The Stream and The Sweep
A stream of consciousness comes up out of the subway right there on Alvarado Street flows along MacArthur Park amidst the guys on the sidewalk selling baseball caps cigarettes bootleg salsa CDs & phony IDs on past the guy with no legs propped up against the lamppost coolly regarding the proceedings with a steadfast countenance crosses the street at Wilshire passing the old guy handing out the garish red & white flyers for Botanica San Martin Caballero passing by the Jesus freaks yelling themselves hoarse at the portals to the park then flows on past the frazzled stray cat meowing for sympathy past the black guy with the jarred-loose appearance who says Hey—remember me? I was there when you got out… past the empty Modelo Especial beer cans lying in a shiny pile past the homeless & unemployed & winos sprawled on the grass or down for the count in the spiky shadows of the tall palm trees fingering the milky-blue opacity of the sky through which cuts a LAPD helicopter with its ratcheting chatter of airborne internal combustion & Orwellian angst moving off towards the southwest where puffs of gray cloud are now blowing in off the windy Pacific Ocean in a silent steady stream.
The optic sweep glides along the horizon of the upper pasture slows down & lingers at the huge oak tree below the muddy spring where the cows are standing knee-deep in black muck then moves slowly across the wood pile & grinds to a halt in the stand of ash trees suddenly anchored by something profoundly emotive emanating from the deep blue-green shadows of the ash leaves at the same time totally aware of the improbability of trees being able to emote anything at all knowing fully well that it's most likely the work of some lurking consciousness spinning its web of perception cognition & association & ultimately something that is being projected from within as opposed to being perceived from without but nonetheless it truly seems as though the unidentifiable emotional quality is suspended right there in the leaves of the ash trees rustling in the sultry August breeze laden with moisture sucked up from the North Sea prior to the cracking & booming of an evening thunderstorm with all its various psychic triggers & emotional attachments sweeping across the lush green landscape.
A native Californian and former merchant seaman, Mark Terrill has lived in Germany since 1984.
Nicky Nodjoumi: 1981By William Corwin
DEC 22–JAN 23 | ArtSeen
The artist Nicky Nodjoumi left Iran in 1980 and, en route to eventually settling in New York, spent the spring of 1981 painting in Miami. What sprang from the artists mind was a stream of consciousness, a collection of memories and associations brought on by witnessing the upheaval in his home country.
Down at the ArcadeBy Sara Cwynar
OCT 2021 | Critics Page
Sara Cwynars Down at the Arcade is a stream-of-consciousness performance of different tasks leading to the construction of a big new image. The piece features photographs and objects moving on conveyor belts and pulleys, mixed with voiceover and musical interludes.
from Blood RedBy Gabriela Ponce and Sarah Booker
NOV 2022 | Fiction
Ecuadorian writer Gabriela Ponces English language debut features an unnamed woman wrestling with the consequences of a failed marriage and an all consuming affair. Told in a stream of consciousness style that Book Culture describes as like putting Viriginia Woolf and Ottessa Moshfegh in a blender, Blood Red is a raw, visceral exploration of female bodily autonomy, power, and vulnerability.
HypnoseBy Joseph Nechvatal
MAY 2021 | ArtSeen
The exhibition Hypnose (Hypnosis), curated by Pascal Rousseau for the Musée darts in Nantes, is a chronicle both compelling and comical. Although submerged in a stream of spiritual consciousness tied to artistic principles of universal connection, the exhibition also flirts with certain kitsch clichés, most notably the iconic hypnotic-disc that by spiraling supposedly sucks suggestible cerveaux down a somnambulist whirlpool.