Oct 022014


In real life, masks are terrifying. The people who wear them are up to no good. Actually, I don’t know these people, so who knows what they’re up to. But there they are, keeping something from the rest of us. They hide, but they’re not very good at hiding. Underneath, I wonder, are they laughing or crying? In my films, characters wear cheap masks to forget things, to laugh and cry, and to access a better self. It’s dreamy. It’s private. For a moment, they have everything.


There are few masks in my recent work, but I think the idea of multiple selves, or a hidden other self is almost always present.


I once heard a story about these people, they were upset – one grabbed the face of the other and said: It’s not a mask! I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I wonder how they feel about each other now, or if they even remember that it happened. It’s the kind of story where the person telling it says: Don’t put this in a movie.

Cam Archer makes films and videos in Santa Cruz, California. He’s currently developing his first feature-length documentary, 1981.

(Images by Cam Archer: second down, a still from Shit Year; third down, a still from Wild Tigers I Have Known)

Sep 252014


I first saw this image on a postcard hanging on the wall of my friend’s office in New York about fifteen years ago.

We both laughed as we looked at it because we’d seen each other’s bodies enough to know that one of the woman’s breast in the photograph looked exactly like hers and the other looked exactly like mine.

Soon after that she sent it to me in the mail back in Memphis.   There’s not a photo credit on it so I don’t know who took the picture.  It’s printed on a nice card stock though and on the back the paper is a deep red.

On that red she wrote this.


Dear Melissa –

Thought you might like to have this image nearby for a while.

I am sort of lost in my relationship still, and though I’m sort of enjoying the new energy and attachment, I’m craving engagement with my work too.  It’s a bit frustrating.  I hate to complain, but still I hope to be honest.

It’s getting cold up here now and I’m eating and sleeping more like the good little animal I am.  Friends are procreating or breaking up.  Yoga is a far away dream.  I have absolutely zero spending money and frequently wonder what’s going to happen when.  I float a little – feeling it’ll happen when it will.

Love you, MB

We were very close friends from our late twenties to mid-thirties – that pivotal time of chucking off the remnants of adolescence and discovering who we are as adults.

Nowadays I’m only in touch with her every so often, usually through an annual email exchange.  I cherish the time we had when we regularly corresponded through the post, talked on the phone a couple of times a month, and regularly walked through New York talking and figuring things out.

My paintings and drawings are about seeing and searching out what happens when I manipulate color, layers, lines, volumes, patterns, and shapes.  I paint and look – I look more than I paint.  And yet, along with all this watching I am listening, hearing my own insecurities, questions, and frustrations rising up.

The studio process requires a lot of listening.

As I hear my inner guide figuring things out, I think of my friend’s words…

“but still I hope to be honest”

Today this image doesn’t just represent me facing a friend, looking her in the eye, giving her the time and room to work life out as I listen deeply, and then her giving me that same gift as she listens to me.

No, today, at this very moment, this is about me looking at me and listening to me.


Melissa Dunn makes art in Memphis, TN.  She’s a teaching artist at Flicker Street Studio and volunteers at several arts programs around the city.  Currently she’s spending as much time outside walking, gardening, and hanging out as possible.  

Sep 102014

Before I could bring myself to say out loud that I was interested in boys or cock or next-level faggotry, I said that I was interested in kitsch. I collected doe-eyed figurines and listened to torch songs while bathing in the light of LED devotional statues, pretending all the while that I was doing it for laughs.

This sentimental song is ridiculous, right?


Cultivating an outwardly ironic interest in kitsch was a coded way for me to take part in the things that were forbidden to straight adolescent boys – feminine things, diminutive things and, most of all, wet, soft-bellied emotional things. It was a thin veil at best, but a necessary one. I couldn’t cry about the boy who would never notice me, much less want to kiss me, but Shirley Bassey could cry for me, and cry well. And while she did, I could wink the tears away.

Most gays, at some point, make the transition from kitsch to camp, kitsch’s city-living, cynical sister. I never fully did. I maintain an ambivalent but necessary relationship to the sincerity and vulnerability of other people’s unabashed expressions of attachment. Kitsch is a still a conduit and a safe space for me. It still gives me a way to enjoy things for reasons that are not intellectual and rips me open in a way that makes no rational sense. It lets me feel the scary things at arm’s length.

