[Christopher] D’Arcangelo contributed [to Artists Space’s Pictures exhibition] by entirely removing his name and work from the twenty-page catalogue; the pages allotted to him were left blank, while his four texts about Conceptual art that had been typeset for those pages were shown in the gallery.
A novel with no intimation of story whatsoever, Writer would like to contrive.
And with no characters. None.
Yet seducing the reader into turning pages nonetheless.
Actionless, Writer wants it.
Which is to say, with no sequence of events
Which is to say, with no indicated passage of time
Then again, getting somewhere in spite of this.
A novel with no setting.
With no so-called furniture.
Ergo meaning finally without descriptions.
“Come on, cocksucker—” Hogg glanced at me again. Then a frown tried to fight its way in among the lines in his three-day stubble, into the lines around his close, green eyes. But a bigger smile kept it out. “Hey . . . is everything all right?” He looked at the road. “What’s the matter?”
I turned to watch the fleeing trees. “Nothin’.”
Often times when we think of black expressivity we think of one pole of it, like Coltrane, Jimi Hendrix … We do somersaults and then we dunk the ball; you know that kind of stuff. I call it “speaking in tongues,” but there’s this other pole that’s the opposite of that I term “holding your tongue.” My grandfather was very much a person who held his tongue, and it elicits a certain kind of power.