#semi-autodidact problems...

[canmom]

one thing I learned recently - that seems obvious in retrospect - is that 'being able to recognise intervals and chords by ear' is not necessarily something that you need to just hope will happen automatically if you music hard enough.

if you go to music school there's a specific exercise they do called 'ear training' where they sit you down and make you practice recognising stuff (chords and intervals and so on) - either the teacher will play it or you can get software that plays a thing and asks you to identify it. sorta like the musical equivalent of using a spaced repetition system to memorise vocab in language learning.

there's actually an ear training program in the GNU suite. you can get it here. it's just a python program that hooks into your computer's MIDI.

[disorganisedautodidact]

Autodidact’s Library No. 6: Hugh Kennedy, Mongols, Huns and Vikings. Nomads at War

This accessible and engaging book covers conquests by nomadic and semi-nomadic peoples through late ancient and medieval history (Huns, Arabs, Turks, Mongols, and Vikings). The author is an expert in the history of Islamic Middle East and a professor at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London.

The central thesis of the book is that the military successes of these groups (without the resources of a wealthy centrally organised state behind them) is primarily the result of: a) their greater mobility compared to armies of sedentary states, b) there being no small specialised army but rather the vast majority of the (at least, the male) population being able to fight when necessary, and c) effective unifying leadership. (Although the Norse expansion was an exception in the case of c).) The book outs a particular emphasis on point a), describing in great detail the nomad lifestyle of the peoples discussed and arguing that it trained them perfectly for a highly mobile, unpredictable fighting style, without suffering the problems of mobilisation and communication that settled armies faced. The extensive use of horses (and, in the case of the Arabs, camels), lack of heavy equipment and experience with moving around difficult terrain gave them an advantage and sometimes allowed them to take their enemies by surprise:

[skip this paragraph if reading about animal cruelty makes you uncomfortable] For example, the chapter about the Arabs relates the story of how one Arab general surprised the Byzantines by crossing the Syrian desert (instead of going around), which was meant to be impossible because it involved a six-day march with no access to water, by using his army’s camels as living water stores. He had the camels drink a lot of water, then cut and bound their mouths so they couldn’t chew, and had thm slaughtered one by one on the march to have his men drink the water from their stomachs (the source for this anecdote is 9th century Arab historian al-Balāḏurī).

The Mongols were also known for being able to move their troops quickly and coordinately over large distances. In the case of their invasion of Western Russia, they used the frozen rivers in winter as a kind of highways through the forests, which allowed for greater speed (on the other hand, they withdrew their attack of Novgorod in spring 1238 when the ice melted, because they were worried about getting stuck in unknown terrain due to flooding. In the case of the vikings, their ships gave them a similar advantage as the horses did for the steppe nomads: The could attack by surprise anywhere near a coast or up a river, not giving their opponents much time to mount a defense.

On the whole, the book is written in a very engaging and accessible style and supplements the text with pictures, maps, a chronology. For all its accessibility, at least the chapters on Arabs, Seljuqs and Mongols also seem sound and well-researched (if simplified & missing out some scholarly controversies) given the other research I have done on these topics (I can’t really say how accurate the chapters on Huns and Vikings are as these are not my areas of expertise and I haven’t done much other reading on them).

[sunnypretense]

15 Gifts For The Concrete Sealer Too Thick Lover In Your Life

This time I did it myself. This stuff is great. I utilised a 3 gallon Echo hand sprayer and applied two even coats about the pavers immediately after stress washing the pavers. The product or service looked milky white going on, but dried apparent. I would advise this to anyone needing to seal concrete pavers.

In advance of choosing any kind of sealer, know what factors it’s fabricated from and how it'll carry out on your driveway. Here's the 3 diverse kinds of ideal driveway sealers to implement on your concrete.

In most cases, most often, a brand new solvent-based mostly concrete sealer may be applied to a surface previously sealed by using a solvent-centered concrete sealer; however, it can't be utilized above a surface area Beforehand sealed with a drinking water-centered concrete sealer. If you Formerly used a drinking water-dependent concrete sealer and are now looking to seal by using a solvent-centered concrete sealer you should take out the water-dependent concrete sealer Because the solvents will take in or soften the existing drinking water-based concrete sealer, destroying both of those coatings.

