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Studio Visit: John Heron

How long have you been in this building?

3 years.

Where were you at before?

I was in a warehouse space called the Avant Gentlemen's Lodge.

Is it still around?

No, no. It got completely taken over from us. But our friend had us living in there for nothing for seven years, we got a good run. People are really into this space but I don't know. That place was kind of the best because you were just paying fifty dollars a month and that was perfect.

It had been a roofing factory, but it was more like a cozy building. It had two wood stoves and it just had a rustic charm for Philadelphia. In 2005 there was this place called the Atheneum in South Philly. It was this blossoming noise scene and we were friends with those guys. We would go to shows there and someone would have a TV on their head and it would just be pure noise. We liked it. We were kind of in the scene but wanted to do something a little different. We were more a little bit of theater and narrative over noise. We would put on these plays. We put on solstice parties that would last two or three days and the building kind of lent itself to that.

This is at the Avant Gentlemen's Lodge?

Yeah, it was 40th and market which was a good location too because there's not really anything there. People would get off the subway and they would walk right into our building and not know what happened. It was so nice. It had a parking lot on the side that was ours and it was gated so it was a full existence. It had barn doors on the side. I think about it and I should have been doing much larger work. I was doing miniatures in a huge space. I should have been working on bronze; something audacious.

Do you think that the spaces you've lived in and worked in have impacted your art at all?

Yeah, my work has definitely been impacted from living in spaces that were falling apart. Or they were some kind of strange cycle of, not a work in progress, but the idea of shelter. It was kind of like shelter. It was this weird situation, but it's definitely true. This space has been a difficult thing to adjust to, this whole building. I think the community here is half people working, half not, but at my old place I was living with people that were working really hard constantly.

Are you Philly for life?

I don't want to move to L.A. I would go to San Francisco, and I've been contemplating that forever. But L.A., I don't hate it or anything, it's just not my scene.

Why San Francisco?

Every time I've gone there it's been a great time. I really like hiking and camping and biking, and you can just get to that so fast. Growing up on the East Coast you watch movies, and that's how you get your idea of what California is. When I was growing up I was watching skate videos and bmx movies, and it made this complete icon of California to me: high schools where you eat outside and there's a weird plaza and you can do anything you want.

Every single person I know is on the West coast now. They're pitching their own show and that might be a thing where if they get it I'll have to just go out there.

It sounds nice to have friends who have their lives together like that.

Well, I don't know. That one's a weird one. I don't think that happens ever. Jesse's a talented guy and he is a hard worker, but I think that was half of the reason I had trouble when he left. We were good friends that were like a weird old couple because we didn't have to talk every day. We were unemployed and working on our art really hard. He would sit there and do a storyboard every single day from 8 in the morning until midnight every day and just had that true work ethic. Where I would be like: "Alright Jesse, gotta do this. I can do it." And it was hard losing that.

Do you think that impacts your work at all, knowing people who are making it in L.A.?

I don't know if I focus on it in my art, I've talked about this a lot recently. I've been talking about reactionary art, but it's more of a reactionary thing and that's just with life.

Your art is reactionary art?

Yeah. I shouldn't care as much as I do about the things that I do. It's just a waste of energy. In my true mind that I like to think that I have, I'm focused on positive things and I shouldn't really spend any time focusing on that stuff. Whether it subconsciously affects what I do, probably. I like to work on things where no matter what they end up being very strategic and time-oriented. I wish I could just do loose neon tape whatever, throwing stuff together, and I like a lot of abstract art, just pure play, but at the same time a lot of the work I've been doing is around things that are very time-oriented and traditional. It's really cool when I work on antiques. I like feeling these things that have been around for hundreds of years. It's a really hard balance to understand where that fits in and where other things come in from the future. What's real? Is that the new this? Or is that the same thing? It's your perception. It's just been filtered through my experience and now it's presented this other way.

Five months ago I was restoring these Catholic relics and I'm working on this stuff and I wonder what people thought of this 100 years ago, or 150 or 200 years ago? Was this just anything, like a phone or something? Now it has this crazy feeling because it's almost outsider art. They have weird, intricate patterns cut into paper and then a tooth and someone took a very fine knife and cut out the person's name and wrote in this crazy script about them. So you're touching stuff like that and then you go and see anything else and, I don't know, I don't know what that even means.

