All Hail the Cloud:
For a long time I believed unquestioningly the standard critique of our times. It’s the phones. It’s the algorithm. It’s our base narcissism. That our obsession with recording every fleeting moment of our lives betrayed a deeper malaise. We have become archivists of the self, I thought, curators of a life half-lived. Each countless photograph of a wonder, of dinner, of a view, of our children, of the utter banality of our everyday lives, was not a memento, a way of remembering the things we did, but instead evidence of the poverty of our engagement with the present moment. We frame our lives through lenses, filters, and screens, trading the chaotic beauty of reality for a sanitised, editable version. Our photographs are not memories; they are advertisements, billboards for a life we are too preoccupied to live.
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Red Hand Files: #Issue 280:
I know that on a fundamental level they are on their own path and they are not in the business of shaping their lives, artistic or otherwise, in order to please or make others feel better. They are fully and acutely authentic, regardless of my feelings, or the feelings of anyone else and I find this deeply reassuring in a world that so often feels devoid of genuineness. In fact, if I sense that an artist is creating, saying or doing things just to win public approval, or to yield to the demands of the market, well, that’s when I tend to turn away.
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他站在桌前，望向窗外。夕阳还剩下一缕金光，覆盖在大地上。白云飘过楼下的街道，微风掠过远方的树林。他调整了下自己的心情，犹豫了片刻，然后转回身，坐了下来。狭小的房间昏暗凌乱，逼仄不堪。他踢开脚边堆积的纸张，看着地上散落的书籍和文档文件，然后又一次把视线移到茶几旁边那团隆起的阴影上，光线沿着它的轮廓描出一道亮边。他紧紧握了一下拳头，像是下定了决心。然后他再次起身，踩着椅子，踏在了桌子上。
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Focus
There Is No Fish