Overall look – how do you want your driveway to seem just after it’s sealed? You'll find various styles of finishes to select from which include: matte, gloss, satin, semi-gloss, high gloss and no gloss. Almost all of the folks pick a high gloss and it leaves the driveway shinning and looking excellent.

In case the tape doesn't pull the concrete from your surface area, it can be painted. If the present concrete is eradicated, the loose concrete must be removed right down to a audio substrate.

Born in Arizona, Gia is actually a author and autodidact who fled the warmth with the desert for California, where she enjoys ingesting beer, overanalyzing the minutiae of lifetime, and channeling Rick Steves. Right after arriving in L. a. ten years back, she rapidly nabbed a copywriting position at A significant outfits enterprise and derived years of enhancing and proofreading practical experience from her tenure there, all even though sharpening her skills more with myriad freelance assignments.

sixteen Deck and Patio Ailments (and the way to Correct Them) When a thing goes Mistaken along with your deck or patio, in case you try a Do-it-yourself repair or contact a professional? We’ll help you diagnose your deck and patio disorders and identify the most beneficial solution.

What is Your Patio Persona? Do you think you're a backyard garden guru or an outside entertainer extraordinaire? Choose our quiz to locate your patio personality, then learn how to design an area that’s good for you.

a hundred% solids epoxy for hefty targeted visitors parts that involve an incredibly rough and sturdy coating with excellent chemical resistance.

Effective at masking around 600 square feet which has a comprehensive seal, ToughCrete Penetrating is a hardwearing Answer that should protect and shield your garage, sidewalks, plus much more from the elements for more than ten years, enhancing the worth of your home in the method. Backed by a lifetime guarantee

Just after sealing cracks and you’re now all set to go, you need to to start with Check out In the event the sky is alright and there is no indication of rains. Re-crystal clear the leaves or dirt over the driveway by usage of a leaf blower. Then, mix the driveway sealant inside of a bucket and ahead of applying it around the driveway.

For us to route your ask for for software assistance or products selection, please entire and submit the following form, and this will likely obtain rapid focus.

You may use this kind of sealer on concrete floors that seem soft or dusty on the surface area. It'll harden the surface area and support resolve this problem.

We made use of the same figure eight approach to use this layer of dye within a lighter quantity than the base coat, making certain The bottom color nevertheless showed via.

[benjaminabelmeirhaeghe]

Originally born in Eine, the now Brussels-based Benjamin Abel Meirhaeghe graduated in Performance Arts at Maastricht’s Theatre Academy. Besides working as a theatre maker, performer and director, Meirhaeghe avidly responds to nicknames such as self-proclaimed narcissist, wannabe countertenor and (medieval) fool. He relativizes and banalizes the socials groups and world he abides in on a very adolescent and self-conscious level, while ironically praising what is not to be praised. As he looks his own devils and those of others straight in the eyes, he channels critique on the thin line between witty humour and seriousness, masterly wielding his enchanting voice as his powerful weapon.

His musical performances are in collaboration with musician/producer Alien Observer. Meirhaeghe is fond of tackling themes such as indifferent free speech and virtual worlds, which divulge his keen sometimes mischievous reflections on deep-rooted concepts. Having previously searched for naturally yet uncomfortably intimate atmospheres in My Inner Songs (2016), he has gone all out in Mea Big Culpa (2017) by centralizing and omni-presenting his persona in music, image and language. With the exalting My Protest (2018) he deliberately causes us to reflect on contemporary tensions and orchestrates an awakening which unleashes a less rose-coloured reality, ultimately freeing us from the bittersweet, transcendent dreamy atmosphere. The precarious tension field between entertaining and criticizing becomes almost tangible in each performance. As he remains an enfant terrible, he mercilessly charms, alleviates and bombards us. The fool becomes king.

