Awol Erizku

Photographic Insight into Erizku's World


“When you come into my world, I want you to be like ‘black is amazing!’” proclaimed 28-year-old conceptual artist Awol Erizku following the screening of his short film, ‘Serendipity’, last week at NeueHouse Hollywood. The South Bronx-born, Yale-educated artist has made it his mission to create work centered upon subjects of color. His reinterpretation on age-old classics—such as Vermeer’s famous “Girl with a Pearl Earring”— has had the art world talking. Covering several mediums, including photography, sculpture, and video installation, Erizku has even tapped into Soundcloud, Tumblr, and other social media channels to generate content in and around his studio practice. Here, Erizku shared some photographic insight into the rest of his world: what makes him smile, his idolized self, and the current state of the presidential race.


NeueJournal: What does happiness look like to you?


Awol Erizku: Making a quick mix in between paintings or shooting a still life.

NJ: What is your most prized possession?

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AE: My puppy Prince, who’s named after Prince, she’s a girl.

NJ: What does your most idealized self look like?

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AE: Nino Brown.

NJ: What makes you smile?

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AE: My best friend Sarah Lineberger.

NJ: What makes you cry?

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AE: Fox News.

NJ: What would be your last meal?

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AE: A double double, animal style at In & Out.

NJ: How does the current presidential campaign make you feel?



Featured Portrait Photography: Chris Swainston for NeueJournal

Kate Neckel

A New Perspective


NeueHouse Madison Square Member, Kate Neckel took a marker to her pink Converse high tops in fourth grade and hasn’t stopped drawing since. Seeking inspiration from the things around her, Kate was caught documenting the beaches of her beloved childhood in Miami to the pages from her favorite magazines that covered her bedroom walls. The artist solidified her place in the New York art scene, assisting David Byrne and documenting the beginnings of Zac Posen’s career. She has since created drawings for books (The Soup Club Cookbook), magazines (Vogue, Vanity Fair, InStyle), bands (Honduras), Jeremiah Stone and Fabian von Hauske’s second restaurant (Wildair), coffee mugs and totes (Café Grumpy), and even beehives (Brooklyn Grange Rooftop Farm). Always offering a new perspective on everyday objects, the eclectically cool artist shares some insight into life including, her version of paradise, current inspirations, and favorite Talking Heads song.


What is your favorite Talking Heads song?



What does paradise look like to you?3928_001


If you could draw on any surface in the world, where would it be?



What is your current inspiration?



What is your favorite part of the day?



What’s the last movie you watched?



If you could have coffee with anyone, alive or dead, who would it be?



What was your favorite thing about NYC when you first moved here?



What is your favorite thing about NYC now?



What do you look like today? What will you look like in ten years?



Illustrations: Kate Neckel for NeueJournal

Matthew Day Jackson

The anxiety & accomplishment of participating in life


Matthew Day Jackson has the very refreshing (and very rare) quality of making you think you’ve known each other for ages, even if you’ve just met. I’ve only known the multimedia artist for a few minutes before we sit down in the photo studio of NeueHouse Madison Square, yet once we start talking the conversation flows seamlessly, jumping from humor to the philosophy of art in a completely organic manner. “I think as artists we are…trying to see something new all the time, even if it’s something we’ve seen 7 million times before,” he says, before making specific notes about the room we’re in, “like that tile being out of place from the rest.”


The Pacific Northwest native is as hilarious as he is smart, with a contagious laugh and an impressive array of references – a quality which is as evident in his work as it is in his personality. While the gallery upstairs put the finishing touches on the dinner table honoring Day Jackson and Neville Wakefield, the artist and I discussed everything from robbing Anish Kapoor to the anxiety and accomplishment of participating in life.


Ana Velasco: Your work has a conversation with history and humanity, while using a lot of reference points – such as the cockpit that looks like the Millennium Falcon. When creating a piece do you have an ambition to deliver a particular message or would you rather the viewer create their own interpretation?



