Author Archives: pepperluboff

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A scene from a drama keeps occurring to me. The roles are variables, containers for values that satisfy the problem, and can only be cast by the one imagining the drama. That is, this scene can only really be played out in the imagination and then in life, not in photographs, on the stage, page, […]

Aethon

On my BART commute under the bay to and from the City’s financial district, most of the riders around me are on their devices. Scrolling through Facebook (or, as Jorrit calls it, “MyFace”) and Twitter and Instagram feeds. Skimming and clicking through headlines. Messaging with their quick, coordinated thumbs, tapping or drawing cursive geometries across […]

Narrative/Antinarrative

In this era of post-truth politics, I’ve heard over and over again from those I’m predisposed to listen to the urge to “take back the narrative.” The Moral Majority: take back the narrative. Obamacare: take back the narrative. Entitlement programs: take back the narrative. Free speech: take back the narrative. The ubiquity of the expression, […]

Exercises in Seeing

On the other side of Ways of Seeing, I’ve been thinking about how the activity of figure drawing could be an antidote to the visual language of publicity. Surely, formal figure drawing sessions use a set visual vocabulary that belongs to the tradition of oil painting Berger connects to advertisement; the models I’ve drawn usually […]

Photo Journal/Cover Mixtape/Sopping Up the Spilled Tea

Walking around the cemetery where the Black Dahlia’s buried, my friend and I talked about romantic love again. I’d revived the topic with him because it’d been poking me and he is one of the few who can remain earnest and uncynical in the face of themes so large, so muddied, so prone to platitudes, […]

Monday, April 17 to Wednesday, May 11, 2017

“You hear that?” I asked Jorrit as we basked at our Beals Point campsite after breakfast. “That’s the sound of industry and birdsong.” Somewhere a utility vehicle’s back-up beeper was sounding off. The traffic on Auburn-Folsom thrummed, the mean hum lumped only by the whine of speeders and the volcanic farts of beaters and motorcycles. And the birds spoke […]

On Feeling Bad

The drama of my first real love, who is also my love now, is almost epic, with hungry trysts and horrible rows in Berkeley, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Chicago, Nashville, Groningen, Utrecht, Seoul, Paris, London, Stockholm, the wet borderland two-thirds way down Sweden and Norway, Californian deserts and forests and coastal trails and towns. But I won’t go […]