What I Think I Hear Is Violence and I Want More
I have begun to desire noise. Noise that prompts. Maybe wounds. I want to remember something that feels tangible, and if I have no memory of how this feels I want to create one.
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Dean Kissick’s Downward Spiral chronicled the art world’s contradictions with the breathless urgency of an end-times prophet. Now, with the column closed and the critic in semi-exile, the question lingers: was he a voice of his generation, or just another scenester burning out on his own myth?
Archie Moore’s “impoverished aesthetic” transforms memory, class, and race into immersive, unsettling worlds. Rejecting the tidy self-disclosure of trauma narratives, his work lingers in ambiguity—neither confession nor critique, but something in between.
Kim Gordon’s rock-star body is an object of projection—vacuuming, sleeping, wielding a Jazzmaster in Airbnb limbo. From Sonic Youth to No Home Record, she performs middle-class blankness, but what’s staged, what’s real, and who’s the audience for her disembodied domestic rebellion?
