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Posts from the “Bronx” Category

John Ahearn & Rigoberto Torres: The South Bronx Hall of Fame

Posted on July 30, 2018

Luis and Virginia, 1985. Courtesy of John Ahearn.

Life on Dawson Street KBA Studio, 1982-3. Courtesy of John Ahearn.

During the ’70s, the South Bronx became the face of urban blight, as the federal government systematically denied basic services to Black and Latinx communities under the Nixon White House policy of “benign neglect.”

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As neighbourhoods fell into extreme states of poverty, crime, and disrepair, landlords realised they would make more money torching their buildings and recouping the insurance money than they ever could from rent — leaving the South Bronx with vast swaths of empty lots, burned out buildings, and mounds of rubble.

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The stark struggle for survival experienced by regular people in the Bronx inspired artists to create incredible feats, like John Fekner’s epic stencils, Gordon Matta-Clark’s first architectural interventions, and the explosion of graffiti across whole cars. In the late 1970s, Stefan Eins moved his gallery, Fashion MODA to Third Avenue near 147th Street and the Hub in the heart of the South Bronx, where he began exhibiting emerging downtown artists like David Wojnarowicz, Keith Haring, and Jenny Holzer, as well as graffiti artists such as Richard Hambleton, John Crash Matos, and Chris Daze Ellis.

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Read the Full Story at Huck Online

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South Bronx Hall of Fame Walton Street Sidewalk Studio. Courtesy of John Ahearn.

Janelle and Audrey, 1983. Courtesy of John Ahearn

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, Art, Bronx, Huck

Ricky Flores: The Puerto Rican Day Parade

Posted on June 10, 2018

© Ricky Flores

© Ricky Flores

After Hurricane Maria devastated Puerto Rico, the official death count was reported as 64 people. But last week, The New England Journal of Medicine published a study with a conservative estimate of 4,645 dead in what was the second most devastating tropical cyclone in U.S. history since 1900.

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The new report underscores the government’s failure to help its citizens when they needed it most. The response to Maria dishearteningly echoes a past disaster—how Nixon’s White House policies of “benign neglect” leveled the streets of Puerto Rican neighborhoods in New York City, reducing them to rubble and dirt.

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At that time, photographer Ricky Flores lived in the Longwood section of the South Bronx, an area infamously known as “Fort Apache” after the 1981 film of that name. A first generation Puerto Rican-American, Flores came of age as his once-thriving community was being systematically decimated by the government, and as Puerto Ricans began organizing to fight for what was rightfully theirs.

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Puerto Rican pride is an integral part of New York’s diverse populace. Every year on the second Sunday in June, the community comes together on Fifth Avenue to celebrate with the Puerto Rican Day Parade. In advance of the 60th annual parade on June 10, Flores spoke with VICE about how Puerto Ricans have the power to change the course of history.

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Read the Full Story at VICE Online

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© Ricky Flores

© Ricky Flores

Categories: 1980s, Art, Bronx, Latin America, Manhattan, Photography, Vice

Malick Sidibé: Mali Twist

Posted on April 25, 2018

Photo: Malick Sidibé. Un jeune gentleman, 1978. © Malick Sidibé. Courtesy of Fondation Cartier pour l’art contempourain and Éditions Xavier Barral.

Malick Sidibé (1935–2016) was a master of the form, a singular visionary whose photographs tell the story of the liberation, self-determination, beauty, dignity, and pride of his native Mali in the heart of West Africa.

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Born in the village of Soloba when Mali was still a colony of France, Sidibé hailed from a family of herders who worked the land. His natural propensity for art made him the first member of his family to attend school: the Institut National des Arts de Bamako, in the nation’s capital in 1952.

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In 1955, be began an apprenticeship with photographer Gérard Guillat-Guignard; he opened Studio Malick in 1958. His timing could not have been more fortuitous for Sidibé and Mali were coming into their very own at the same time. As a member of the Mali Federation, which included Sengal and the French Sudan, the nations achieved independence from France on June 20, 1060, after a period of negotiations. On September 22, Mali left the Federation and was on its own.

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The spirit of freedom is evident throughout Sidibé’s work. Honing in on the youth culture of the times, he captured the joyous energy of the first generation of liberated Malians on the beach, in the clubs, at sporting events, and in his studio. In every photograph he created he found the heart and the soul of his people and the result was nothing short of beautiful.