Matthew Day Jackson: No, what I’m trying to make are things that are open enough so anybody can enter into them, either through iconography, mythology, color, or texture. You make reference to the Millennium Falcon. That becomes an entry point for you to the work, which might be different from that of other people. It’s sort of like a trap – allowing entry points for as many people as possible, while recognizing that we live in this plural world where things have a lot of different meanings.



Matthew Day Jackson | The way we were, 2010 — Titanium, aluminum, steel, iron, bronze, copper, lead, stainless steel 32.4 x 320 x 35.4 cm


AV: Is there a specific source that keeps informing your work overall?



MDJ: No, I think I try to maintain an openness to the world I live in. I want to recognize moments when I see my reflection, and then being open enough to recognize the reflection I see often times isn’t pleasant. When I see that reflection, it’s sometimes in relation to other things I’ve been thinking about for a while that are emerging from the darkness of my subconscious and into the front of my brain.



In terms of a particular source, it can come from anything. Maybe even tonight, here and now, as we talk. Whenever I talk at universities, or if I’m driving a car for a long time, that seems to be a highly active moment. I think the panic of being in front of a bunch of people brings ideas to the forefront. You begin seeing images fly by that you don’t call upon, rather, you happen upon.



AV: That reminds me of this Louis CK bit about having existential anxiety, and how we, as humans, are prone to reach for our phones and call or text somebody, as opposed to sitting with that overwhelming dread. He talks about being in his car and feeling that horrible humane fear and having the impulse to escape it through communication validation, but instead letting himself feel it. I believe that is what art is and where it comes from – not denying yourself the humanity that is in all of us.



MDJ: I actually would take it one step further. I think anxiety is motivated by a fear of death. I think the way social media functions – in the way that we need to check to see if somebody likes us or our picture, or responded to our text – the insignificance is somehow elevated to this moment where you see yourself largely reflected. It’s a recognition that you are in fact participating and that you are in fact alive, and being absent from it is a sort of death.



Matthew Day Jackson | Odalisque, 2015 — Bronze, IPE wood, stainless steel, wax 123.2 x 243.8 x 78.7 cm | 48.5 x 96 x 31


AV: What has been the biggest challenge you’ve faced in pursuing art as a career?



MDJ: Probably the first time I decided I wanted to be an artist. For a long time I used to say I made things, but I never wanted to say I was an artist because I felt like an impostor, or not worthy of that title. Somewhere down the line that changed. I think I can thank Joseph Beuys for saying “Everyone is an artist” (laughs). I was like, ok, well I can say I’m an artist now since it’s not that special.



There’s always something, but I think that’s part of the charge, too. We can see in our contemporary culture how fear is a huge motivator, and I think on the micro level being a little bit fearful or wrong, yet still needing to do this thing is exciting. Excitement and fear somehow co-mingle. They hang out and sleep together and drink (laughs).



AV: If you could work with any material at all (without any limitations) to create a large scale work, what would it be?



MDJ: I just bought so much fake blood, actually, that they gave me a bulk discount (laughs). I would really love to steal that black shit from Anish Kapoor, but I would only wanna use it if I could break into his studio to use it (laughs). He bought that blackest color [vantablack], which is now a trademark material.



Matthew Day Jackson | Musicians of Bremen, 2015


AV: I wonder what it actually looks like – darker than black.



MDJ: It’s like seeing a ghost, I would assume. I just painted this entire house black and for two months I didn’t allow furniture in. I would sit on the floor and think and stare into blackness (laughs). I love thinking about the house being like that, because you could essentially disappear an object that way.



AV: What is it like to sit in a room completely surrounded by darkness?