Joel Parsons is a sculptor and writer living in Memphis, TN. He’s the director of the Clough-Hanson Gallery at Rhodes College. He runs Beige, a peripheral space for otherwise art and performance, with his partner, Steven McMahon.

 Posted by on September 10, 2014
Aug 062014
I listen to jazz because it’s atmospheric.  My dad would listen to it on Saturday nights when his favorite radio program came through the hi-fi.  He’d sip cold white wine and soak in the music. He created a moody ambience with colored lights and candles. (I had the kind of dad who kept colored gels for mood lighting.  He was a commercial photographer so it kind of made sense).
I listen to a lot of jazz because it makes me feel modern and sophisticated.  It’s the appropriate soundtrack to abstract sculpture and painting.  It smells like nightclubs thick with cigarette smoke and booze. It sounds like American innovation, expression and creative freedom.  The height of American optimism – free of irony or cynicism.
I rarely meet people who share my love of jazz.  Most seem to ‘tolerate’ it, at best.  When I do meet fellow jazzmen and jazzwomen (usually in the back section of Amoeba records) I feel titillated by my inclusion into a secret coterie.

My record player currently has ESP by the Miles David Quintet sitting on the platform, poised for the needle.  I will most likely listen to it tonight while sipping cold white wine.
Steven Gontarski is an artist currently living and working in Los Angeles.  He makes modern abstract sculpture and draws people and birds.  He has a blog called still-sound.blogspot.com.  In recent years he has turned his attention to the art of smell and manages a perfume store called Scent Bar.
 Posted by on August 6, 2014
Jul 292014

When I write, I always start with an idea. That may sound incredibly obvious. Doesn’t everyone start with an idea? I don’t think so; I didn’t always. There are ways to start a poem, for example, without an idea – you could start with a single word, like “scaffolding”. A word is not an idea. A color is not an idea, nor is an image. If you want to get a butterfly tattoo, that’s not an “idea” for a tattoo. An idea requires some complexity, some moving parts.

Some notes on the idea, what it is and what it isn’t:

You don’t have to agree with the idea; an idea may not even be a proposition that you can agree or disagree with, though it often is. An idea is something to think about. It should be interesting whether or not you agree with it or believe it.

If you’re going to write about an idea, you need to be able to put it into words – at least, I do, though I like the idea of writing a poem that looks like a patent application.

Can you make a poem entirely out of ideas? Yes, but it might be boring. Can you make a poem with no ideas? Yes, but it will definitely be boring.

The more ideas you have in your poetry, the more it approaches philosophy. “Philosophy” means “love of wisdom”, but I always think of it as wisdom through language (knowledge encoded in mathematics is not philosophy). Note that knowledge and wisdom are not the same thing; knowledge is quantifiable, cumulative, whereas wisdom is more of an approach, a filter.

I recently found this crib sheet I made in college for a neuroscience class. It is tightly packed with knowledge, not wisdom or ideas:


But isn’t it rather beautiful? Just looking at it, not reading it (if this knowledge is still in me, I no longer have access to any of it), I can almost experience it as an idea.


Elisa Gabbert is the author of The Self Unstable, a collection of lyric essays (Black Ocean, 2013), and The French Exit, a poetry collection (Birds LLC, 2010). Follow her on Twitter at @egabbert.

 Posted by on July 29, 2014
Jul 072014



Through my work in marketing at a children’s hospital, I met a woman whose young daughters can only see each other through a glass pane while one undergoes a bone marrow transplant in the isolation unit. The 6-year-old, who is well, and the 8-year-old, who isn’t, meet often—but not often enough—to do their little girl talk via walkie talkie in a circular area of the unit that’s called the fishbowl.

When I heard, I cried.

I thought back to the last year of my father’s life when I contracted mono by drinking Coca-Cola after my boyfriend’s sister. I was 16 years old. My father’s immunity was low from cancer treatment, and because I was sick, I couldn’t be near him. We led our separate lives on opposite sides of our old ranch house.

There was one day when I saw him for a moment, bald and frail, and he asked me how I was feeling. My throat had gotten infected, and I told him, at length, that I felt terrible.

He snapped at me. “I can’t stand to hear you whine when I’m the one who’s sick,” he said, or something to that effect.

I felt ashamed and burst into angry tears. “I’m sorry you have cancer,” I said, “but it’s not fair that I can’t complain about normal things.”