You mean where does that translate into the world now? Like what was that thing, since maybe it was totally normal originally?

It's about how you're perceiving anything. I try to get away from that when I'm working on art. The stuff I'm doing now is all based on time and that relates to a larger thing of who we are and why we think we're so important. It's more based around the idea of erosion and how we can't possibly understand time, or how time works for other things. We want everything to fit into our clock, but erosion happens and strata builds up and we don't understand that time. We can't understand it. We can compute it maybe but we can't fathom it.

We were talking the other day about the person who cut down the oldest tree in the world. It took him most of his life to come to terms with how horrible that is, cutting something down that was twice as old as written history. And it's just impossible to grasp what that could possibly be like. You have to deal with time as this concept that is that thing that affects me in only a day to day way.

Yeah, I've been trying to place that into my work for a while now. I'm 35 and I went to school for art but I never finished. I was touring with a band and I went to Tyler three times. I don't know if you can count the last time as an actual time. It was a semester. I went for two years and four years later I went back for another two years. I didn't really do any art through my twenties. I would doodle here and there but I didn't think about anything. I went on this trip when I was 30. I went to Spain with my then girlfriend who had grown up there. She wanted me to see her hometown so we went for 2 or 3 months and we ended up going to southern Spain and living on this commune that she had hung out at when she was 19. It was like walking into Holy Mountain.

We had hiked for a couple weeks up into the mountains off the coast and we went to this small town. We had to ask all these people where the trail was. We went through a eucalyptus grove and walked into this kind of parking lot of Mad Max motorbikes and vans and there was a midget on the ground with no legs, reading the bible in a language I didn't know. And then we just start seeing people in robes coming out with this old dude with a huge beard and he's carrying this big tray of food and he has two young women with him. I started looking around and seeing all these amazing hand-built houses. They have some of the leanings of the American hippie movement, but they're very different in their own ways. They're all built out of the canyon and the rocks. Some of them have a little bit of geodesic vibes. They're all hand built out of cob with natural streams coming down this hill. This commune has been there for 30 or 40 years. Someone just gave them 1500 acres from this mountain.

I started building all these sculptures after that. I didn't take any photos. I felt really bad taking photos. I think I took one of this guy who built a cob dome that had all these signs he had stolen from the national park around it that was really awesome. But I came back and just started making models. Total fruition, not thinking about anything, just building them. A lot of good things came out of that but after a while you get to a point where you don't want to make something where people tell you: "That's really cute" or "That's really cool." Everything is your worst enemy, and people just want that. But I don't want to do that my whole life. I want to do something that's a little more ambiguous, or not as easy to sum up so quickly. I like really ambiguous work. You don't necessarily understand that language. You've created some kind of your own language and that's what I'm looking for.

Having come back from that commune, do you feel like you're more observant of architecture?

I became kind of obsessed with it for a while. That's why I got into building. I wanted to learn everything I could about it. I was on the verge of going to architecture school and then a lot of my friends that were already in programs told me I was going to hate it.

I just took this lecture series/course at PAFA that was curated by the Wagner Museum. They're one of Philadelphia's true jewels and they're really trying to have this lecture series, like what it was originally intended for 400 years ago. It was an adult school for high culture. The course I took was amazing. I want to start a college based around this philosophy. I want these two professors to teach. I wish I had an endless bank account to just have them start a school. It was called "Avant-garde Science, Avant-garde Art". And it was an art and architecture historian paired up with an evolutionary biologist and botanist. They just fed off each other and they taught this series going back from about 600 years ago to now, focusing on the merger between science and art. But they went off on these other tangents and it was the best thing I had ever been involved in. They would branch off on some really interesting conversations about the new merger of technology, wherein lies this new situation of appropriation. And that kind of future made me really focus on the past and what people thought at certain times. and how you can just make yourself an angry dinosaur, really fast. you don't have to accept it, you don't have to ride the parade into town, but you have to understand your place, in history maybe, I'm not sure.