MDJ: For me, the studio is generative. Being in the studio is a place to work, it’s not a place where ideas come. It’s like Church, and I’ve said this a bunch of times. A Church or a Mosque or a Synagogue are places where people join a community as an expression of faith, but ultimately it’s like a Tuesday when life is asking you difficult questions, and that’s when this reservoir of faith comes to play. I’m likening creativity and awareness to that faith, so the studio is a place to come celebrate it. Ultimately, though, it’s during a Tuesday when you’re taking your kids to school and you see a soggy newspaper with a story that you partially read from three days before, and that’s the thing that starts the engine of creativity.



AV: What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?



MDJ: Well this is kind of corny, but I don’t care if it’s corny. The insane joy of a small child when they’re become aware of something on their own terms. When they’ve accomplished something and they’re like, “WHAT?!” – that’s beautiful. I think as artists we are trying to go back to moments when we don’t necessarily have labels for things, and we’re trying to see something new all the time, even if it’s something we’ve seen 7 million times before. To look at something anew and to think about it, that’s where criticality comes in. When you witness that excitement in kids, it’s awesome and hilarious; it’s a rasa where so many emotions are happening simultaneously, to the point where it makes you weak. You know? Like when you love somebody so much you can feel it, like your heart is stopping.



AV: Absolutely. I always say if I could do something for the first time again, it would be to see the ocean. Can you imagine what that’s like? Do you remember the first time you saw the ocean?



MDJ: No, but I do remember seeing the Los Angeles river for the first time, and I think the flip of scale is what makes you realize, “Woah, I’m tiny.” You know what was really beautiful? I remember the first time my oldest son was the furthest from me while in my care. He was about 200 yards away, maybe, on his bicycle, and I heard him scream, “Dad you’re tiny!” (laughs) But I don’t remember seeing the ocean for the first time. I actually don’t remember seeing a lot of things for the first time, but that’s more to talk about with my therapist (laughs).



AV: What has been your proudest accomplishment so far?



MDJ: It’s pretty simple. My proudest accomplishment is having maintained a flexibility and openness even in the face of failure.



AV: Which do you prefer: the beach or the woods, breakfast or dinner, film or tv, rain or snow?



MDJ: Woods, hands down. Breakfast. Tie, they both offer so much weirdness. Snow.



AV: How would you define freedom?



MDJ: I think freedom is agency, and having the ability to give self-permission. Not waiting for anybody else to say you’re wonderful or great or smart, but rather, recognizing there’s this thing that motivates us and to be in touch with that.


Photography: Chris Luttrell for NeueJournal

Jim Shaw &
Daniel Guzmán

Artistic Revolution


The Mistake Room is a non-profit organization in downtown Los Angeles that functions as an international hub to commission artists, which for the most part live outside of the United States. In the organization’s first conversation series, Cesar Garcia, Founder, Director, and Chief Curator of The Mistake Room, sat down at NeueHouse Hollywood with artists Jim Shaw and Daniel Guzmán, who have both become pioneers of contemporary art in the United States and Mexico, respectively. Covering everything from music to collective creation, the artists offered an insider’s insight into what it was like to not only live through periods of artistic revolution, but also what it was like to be part of shaping its outcome.


Cesar Garcia: A few  months ago I was speaking with Danny Guzman and he said, “My ultimate dream would be to have a conversation with Jim Shaw,” so I sent an email and here we are! Thank you Jim and thank you Daniel for being with us tonight. I wanna start off by talking about your upbringing prior to art school, because both of your practices really merge together the historical and the biographical.


Jim Shaw: I grew up in Midland, Michigan which was the home of Dow Chemical until they merged with another chemical company and then it all fell apart. It was a nice little town to raise your kids, so it was boring. I think when you get a bunch of people with advanced college degrees a lot of them fall somewhere in the Autistic spectrum, and I’m probably a part of that spectrum. I had three older sisters who are all academically better than me, and parents who kind of withheld approval if you didn’t do well.