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Read the Full Story at Feature Shoot

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Malick Sidibé. Regardez-moi!, 1962. © Malick Sidibé. Courtesy of Fondation Cartier pour l’art contempourain and Éditions Xavier Barral.

Categories: 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, Africa, Art, Bronx, Exhibitions, Feature Shoot

Charlie Ahearn: The Wild Style 35th Anniversary

Posted on March 16, 2018

Wild Style mural, 1981. © Charlie Ahearn.

In 1983, Wild Style debuted in Times Square and Tokyo, introducing the world to what would soon be called hip hop like the rush of an oncoming subway. Breakdancing, graffiti, and rap—this was the youth culture of the Bronx captured in a semi-scripted feature by a Manhattan filmmaker named Charlie Ahearn.

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Wild Style introduced Fab Five Freddy, the Cold Crush Brothers, and graffiti legends like Lee Quinones. It went on to become a sacred text for graffiti writers and aspiring DJs, inspiring art and music from Banksy and the Beastie Boys to Nas and Missy Elliott. “As soon as I began to work with Fred on the film,” Ahearn says, “I felt certain that it was going to go out around the world to represent this new culture.”

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On the film’s 35th Anniversary, an occasion marked by a screening at the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C., we talked to the director about the movie that put hip hop on the map.

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Read the Full Story at Ceros Originals

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DJ Lovebug Starski, Busy Bee, and Grandmaster Caz at the Celebrity Club, 1980. © Charlie Ahearn.

Categories: 1980s, Art, Bronx, Graffiti, Music

Brian “B+” Cross: Ghostnotes – Music of the Unplayed

Posted on November 2, 2017

Jay Electronica, Pyramids of Giza, Cairo, Egypt. August 2011 / Nas, Los Angeles, California, US. November 2010. Photography Brian “B+” Cross

From left to right, Beni B, Chief Xcel, and Lyrics Born at Records, downtown Sacramento, California, US. May 1995. This is the cover of “Endtroducing” by DJ Shadow. Photography Brian “B+” Cross.

French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana, US. August 1998 / Grand Wizard Theodore, Manhattan, New York, US. February 1996. Theodore is the first person to ever scratch a record. His hands started a revolution in music. Photography Brian “B+” Cross.

Life moves in circles, though we may not notice until the revolution is complete. In 1996, DJ Shadow released Endtroducing…, his debut studio album on Mo’ Wax Recordings, with curious photo on the cover. It showed two guys inside a record store: one in profile, the other’s face blurred – neither were DJ Shadow.

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It was a scene from everyday life, the very thing you’d recognize as a fellow hip hop head. It stood out for it unpretentiousness, it’s lack of glamour and glitz. Just as hip hop was going pop, Endtroducing… was taking it back to the earliest days of the art form when the DJ was king and crate digging was everything.

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Five years later, an editor at C Photography in Spain reached out to Brian “B+” Cross, the photographer who created this seminal image. They wanted to feature it in their annual. Cross agreed – then sent along more images turning their request into a 15-page spread. When it was published, David Hamrick put a Post-It note on the page. Then, in 2015, when he was the director of the University of Texas Press, he reached out to Cross to see if he had more work, thinking it could make an excellent book.

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The inevitable does not need a plan; it simply arrives. Cross had been working on Ghostnotes, a collection of photographs made throughout his career, for nearly two decades. The book was conceived as a mixtape, a visual corollary to the sounds of the African diaspora that flow through hip hop, uniting generations of people from all walks of life in the rhythms of the drums, the heartbeat of the art form.

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Weaving together threads the combine documentary and portrait photography, Cross guides us through a musical landscape, crafting a composition as brilliantly conceived as a work by Miles Davis. Conceptualized with “A” and “B” sides, Ghostnotes takes us on a journey around the world, brilliantly synthesizing hip hop, Jamaican dub, Brazilian samba, Ethiopian jazz, Cuban timba, and Colombian cumbia. The book features portraits of everyone from The Notorious B.I.G., Eazy-E, and Kendrick Lamar to George Clinton, Brian Wilson, and the Watts Prophets, among so many more. Cross speaks with us about his journey bringing Ghostnotes to life.

