‘This inflexibility makes sense to a non-visual thinker, but to visual thinkers such dogma is depressing and sad, like forcing ballerinas to wear suits of armour.‘
Last summer in Vancouver I attended a screening of the cult documentary Helvetica – a biography of the classic sans serif font designed in 1957. All 950 seats of the Ridge Theatre were filled, and I haven’t felt as much energy in an audience since attending the 1993 taping of Nirvana’s MTV Unp…
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‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
Daisy Hildyard on the wisdom of scarecrows.
‘What is the read receipt for?’
Lillian Fishman on texting, power and the ethics of leaving a friend on read.
‘Like pretty much everyone who uses the internet, I have seen many terrible things that I did not search for and that I cannot unsee.’
Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
‘rumors of bees on speedwell, / no oxidative stress just / effortless pollination’
Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
‘In the year leading up to this I started collecting objects that, in some way, evoked a sense of Canadianness in me.’
‘The presence of another person at the scene is suggested. The image invites you to imagine their position and to mentally assume it.’
Photography by Debmalya Ray Choudhuri, introduced by John-Baptiste Oduor.
‘Seven thousand forest fires are currently burning – fires which, under normal circumstances, would never even cross your mind.’
Fiction by Julie Bouchard, translated by Arielle Aaronson.
‘He was “a Joyce, not a Joycean”, yet considered himself the supreme arbiter of what constituted valuable Joyce scholarship. At the same time, he admitted that he rarely read anything in full.’
James Scudamore on trying to ghostwrite Stephen James Joyce's memoir.
‘Malachi is brushing her hair, long, dark brown and with russet glints. She likes it, as he can tell from her smile in the mirror.’
A short story by Edna O’Brien.