Furthermore, he often supports projects and ideas of other performers, positioning him as a metteur en scène. The pieces consistently project a certain, fleeting moment – a lingering echo from his photographic past. Operatesque elements are never hard to find, and explicitly harmonise in his own shows as well. The Dying (Het Sterven) (2017), a collaboration between Kim Karssen and Meirhaeghe, mirrors the process of someone dying in a one-hour long death scene, an outlined drama reciting the foundations of a pathetic theatre. With a nod towards Friedrich Nietzsche’s eponymous, philosophical novel, Also Sprach Zarathustra (2017) gladly flirts with philosophical issues regarding technology and depression instead of honouring the philosophical core of the book. In a prophetic and existential story, Anna Luka Da Silva and Meirhaeghe introduce a robot and human being on stage. The former as an übermensch, equilibrist and semi-fool, the latter as the narrator of Nietzsche’s novel with the infiltrating intention of “We didn’t even read the whole book”. Le Carnaval de Venise (2018), though stripped from its original score, rejuvenates the 17th century libretto by French composer André Campra in a contemporary setting. Using gongs and other atypical sounds, the play develops a special rhythm with references and an accompanying visual language, all conveyed by a five-headed corps de ballet. Every moment alludes to something else. Yet it’s a static physical work, a commedia dell’arte meets the Japanese noh. And despite the stringent score with defined queues, the play embraces avant-gardist and Dadaist influences.

Meirhaeghe allocates himself on the dramatic crossroads between old and contemporary mechanisms of opera. Both are subject to an almost sophisticated decomposition, arranged by yours truly. Shows such as The War (2016), Black Pole (2018) and, as his graduation project, The Ballet (2018) revolt against the classical, archaic opera systems and experiment with diverse forms of artistic autopsy of that conservative world. Meirhaeghe unravels different mechanisms indebted to opera and ballet, and unfolds them, exposing them one by one before creating a new, composed narrative. Movements in the machinery reveal themselves, the suggestive connotation dissolves. The theatrical rigging system is played as if it were a marionet, our range of vision becomes manipulated. The structures, entangled in a hierarchy, answer to his direction. Intense emotions overwhelm us. Oh, the pain, the tragedy, the laughter! His shows bathe in bipolarity, and all the while the fool looks over everyone. He rises on stage and in our souls. Moreover, he sacks the idea of a constant, almost competitive need to prove oneself worthy of something – and with it, stardom and artistic prodigies are suddenly plunged in an ice-cold bath.

The War, a joint effort by Marieke De Zwaan and Daan Couzijn, presents a still image, an extended snapshot of a wounded person who receives first aid by a relief worker. There’s a complete absence of context and background information of the characters. The structure of Le Carnaval de Venise is applied here as well: a stationary, visual language with innuendoes which attentively mirror fixed queues and seek out repetitions in image, sound and wordplay. Armed with extensive timbres and medicinal mantras for the soul, Meirhaeghe elevates the war’s intrinsic ferocity and its aesthetics. Each attempt to revive the heartbeat of the wounded, only ends in the rhythm of the play – whether the heart rate is restored, remains unanswered. A tragedy in a constant, rhythmic spiral.

Another show, again with De Zwaan, thrives on an alternative impetus. Unlike The War, where drama is key, Black Pole utters a non-mesmerising, rather rebellious meta-narrative about tourism. Twenty volunteers, who honestly don’t fake being bored, are followed during their dull flight. When they finally arrive at their destination, multicultural entertainment awaits them and the public. Chinese lions! Indian dance rituals! Turkish music! As fast it came, the excitement disappears, and everyone is back in the same monotonous situation, now homeward bound. Both the audience and the actors endure similar emotions: from disappointment to thrilling ecstasy to severe disappointment. The revolutionary, revolting characteristics of Meirhaeghe’s personality are not only ever-present in his artistic practice, in this play specifically they crave an unusual, alienating experience.

Crowning his four-year study is The Ballet, a humble yet laudable, real feat. Aligned with Kunstencentrum Vooruit’s iconic theatre hall, the play is a benchmark in his ambition of establishing a new artistic discourse. Besides appropriating the structure from an opera-ballet, The Ballet includes operatesque stage props, a historical interior, the sky-high tailored stage curtains, live piano by Maya Dhondt and captivating movements by Emiel Vanderberghe, a professional ballet dancer. The tragedy, soaked in all that splendour, is now and then comically illumed – thus unmasking Meirhaeghe’s bipolarity – and parallels present-day suffering with 18th century, romantic and heart-rending love stories. The Ballet has intensely impersonated emotions in abundance, and as it shifts between melancholy and deep nostalgic desires, the peculiar romance results in an almost adolescent waterloo. While both men eagerly showcase their virtuosity and self-discipline, the play sooths the audience with moving tales and grandeur. Meirhaeghe cunningly addresses two pressing issues: refreshing archaic stories and repertoires in a modern life setting and, as a young artist, taking over a rather rigid institute.