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Read the Full Story at Miss Rosen

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The Notorious B.I.G., Beverly Hills, California, US. April 1995. Biggie was murdered outside this building three weeks later, and there is still no plaque or monument to commemorate his death. Photography Brian “B+” Cross

Forest Lawn, Glendale, California, US. February 14th, 2006. J Dilla’s funeral. Photography Brian “B+” Cross.

Categories: 1990s, Africa, Art, Books, Bronx, Dazed, Exhibitions, Music, Photography

Welcome to the 2017 Edition of the NY Art Book Fair

Posted on September 24, 2017

 

Photo: Sean Maung

Where else can you find the Jean-Michel Basquiat sleeve for K-Rob vs. Rammellzee’s legendary Hip Hop cut “Beat Bop” hanging on the wall like a work of art in the very same building where Jean-Michel’s original paintings once hung during his lifetime? The NY Art Book Fair, naturally.

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Printed Matter’s famed book festival returns to MoMA PS1 this weekend, and it will literally take your breath away, with a line up of more than 370 booksellers, antiquarians, artists, institutions, and independent publishers from 28 countries around the globe. The fair, which runs through 9pm this evening and tomorrow, September 24, from 11am–7pm, is a phenomenal opportunity to catch up with your faves and check out the latest happenings.

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The NY Art Book Fair covers all price points, whether you wish to pay what you want for the phenomenal zines by Research and Destroy New York City or you have 5Gs to pony up for a David Hammons original painting of Michael Stewart, at the Printed Matter Rare and Out of Print booth.

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Read the Full Story at Crave Online

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Artwork: David Hammons, The Man Nobody Killed. Brooklyn, NY: EYE Magazine, 1986, at Printed Matter Rare & Out of Print.

 

Categories: Art, Bronx, Crave

The Voice is Dead. Long Live the Voice.

Posted on August 27, 2017

Noel and son Peter Jr on an April 2000 Voice cover

Paging through Richard Boch’s new book, The Mudd Club (Feral House, September 12), I was reminded that nothing lasts forever—and more than that, the best things in life shine bright like a comet flying through the sky, then burn out and fade away—remembered for the greatness they achieved and not for what they later became.

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The desire to never die reveals a deeper desire to be undead; to become a mere shell of what once was and hope no one notices that which it now is. In a world where people simply can’t let go, we hold these truths to be self-evident: the fantasy that eternal life exists on earth if we just will, insist, and pretend.

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When I learned earlier this week that The Village Voice was closing it’s print edition, my first reaction was disappointment, then disgust. I, who came of age as the golden age of print was reaching its sunset years, developed a deep and abiding love for the printed page: for the intoxicating scent of fresh ink, the feel of paper between my fingertips, the sheer physicality that I would alternately preserve in its whole, complete state and stack diligently like the collector of some rare form; tear apart madly and decorate my walls in all sorts of patterns that revealed its ability to be both bound object, art object, and artifact in one; or more boldly cut, rearrange, tape or paste, constructing the story I wanted to tell from its tremulous carcass.

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I came of age believing that print was the answer to every problem I faced. It offered an instant pick me up through its combination of pictures and words, a glimpse into worlds I was too young to enter but could fog up the glass from the privacy of my bedroom in the Bronx. I read stories, studied photos, and remembered names—names of people I never realized I would one day meet, but for the fact that New York isn’t always a metropolis—sometimes it’s a village in its own way.

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The Village Voice was a singular voice within the cacophonous harmony of city life: the only paper I respected because it didn’t purport to be objective. It had an agenda, openly. It was about the recognition of New York’s natives, its indigenous arts, its political struggles, its populist loves and hatreds. It didn’t pretend to be a noble in the Fourth Estate; it was composed of revolutionary minds and innovative souls, of people whose greatest joy came from upending the status quo.

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It was the heart of Old York, ya know?

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I went to school pretty much buying time. I loved to learn and I yearned to work but I loathed the system so much. I was that weird kid who blushed in the bookstore when she saw the cover of Irvine Welsh’s book, If You Like School, You’ll Love Work. I mean, I guess…

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I didn’t actually like school. I was insulted by those who stood in the front of the room and asserted their authority, agents of indoctrination who never had a critical thought in their life. But I loved being antagonistic, to put it lightly. I could openly challenge them while drawing masterpieces in my notebooks. I could stumble into class on a Xanax or slounge against the desk a couple of days after dropping an X. I could show up in Technicolor outfits, chomping on gum. I could not be bothered. My grades made me think: I guess an “A” is okay as I tossed the paper into the trash.

