Multimedia Feature by Alice Major and Jean Wolff
I want to poke around inside the brain, unroll the wrinkled cortex into a flat, creased sponge and map anger’s coordinates.
I want to poke around inside the brain, unroll the wrinkled cortex into a flat, creased sponge and map anger’s coordinates.
In many of my interviews, I asked people whether they thought there was a telepathic element to creating art.
The truth of it is that every single instant we are, all of us, obliterated and refreshed.
Snow White was a respectable 36-B, just enough to hook the prince without being tawdry.
I was the biographer of one woman, but I was also writing my own life.
She wanted to penetrate the shells in the way doctors would when performing a procedure on her.
I had all these eggs, of course, inside me, and wanted a safe basket...
It will take many months, if not years, to reach a sense of closure. And yet, we survive.
What narrative or allegory arises in this collage when a snake flies through the air carrying a staircase?
What is imagination, really? Maybe it’s just the little brother of Miss Creativity?