artistic process in this video by Benjamin Sivo. [hupso_hide]
One year ago today the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano died at the age of seventy-five. Aside from his political and journalistic work, which was considerable and spanned three continents, he was a storyteller who mastered the art of the political parable. He unearthed forgotten historical incidents in order to bring to light injustices of the
Just an Expression I wish I could draw: Give form to my thoughts Relinquish all the chaos of my imagination onto a page for another’s to make sense of I wish I could tap that boom bang clang The fount of liquid fireworks inside my head Let drip their colours into paintings or
A poem to the boy who owes my heart some heavy-duty patches, and soon, before it heals all crooked For awhile you were happiness A type I had never tasted before Somehow familiar – like nutmeg and cinnamon, fragrant and warm – But somehow, with laughter words a body and soul Your taste