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Then, something magical happened back in the Fall of ’96. I started grad school and the folks there introduced me to the idea of an internship. “Wait, I gotta pay you to earn credits so I can work for free for someone else?”

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“Well, you could intern at The Village Voice.”

 

Bet. I was in. I wanted to write about art so I was assigned to open Vince Aletti’s mail. This was back when people used to send mail. It was great. I had to sort it into three piles, and was allowed to attend anything he wasn’t planning to cover. This came in handy when I met Brian Parks, who was launching the fledgling website and needed stories.

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Whew. I can still remember wandering into Deitch Projects one day after class, to check out this artist who locked himself inside a cage, where he was pretending to be a dog. Surreptitiously I stepped inside. The dog-man didn’t see me but I saw him. He was straight up naked, collar around his neck. There was a padded suit hanging on the wall, inviting me to put it on and get in the cage where we could wrestle.

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I think not.

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Silently I pivoted and hightailed it out of there, with enough instanteously insight to pen the piece. “Maybe throw a ball and see if he will catch it in his mouth,” was the final line to the piece that Brian and I wrote together as he edited my work.

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I was thrilled. $50 in my pocket and my byline in place. I was hitting up MoMA openings, making my way over to Chelsea in its earliest days when Pat Hearn was showing German fashion fetish photography and I was taking notes for Suzanne Bartsch party ideas.

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I was also writing nightclub reviews. Does it get any better than this? Yes! I had an expense account. My cab fare was covered. I was living for it. I must have written 30 reviews, each one rhyming entirely too much, like Mother Goose dropping tabs because why not.

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Suddenly my life made sense. It was destiny. I was already living the life—what could be better than to let people know about the scene? I can remember getting ready, alternating between bumps of coke and K, whirling around my friend’s apartment. Wait, maybe I wasn’t even covering a club that night—who really knows.

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The mid-90s were a blur, but my Voice ID’s bring it back. For some reason or other, I had to have two made, not that I lost em. Meg Handler snapped my photos: the first one looked like a mugshot from the Boogie Down, all blonde curls cut short after bleaching caused breakage that required me to start again. Bold, brick red lipstick, lips pursed like “What!?” A Gaultier jacket that wasn’t mine, the patterns perfectly defining the times, and I was probably wearing tight jeans and those high-top K-Swiss that were the same color as Timberlands.

 

In the second ID, taken just a couple of months later, I was someone else: short, straight brown hair, soft make up, warm magenta top. All soft, smiling, peaceful. It occurs to me now, I was at home and my face reflected this.

 

Because, by then, I had reached a new height. While sitting in the smoking room (flossy), I met Frank Owen. I complimented his shoes and he stuck his leg in the air, saying, “Dolce,” and I nodded with approval. We started talking, I mean he started talking and I sat, enraptured with the words he spoke, all fast-paced British pitter-patter talking about …

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Michael Alig! Peter Gatien! Lord Michael! Limelight! Honey Trap—

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—wait. Did you say Honey Trap? I was there and wooo, I met this boy. Wait, let me stay on topic.

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Frank was working on an expose. We had mutual friends/sources. He invited me to join him for an interview with Peter Gatien at the Tunnel, where I sat in silence watching this exquisite game of cat and mouse.

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I had no idea journalism could be so thrilling. I was absolutely overwhelmed. Things had taken a dark turn when the body of Angel Melendez washed ashore earlier that summer.

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“Read this,” Frank said to me one day, passing along a fax that had the handwritten confession of Michael Alig. My stomach lurched.

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None of this was my scene—but I was close enough to watch how history unfolds in real time when you’re standing on the frontlines. It reminded me of the moment when Vince Aletti gave me a tour through the morgue, showing my the stories he had written back in the 1970s when he started at The Voice as a music critic, covering the disco scene.

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Like. Wow. Do you hear Wu Tang? Can it be that it was all so simple then?

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I have no idea. Twenty years have passed since that fateful moment of my life, where I got to do things like call Bill Clinton’s drug czar to interview him for a piece on their anti-drug advertising campaign.

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“’This is your brain on drugs’ was a highly successful ad,” he told me.

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I laughed. “You’re kidding right? It was a joke.”

 

“What do you mean?” the publicist for the Drug Czar sounded hurt.

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“C’mon everyone was laughing about that ad. Everyone made fun of it.”

