“What the Carbon Liberation Front calls us to create in its molecular shadow is not another philosophy but entanglements, poetics, and technics.”
—McKenzie Wark, Molecular Red:
A Theory for the Anthropocene
“Write me your vertigo.”
—McKenzie Wark, email to Kathy Acker,
August 13th, 1995
New Yorkers are fortunate to have living among us the wildly inventive and far-ranging Australian-born public intellectual and theorist McKenzie Wark. This spring he added two new books to his robust list of titles produced since 1994: the dauntingly original Molecular Red: Theory for the Anthropocene (Verso, 2015), and the deeply personal I’m Very Into You (Semiotexte, 2015), made up of email correspondence between him and Kathy Acker during a brief but intense affair in the mid-’90s. Best known for the influential A Hacker Manifesto (2004), as well as “the weird global media event” (Virtual Geographies, 1994), he is the author of creative experimental works such as Dispositions (2002), and the networked book Gamer Theory (2007). His most recent book, The Beach Beneath the Street: The Everyday Life and Glorious Times of the Situationist International (2011), appeared just as Occupy Wall Street erupted. In May, Wark sat down with Thyrza Nichols Goodeve at a café in his Jackson Heights, Queens neighborhood to discuss agency in the age of climate change, lived theory, and the amazing silver fly ring Kathy Acker gave him.
Rail: That’s the ring Kathy Acker gave you? It’s on the cover of the Semiotexte book.
Wark: Yes, she gave me the ring and I gave her shoes! That’s when we were together in NYC staying at the Gramercy.
Rail: What were the shoes like?
Wark: Big, black boots, I think. It was the ’90s.
Rail: Among other things, one of the things that struck me about I’m Very Into You is how the theory we read, for many of us—certainly you and Kathy—is such an essential part of our everyday (if not intimate) life.
Wark: One thing I did have in common with Kathy was the idea that theory is meant to be lived. She was also very well trained. She studied with Marcuse, but still, she believed these things are to be lived. I understood that because I learned Marx from actual Communist militants, and Foucault was given to me in a handmade, photocopied translation by a self-identified “nasty street queen” who leaped out of the bushes and said, “You must read this! This is our struggle.”
Rail: The introduction comments on the way you both were “engineering [your] alterity [. . .] yearn[ing] for a tenable category of desiring self, regardless of one’s historic sexual orientation.”1
Wark: I think we were both more interested in top/bottom than in gay/straight as an axis organizing the libidinal universe. I was and am interested in how that complicates gender; Kathy, I think, was more interested in how it plays between love and power. The dedication to my 2004 book A Hacker Manifesto reads: “In memory of Kathy King of the Pirates Acker.”
Rail: What people who have read the book comment on is her vulnerability, her openness about how she feels and what she wants from you. “I really don’t dig het [heterosexual] shit [. . .] I know this ’cause when I did it, all I did was get hurt [. . .] outside the bed, I do my work and you do yours. I fucking hate power games outside the bed and have no interest in playing them.” And then she confronts you: “We slept together once. Then it seemed you no longer wanted to know me. Somehow the sex freaked you out. So I phoned you to tell you that I wanted to get to know you ‘’Cause you’re of value to me.’ [. . .] But it’s always in my head that you don’t want to have sex with me and you have lots of lovers. That makes a power relation between the two of us.”2 Right there she has no trouble just saying it like it is. Although some of this is age as much as gender roles. How did you meet?
Wark: Ashley Crawford introduced us when Kathy came to Sydney. He is an Australian editor whose publications we both wrote for then. It is painful for me to read the text now that I can partly see it from the outside, as other people see it. One has to remember that when one is inside these things, one sometimes has no idea what’s going on at the same time as being totally inside it.
Rail: What kinds of trepidation, if any, did you have about publishing the emails in terms of exposing your own uncensored intimate self at that moment?
Wark: I am an immigrant, with another life in another country, so in a way it is about someone else. I don’t really care if people want to judge me. It’s more about Kathy, and about getting her work before today’s readers.
Rail: In the introduction Matias Viegener says that, were [Acker] alive today, she probably wouldn’t want these emails published.
Wark: Yes, but she made Matias her executor. So it is his decision, and the whole question is moot. You can’t second-guess what someone would want, but you can actually know that she signed her literary estate over to someone to make the decision.