The need to reread, reinterpret and restructure the opera circuit is germinated while studying performance arts. The course encourages experiment and focuses on interdisciplinary approaches, and ultimately helps Meirhaeghe’s evolution from being an autodidact countertenor and solo performer to a director and creator. His then microscopic eye, primarily focused on activating a space, gets a macroscopic upgrade. Or as Peter Missotten describes it: “If you have a problem, make it worse.” On his terms, Meirhaeghe orchestrates a marriage between the traditional opera-ballet genre, experimental and contemporary theatre. The twofold relationship between intense emotions, abstraction, musicality and virtuosity is not to be sacrificed but to be preserved and maintained. And with this calculated disruption of hard-boiled structures, he invites the fool back on stage as the ultimate metaphor.

Also, Vanderberghe’s appearance in The Ballet is not a coincidence. A lot of his works, if not all, are influenced by male muses, Meirhaeghe’s photographic background and the maturing process of his self-conscious, rebellious persona. As a young boy he often captured drama in static snapshots of sudden moments and preferred that momentary feeling as his subject. He evoked his own absent beauty through literally imagining the present, young male nudity, and gradually created several muses, making him experiment with his models. The disentanglement of that emerging balance of power made him appropriate the beauty of others, nearly embodying their charm. Vanderberghe can be perceived as the glorification and idolization of that process: he’s ubiquitous in every work, except The War, and becomes almost a worshipped and praised figure. As a huge influence on Meirhaeghe’s practice, Vanderberghe plays a pivotal and clearly crucial role in his life. The dichotomy becomes once again apparent due to the echoing struggle between uncertainty and self-confidence – a dilemma which also forges a path to focus more on his own shows. And in the wake of previous, great artists and stars that created everlasting masterpieces before him, he immortalizes that nowadays recurring need to prove oneself with the nickname self-proclaimed narcissist. A hyper-personal work with the fool as the catalyst of his art practice and as the personification of that ceaseless ambiguity.

However, in his future repertoire the muses cut back their decisive cameo. The emphasis shifts to a more cross-disciplinary, collaborative and open approach bundled in a more receptive discourse regarding opera and ballet. Considering the involvement of a supportive, engaged group of people as essential, he transcends opera-ballet through an interdependence with contemporary visual art and design without disrespectfully treating the theatrical canon and old repertoire. Think of it as an opera in transition, transformation and (r)evolution. In addition, he concentrates on boundless engagement, exceeding love, in a search for the world’s manifestation and its salvation. For example, Meirhaeghe revamps Ballet de la Nuit, an originally 13-hours long spectacle in which the notorious French king Louis XIV makes his debut as Apollo, and reduces it to an epitome of one hour. He bridges the gap between the French baroque and the now, between classical opera-ballet and 21st century pop. At the same time, he questions the magnificence of that medium because of its immense production without a lot of resources. Other pieces he plans on updating, are Erwartung (1909) by Arnold Schönberg, the proto-opera L’Europe galante (1697) by André Campra, the revolutionizing La muette de Portici (1828) by Daniel Auber and Combattimenti di Tancredi e Clorinda (1624) by Claudio Monteverdi. Every show values the powerful, reciting potential of opera. Whether it is a tableau vivant rendering songs of love and war or stimulates an independence war or drawing a heart-breaking metaphor of Europe: Meirhaeghe calls for change.

Theatre as a time machine with the fool as our guide.

(c) E. Pot 

[caveartfair]

This Artist Builds High-Tech Robots—Then Has Them Attack Each Other

Running Machine and Spine Robot. Courtesy of Survival Research Laboratories.

“I love wasting technology,” Mark Pauline tells me. “I love it when you take something that’s really practical and do something ridiculous with it.” We’re standing in the middle of Marlborough Contemporary, a white cube gallery in New York’s Chelsea district that has suddenly been converted into what appears to be a near-future auto repair shop. The heady tang of gasoline and grease fills the air. A crew of assistants is performing last-minute surgery on a variety of large-scale machines—inspecting welds, checking voltages—and Pauline roves around the space, the crew-cutted foreman overseeing this high-tech madness.