See more of John's work here

christmasbreak, 2013

wheat paste, stock image

66 x 70"

gif-based wiki-tunneling search concept proposed by David Haub

wiki-list by Nash Bryant translated by Arthur Rambo into an picture map using images from the original searches

#guided surfing #update

real-time surfing video TH & AS by Celia Rae Hollander

wiki-lists by Arthur Rambo

youtube playlist by Maia Murphy

surfing prompts: bodies interacting with and/or becoming immersed into objects, object perception and finding objects in nature here

#guided surfing #update

wiki-list by Dana Bassett transcribed onto a physical map by Arthur Rambo using available origination information here

(Arthur Rimbaud born Charville-Mezieres, France; The Unibomber born Milton, MA; Janet Reno born Chicago, IL; Miami-Dade County seated Miami, FL; Francisco Goya born Fuendetodos Zaragoza, Spain; Julius Caesar Scaligar, originator of position-movmenet sensation born at the estate La Rocca di Riva; Gepetto allegedly from Florence, Italy; coordinates of largest reinforced concrete lighthouse; cite of the Pantheon Athens, Rome; first public library, Philadelphia, PA; Chinatown, PA.)

#guided surfing #update

Studio Visit: John Howel

How long have you been working with metal?

Since I was 16 or 17. If pressed, I was always calling myself a welder. In a way, metal’s always been something I’ve understood- knew could be manipulated. When I was 18 I stole my parents credit card and bought my first welder, that little on over there. And, I think they knew, ya know. It wasn’t like I would take their car without asking and drive it around like other kids. But I did take their money and buy tools.

Can you describe a typical day in the studio?

I’m aware that I’m actually welding everyday. It’s nice. The scale of my pieces is such that I can usually crank out a piece, if I’m dedicated to it, I can make something everyday. Sometimes they’re tiny, and sometimes it’s a big day. While I might now yet have the business part figured out, my process- I’m fast. I know this is how ti goes: you’re just going to pay it in, and pay it in, and do, and work and I have doubts all over the place about what I’m doing on the business end, but when I’m here working I feel like I’m getting good. I go the extra mile, but I don’t go the extra mile more than once. Once I do it once, like once I clean something, I clean it once. It’s all about following the order-of-operations.

To-Do Lists: (from left to right) John shows us his log-book for jobs completed, receipts, money yet to be collected. Notes for a gyroscopic plant holder. Capoeira moves.

You’re a tall guy, and we’ve noticed that almost everything in the shop is on your scale. Was this a conscious effort to design the space, or something the developed organically as you began working here over the last few months?

I’d say it was both. With the bench, the difference between working on something up here and working down here is huge. Because all of the sudden an hour’s gone by, because you’re working, and when the hour’s up you really feel it. And with this [a surface of John’s workbench at about 5 ft.] there are days when I think, “Wow I wasn’t hunched at all today. And my back doesn’t hurt.” Now that people’s have become more health-conscious, it appears that the people that are sitting all day are the people with health problems. Now they’ve got treadmill desks.

Have concerns about your health changed the way you work?

A while back I looked up hammering and hammering flight, trying to teach myself how to really use the tool. And so now I do arm and wrist exercises and wear an arm brace- not that I feel it so much when I hammer on something now, it’s that I don’t want to feel it later. I don’t want to have any problems because I want to do this... I can see what I want, and say, “This is what I want.” and when I’m doing it I’m totally thrilled. And I just don’t want to lose it because I was doing something dumb. Also, these exercises and my capoeira practice, help to offset my drinking.

It’s funny. I gave a hammering lesson to my roommate who’s a drummer. And I had taken drum lessons from him before. And I said to him “Look, just let the hammer fall. Don’t swing down really hard on it.” And as I was doing it I realized that I was giving him the lesson he gave me for drumming, just letting the sticks fall.

This is your third shop in almost as many years. What’s different about this place? What does your ideal shop look like?

This is probably the most ideal space I’ve ever had. I had a really big place, ideal-ish, except that it was far away. It was in an old silo. It was cool. We could do whatever we wanted because it was on a farm. There were chickens and we had dirt bikes. And I was up there everyday, but commuting that far- I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do it for the rest of my life. And I’d had a couple of other places before that, but that was the shop. A friend and I ran it and we got booted. The landlord drew the ire of the township. He was trying to sell his property as an artist community, saying “We got welders and artisans.” And their response was just, “Yeah. You’re not licensed for any of that. What are you talking about?”