Rail: And she is that “Kathy Acker”—the larger-than-life public figure who is so important to many people’s intimate lives through her writing. She’s a major writer and the posthumous publication of writers’ work goes with the territory. We wouldn’t have Mallarmé’s poetry if his request to burn everything when he died had been followed. And such material gives us access to a more complex relationship to her writing. The question is what is in it that you thought was important for the rest of the world to read.
Wark: I think there is a gradual rediscovery of her by younger readers now who were never around for the myth, the media character, or the publicly-known person. Secondly, to encourage other people to publish their own correspondence and papers. Frankly, my interaction with her is probably the least important in her life. It was a very important relationship to me, but very brief, whereas she had sustained correspondence with so many people. By publishing I’m Very Into You I hope to open that door. The third reason is it’s about the-’90s and what a weird, strange time this “cyberspace” of email exchange was. I was writing to her on an Apple Powerbook on a sofa, and she was writing back, drinking a glass of wine with her feet up in her study. Not many people communicated by email in the mid ’90s, certainly not in that casual way. It is a bit of a precursor to what was going to come later. So for those reasons I was glad to get it published. The reviews have mostly been good and have little to say about me, which I am happy about. So it’s about discovering some things about Kathy and the ’90s, about media, and so on. And there are two biographies about her coming out, so I think there is a rediscovery of her.
Rail: Molecular Red is a very different book. It’s nice having both come out at the same time. Both are about—as you say—lived theory, but in entirely different ways. Molecular Red is a very complicated book. But in a limited and pragmatic sense, it is about how to challenge the tendency to just get depressed about the dire effects of climate change.3
Wark: Well, I learned from Kathy what it means to write against a world that you perceive to be hostile to life. It turns out there are other resources for such a “lived theory.” The first half of Molecular Red is about looking at two writers from Soviet times who can tell us about that as a failed civilization. The second half is about more contemporary writers who can tell us about the military-entertainment complex we live in as also being a failed civilization.
Rail: You discuss the controversy over the word Anthropocene but don’t get bogged down in the terminology, which is helpful. I like when you say “call it whatever you want to call it,” and you list the different names.
Wark: Call it what you want: Anthropocene, Misanthropocene, Capitalocene—but call it something. We destabilized nature to the point where it is not a given thing any more. Thought has to attend first and last to that fact. It is some of the geologists who want to call it the Anthropocene. If traces of the human are showing up in their work, and they are the last people on earth who would think that the human is in the frame of their object of study, it’s worth hearing them out and not shutting that down. And you don’t have to agree with all their politics or anything, but it’s a really interesting way of seeing the world. So I don’t care what people call it but our relation to deep time has taken a turn. We are at the end of the Holocene, a period of relative stability, and that’s a powerful thought.
Rail: Your first two chapters are about the Soviet writer/thinkers Alexander Bogdanov and Andrev Platonov, and the last two are about the California writer/thinkers Donna Haraway and Kim Stanley Robinson. How do the four come together for your theory of the Anthropocene? You open your book with, “Disparate times call for disparate methods.”
Wark: One of the great struggles of the present is: what is the role of modes of belief in writing and coordinating action? If one just focuses on the depressing aspects of the present, then fatalism sets in. I’m interested in forms of education, knowledge-building, and myths that aren’t about how miserable we are about polar bears disappearing in our lifetime. So I put those four people together as our guides to the linked themes of labor, knowledge, and
Rail: But what do we do when these information models are bringing back such alarming results that basically tell us the coral reefs are dead, the Maldive Islands are disappearing and creating “environmental migrants,” that the line has most likely been crossed where there’s no going back?
Wark: The thing everyone can do is work in one’s community, one’s institutions, whatever you have in ways that are neither euphorically optimistic or deeply pessimistic, but exist in that mid-range where you can keep going on creating forms of life. I think we work outwards from what is tangible and habitable, rather than try to work downwards from some ideal state—or just be fatalistic and say it’s over so let’s suck the last marrow out of the old bones.
Rail: Which is what makes your book so significant. It’s oddly practical—or, at least, it’s about action, not just analysis. “Agency” is really the word I’m looking for. Would you talk about that?
