Running through The Louvre, from Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers. 
Today the filmmaker turns 74. And to this day The Louvre forbids running.

Running through The Louvre, from Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers. 

Today the filmmaker turns 74. And to this day The Louvre forbids running.


Portland, ORINTERVIEW: DANNIEL SCHOONEBEEK
Danniel Schoonebeek’s poems take back roads and veins to an American place filled with secrets in your ear. Where the barn behind you is lit with the most eerie Gregory Crewdson-like light.  
Last Saturday Ace New York hosted Bound by Chance. Danniel wasn’t there, but his words were. People used them to make stories and bound those stories into pamphlets. Tonight, Danniel reads from his book in Portland at Crema Coffee + Bakery before he sails back home to Brooklyn. It’s going to be an after hours poetry party. 
You recently completed a poetry tour in support of your first book, American Barricade (YesYes Books). Independent musicians tour all the time to support themselves. What was the experience like as a poet?
When I was seventeen I left high school and toured in a van with four other guys. We were a band, I was the drummer, and we toured the country for a few months, living in the van with our instruments. What’s startling to me is that I did this again ten years later. This time I was alone, I was reading my poems and not hitting a snare, and I took the trains across America instead of riding in a van. The tours were alike in that they were both these depleting, chaotic bursts in which you learn more about yourself than you knew was possible. You aren’t working hard enough are the words I came away with when I was seventeen. Our last date on that tour was at CBGB’s, and there was this holy feeling like we’d arrived. But nobody gave a shit about our songs, not the bands, not the people. I think that experience taught me that you have to demand to be heard, like a list of demands is heard in a hostage situation, and that list of demands is work. 
The tour I just finished leaves me to this day with jubilee. In some ways it was like playing a chess match against my own life. I’d just been kicked out of my apartment, I’d just been laid off, the love life was in the gutter. I booked the tour myself, no agents, no help from my publisher. I needed to see if a poet could do it alone. Friends came out to read and see me off, let me sleep on their floors. Strangers opened their doors to me, handed me their keys, helped me hunt down venues. These people are part of my life now, and they handed me small tokens along the way, tchotchkes and mementos, a little scratch some nights. The trains are their own crash course in how much American disgust you can tolerate within yourself. If you don’t have the constitution within yourself to wash your hair in the sink on a moving train, or deal with drunks, or fall asleep hungry on a dinner of tic-tacs, don’t get on the trains. But there was something unbelievable about waking up on the train, feeling like shit, drinking a styrofoam cup of coffee, and watching the landscape of America peel away outside while you’re surrounded by all these families and drifters and bulleting your way to a poetry reading in a different city each night. It was like not being a citizen anymore. 
I’m finishing a book about this last tour and that’ll come out soon. I’m working with two editors who are challenging the work and pushing it in directions I’m thrilled about. I can’t say who yet, but it’s coming. It’s called C’est La Guerre. 
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The poems you write have a lovely ability to at once feel very intimate—even small—while also having ragged edges that touch on archetypes that deal with American culture and values. What’s your creative process when you sit down to write? Do you have an agenda? A guiding principal?
I try to always keep myself unsettled. I hate flying, so I work on poems while I’m a mess in the sky. Or sometimes I’ll wear nothing but a blanket and wake up in winter and write in the kitchen. I always write poems if I have a nasty fever, or I like to cast out lines aloud if I’m standing, never longhand if I’m sitting. I write a lot in bed, the classic pose, we all do. I would like to write a poem while hanging upside down from the lintels of a doorway. So my process is to always throw a wrench in my process. I’m opposed to regimens, culturally and artistically, because they fail to do justice to the changing face of what composes them. American ways of life, as our culture defines them, always fail the people who are actually living their lives in America, never nuanced enough and always leaving someone locked outside. In the same way, I think having any guiding principal about poetry is a failure to language, how nuanced language is and how fast it changes and disrupts us. I try to always undermine myself, disrupt myself, refuse myself. The terrifying part for me is that undermining yourself, disrupting yourself, refusing yourself—these are also regimens that need to be undermined, disrupted, and refused.

Portland, OR

INTERVIEW: DANNIEL SCHOONEBEEK

Danniel Schoonebeek’s poems take back roads and veins to an American place filled with secrets in your ear. Where the barn behind you is lit with the most eerie Gregory Crewdson-like light.  

Last Saturday Ace New York hosted Bound by Chance. Danniel wasn’t there, but his words were. People used them to make stories and bound those stories into pamphlets. Tonight, Danniel reads from his book in Portland at Crema Coffee + Bakery before he sails back home to Brooklyn. It’s going to be an after hours poetry party. 

You recently completed a poetry tour in support of your first book, American Barricade (YesYes Books). Independent musicians tour all the time to support themselves. What was the experience like as a poet?

When I was seventeen I left high school and toured in a van with four other guys. We were a band, I was the drummer, and we toured the country for a few months, living in the van with our instruments. What’s startling to me is that I did this again ten years later. This time I was alone, I was reading my poems and not hitting a snare, and I took the trains across America instead of riding in a van. The tours were alike in that they were both these depleting, chaotic bursts in which you learn more about yourself than you knew was possible. You aren’t working hard enough are the words I came away with when I was seventeen. Our last date on that tour was at CBGB’s, and there was this holy feeling like we’d arrived. But nobody gave a shit about our songs, not the bands, not the people. I think that experience taught me that you have to demand to be heard, like a list of demands is heard in a hostage situation, and that list of demands is work. 