How stupid and selfish of me! But my dad was moved.

“You’re right,” he said. “Cancer isn’t normal. You should be able to complain about normal things. I’m so sorry.”

Did he take the risk of hugging me? After all these years, I can’t remember.

In one way or another, I am always writing about cancer. Feeling it, then backing up from it. Letting cancer break my heart, then wondering exactly why it does. If I can figure out the mechanics of my own grief, then I can recreate it and make someone feel the same as me. If I’m doing it for fundraising, it could do some good.


At work, we talk about the need to “take a moment,” to walk away from the group and be by ourselves when we hear something sad about a family we’ve come to love. It’s a strange job we have, marketing on some of the saddest moments of a family’s life. The only thing that makes it better is knowing we make a difference by raising money to find a cure for a stupid, horrible disease.

In his book The Look of Distance, Walter Slatoff urges us to approach fictional characters as creatures of flesh and blood with human motivations. People we could know and love. Writers sometimes see their characters as set pieces and kill them off or place them in the most desperate situations. Consequentially, these paper people seem devoid of motivation, their actions make no sense, we can no more care about them than we would a coffee table.

Believe in your characters, and you’ll be careful where you put them and what you ask them to do. You’ll still harm them, but when it happens, you’ll feel terrible. Your characters are real now, at least to you.

Slatoff’s urging has stayed with me now for many years and influences how I approach not only my fiction writing, but also my work in writing about the real people at the hospital dealing with incredible challenges.

So when I heard about the two sisters communicating by walkie talkie through a glass pane, and I thought about Dad, and I needed to “take a moment” to cry, I also had to compartmentalize the stories and give it direction for my work.

I thought, “If I’m crying, maybe other people will be moved. I could have a picture taken and post it to our hospital’s Facebook page.”

When the contact sheets of the two sisters came back from the studio, the images told a story that was beautiful and devastating in equal measure. But there was something else I noticed. In some of the shots, the camera flash had picked up what had been invisible at the time of the shoot—multiple handprints on the glass from earlier visitors. All trying to will their way through the glass, all hoping for healing.

(Crayon and marker illustration by the author of her childhood home, March 2014)


Betsy Taylor works for a children’s charity in St. Paul, Minnesota. Her writing has appeared in The Republic of Letters, Evening Street Review, Memphis Magazine online, Apparatus, and the Crab Orchard Review. She received her MFA from Southern Illinois University. She lives with her husband and son in Minneapolis, and hails from Memphis, Tennessee.

 Posted by on July 7, 2014
Jul 012014


Galbanum is a beautiful word that refers to a beautiful fragrance material. It’s a G-word that plays an important role in my life. The odor is typically described as green. Green is another important G-word. Green is unusual because it describes both odor and color.

The painting above is a study for a fragrance. Odors produce a color vibration in my mind, so odors and colors are strongly associated for me. If you’re someone who “sees” scent, it’s strange to say that odor and color are separate categories of experience when both are vibrational events along a continuum of experience. At some point we call one seeing and the other smelling, just like at some point, we stop saying green and start saying blue. My work is about exploring this space between color, visual form, odor and olfactive form and about the ways that these relationships extend the space of Painting and the space of Perfume.

This painting was a study for a scent that includes osmanthus absolute, an extract of the osmanthus flower that smells like rich apricot jam and honey. It’s gorgeous stuff, but it’s an extract of the flower and not the flower itself so while it’s jammy, it’s also a bit dense and lacks space—it’s two-dimensional. A perfume would need to open up the space of the extract in some way. The painting explores the color space of osmanthus and considers some contrasts to open up that space. Alone, the pink in this painting lacks sparkle and the green rectangle is too vivid. Combined, they transform one another. You can experience this by doing what painters do: block the green rectangle in your line of sight with your thumb, looking at the image with and without it to consider the effect.

When I walk into the studio, I start by listening to the vibrations of color and scent and then testing points of connection. I look to the colors in my mind, but I’m also inspired by fashion and textiles. The rusty red in this painting is an earth pigment. Its masstone (how it looks when applied thickly) is drab and brown, but its undertone (how it looks in thin washes) is luminous and orange. The undertone has the soft glow that I see when I smell osmanthus. But that glow is only one facet of the odor, which to me also has moody, mauve-pink shadings. Earth reds like the one in this painting were sometimes paired in 19th-century French textile designs with mauve-pinks and yellow-greens. This inspired me to explore some greens, but the green I ultimately chose is very bright and “post-modern.” The green pointed me towards using galbanum and other green notes in my perfume formula.