Wark: We are going to need to know how to feel about history differently. So a lot of this is emotional work that has to happen now. How does mourning not become permanent melancholia? Bogdanov thought there were two kinds of labor: one is about getting cooperation from the world; the other is about getting cooperation from people. The second kind is about feelings, concepts, stories. Molecular Red is about what that might be like now that we know this civilization isn’t going to make it as it is.
Rail: I was utterly riveted by the opening chapter on Bogdanov (who, of course, I had never heard of).
Wark: He was Lenin’s rival for the leadership of the Bolshevik Party. If you are from the Soviet Union and you had to go to your Marxism/Leninism indoctrination classes, you know his name because he is the main guy Lenin denounces in his book Materialism and Empirio-criticism. While Lenin studied law, Bogdanov studied medicine, so he had this exposure to the natural sciences and understood the advances that were happening in biology and physics at the time. So he is skeptical of the orthodox, dogmatic, dialectical, materialist philosophy of everything to which Lenin clung. He begins writing around the turn of the century—textbooks for the Russian workers’ movement—then his Empiriomonism (parts of it were written in Lubyanka prison, where he ended up after the 1905 revolution failed). He went on to write utopian science fiction, and a sort of blueprint for cooperative, post-capitalist labor and knowledge—the Tektology. He refused to rejoin the party after the Bolsheviks won, although he helped out in economic planning and higher education. He was arrested in the early ’20s, and after that tried to work only in science. He died in a strange blood transfusion experiment in 1928, the year Stalin really came to power.
Rail: How did you discover him?
Wark: Since I was a teenager, I had a copy of his book published by the British Communist Party in the ’20s. I carried it around but had never read it. Then I found out he wrote a utopian novel where a Russian activist like himself gets taken to Mars where Mars has already had the Soviet Revolution—Mars is “Red!” For him the problem was not defeating capital; the real issue is, having defeated capital, then labor’s real struggle begins. Our struggle is not about capital but with nature. The labor-nature relation is his central problem. His Mars novels are largely about that.
Rail: His definition of nature is stunning. He says it is “that which labor encounters.” You write, “Nature is the arena of labor. Neither labor nor nature can be conceived as concepts without the other. They are historically co-produced concepts.” I think his clarity of that notion has changed the shape of my brain.
Wark: Yes, and crucial to this is that, for Bogdanov, the way labor is organized shapes the way we imagine nature to be organized. From the point of view of hierarchical labor, nature is a “kingdom.” From the point of view of capitalism, nature is a survival-of-the-fittest market. Now from the point of view of information-era labor, nature is all about genes as information control. Bogdanov, like Haraway, is very good on where our metaphors come from.
Rail: It’s so amazing how Kim Stanley Robinson uses him as a character in his Mars trilogy!
Wark: Yes that was a good thread for me.
Rail: One of those moments as a thinker when you know you’re on the right track because it starts to feel things were invented for you to write about.
Wark: Kim Stanley Robinson really is the quote-unquote Marxist science fiction writer of our time.
Rail: He studied with Fredric Jameson.
Wark: But he also studied with Gary Snyder, so you get his writerly personality if you think of the kind of California-Buddhist poet of the mountain he is, and then you add Jameson. He had read his Bogdanov, and he makes him one of the characters in his meta-utopia. This is Stan’s innovation: on his Mars, it isn’t about one utopia but all of them, all based on different kinds of labor, trying to negotiate with one another, and then they literally have a constitutional convention as to how the various utopias can work with each other. It’s about a plural sensation of what organization could become.
Rail: Organization is a key word to Bogdanov and to the theme of your book. I found the word confusing but not the concept, like when you or he says, “Nature is the first organizer. The human is just one of its organizational products.”
Wark: That’s Bogdanov thinking from the labor point of view, and thinking about nature from that point of view. Could nature be imagined as something other than hierarchy or market? Well, we never have nature as it is; we have [nature] as we encounter it. And rather than nature as mere object of contemplation, Bogdanov is interested in how labor understands nature through its actions in and on and with and against it. How does nature appear in the act of collaborative labor? That’s his question, one I think usefully complicated by Platonov, Haraway, and Robinson in different ways.
Rail: A major thing that connects all four of the thinkers is imagination. I’d say next to the labor point of view, imagination, a reimagination of imagination, is essential. Like Haraway, you use science fiction writers as political theorists. That was a revelation in Haraway’s “A Cyborg Manifesto.” And you describe Bogdanov as engaging in a political poetics.
