LEANDRO ERLICH, PAGE 190. So cool. He lifted a mansion with a crane and ruptured reality’s spleen. The Argentinian artist has also had enough with advertisers “borrowing” his work. But grievances with ADVERTISINGS’, PAGE 204 are taken. Speaking of ads, sponsorships, car decals, racing suits, and LEWIS HAMILTON, PAGE 156: Gus’ conversation with the enlightened F1 driver takes on qualities of Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami’s prose. I imagine the interview taking place inside Murakami’s 2004 novel After Dark on a screen also playing portions of the novel thus inverting time and memory in a “Deleuzeanal” who-copied-who. Fortunately Ryan’s interview with BRUCE DERN, PAGE 64 waylays me. You’ll wish you were putting back bourbons with them, or playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon between Dern and Turkish filmmaker/artist KUTLUĞ ATAMAN, PAGE 188. Speaking of Turkey: JULIE MEHRETU, PAGE 128 made a piece called “Empirical Construction, Istanbul,” If you were to observe her abstract drawing while empirically constructing every sound you heard inside MoMA before meticulously transcribing it you might be MoMA’s first poet laureate Kenneth Goldsmith, who waxed poetic with uncrushable PUSHA T, PAGE 120. Speaking of uncrushable: how about those tragically crushable iPads and the wily artist LI LIAO, PAGE 192? The Chinese artist worked at a Foxconn factory for 45 days so he could put a new iPad on a pedestal and call it art. Speaking of wry installations: Berlin-based JULIUS VON BISMARCK, PAGE 54 put a large metal smiley face on a tower and programmed it to respond to the net happiness of local residents via facial recognition software. He also whipped a mountaintop (in the buff) just to tame the sublime, which reminds me of Will Ferrell in Old School—“We’re going streaking!” Ferrell stepped out of his own Rolling Stone interview so synth-popper ELIOT SUMNER, PAGE 50 could be intracontextualized for reasons being fictional margaritas. Trivia: Sumner’s producer worked on five Kate Bush records, Bush of course known for “Running Up That Hill,” which, if it were a Zend hillside might have masks resembling those of Afghan artist HUMA BHABHA, PAGE 114 who’s shown in MoMA, an institution where a wagoneer of arts’ NYC >> L.A. IMMIGRANTS’, PAGE 205, Franklin Parrasch, helped put on the In The Making Teen Art Show, proving of his many riches, one is a heart of gold. Speaking of gold anatomies: HEDI XANDT, PAGE 152 and his spiked gold skulls will make you question whether or not art should be touched. Xandt also creates and investigates sci-fi, a space demystifying ALIENS’, PAGE 202, which makes us wonder if Ibiza-faring DJ duo THE MARTINEZ BROTHERS, PAGE 58 will partner with Uber to throw a party in space sometime soon. Speaking of duos—our Art Basel Preview of the [CTRL-C]+[CTRL-V] issue decontextualized SANGREE (who met with Truman Capote in a Kyoto Hotel) and Rebecca Ackroyd; meet the two artists (and ten peers) in I GET EMAILS ABOUT THIS EVERY DAY, PAGE 70. Sadly, you’ll have to track down one of 200 printed copies of this counterfeit issue; Rebecca Ackroyd played word games with Andy Warhol, a master of copy paste, and an obvious influence on post-Internet personality BIP LING, PAGE 44 who yars and mooches with generation YouTube, much like JOHN AKOMFRAH, PAGE 154 who found out his early work is totally Tumblr-able and who appeared on Fadwebsite.com with “bad painter” GENIEVE FIGGIS, PAGE 150. “Covering” another paint- ing is hardly off limits for the Irish artist. Thankfully she doesn’t live in certain parts of the world where such acts could put you under a headstone, later examined through the lens of a wood headstone made by artist MARIANNE VITALE, PAGE 148. Her morbidly sublimating exhibition, Analia Saban, reminisces one Marilyn Monroe. We explore her AFFAIRS’, PAGE 206. Her L.A. home was demolished recently, perhaps due to a dearth of online pan handling, cough, Indiegogo campaigns. No