Actually, I lied. Galbanum isn’t so beautiful, at least not at first. Smelled straight, the essential oil is harsh and unpleasant, like acrid, chopped spinach. When I first smelled the stuff I could only imagine using it in a citrus scent where I needed a sharp, astringent, green note. But galbanum has a secret identity that reveals itself in floral accords. Smell carefully and behind the spinach you’ll notice something unexpected: lushness, richness, plush velvet, moss, wax, powder.

Perfumers love materials that straddle different odor families. Iris is famously both woody and floral, osmanthus is floral and fruity, ionones are fruity and woody—to name just a few. Like chameleons, these materials change with their context. Galbanum is also a chameleon. Skillfully dosed, the harsh aspects behave a little like an aldehyde to “shear out” heavy floral notes. But perfume accords are all about relationship, so while the galbanum modifies the florals, the florals also modify the galbanum, softening it and foregrounding the powdery waxiness. The result is a velvety shimmer that is opulent, sophisticated and green.

When you begin to study art, you quickly learn that color words are too broad to describe the variety of colors in the world. Green doesn’t point to a single color, but to an array of thousands of visual experiences that we call green, some so different that it’s astonishing we could give them the same name. You might love one yellow-green (say, chartreuse) but hate another (…avocado).  But here too, it’s all about relationship: when the avocado gets paired with deep maroon, it’s suddenly a thing of beauty and you want it around all the time. What happened to the avocado you hated? You know it hasn’t changed and yet your experience of it is profoundly different. The avocado that you now love can’t be separated from the maroon; it’s only when the two are together that your pleasure-center gets activated. From that perspective, it’s strange to say that the two colors are separate. There’s a kind of magic at work here.

There’s an approach to abstract painting that considers painting as something discrete and separate from the world.  But there’s another (and I think, richer) way to approach art. Paintings and perfumes don’t exist in an idealized vacuum, they exist in the world, in real rooms and in real places. They are in relationship with other paintings and with other perfumes, with institutions, with people, with stories about their making and their makers.  It’s nearly impossible to view a Van Gogh without thinking about his life and struggles, or to separate Coco Chanel’s liberating designs from the revolutionary olfactive shape of No. 5. This particular painting is in relationship with a perfume and the perfume is in relationship with the painting. Each stands on its own, but the space where they meet is wide open.

(painting by Bruno Fazzolari)


Bruno Fazzolari is a painter and perfumer. In 2010, he began presenting fragrances with his paintings in gallery exhibitions. Until this year, the scents were available only in exclusive gallery settings during the limited run of the exhibitions for which they were created. The perfumes are now available on-line from his website along with images of his work.

 Posted by on July 1, 2014
Jun 232014

LINE still3

I have incorporated flicker into a number of my short films, as a means to distress and distill found materials, and amplify moments of hysteria. Rupturing the normal illusion of motion created by 24 or 30 frames per second, flicker forces the viewer into an altered register of vision, pushing the limits of what our eyes can process. I find it has the potential to feel assaultive, soothing, and orgasmic all at once, and is most satisfying in a large theater, where the strobing light actually overwhelms the viewer’s spacial perceptions – making it possible to lose one’s bearings within both the image and the room. And I do this in editing, by masking away or coloring the film or video frames in simple patterns (i.e. two frames of black, one frame of green, two frames of image, copied and pasted forever).

My real attachment to the technique stems back to the final episode of Twin Peaks, which scarred me in all the best ways as an enthralled, terrified nine-year-old viewer in 1991. Somewhere between the collapse of the Miss Twin Peaks Pageant and the mid-2000’s, I also came to ingest a fair amount of flicker-heavy experimental cinema, and it was actually a 2006 projector performance by Bruce McClure that inspired me to throw some red and blue flicker at my then-in progress piece, Light Is Waiting. I hate to think that I have a standard arsenal of tricks, but given that heavy doses of flashing light have shown up in seven of the eleven films I’ve made since 2007, I think it’s safe to say I’ve developed a habit.