Wark: Let me start by saying that the close reading of Haraway in Molecular Red is making up for the complete absence of “A Cyborg Manifesto” in A Hacker Manifesto. When I wrote that there was so much anxiety of influence that I forgot to even cite it. The Haraway-esque imagination might be a way of approaching it that’s not from the top down, say like Shelley and the Romantics’ conception of something absolute and infinite. It’s thinking about the imagination the other way around. The theory doesn’t descend from the celestial heavens, but is drawn out of social practice, and then projected beyond it: the actual of labor is in that sense prior to the virtual of imagination. So you can develop a practice here, an art of everyday life, that works outwards from what we are doing to what we could do in work and play together. It’s what Bogdonov called “tektology.” It’s a form of sideways knowledge, linking across disciplines and practices, forging new connections, and creating from the zones where they overlap. The concepts developed in one labor process can be metaphorically substituted into others. It’s the way Haraway is always showing how the metaphors embedded in knowledge do their work, but she is also interested in what other work they might do.
Rail: Like the History of Consciousness program where Donna and I met, which you call the closest thing we have to a latter-day Bogdanovite school.4
Wark: Although Bogdonov was not a particularly poetic writer, nevertheless he advocates a poetics of knowledge-formation and has these moments where he talks about a droplet of dew on a leaf, and depending on temperature and humidity, it gets bigger or smaller and at what point does it change from circular to oval. And then he will leap from that to: “Here is a diagram of relations and forces” and, “What if we understood a social organism as functioning like that?” Or, “What if we understood global biochemistry functions like that?” Now, what dates him is his certainty that there’s a set of these metaphors that will work everywhere. But if one reads tektology as a more open-ended practice, it is remarkable how like Haraway it can become. It’s a kind of pattern-work that questions why we imposed patriarchal or capitalist metaphors onto everything, and what other metaphors we might get from working in and on nature otherwise.
Rail: And his prescience about climate change is remarkable—or not really climate change, but that the nature-labor relationship is the issue. You say in your preface, “How can knowledge and labor be organized to extract a living from nature when the very process produces secondary effects that undermine its own ongoing life?”
Wark: Yes, labor pounds and wheedles rocks and soil, plants and animals, extracting the molecular flows of which our shared life’s made and remade, because energy doesn’t exist without labor. It is neither substance nor idea, but emerges out of the practical relationship of the labor apparatus to a nature which resists it. In other words, labor is not in coal or oil, but an outcome of an activity of labor on these materials. Although, right now, the whole issue is what exactly is or is not labor.
Rail: I saw you speak a year or so ago at the New School, and you said, “But maybe it isn’t even capitalism anymore,” and I have been banging my head against that trying to understand what you meant, and I think now I do: labor is so abstracted now. Or everything is labor now. Talk about that.
Wark: In 1985, Haraway is already getting at this in “A Cyborg Manifesto”—how it is never enough to talk about productive labor or even reproductive labor. I mean, she’s already talking about precarious labor, even though there’s no word for it. She calls it “homework” and connects it to the tech industry, and how, for the workers who make this stuff, it’s all very harmful and temporary, and affects mostly people of color and women. That’s the real California she’s touching on. And then she starts to think about non-labor—
Rail: Which is—
Wark: Non-labor is how whole industries now profit off of what we do and we never get paid. We’re all working for free for Facebook and Google and also for the drug and tech companies. We’re the test subjects for the products and data. So labor is a much more capacious term now.
Rail: Is this what you are getting at when you say the system we have now, can we even call it capitalism?
Wark: I want to ask: is this still capitalism or is it something worse? A mode of production built on top of capitalism which is itself still built on primary extraction and agriculture. The commanding heights of economic power are now based on unequal flows of information through which one controls the material world of production. Capitalism is what Matteo Pasquinelli calls a “parasite” on top of an agricultural system—and now there is another parasite on top of that one, based purely on unequal exchanges of information. For example, Walmart is a logistics company—it’s about data. All the drug companies are about controlling patents. They don’t make this stuff. And then you look at the things that pop up like new business models. Amazon is a major global distributor. There are no stores, only warehouses and data, exploiting labor but also non-labor. It’s an extra level of abstraction. I mean, Uber is already a major transport company and they don’t own a single limo! If capital is a way of abstracting from primary production, there’s a tertiary model of abstracting from that.