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“Well, what would you do?” the publicist asked, accusingly.

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I remember thinking it was weird that the publicist was asking for my advice, but I couldn‘t resist. “I think I’m close in age to the target audience you’re trying to reach,” I said, trying to suggest that age was what we shared, rather than say, habits. “I don’t know enough about the subject to speak on it, but I would focus on rehab instead. Like, why is methadone addictive?”

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Nothing like a strawman argument to end an interview.

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I’m just skating along here, gliding on the surface of things, trying to remember the details that are surrounded in a succulent haze of weed smoke, strobe lights, and stiletto heels, vodka cranberries, random prose, and dancing past dawn.

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I don’t think The Voice made me want to be a journalist; I think it made me realize I was one without actually having to go to school or work inside the system. It made me aware that as unlikely as I am, there is a place where I’m not the only one. That there were generations of us, from Nat Hentoff to Greg Tate, Stanley Crouch to Ellen Willis, Michael Musto to Donna Gaines—not to mention legends like James Baldwin, Lorraine Hansberry, e.e. cummings, and Ezra Pound.

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The Voice was my paper of record. In 1980 alone, it put The Times Square Show and breakdancing on the cover. I wasn’t even reading it then and yet—these are the works that would come to define vast swaths of my life, not to mention the singular importance of the printed object not just as news—but as artifact.

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Upon reflection, I can’t be mad that a comet has come and gone any more than I can shake my fist at the nature of the Universe. One of the things I learned from my life in the clubs is that it is to leave when the party is going then to stumble out when everyone on the train is heading to church.

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Categories: Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan

Slava Mogutin: Bros & Brosephines

Posted on July 24, 2017

Photo: © Sloava Mogutin.

Photo: © Sloava Mogutin.

Born in Siberia, Slava Mogutin left his family and moved to Moscow at the age of 14. A third-generation writer and self-taught journalist, Mogutin worked for independent newspapers, publishers, and radio stations, where he was hailed as one of the foremost voices of the post-Perestroika news journalism and the only openly gay personality in the Russian media.

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Using the press as his platform, Mogutin openly challenged the taboos against homosexuality in his native land, becoming the target for two highly publicised criminal vases that charged him with “malicious hooliganism with exceptional cynicism and extreme insolence.”

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In 1994, Mogutin attempted to officially register the first same-sex marriage in Russia with his then-partner, American artist Robert Filippini, making headlines around the world and fuelling persecution by authorities. A year later, at the age of 21, he was forced to flee and became the first Russian to be granted political asylum in the United States on the grounds of homophobic persecution.

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His arrival in New York launched a new chapter of his life centred in the visual arts. Using photography, Mogutin continued to challenge the status quo, introducing radical narratives that peeled back the veneer of polite society and respectability politics. With the 2006 publication of his first monograph, Lost Boys (powerHouse Books) Mogutin achieved global recognition for photographs that blurred the boundaries between sex and style, fusing the genres of nudes, portraiture, documentary, fetish, porn, fashion, and fine art into images that were as provocative as they were profound.

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Mogutin is an unstoppable force. On August 1, he will release Bros & Brosephines (powerHouse Books), a collection of 240 photographs from 17 professional and personal series made between 2000-2015. While some of the images were made on big-budget sets, others were done relying on the kindness of friends and strangers. As diverse as the styles and subjects are, the one thing they share in common is their commitment to the avant-garde.

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Mogutin gives us an exclusive look at the book and speaks about how art is the perfect catalyst for creativity and play, as well as a means to taking a stance and speaking truth to power.

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Read the Full Story at Dazed Digital

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Photo: © Sloava Mogutin.

Photo: © Sloava Mogutin.

Categories: Art, Bronx, Dazed, Photography

How the Blackout of 1977 Helped Hip Hop Blow Up

Posted on July 13, 2017

At dawn, the Manhattan skyline shows no lights due to a power blackout, New York, New York, July 14, 1977. The photo was taken from Jersey City, New Jersey. (Photo by Allan Tannenbaum/Getty Images)

On the evening of July 13, 1977, DJ Disco Wiz and his partner Casanova Fly (later Grandmaster Caz) were in the park on Valentine and 183rd Street in the Bronx with their sound system set up for a battle with a local cat they had regularly been blowing off. But DJ Eddie wouldn’t take no for an answer, so they relented and gave him a chance to make a name for himself.