(Pictured above: A still from the short Line Describing Your Mom, and the short itself)


Michael Robinson (b. 1981) is an American film, video, and collage artist whose work explores the joys and dangers of mediated experience, riding the fine line between humor and terror, nostalgia and contempt, ecstasy and hysteria. His work has shown in both solo and group shows at a variety of festivals, museums, and galleries including the 2012 Whitney Biennial, The Walker Art Center, MoMA P.S. 1, The International Film Festival Rotterdam, The New York Film Festival, The London Film Festival, REDCAT Los Angeles, The Sundance Festival, Anthology Film Archives, The Images Festival, Whitechapel Gallery, and Tate Modern. Michael was the recipient of a 2012 Creative Capital grant, a 2011-2012 Film/Video Residency Award from the Wexner Center for the Arts, a 2009 residency from The Headlands Center for the Arts, and his films have received awards from numerous festivals. He was featured as one of the ’50 best filmmakers under 50′ by Cinema Scope magazine in 2012, and listed as one of the top ten avant-garde filmmakers of the 2000’s by Film Comment magazine. Michael holds a BFA from Ithaca College, an MFA from The University of Illinois at Chicago, and his work is available from Video Data Bank and Carrie Secrist Gallery.

 Posted by on June 23, 2014
Jun 192014


I like to start with endings. Not moving backwards from there, not a trick of revelation about a story that’s already over, but what’s born in the pain of goodbye, the mess of aftermath, what happens next. In the Life/Death/Life cycle, I’m somewhere around th/Li, prose-wise. Not too worried about your first rodeo. I get antsy, I like change, but I’m sentimental, I like scars, and ceremony, and souvenirs. I Used to be Darker begins with the end of a divorce. There’s nothing left to decide, but there’s a lot to get used to. Reinvention is required. Maybe that’s it? But it’s also that what happened, even if it went to shit, isn’t wasted. My characters say: Yes, mourning was required, and hair-shirts, and champagne. Or: Just when you think you’re out of the woods, you’re still in them. Or: Missing is like having, but easier to pack. Or: Baby, it ain’t over when it’s over. Or: I feel this happiness, this tenderness, like a moment in a movie that will end, in a theater I will leave. Because that is what I can afford.


Amy Belk is a screenwriter living in Los Angeles. She received her M.F.A. in fiction writing from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, where she was awarded the Richard Yates Prize for Fiction. Her first feature, I Used to be Darker, premiered at Sundance 2013 and is distributed by Strand Releasing.

(Photo by the author)

 Posted by on June 19, 2014
Jun 112014

I first encountered Dungeons & Dragons as a shadowy ritual happening upstairs, in Tony’s older brother’s bedroom. Following my eleven-year-old friend up the carpeted steps of his family home in Tierra Santa, California, down the afternoon hallway, into the dank boy cave of Larry, a long-haired teenager whose dwelling place was lit only by cracks in curtains and glowing green computer screens. Larry sat cross-legged on his bed, atop a horde of strange books and sheets of graph paper with numbers and maps scrawled all over them.  A small statuette of a red dragon on the dresser, a table sprinkled with polyhedral, transparent dice, fake gems tossed around by the older brother, whose tight pair of dark jeans he seemed to wear every day, whose brown hair was greasy, and whose face was fey. He was, I was about to learn, a Dungeon Master.

Then I saw a televangelist doing a presentation one Sunday morning so early cartoons hadn’t even started; I watched with my younger brother as a man with a mustache and curly hair, in front of a dark curtain, behind a lectern, lectured on the dangers of D&D, describing it as a satanic game leading children to devil worship and suicide. He held up the cover of the Dungeon Master’s Guide for scrutiny: a knight with a sword and his friend, a man in a blue robe – whose hair was the same style as Larry’s – stood below a glowing, red, naked, devil man wielding a giant scimitar across his muscular naked body, giant red pecs and abs and arms articulated by the artist with great precision, a loin cloth hugging the big demonic loins, the monster’s face distorted and pointy toothed, horns yellow, and in his other hand a naked blonde lady in a gold armor bikini, holding a little dagger. When my brother and I told my parents that we wanted D&D, they seemed to feel that it was a good idea for us to play it because Born-Again Christians, of which there were some in our actual neighborhood, thought it was devil worship and anything they condemned, anything that scared them, my mother and father suggested, was probably good.

