“For each essay, I would set myself up as though I were allowed to make a collage using last Wednesday’s newspaper, a 1996 issue of Art Forum, and the notes I took while on layover at the Minneapolis/St Paul airport. And the reason for each particular assemblage was not random: there was always some hunch that I was trying to articulate in the gathering. Race, place and art are ongoing themes.”
There’s no disputing that I’m a tightly wound person. Once, I was so nervous about serving beer at a party I threw in my parents’ basement, that I numbered the beer cans and made people sign them out. Years later, in the middle of a Mardi Gras Crawfish Boil in New Orleans, I snuck into the host’s house to check my email for updates about a class project.
I entered my Havana apartment and was pleasantly surprised to find that the Cuban boyfriend had already turned one of the four available channels to the Jimmy Carter press conference. It was the statesman’s second visit to Cuba; the first was in 2002.