Artwork: Jim Shaw


When you have older sisters you don’t know how to be a boy, so I’ve always been intimidated by masculinity and entering that world was hard. I liked monster movies and comic books as a kid, but we also had The New Yorker and all these advertising materials, since my father was a package designer. There was also a pretty great modernist architect in town, Alden Dow, so there was always an exposure to good architecture and occasional art shows. When I first saw articles on Pop Art it was like a wonder world because I didn’t quite get cubism or abstract expressionism as a 10-year-old.


CG: What music did you listening to growing up?


Jim Shaw: Peter, Paul & Mary, Joan Baez, The Beatles, and the big Michigan bands – The Stooges, MC5, The SRC. My sister was roommates with some of the founders of the SDS when she was in University of Michigan back in the ’60s. When I was in ninth grade she had a protest poster that was reproduced in Life magazine, so that really impressed me. The Dow Chemical would have annual stockholder meetings, which out-of-town protesters would show up for, so we would go and hang out with them.


By the time I got to U of M the whole protesting thing was kind of winding down, but I remember how exciting it was to watch the Chicago Convention on TV as they were beating people up and being mean to people with long hair. During that time period there was a real cultural cohesion due to the draft and the Vietnam War, so as soon as they got rid of both of those things, it all dissipated into these separated units of people whose whole connection was that they smoked pot or had long hair; it no longer had the youth culture cohesion that it had. I came to California to go to CalArts just as people were starting to exit the States due to the failures of the American Auto industry.


CG: Daniel, you came of age in Mexico City in the ’70s and ’80s, which was also a very particular moment, as it was was after the 1968 student movement. Can you tell us about your upbringing during this time, where there was a huge cultural shift in music and literature?


Daniel Guzmán: I was born in the center of the city and lived with three sisters, as well as with my mother and grandmother; I had no men around except for my father and my uncles. I grew up in a working class neighborhood, so my experience was very different because I didn’t have a lot of education. My father, who is from Veracruz, and mother, who is from Oaxaca, are both working class – my mother is a secretary and my father worked in a factory, so I didn’t experience going to museums until I was almost 11 years old.


My father bought Mexican comics, superhero type stuff, and sports magazines, which I loved. My parents loved football and boxing and they also heard a lot of Mexican music and romantic music. I lived in a small collective space surrounded by similar spaces, so when we would play in the streets you could hear all different kinds of music, particularly romantic and tropical music. When I discovered rock n’ roll it was because a friend of mine had a big collection of The Beatles, Grand Funk Railroad.. especially of Grand Funk Railroad. It’s amazing because nobody wants a big collection of the Grand Funk, which is a band from Michigan.


I saw many popular Mexican movies about wrestling or comedies, and my father had a lot of love for James Bond, so I got to see all of those with him, as well as Beatles things. In Mexico, on Saturdays, you could buy one ticket and stay all day at the cinema, which was great because they projected many movies and you could see as many as you wanted.


Artwork: Daniel Guzmán


There were only two art schools in Mexico, so I decided to go to the University of Mexico (UNAM), which is the oldest university in the city. It was a really different world for me because I found this relation and connection to music and literature. I was really lonely during that time, so I read a lot, especially fiction. In school, I discovered a lot of authors, like Samuel Beckett, Jorge Luis Borges, and Julio Cortázar.


CG: After 1968 there was a huge countercultural movement in Mexico City as a result of the protests against the government, ten days before the summer Olympics, which resulted in a brutal and grotesque student massacre. Those were the same Olympic games during which Tommie Smith gave the black power salute, and there was a huge shift – particularly amongst the youth. Were you aware at the time of the extent of events happening in the country?


DG: Not really. For me, the political experience was different because in my house we never talked about politics. On the other hand, I was lucky because the friends I made in art school had a lot more experience with that kind of stuff, so they showed me the things I hadn’t seen at home…books and other media about the political movement in Mexico.


CG: You both had really interesting and formative experiences in school. Jim, you were at CalArts when people like John Baldessari, Laurie Anderson, and Douglas Huebler were teaching. How important was that particular time period in the formation of your practice and the friendships and communities that formed outside of school?