Rail: Isn’t this what Haraway meant in “A Cyborg Manifesto” by the “informatics of domination?” Where this discussion of a reframing of labor strikes me is with nonhuman animals—my god, as research subjects, but it’s also the affective labor of our companion animals. It’s the discussion of OncoMouse in [email protected]_Millennium.FemaleMan_Meets_OncoMouse: Feminism and Technoscience,which in many ways is my favorite book of hers. The way she talks about OncoMouse as a sibling and a sacrifice, honoring this little bioengineered, patented, living being, who’s laboring quite painfully for cures for human breast cancer research.
Wark: Although it’s a discontinued ‘product’ now. But yes—factory hens need to be unionized. Good luck with the United Auto Workers organizing adjunct academic labor, but why don’t they also organize the chickens? That doesn’t seem unreasonable to me if one thinks more broadly about labor. But back to OncoMouse—it’s another of her political fictions. It’s drawn from the real world, but for its metaphoric significance. I call them conceptual personae, after Deleuze. Can we construct more useful personae that can get us out of the repetitive mythic spectacle?
Rail: Right. What Donna calls her menagerie of figurations or “critters,” and here is where imagination comes back in—where her intellectual rigor is matched by a creative drive of huge proportions. Like “Chthulucene,”5 her gloss on the Anthropocene, where it is essential to point out her metaphor, is decidedly not from Lovecraft’s “racist, sexist nightmare,” Cthulu, hence the different spelling, but a spider who lives near her in California. I’ve always seen her as practicing a kind of empirical poetics. I’ll never forget the moment she explained her issue with psychoanalysis as “ferns and fungi are so much more inventive and could provide better tropes for thinking, including psychoanalytic thinking.”6 You use Jack Halberstam and Stuart Hall’s notion of low theory. I think that is super important. Your book is a reinvigoration of theory in a way. Let’s talk about the title. The “molecular” refers to… ?
Wark: It could be blood or it could be rust, but mostly it’s carbon. I mean, in a way, the greatest liberation movement of the 18th and 19th centuries did not liberate a nation, or a class, or a colony, or a gender, or a sexuality. What it freed was not the animals, and still less the cyborgs, although it was far from human. What it freed was a chemical, an element: carbon. Also, in the title, I’m taking off from Marx’s phrase in the third volume of Capital where he discusses “metabolic rift,” which I got from John Bellamy Foster, who does an ecological reading of Marx. Maybe it is time to move Marx away from philosophical or social science readings and back towards the natural sciences, now that nature is becoming so unstable. Marx’s notebooks on the sciences are not even transcribed, let alone published.
Rail: That is insane.
Wark: Right, because the Marx-Engels Institute didn’t think they were important. So all these philosophical and economics notebooks are available, but not on the sciences. But Marx was wrestling with the natural sciences of his time. Amy Wendling is good on this. Her book even has on the cover a picture of Marx’s diagram of how a steam engine works. Of course he wants to know that because that is the “silicon chip” of his era. So that is where Bogdanov is useful, because he does not ask what is Marx’s theory of knowledge, he asks what’s a Marxist practice of knowledge. It’s all about practices. And then the central insight is all knowledge is about labor. Knowledge is labor performed with an apparatus on the world. If you want to engage with science, it is best not to go armed with a philosophy of science that pretends to tell them how they ought to do their jobs. It’s better to go equipped with some questions about how such knowledge is made. What’s its means of production?
Rail: You have a great sentence, “Climate science has no need for Marxist theory but Marxist theory has a need for climate science.”
Wark: Marx read the agricultural science of his time, which pointed to the loss of nitrogen and potassium from the soil. He saw these as special cases of the metabolic rift opened up when social labor is organized by capital alone. Marx already understood that the earth sciences pointed to the limits of the commodity form, the rule of exchange value and capital accumulation. His thinking rested on up-to-date science, but that science is now out of date. We need to do theory in the space the new sciences open up, of which climate science is central—not least because, in Marx’s terms, it shows a metabolic rift on a planetary scale, which will destabilize the social production of everything.
