This is the second piece in a two-part series. Click here to read Part 1. Laura nodded her head and began to respond… “I was surprised about the pessimism of your generation. Dorothea [von Hantelmann] asked me what I thought about the class, and I said, wow, I’ve never had a class of students of
Our task is to make trouble, to stir up potent response to devastating events, as well as to settle troubled waters and rebuild quiet places. Donna J. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene It seems as though the term “Anthropocene” has become a buzzword in academic discourse today. Though it may
Entering into its fourth year of existence, the student-run arts festival Pankumenta is a longstanding tradition for Bard College Berlin students, alumni, and faculty alike. The annual festival has become a staple in the Spring semester for the university community and for young artists around Berlin, and it has grown in popularity with each passing
I stand before a summer day. Softer, warmer, brighter than the day I’m in. Monet’s vertical canvas, the object of my looking, dissolves, and I am left in space itself. Nature can be this for the mind, a tabula rasa. Hm… I’m not frightened by the vastness, the entrance is not a jolt or a
Locked up in my home for the last several weeks, I am missing the banal ecstasies of waking up next to the person I care about. Touch is impossible at the moment, as is casual conversation and the simple pleasure of being in a room together, quietly enjoying their company. Romance is replaced by the dull ache of missing someone: their bed, body, and self. Touch and companionship are gentle necessities, often forgotten or neglected until everyone in the world is feeling forgotten and neglected, and then we’re reminded how much we need each other.
We meet early in the morning. I roll in on my bike with breakfast for Danny. He looks sleepy but greets me with a warm smile, and I know we are both exhausted but excited. We unroll some canvases, tape them onto the Ikea painting frames belonging to the café, and hang them up.
“Give me some valley deep in America, something that freezes over in winter and smells of rotten flesh in summer, or a prairie by a lake, in Romania, a naïve little fishermen’s village where you don’t speak the language, and all the fish have died and the fishermen have gone to work in the nearest city…”
I firmly believe in the untapped energy of the M1 line: Along the tram tracks are some real jewels that are often ignored in favor of venues elsewhere in the city that require long, complicated transport routes. In this piece, a sugar rush makes us dribble table tennis balls and belt our hearts out.