Search View Archive

Soldiers Bring the War Back Home

When there’s a war going on around you, there’s not a lot of time to think. If there was, perhaps you’d have the presence of mind to avert your eyes when possible, to avoid seeing the things you’re doing, even if all you’re doing is following orders.

New New Holland?

Not for the first time in New York City’s history, a buzz about Secession has begun to be heard—or perhaps a serpentine hiss, depending on your point of view. Several local papers (including NY Press, the Nation, and the Rail), have recently run articles boosting secession and independence for NYC.

Art In Conversation


At Two Palm Press in SoHo, Ellen Gallagher was putting the finishing touches on DeLuxe, an edition of sixty collaged prints that are hung in a neat grid on the wall. As you step close to the wall where it is all hung with pins, your eyes move from image to image, magazine pages that have been heavily annotated with notes, quirky drawings, doodles, and collages as well as sculptural elements that could be mistaken for wax or bubble gum. PPP

PETAH COYNE: Above and Beneath the Skin

I remember wandering into a small, shabby old church on the outskirts of Mexico City and encountering a crude, worm-eaten wooden statue of Jesus. Perilously at its base was a mountain of molten, smoldering candles, guttering wicks sticking up from the lumpy mound of white wax, the rivulets streaming down, looking remarkably like tears.

Theater In Dialogue

bad, clown, bad Jeffrey M. Jones and his nasty circus

Playwrights Sheila Callaghan and Jason Grote recently saw the Undermain Theater’s production of Jeffrey M. Jones’s play A Man’s Best Friend, and they discussed the play in Sheila’s Brooklyn kitchen.

The East(ern) and the Western

Years ago author V.S Naipaul was sitting roadside at some desolate pass on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border and this tribal kid crested the trail.

Conversion in Connecticut

It was only eleven in the morning, and it was a school day, but there were groups of high school kids at the bay beach. With cans of beer, with tape decks and car radios turned up loud; with pimples on their mouths, and expensive cars, and the drifting intermittent scent of reefer.

Robert Frank Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

I’ve never seen a bag of trash, not even on Friday, which is big trash night, in front of his house. Where does he leave it?


Table of Contents













The Brooklyn Rail

MAR 2005

All Issues