The tour I just finished leaves me to this day with jubilee. In some ways it was like playing a chess match against my own life. I’d just been kicked out of my apartment, I’d just been laid off, the love life was in the gutter. I booked the tour myself, no agents, no help from my publisher. I needed to see if a poet could do it alone. Friends came out to read and see me off, let me sleep on their floors. Strangers opened their doors to me, handed me their keys, helped me hunt down venues. These people are part of my life now, and they handed me small tokens along the way, tchotchkes and mementos, a little scratch some nights. The trains are their own crash course in how much American disgust you can tolerate within yourself. If you don’t have the constitution within yourself to wash your hair in the sink on a moving train, or deal with drunks, or fall asleep hungry on a dinner of tic-tacs, don’t get on the trains. But there was something unbelievable about waking up on the train, feeling like shit, drinking a styrofoam cup of coffee, and watching the landscape of America peel away outside while you’re surrounded by all these families and drifters and bulleting your way to a poetry reading in a different city each night. It was like not being a citizen anymore. 

I’m finishing a book about this last tour and that’ll come out soon. I’m working with two editors who are challenging the work and pushing it in directions I’m thrilled about. I can’t say who yet, but it’s coming. It’s called C’est La Guerre

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London, United Kingdom
Frank Stella’s “Black Series II" lithographs, Tate Collection.

London, United Kingdom

Frank Stella’s “Black Series II" lithographs, Tate Collection.


Paris, France
tobiasrocks:

Arty Graffiti by Ben, in the Parisian Metro

Paris, France

tobiasrocks:

Arty Graffiti by Ben, in the Parisian Metro

Cite Arrow via tobiasrocks

Casco Viejo, Panama
Panama City’s sixth annual MACROFEST — a grand, multidisciplinary celebration of contemporary culture held in the city’s historical district — is now in full swing in Casco Viejo.
We’re happy to be lending a hand with this year’s festival, whose core initiative engages young artists locally and around the world. We’ll be exhibiting Panamanian artists Jonathan Harker & Donna Conlon's video piece Domino Effect — a portrait of present day Casco Antiguo, in which the camera tracks a succession of antique colonial era bricks in a chain reaction through the neighborhood’s streets. The piece will be projected tonight at 7pm across the surface of the Iglesia La Merced in front of American Trade Hotel.
We are also hosting a photo exhibition through March 15 with Chilean street style photographer Majo Arévalo, whose Viste La Calle blog keeps pulse with the inspired looks of modern South America.

Casco Viejo, Panama

Panama City’s sixth annual MACROFEST — a grand, multidisciplinary celebration of contemporary culture held in the city’s historical district — is now in full swing in Casco Viejo.

We’re happy to be lending a hand with this year’s festival, whose core initiative engages young artists locally and around the world. We’ll be exhibiting Panamanian artists Jonathan Harker & Donna Conlon's video piece Domino Effect — a portrait of present day Casco Antiguo, in which the camera tracks a succession of antique colonial era bricks in a chain reaction through the neighborhood’s streets. The piece will be projected tonight at 7pm across the surface of the Iglesia La Merced in front of American Trade Hotel.

We are also hosting a photo exhibition through March 15 with Chilean street style photographer Majo Arévalo, whose Viste La Calle blog keeps pulse with the inspired looks of modern South America.


London, UK
Throughout the ’90s and early ’00s, American experimental music treasure William Basinski operated a now-mythical avant-garde incubator beside the East River in North Williamsburg — a studio and performance space that played early host to Diamanda Galás, Antony and countless others. Arcadia closed its doors for good in 2008, but London’s Art Assembly brought Basinski out to co-curate a series of Arcadia-inspired music and live art events in London — including a host of pretty spectacular shows at Ace London.
The mini-fest kicked off tonight and continues through March 20. We’ll be hosting several shows Downstairs — Basinski and James Elaine’s Melancholia film shorts, Julia Kent, Paul Prudence and more — plus Janek Schaefer's sound installation Lay-by-Lullaby will be posted up in the lobby throughout. More details are available at our calendar.

London, UK

Throughout the ’90s and early ’00s, American experimental music treasure William Basinski operated a now-mythical avant-garde incubator beside the East River in North Williamsburg — a studio and performance space that played early host to Diamanda Galás, Antony and countless others. Arcadia closed its doors for good in 2008, but London’s Art Assembly brought Basinski out to co-curate a series of Arcadia-inspired music and live art events in London — including a host of pretty spectacular shows at Ace London.

The mini-fest kicked off tonight and continues through March 20. We’ll be hosting several shows Downstairs — Basinski and James Elaine’s Melancholia film shorts, Julia KentPaul Prudence and more — plus Janek Schaefer's sound installation Lay-by-Lullaby will be posted up in the lobby throughout. More details are available at our calendar.


Downtown LA
Now playing at LA Chapter.

Downtown LA

Now playing at LA Chapter.


Concord, Massachusetts
It was March, a cool early spring, when a restless twenty-seven year old Thoreau began to chop down the first pine trees for the foundation of his cabin on Walden Pond.

Concord, Massachusetts

It was March, a cool early spring, when a restless twenty-seven year old Thoreau began to chop down the first pine trees for the foundation of his cabin on Walden Pond.


Pasadena, CA

John Whitney — Matrix III, 1972.

When American John Whitney founded Motion Graphics Incorporated in 1960, he’d already spent two decades working as a mechanical animator and inventor — a career that won him a Guggenheim Fellowship, and saw him working on such seminal visual effects as Saul Bass’ glorious title sequence for Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Using a converted WWII antiaircraft gun director, Whitney built his own 12-foot analogue computer in the 1950s, becoming in the process one of the primitive forebears of computer animation.

Whitney graduated to digital processes by the ’70s, when he created this gorgeously hypnotic film in collaboration with Terry Riley.


Krefeld, Germany

Joseph Beuys wants to kill your to do list.

Works from the Tate Collection, London.


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