So when we got kicked out of there, we set up on this guys Christmas tree farm, where he had a two-bay garage. And I set up a shop there. I did the shelves, tool racks, the whole-nine, set up his tools, put in power, the whole while knowing I didn’t want to be there. I just really wanted a place to make shit. And it turned out that he was the sort of guy who always wanted his own metal shop. And so two guys showed up one day and built him one, and all he had to do was fill it up with a few more tools. And when we left there, I don’t think he’d ever touched it. It was nice that he paid for it, I guess.

Now setting this place up. To be alone and not have to run everything by someone else is great. Well, it can be great. The end result of something, if you don’t kill leach other, can be really powerful because it’s been vetted through two people. And some of the work I made with my partner, in the silo and after, was better than what either of us could have done on our own by a long shot. When I would get lazy, like something just didn’t matter, he’d be the one to say, “No it does matter.” And at the end of the day, or a week later, I would humbly say, “You were right. It does look better that way.”

It’s strange that sometimes, being in here, I think it’s obnoxious to have stuff on shelves this high. But, I’m the only one here.

How do you get to the shop? What’s the commute like?

When I left the farm in the summer, I remember thinking to myself, if I could have my ideal situation, I’d still want to live in South Philly where I am and have my studio somewhere a ways out, hence the bike-rack. And I’m ready to go when I show up here in the morning, because of the ride. And that’s something that I learned I needed when I was in college, to keep my brain going. I don’t want to just walk downstairs to the garage. I need a distance between home and work to think.

Do you think it’s about your relationship with biking, or just having to cover a physical distance?

I think it’s about the time- the time spent on the commute. And, right now, it’s just about right. It’s about a half hour.

What is the last thing you finished in the studio?

It's a table lamp. What I like about it is the idea that this lamp, and the other stuff I’m working on now, has traveled through space to get here.

What do you mean?

Well, I think of it like it's an alien lamp that I’ve repurposed. It’s old technology. It’s not old-our-technology, but old-somebody-else’s- technology. That’s what I think about when I think about finish. It’s shiny, but it’s no too shiny. More than it's been around the block; it's served it's purpose for a long time in another world.

Recent work: a steel table lamp and a hydro-matic scale for a potted plant that pivots as the plant needs to be watered

Do you have any projects that are just for you, things you’re not trying to sell?

I do. They kind of kick around in my head more often than they come out, but I want to make something, maybe it’s lit from inside, with oil running down it. I just like that image. Unlike running water, oil moves slowly and glistens in this way that I think is a little scary.

arrangement by Arthur Rambo of several lamps in John's shop acknowledging his newest piece

What are you looking at these days? What inspires you?

I’m into art deco right now. Since my medium is metal and there’s so much ornamental iron out there, I’m a bad person to walk around South Philadelphia with and try to have a conversation, because I want to stop and look at and touch everything. The walk up 9th is like a gallery to me. It’s like surfing the internet looking for pictures. When I’m out looking, there’s a lot of cast stuff and then you’ll find something that you can tell was made by hand- things that are old and caked with paint.

Well, we’d love to walk around Philly with you.

What advice do you have for artists trying to make a living from their work?

It’s all about calling people the fuck back, because people can’t read your mind. They don’t know what you want. Maybe they want to give you a job, but you haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask for it. And the easy thing to do is if you haven’t heard from someone you were expecting to hear from is to be like “I guess they weren’t interested.”

Part of me is like take any job. Get every job. But then there are people out there who want something mass-produced, that they could get cheaper. They only know that it’s made out of metal and that I’m a welder. Those are the jobs I just have to let go, because if I took them all, I’d be overworked and stressed out making something I don’t want to make that was taking time away from other things.

There was a party here, and I had a table that I’d just finished sitting here, and a guy came in, saw it and said “I wasn’t one of those, but I want it double-wide.” So the tables are building off of each other. So I guess what I’m saying, advice-wise, is you’ve got to have the stuff made, because the stuff sells the stuff. And you have to be totally committed. I never stop thinking about making these things. This is what I want to do, what I do and what I tell people I want to do.