Nothing here resembles a contemporary art exhibition, but Pauline isn’t really in the contemporary art business. He’s the founder of something called Survival Research Laboratories (SRL), an outfit he launched in 1978 with the intent of creating chaotic live performances featuring remote-controlled robotic creatures. Or, as he bills them, “dangerous and disturbing mechanical presentations.”  

This is SRL’s first proper New York outing in over two decades. (The group is now based in Petaluma, California, a bit less than 40 miles from San Francisco.) Back in 1985 they participated in a show at the now-defunct nightclub Area, pitting various machines against each other in a sort of industrial boxing ring. One of the kinetic assemblages was “driven” by a guinea pig named Stu, Pauline’s pet, who controlled the device from a small command center embedded within it. (“I spent a long time training it so it didn’t panic around the machine,” the artist affirms.)

Mr. Satan Head and the Dual Muel. Courtesy of Survival Research Laboratories.  

SRL’s exhibition at Marlborough Contemporary won’t involve any live animals, but there’ll be plenty of the machine-on-machine violence that the group has become known for. There’s nothing subtle or understated about what Pauline has been up to over the past 40 years, as he’s put technical know-how to absurdly entertaining purposes. A typical SRL creation stomps and shudders on metal legs, perhaps while belching thick tongues of flame; others have been programmed to wield bats and stab things. Their public appearances are orgiastic celebrations of fire and noise in which things are broken, intentionally or otherwise.

Pauline admits that SRL’s aesthetic might not be as immediately shocking as it was in the 1970s and ’80s. “Nowadays, robots are considered to be a harmless part of popular culture—after Robot Wars and everything,” he says, referring to the British reality TV show in which participants build machines that fight each other. But shoehorned into the normally polite context of a gallery, SRL promises something different, and perhaps uncomfortable.

Given the bombast of what he makes, Pauline comes across as an understated guy. He seems fairly unfazed by the last-minute tinkering required before the opening of the exhibition (which bears the unwieldy title “Inconsiderate fantasies of negative acceleration characterized by sacrifices of a non-consensual nature”). The preparatory scene has a science-club vibe, if everyone in that science club oversaw an engineering research department and built race cars designed to speed across the Black Rock Desert on the weekends.

Part of SRL’s spirit, Pauline says, is simply a West Coast thing, a symptom of California’s unique social fabric. “When I came out to San Francisco, you’d go to a punk-rock party and there’d be all these weirdos—but also full-on scientists,” he tells me. “The spark that started the tech revolution out there was that people didn’t differentiate between creative artists and creative scientists.”

Installation view of “Inconsiderate fantasies of negative acceleration characterized by sacrifices of a non-consensual nature” at Marlborough Contemporary. Photo by Walter Wlodarczyk.

SRL’s performances attracted fans and hangers-on, people who wanted to take part and contribute knowledge. (They also attracted a steady stream of dumbfounded cops, whose presence is basically a given in any video documentation of the group’s shows.)

The total team of collaborators now numbers around 40, with some of the members having been on board for decades; the eclectic crew can start to seem like the cast of a very niche, oddball sitcom. There’s Kimric Smythe, for instance, who collaborates with Pauline on props, among many other things. “All the shit he builds looks like the Unabomber made it,” Pauline says. At Marlborough Contemporary Smythe is busy assembling kinetic robots that will flap their arms and legs on the floor. “I do the jet engine work on occasion, too,” he tells me, mildly. Smythe used to be part of the pyrotechnics crew at Burning Man—“before it became, in my opinion, a clusterfuck of techno”–and he also helms what’s billed as “Northern California’s only full-service accordion store” out of Oakland.

Knee-deep in a machine on the other side of the gallery I meet SRL collaborator and computer master Christopher Brooks. He’s on the faculty at UC Berkeley, and is also the executive director of something called the TerraSwarm Research Center, charged with “addressing the huge potential (and associated risks) of pervasive integration of smart, networked sensors and actuators into our connected world,” which sounds both incomprehensible and deeply frightening. At the moment he’s troubleshooting an enormous robot with a flailing claw-hand that, on Saturday, will engage in a remote-controlled brawl in the middle of West 25th Street.

