Fourth installment of Anvil and Rose, the third by Inspector Wyatt.

Far from being a straightforward narrative, Jean Daive’s memoir-cum-poetic-reverie Under the Dome: Walks with Paul Celan is yet all the more rewarding for its doggedly lucid wandering through recurring vagaries of symbol and motif.

Third installment of Anvil and Rose, the second by Inspector Wyatt.

The works included in Milano Chow’s new show at Bel Ami, “Park La Brea,” conceal themselves from strangers, murmuring discomfort and paranoia under their breath, only audible when confronted with the intention of listening.

Love makes you a stranger to yourself, and the best any of us can hope for is someone good and kind willing to catch you from that existential fall.

Our second installment of Anvil and Rose! Hermann Van den Reeck reviews five books of poetry from Lillian-Yvonne Bertram, Don Mee Choi, Natalie Díaz, Tommy Blount, and Eduardo Corral.

Watt on books by Bob Arnold, Jericho Brown, Carolyn Forché, Patricia Colleen Murphy, and Fernando Pessoa.

These are landscapes without landscape — pure ideas of how a picture is painted, of how a landscape is formed as an image.

In these new pictures by Julian Schnabel, we see the present state of painting: abandoned like unfortunate refuse, making do with what it has, left to its own devices, to elaborate what still remains within it.

Though Bajagić’s work may not escape certain tropes of avant-gardist art, it manages to capture pockets of discomfort, images charged with ambivalent energy.

Art about or responding to the COVID pandemic may simply be destined to be bad, but some things truly stand out. Caesura chimes in on the worst.

The social role of poetry has always been a question, but it has not always been posed explicitly as a question.

Machado’s Posthumous Memoirs are a de-composition, so to speak, a gnawing of the source material that their author had encountered both in literature and in society.

David Lynch has an impeccable ability to generate an attuned viewer. His Weather Reports show that he can do so in less than a minute. Even more than that, they illustrate the extent to which Lynch is a devout practitioner of art.

If West’s works are ever “soothing,” it’s precisely because they do often succeed in revealing something true about the world, something we can relate to as listeners. If critics feel that “Wash Us in the Blood” fails to hit the mark, then, it must be for a different reason.

Jafa’s omnipotent sun of tradition is there to remind us that what is considered freedom now is merely the allowance we are given to be a controlled emanation of society as it exists.

Is Glenn Ligon a critic of identity politics, or a mouthpiece? Or is it that he is both, and ultimately neither?

Anne Carson conquers Euripides’ radical attempt to destroy and redeem his culture and history, but for modern times and modern men — modern men who suffer from an overfullness of experience that impoverishes them.

Contemporary commonsense says that the preservation of art — as art — is not a life and death situation, but consider the case of Andrew Cunanan.

Eisenman’s contribution asserts that for aesthetic experience, liking and knowing are often indistinguishable, even though the museum, as a bourgeois pedagogical invention, upholds an aura of implicit hierarchy between the two.