Art Opening, 2013

plastic cups, beer cans, beer bottles, bourbon-filled humidifier

installation view at the opening of Low Rumble

Crane Arts Center

Dimmer for ATM, 2013

contact paper, spray paint

22 x 16"

Dimmer for ATM (detail), 2013

Take-Aways: Independent Art Fair, New York, 2013

by Jared Dyer

Earlier this week I went up to Brooklyn to have dinner with a couple of friends. There was a chance of seeing snowfall in the city, which is Hollywood-movie-quality stuff whether you live there or within the radius of an economy bus line. I’d recently recovered Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice that had been loaned to me over Christmas reminding me, 30 or so pages in, that it was Armory week. So I planned to squeeze in a lot of weirdo art on the cheap and save myself the time laboring about how to get into the different Möet & Mercedes-sponsored parties taking place across the city.

a Gedi Sibony above different types of shit

First Impressions. There’s no need to hash out the importance of a first impression, but with the art-viewing, and often the art-making-selling-collecting crowd, there are considerations. For those like myself, there’s a need for restraint. It usually happens that I’m immediately sucked in to something that, after the first gratis drink, I’d glance right by. This problem is aroused in the giddy art viewer because he is too hungry for stimulation and probably just got off a bus on which for two hours he stared at the safety belt logo on the back of the seat repeatedly failing to annunciate boucler in his head. Another more popular course is to treat the first twenty minutes inside an art fair by looking at everything with disdain. After that amount of time the hope is that you’ll have found someone you know or someone holding a free drink who can get you access to other free drinks, and then you can stare at whatever they’re staring at. This time around, I was spared a choice between the two. The first thing I saw was a performance of a young woman in daisy-dukes and high-heeled boots dancing, really going for it, to a house song playing from a boombox that followed her through the exhibition space. My reaction was similar to the disdain route, except that it was flavored by the fact that the girl’s tits were out, and that everyone seemed to be watching with interest (typically a bad sign). The distraction allowed me prime access to look at other cool stuff, and for whatever reason, I wasn’t super into tit at the moment. Hours later, changing into a different pair of equally short shorts, tits away, I watched art-people thank and congratulated the girl, most using the word “phenomenal” qualified by “Honey...”

Likes. While I like the phrase just about as much as hearing someone describe anything as “sickly sweet”, it never ceases to amaze me the amount of mileage sculptors can get out of YouTube. Whether it’s hand-drawing every frame of the Star Wars kid video, or compiling users’ videos of themselves butchering Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way”, YouTube as an artist’s resource is as hackneyed as saying “I read an article the other day that said…” when it was actually half of a Buzzfeed post.

That said, the effect of a good YouTube compilation is the surprise of learning there’s entire community of people are shooting themselves doing the same bizarre thing you’ve just discovered existed, or never before would have thought necessitated documentation, and sharing their incredibly insensitive feelings about it.

Although Leo Gabin’s stacks of magazine-page-plastered-trash weren’t to be found, and his paintings were anything but, Stackin and Cleaning (both 2012) were great surprises. And I note this not only because I took the effort to write “Leo Gabin videos” on my phone, but that I squatted over separate of those hulking TVs with the bars around them like in a junior-high AV class, in the dead center of a room filled with people to watch them from beginning to end. In Stackin, Gabin syncs selfie-style videos of dudes and pairs of dudes, normal looking multiple-bandanna-wearing types, rattling off hand signals backed by a string sextet. So, no, I didn’t know already that people would be interested in representing their cohorts/ neighborhoods/colors via streaming video, but I suppose if you consider that people will watch videos of other people opening boxes and assemble playlists of under-aged girls giggle-gagging on bananas, yeah, ok, I could have guessed this sort of thing would be out there.

Stackin’, claiming, throwing up, paging: Gabin provides a legend for interpreting these signs by turning the gangsta into a conductor. That, and you get video art where the visual components drive the score rather than one merely complimenting the other. It’s an example of what people mean when they say something is moving. And that’s s good enough reason to stand in other peoples’ way and Bogart the headphones.

With Cleaning, you get just that, teen girls (finally) uncluttering their rooms. The video is sped up and matched by an equally frenetic track of Khaled-esque chanting and breaking glass. What’s better than not being able to unlearn that people think it’s worthwhile to publish themselves doing these things (and I can relate, girls), is that there’s like a little art-reward. If you spend the time (a whopping 4:50 min. for both videos), you see that they’re companion pieces. The monitors angled oblique to one another, the boys are talking with their hands about talking with their fists/ guns, and the girls are folding sheets, lining up their Toms by color and trying to run the vacuum a little.