worries: REM KOOLHAAS, PAGE 172 explores the untold architecture behind your meaningful Interweb lives. Before JAMES CRAWFORD, PAGE 176 examines a potential future where ancient cities are 3D printed atop the smoking ruins of third world warzones, Rem discusses data centers, a place we imagine to be full of the byte-equivalent of sad sandwiches, sadder clerks and too many XEROXES’, PAGE 209. Speaking of scattered light waves: architect ZAHA HADID, PAGE 98 puts steel and gravity together so buildings appear to float on fucking light itself. Of course, actor producer director writer everyman Jefery Levy knows a thing or two about houses of the holy. Having turned Merv Griffin’s former Beverly Hills estate into his own production studio, check out his metamodern layer cake of reality TV genius that is HOW SHOULD A FILM ME?, PAGE 60. And, as if things weren’t post-Internet clusterfuckable enough, we [CTRL-C]+[CTRL-V]’ed Godard’s Breathless (1959) script before we interviewed SCARLETT JOHANSSON, PAGE 180 e.g. can one still believe in love in our time? Spoiler alert: Her answer spilled tears onto this editor’s desk. And speaking of form and ideals, fine art photographer DOMINGO MILELLA, PAGE 116 snapped a beautiful Turkish cliffside that reminded him of Greek classicism. The equally classicist KRISTIAN BURFORD, PAGE 118 sculpts contemporary antiheroes, inverting narrative perspective, as did Borges in "The Circular RUINS'," PAGE 210, an enigmatically labyrinthine fable spanning man’s origin and his perpetual quest for living fire which in turn leaves the hills of history forever behind him, smoldering. Though, here, expired, consumed by that which nourishes me, it only makes sense that I’d look back for creative influence, much like the pop artists who have been sued for lifting copyrighted musical passages. We caught them in their courtroom sketchiest in JUDGE JUDY, WE SWEAR, WE WOULD NEVER COPY PASTE A HOOK, PAGE 40. Hopefully they were being honest or they’d never work with votary of truth Alejandro González Iñárritu as did FORREST GOODLUCK, PAGE 46. Speaking of truth, wine is no longer in on this inside joke, but it could lead to creative collabs like FRIENDSWITHYOU X MONCLER, PAGE 52. Surely you’d wind up spilling your inner genius, and cabernet, on the laps of Kimye and Paris (take your pick, the city or the closet ham radio nerd), perhaps leading to an awkward Uber with KENYA KINSKI-JONES, PAGE 62. If you’re a plagiarist, don’t ask about her parents—they’re indubitable cultural savants. And, here, in a fictional car, is a great time to look back and find RACHEL BROSNAHAN, PAGE 56, has joined you (don’t bring up House of Cards, and bros, don’t feign feminism for the sake of conversation). No, I’d say now’s the time to pull out your phone. Mine Koolhaas-scrutinized data centers for info on folding [PAPIER-MÂCHÉ], PAGE 48 into the Big Bang "Vino." There, a video teaches you how. Do it. Do it a thousand times more. Finally, you’re a master. Pat yourself on the back. You’re ready to make a grand and get banned from eBay or perhaps killed later with a Lönnrotian twist. You’re here. Put your phone away, for real. You didn’t embarrass yourself with the ladies. You’re here at your hotel, alone. Now, look both ways. It’s clear. Scale the entry façade and tuck that paper watch into a Hadidian spandrel. Oh, what’s that? People partying on a balcony. That’s probably Flaunt breaching the OBSCENE CITY, PAGE 212 to get blitzed and blitzkrieg a gaggle of debonair galas. Tip: if you’re up for my kind of drinking, ask for an extra dirty martini, down low in a rocks glass (no ice)—I call it the Bond Off The Clock (apropos: TIMES', PAGE 208). Drunk, you can ponder mom, dad, and other SKELETORS IN YOUR CLOSET, PAGE 42. Imagine your birth, like being ripped from the earth, like a cavity, but this cavity’s a mansion, and it’s dangling over its own urban roots, like the work of LEANDRO ERLICH, PAGE 190.
“The daring perspicacity of Lönnrot”*