Pauline himself is an autodidact without any academic training in how all this stuff works. He’s previously described how, growing up in Sarasota, Florida, he taught himself to repair the expensive cars and boats of his wealthier peers (who generally lacked any technical skills themselves). In his late teens, Pauline worked for an Air Force contractor in Florida, and later studied the visual arts at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida. He now supports SRL’s operations by, in his words, “buying and selling tech companies”—often acquiring complex equipment on the cheap, refurbishing it, and reselling it. (He’s previously bragged about how SRL’s early days were facilitated by more extra-legal acquisitions of goods.)

Installation view of “Inconsiderate fantasies of negative acceleration characterized by sacrifices of a non-consensual nature” at Marlborough Contemporary, with Mark Pauline at left. Photo by Walter Wlodarczyk.

Pauline’s proud of his talent for spotting underpriced, semi-broken stuff that can be rebooted to work strange magic. He shows me a bulky robot that was evidently used in the planning stages of the 2013 film Gravity, outfitted “with a camera that they were using to prototype the moves to make people look weightless.” SRL bought the broken equipment for $1,400 and fixed it; Pauline says that it’d now be worth about $15,000 on the open market. At Marlborough Contemporary, it’ll be used to mount (and move around) a 55-inch monitor running a documentary loop of previous SRL shows.

SRL doesn’t have many connections with the mainstream art world, though Pauline’s wife is the executive producer for artist Leo Villareal, represented by Pace Gallery. As for contemporary art in general, Pauline seems fairly lukewarm. “I’m always interested in weird stuff,” he says, “but it’s hard to take it seriously—especially tech art.” He mentions Jordan Wolfson, creator of (Female Figure), a 2014 animatronic sculpture of a grotesque pole-dancer. “My friend in Los Angeles, his company built it,” Pauline says. “It’s a cool thing, but [Wolfson] didn’t do anything—he just ordered it. I’m not into that kind of art. People at least have to put in sweat equity of some kind. That’s my problem with the art stuff: It’s either not that interesting, or the so-called artist doesn’t do anything, or doesn’t know how to do anything.”

Pauline, on the other hand, is clearly a doer. And right now he has to figure out if there’s a working carbon monoxide detector in the house, and where they can buy extra gasoline to run the Pitching Machine, a contraption that’s designed to decimate 2x4s by shooting them into a reinforced cube at around 200 miles per hour.

Installation view of “Inconsiderate fantasies of negative acceleration characterized by sacrifices of a non-consensual nature” at Marlborough Contemporary. Photo by Walter Wlodarczyk.

The Saturday after my first visit to Marlborough Contemporary, Pauline’s Spine Robot (2012–14), with its flailing, articulated claw, squares off against the Running Machine (1992) and other machines in the wintery slush of West 25th Street. A large crowd circles the action as if cheering on some permitless mechanical cockfight. After the herky-jerky battle, the audience pushes its way back inside the gallery. A team member warns passerby not to get to close to Mr. Satan Head  (2007), the machine still hot from earlier previous fire-belching. The gallery is a squall of industrial aroma and noise, much of it unpleasant, most of it courtesy of Squirrel Eyes With Rotating Jaws (1987), a whirring maelstrom of grating metal teeth, ornamented with taxidermied rodents.

Pauline is wearing an olive green, military-style jumper, yelling about entropy into a megaphone. The crew is revving up the Pitching Machine (1997–2017), his D.I.Y. sculpture-weapon that uses a rapidly spinning truck tire to turn wooden planks into projectiles. Prop-master Smythe’s series of handmade “Boogie Bots” are spasming on the floor nearby: pop-eyed skeletons and humanoids, time-consumingly rendered despite their inevitable demise.

Which would be sacrificed first? The audience settles on a hapless skeleton, which is hauled up, awkwardly, via a hitch, and lowered into a rectangular cube that’s roughly the size of a Manhattan bedroom. Pitching Machine is switched into high gear, the tire squealing, and a quiver of planks is loaded into its chamber—soon to be fired at enormous speed into the skeleton sculpture, which does a heroic job of taking all that impact.

Pauline and SRL will continue the process, slowly destroying the bots, and turning Pitching Machine’s receptacle into a graveyard of wood chips and mechanical parts. (The cube itself, and its exploded contents, is for sale.)

The overall vibe is something in between a rock concert and a public execution. It’s unlikely that any other art gallery in Chelsea has ever smelled this strongly of burning rubber.    

“We do a lot of work,” Pauline had told me, shrugging, “then go destroy it.”

from Artsy News