Avenue

Biannual Printed Publication

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Souvenir ou pas?

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Avenue Journal

New Issue / Spring Summer 2018 

Made in New York 

Interviews, Thoughts, World Views. 

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Her old gold sweater’s sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, with another of gray denim tied around her waist, with blue pants and black sneakers. Text by John White

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Photo from Ada Hamza

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In the future, there will be cigarettes and there will be caresses. And wine for meandering thoughts.

Text by John White

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Photo by Tatjana Radičević

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At the opening of ANDREAS GURSKY SHOW at Gagosian W 21st Street, New York.

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Photo by Inge Morath

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Photo by Konstantina Bakali

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She shifts continuously in her seat. Her hair is orange in the sun, and dried out. Red,  yellow and blue of America in the 90s, or of a Jean Prouvé bench. She falls back into her seat on purpose... glancing at me...

Then: a storage company, like many of the odd, elongated structures that we pass, escapes me at an impossible speed. Blue doors repeat indefinitely for emphasis; Then: rocks amidst a truck painted in camouflage in a trail of army vehicles. Occasionally, a strange little house pops up over a hill.

The girl with red hair makes an awkward appearance: She lays against the window; her hair is like fire. She reads a book.

Text by John White

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Photo by Katarina Sopčić

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Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.Je ne sais pas.

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Drawing from Aphra Natley

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For a short prose piece

...with a person wearing a costume and smoking a cigarette. I sat at a desk. My pencil was wearing down.

Text by John White

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Photo by Hugues Erre

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The accumulating economic protests in New York have produced strange things. This evening, there was a gathering of about 700 people or more inside the fountain at Washington Square Park. Three men excused themselves as they went by me. One said, “You’re going in, too?” meaning into the fountain.

Text by John White

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In and out of libraries, I keep picking up the same book. I continue from where I left off, and, this morning with a large coffee, slightly hung over, I sank into a sofa chair. I thought that Camus' book The Fall is just about dead leaves. Written in a delicate language, a constant stream of words leaves me at a perfectly familiar moment. Less than being about the short relationship between the two strangers who meet at a bar in Amsterdam, what I desire is everything that follows in order to fill it up, the emptiness that may suck out of the waking world's language, all of the things that are unsayable. This time, for some reason, it was: the dead leaves in the quay, and jewels the color of dead leaves, and I pictured a lonely character on the trottoir with a coat the color of camel and then the night.

Text by John White