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The city had been going through a ten-day heat wave with temperatures above 100. Wiz was concerned if their small portable fans would keep the amps cool, as they didn’t have internal cooling systems. Although it was hot and humid, people were having a good time. Around 9:30 p.m., Caz got on the turntables. Then the record slowly spun to a stop.

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It wasn’t unusual for them to lose power in them middle of a park battle; they hooked their sound system up to the lamppost and had drained the electricity before. But this night, something was different as they watched the street lights go out in rapid succession. Then they realized all the lights in the buildings had gone dark. Suddenly, they heard a huge BANG. A bodega owner had just slammed the gate to his store shut.

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As gates on the block began slamming down right and left, it dawned on everyone: Blackout! The crowd started yelling, “Hit the stores! Hit the stores!” Then they advanced on Wiz and Caz, thinking they could jack their sound system. But the DJs stayed strapped. Guns drawn, they pointed directly at the crowd, as Caz ordered, “Go that way, motherfuckers!”

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Read the Full Story at Crave Online

Categories: 1970s, Bronx, Crave, Music

Charlie Ahearn Ft. Grand Wizzard Theodore: Scratch Ecstasy

Posted on June 1, 2017

Photo: Charlie Ahearn, DJ AJ 2 from the series Scratch Ecstasy, 1980. © the artist and courtesy P.P.O.W.

Hip Hop came of age inside the cinderblock walls of the Ecstasy Garage Disco in the Boogie Down Bronx. By 1980, it was the place to be as the flyest DJs and MCs honed their skills among their peers. In tribute, filmmaker Charlie Ahearn has teamed up with Grand Wizzard Theodore, inventor of the scratch, to recreate their weekly slide show as the centerpiece of Ahearn’s exhibition Scratch Ecstasy, currently on view at P.P.O.W. Gallery. Miss Rosen, who worked with Ahearn on his 2007 book, Wild Style: The Sampler, speaks with Ahearn and Theodore about the interplay between sight and sound in the development of Hip-Hop culture during its formative years.

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Read the Full Story at Aperture Online

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Photo: Charlie Ahearn, Scratch DJ from the series Scratch Ecstasy, 1980. © the artist and courtesy P.P.O.W.

Photo: Charlie Ahearn, Funky Four in their Bronx neighborhood from the series Scratch Ecstasy, 1980. © the artist and courtesy P.P.O.W.

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, Aperture, Art, Bronx, Exhibitions, Music, Photography

Martha Cooper at Steven Kasher Gallery, New York

Posted on May 16, 2017

Photo: Japanese girl with tattoo, Tokyo, 1970. © Martha Cooper.

Photographer Martha Cooper has always lived life on her own term. After graduating high school at 16 and Grinnell College at 19, the Baltimore-native decided to see the world so she joined the Peace Corps and traveled to Thailand, where she taught English for a spell. Then she hopped on a motorcycle and hightailed it from Bangkok to London, taking all along the way.

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She received a diploma in anthropology from Oxford, which speaks to her truest sensibilities: her passion for documenting the creative fruits of the human experience. In her hands, the camera is not merely a tool to create an image for aesthetic pleasure, it does something more; it bears witness to a time and place that is inherently ephemeral: street art and culture, which is inherently urban folk art.

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In 1970, Cooper found herself walking along a street in Tokyo when she spotted a man in a crowd. On his back was a Japanese tattoo, with figures drawn in the style of a woodblock print. Entranced, Cooper followed him until he disappeared, then began asking her friend about tattoos—a touchy subject. Tattooing had been outlawed in 1872, then legalized again in 1948, then quickly became a status symbol for the yakuza and the Japanese underworld. But Cooper is not one to give up when she has her sights set, and so she pursued her quest to completion: entrance to the studio of Horibun I, a tattoo master.

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It is here, in his studio that Cooper made the photographs that comprise the earliest work in the exhibition Martha Cooper, currently on view at Steven Kasher Gallery, New York, through June 3, 2017.

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Read the Full Story at Feature Shoot

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Photo: Christopher Sawyer breaking, Upper West Side, NYC, 1983. © Martha Cooper.

Photo: Woman with white pants on 180th Street platform, Bronx, NYC, 1980. © Martha Cooper.

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, Art, Bronx, Exhibitions, Feature Shoot, Graffiti, Manhattan, Photography

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