
Tenseless, untenable
Kind of chaos
Admitting that I want to be a writer frightens me because it feels as though I would have to relinquish my own temporality.
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Admitting that I want to be a writer frightens me because it feels as though I would have to relinquish my own temporality.
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The year 2016 was supposed to be one of infinite promise. I turned 19 harboring the secret belief that it was an auspicious age.
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But the true chaos of hyperrealist art is that it takes reality and makes it excruciatingly real, moving it intimately closer to the eye.
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I have been considering the microphysics of apocalypses. Not blazing lights and the pale horse of Judgement Day, but smaller devastations.
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When I visited UC Berkeley for the first time as an admitted student, it did feel a bit like I had been dropped from a tornado.
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My mother taught me how to love art. She taught me to look for detail, to hold space for emotional impact, to decide for myself what feels beautiful.
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It’s been years, but I still have the black dress and I still think of the W.H. Auden poem at certain times of day when the hills cast long shadows and airplanes fly out of San Francisco.
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The result is a portrait of a man who drags the truth out of others but who is resistant to letting himself be exposed in the same way.
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While this might have left certain traditionalists on edge, the promise of catastrophe was enough to draw everyone’s eyes to the stage.
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He believes that people caught in the conflict miss leading a normal life. “People want it,” he said. “But we don’t have the leadership to take us there.”
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