Rail: Although we have focused mostly on Bogdanov—because I find him utterly fascinating, prescient, imaginative about politics and the natural sciences, and because of how beautifully you link his work to Haraway’s—the second chapter of your book is about the modernist writer Andrev Platonov, and the chapter is called “A Proletarian Writing.”
Wark: He’s very well known in Russian literature. But almost all of his significant novelistic work came out after the Soviet Union ended in 1991, even though he wrote in the ’20s and ’30s. He really was that rare thing: the modernist writer with proletarian origins who was loyal throughout his life to some kind of socialism.
Rail: Did Bogdanov and Platonov know one another?
Wark: They were different generations, but Platonov was a member of Bogdanov’s Prolerkult, which was a big mass movement that thrived between 1917 and 1921, with hundreds and thousands of members. Early on he wasn’t such a good Bogdanovite. He was much more hyperbolic about changing the world, like, “Let’s blast a hole through the Ural Mountains to change the climate!” Crazy, crazy stuff. But the famine changed his mind during the civil war so he gave up journalism to become an engineer in hydrology. He quit writing to become an engineer! I so respect that gesture—the Revolution needs engineers more than writers. He was successful in hydrology so they promoted him, but then that all exploded and he turned back to writing and wrote his masterpieces from roughly 1926 to 1936.
Rail: Your interest in him is infrastructure, which you bring up in the discussion of Paul Edwards’s book A Vast Machine: Computer Models, Climate Data, and the Politics of Global Warming (2010).
Wark: Oh, totally! Railroads, and bridges, and water wheels. Platonov has a real engineer’s intimacy with those things.
Rail: Edwards was a student of Haraway’s. He provides the tools to understand “the infrastructure of apparatus” that constitutes how we know about the climate rupture we call climate change. The idea that data is the product of labor—observing, collecting, verifying, etc. “Data are things” as he puts it.
Wark: Edwards shows how climate science runs on infrastructure—communication, satellites, computers—and how it is also made out of cultures of collaboration that have a geopolitical dimension.
Rail: Which leads to one of my favorite sentences in the book, “Climate science needs a media theory.” But such a statement only really makes sense if one has read Edwards.
Wark: If I have a discipline it is media theory and it was just the recognition that science studies is basically media theory. If one does a really vulgar, Marxist take on the sciences, one asks questions of the kind Edwards asked about climate science: What kind of apparatus do you need to make this thing work? How is the work organized? And so on. Then if one brings in the media-theory part, one starts to ask what kinds of media scientific apparatuses are. Most media apparatuses are used to show the doings of humans to other humans. Scientific apparatuses are media apparatuses that are a sort of inhuman thing that shows some aspect of a nonhuman world in ways intelligible to humans.
Rail: I think if I were to select one sentence for your book to end on, it would be, “The worst form of slavery is believing instead of knowing, of taking on faith what hasn’t been derived from careful testing of what is sensed. The goal is not just to throw off the vampire squid of finance capitalism, but to organize again the whole of labor and knowledge.”
Wark: We have enough to occupy us, then.
- I’m Very Into You, 12
- I’m Very Into You, 98.
- I use “climate change” as short hand. As Donna Haraway, puts it, “It’s more than climate change; it’s also extraordinary burdens of toxic chemistry, mining, depletion of lakes and rivers under and above ground, ecosystem simplification, vast genocides of people and other critters, etc, etc, in systemically linked patterns that threaten major system collapse after major system collapse after major system collapse.” Donna Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities, May, 2015, no. 6.
- “Haraway, and her colleagues, and her students performed both critical and constructive work on the way metaphorical substitutions leap between scientific, technical, social, scientific, and humanistic knowledge productions.” Molecular Red, 119.
- Donna Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities, May, 2015, no. 6. See a Skyle version on you tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1×0oxUHOlA8.
- “I have always preferred the reproductive antics of the really inventive critters of earth—like ferns, yeast and other fungi, and invertebrates with many morphs on the way to sexually reproductive stages—for example, monarch butterflies. What if psychoanalysis drew for its tropes about subject formation and about sex and death on the vast array of biological generativity, including reproduction, itself a term derived from industrial prejudices focusing on production and reproduction.” Haraway, op.cit., 2015.
ContributorThyrza Nichols Goodeve
Thyrza Nichols Goodeve is a writer, editor, artist, interviewer, and former ArtSeen editor for the Rail. She currently teaches several graduate programs at SVA.