Videos (Addendum). In the car ride to catch my bus a friend and I talked video art etiquette. It started with the obvious, how are we supposed to watch these things? And the consensus was quick; you’re not supposed to watch videos from beginning to end. This was generally agreed upon given that the levels of voyeurism and vulnerability are always potentially higher than the payoff. Because there are so many things going on around you, to watch a video in an art gallery means you have to take a pair of headphones off its little hook just so you can hear it. Once you’ve done that, you’re committed. You’re tuned in and people can see that you’re tuned in and the monitor, tv, etc. becomes private- art for the experience of one. You can try standing off to the side, but you can’t not occupy the art that should be for everybody to look at. And you can’t wander around casually because you’re attached to the art by a length of cord. So now that you’re in everyone’s way who’s trying to look at whatever’s so interesting that someone would physically interact with it (an obvious no-no and part of why “interactive art” is so edgy even though it’s usually just a modified foosball table), how long do you stay? About two minutes. Two minutes is long enough so that when you take off the headphones that you accepted from the beginning were covered with a thousand peoples’ ear waste and have never been washed, you look like you gave the work it’s due without becoming one of the types of overly intimate art viewers who stands around a Henri painting telling everyone who passes that it’s Hen-rye not On-Ree or Henry. If you walked away after thirty seconds, long enough to be pegged as the type who puts the headphones on, you’d be looked upon as though you made a mistake. You entered in but it wasn’t for you. A failure. That’s a judgment, and for whatever reason you’re not supposed to make public declarations when it comes to taste in an art show.

Well, then what about the videos that aren’t in the main rooms- the one’s where you have to enter a sort of light trap and suddenly find yourself in front of a movie screen? Lily and I agreed again; those are fine. Stay as long as you want. It’s a whole lot less likely that people will see you come and go. After all it’s dark and you shouldn’t be in anyone’s way because there are usually benches or chairs to accommodate a crowd. You’re being invited to watch without the pressure of being watched watching. Just like going to the movies. But please come all the way into the room. Don’t peek your head in as if you’re already pretty sure that whatever is in the room built specifically to show it isn’t worth your time.

image from hyperallergic.com

Death. Tits, video art and dying are a hat trick in the art game. I definitely give a little fist pump every time I can bag all three in good time. If there was one representative for death that stood out from the rest at Independent this year, it was Jill Magid’s Auto Portrait Pending (a close second was a yawny-too-soony installation of AK’s and pipe bombs made into functional? instruments next to a hunk of mashed wood). In 2005 the artist signed a contract with Lifegem, a company that pulverizes one’s cremated remains into diamonds. In an alcove the size of a Tiffany’s display sat an unset gold ring waiting expectedly in its open box for the artist to die. Magid’s preamble to the contract reads like part last will, part to-do list for the beneficiary who will buy the art and the artist herself: cut me this way, show my good side, never wear me. Most appropriately, the piece fit snuggly, respectfully, behind a retaining wall separating it from the hubbub of Eastern Europeans collecting business cards and kids from Hunter collecting discarded Peronis. It was fitting for a future open casket service.

Physical Take-Aways

from the Print Matter booth, $8.95

What are the rules of etiquette for the art world?

“1. If you’re a skinny artist, be clean and neat. If you’re a fat artist, be crazy looking and disheveled. Not sure why, but this seems to work best.

“2. Negative comments about an artist’s work at their opening is the equivalent of taking a shit on someone’s birthday cake at their fortieth birthday party. The proper thing to do is to save your negative comments as an anonymous blog post.

“3. Don’t wear khaki pants.”[1]

These were sitting in a stack near the Leo Gabin videos.

“Australia and Germany were packed, so it was a relief to come to Uruguay, where there were no queues, no crowds, and no art. They’d hung a few rages on washing lines but, even by the low standards of some of the other pavilions, this was pretty derisory. And they weren’t giving away and free stuff either. Many pavallion s were handing out free canvas bags, some of them rather elegant, all very useful (for in free bags from other pavilions). Produce a press card and some places would throw in a lavish catalogue as well, but the Uruguayans were not playing the game at all.”[2]

[1] Steadman, Ryan, I like your work: Art and etiquette (New York, Paper Monument, 2009), 3.

[2] Dyer, Geoff, Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi (New York, Vintage, 2009), 59-60.

from the forth-coming book Keep in Touch, by Dana Bassett and Jared Dyer

picking items to wiki search

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