My brother and I went to the game store with our mom, and she bought the books and the dice and even some lead figurines, and my brother and I set about learning the rules of the game, its mythologies and fictions culled together to form its pliable mise en scene. As the older brother, I became the Dungeon Master, but when the Sega Master System entered our home, my brother was lost to me as a player, and I was a Dungeon Master without a campaign, a lonely thing to be. And so I set about looking for people to play the game with, at first following other boys from the bus into their little rooms and their little scenarios, limited by their narrow interpretations of the game, always a search for magic weapons: swords that suck your soul, armor that cannot be penetrated, and spells to eradicate entire cities in balls of fire. (One time, on the bus, the bus driver, a chubby guy with a wispy mustache and hair like Larry’s but thinner, taught me a lesson: I told the kids that they were confronted by a “bugbear.” They said: “What is that?” I assumed they knew already and became frustrated that they hadn’t read the Monster Manual thoroughly.  The bus driver said, “You have to describe the monster. It’s like a bear with a beak, and then they will know what you are talking about. The name doesn’t matter to them. Just to you.”) Also on the bus, I found a pair of sisters who had always wanted to play but felt weird about the boys who played it. I invited them over and played D&D with them.Their characters had names like Fyrne Meadowblossom and Claire de Lune.  And so Junior High was spent in dreams based on Shakespeare and Ursual LeGuin, ElfQuest comics and Dragonriders of Pern and all the other feminine genres of fantasy of the pre-Harry Potter era.

In 9th grade, in large part thanks to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s success with The Phantom of the Opera, I decided that Broadway Musicals would be a more productive obsession around which to orient my aspirations. After securing my position at the top of the drama club as its president in 11th Grade, I suggested ironically that we play D&D and ironically, everyone agreed. Around my parents dining room table, teen sex angst and insubordinate aggressions were worked out and worked over: most of the kids decided that their characters were aligned chaotic evil, lawful evil, chaotic neutral and true neutral – rarely, chaotic good (which is still my philosophical outlook) or (like one kid) lawful neutral (just to be weird). I had to keep the players – like the inexplicably popular dark-haired sociopath Beth who played an evil elf – from killing each other – as she did to Cesar, the cute also dark-haired sociopath,  slaying his gnomish thief in the middle of the game, which lead to wrestling in real life between the two, their lust so entertaining to me, and all the more interesting as I was, after all, the Dungeon Master who had put it into play. I would help Sean’s true neutral ranger with hints on how to find treasure, so that Sean, with the blond sideburns, sad eyes and a big nose, would be more inclined to sleep over after, and we could listen to the Smiths together in my bedroom.

I played Dungeons & Dragons, a convivial, relational game form based on chance – as in the rolling of oddly shaped dice – and role-play. Nerds gravitated toward this pre-virtual RPG, asocial, awkward, but together, at our parents dining room tables, we could collectively imagine another place, ourselves another group – racially diverse band of elves, half-orcs, gnomes and dwarves – of whatever gender we chose. And it wasn’t a coincidence that these gatherings would often end in a slumber party, and that the games themselves took on a queer coloring, if repressed by adolescent anxieties and complicated by the homophobia of the Reagan Era and the beginnings of AIDS. A storyteller always, I often served as the Dungeon Master. This game is one of the origins of my own understanding of myself as a person, a queer, and this may be what I am reenacting in making the work that I now think of as art.

(Above: Shakuntala DuBois, 2012)


Alexandro Segade is an artist based in Los Angeles who, apart from his work with the performance group My Barbarian, has presented his own performances and videos at LAXART,REDCAT and Artist Curated Projects in Los Angeles; Migrating Forms at Anthology Film Archive in New York; Yerba Buena Center in San Francisco; the 2014 Whitney Biennial; and Vox Populi in Philadelphia. His project, Replicant vs. Separatist, is a science fiction genre discussion of gay marriage, which received a grant from the Durfee Foundation in 2010. He received an Art Matters Grant in 2011 for a collaboration with artist Wu Tsang. Segade earned a BA in English from UCLA (1996) and an MFA in interdisciplinary studio art from UCLA (2009). He currently teaches performance, video, sculpture and public art at the University of Southern California and serves as performance faculty at Bard College’s Milton Avery Graduate School of Arts.

 Posted by on June 11, 2014