JS: I remember in the 70s there was a new car factory that was opened in Ohio. They had all these college educated line workers who went on strike, and I think that’s the moment when the power structure decided, “We made college way too affordable. We gotta start making it harder to get a college degree because it’s a waste of money to give a degree to someone who’s going to be working in an auto factory.” But at the time I went to school, it was relatively affordable. University of Michigan was $600 a semester, and now it’s about $23,000…and that’s a state school.


I was supposed to go to Cooper Union in 1970, but I freaked out in New York City because they didn’t have student housing, and I had no friends there…so I went to a junior college back home for a year and a half, and then U of M, where I met Mike [Kelley] and the other members of Destroy All Monsters. It was the first time I met an adult and functioning artist whose work I liked and could understand, because the work of most of the artists, except for [Gerome] Kamrowski and a couple other people at U of M, was kinda depressing. It wasn’t something that made you want to go out and be an artist and be part of an art world; but there wasn’t really an art world then. Nobody was getting paid to sell art, so we didn’t have any expectations. Life was cheap. You got out of school and you could get a cheap job and live for cheap in L.A.


Seeing Laurie Anderson and some of the artwork of the artists that taught at CalArts was important. Baldessari was important because he basically let the students do all the talking. And then you got out of school and you hung out with these people because who else did you know? It was a place where everybody was broke and we’d find some part of the film industry to work in.


Once Reagan came in, things started changing. There were a few bums downtown before Reagan came in, and then suddenly there were just encampments of homeless people from closed down mental hospitals. Then other things happened; they started sending work to other countries – first down south, then further south to Mexico, and then finally to China.


CG: Daniel, you also had an interesting and almost similar experience, when you were at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. In the late 80s and early 90s there were a group of artists there who have now become common names in the international circuit, like Gabriel Kuri, Damian Ortega, and Abraham Cruzvillegas, who were getting together with Gabriel Orozco every Friday to have an informal workshop where they were looking at literature, reading critical theory, and looking at music that was not being taught in the university curriculum. What was your experience in school like?


DG: Staying in school was great, because I found a new world where I could relate to young people. I didn’t see a “career” in front of me at the moment, only the opportunity to share music, books, and experiences about life with people I found in school. With Abraham Cruzvillegas, Damian Ortega, and other young artists, we founded an artist space in Mexico City, called Temistocles 44. It was a run down house in a really rich neighborhood in Mexico that woman shared with us for free. We worked there for four years, inviting many young artists of all mediums who would make special projects. We shared this opportunity to have an independent space and opening the door to different experiences.


CG: In the early art years of Mexico City there were a lot of these communal establishments for artists, which became precursors to a lot of the more popular spaces available now. Was that always a way of working for you?


DG: Yes, because I feel isolated when I do my personal work, and I felt alone in my career at that time. I was really lucky to find other people who had a similar interest to share space and knowledge to make art. That was the reason to make the collective.


CG: The drawings in both of your practices have a really interesting connective thread, in that they both bring together history, biography, music, literature, and religious and spiritual beliefs into an assembled universe. They introduce us to very complex narratives and characters that sometimes recur in other bodies of work. What role does drawing play in the studio and in your practices?


JS: It’s pretty much the basis for everything I work on, except for music. If I’m going to do a painting, I have to do a drawing beforehand. When I’m working on pre-existing theatrical backdrops I can’t make too many mistakes, so I have to know what I’m doing beforehand. I’m also a perfectionist, which is too bad, but, I used to do a lot of large drawings. I don’t know if my body can take that anymore with pencil. I’ve been doing a lot of stuff with ink, like this last cartoon piece, and getting into the whole difference because I’m so used to using shaded drawing in pencil. To do things in ink, to simplify forms, to tell the story as easily as possible, is a whole different ball game, but I’m sort of using the DC comics of my youth as a model – the work of people like Wayne Borring and Dick Spring.


Artwork: Jim Shaw


DG: When I was in school I had a teacher who showed me many crafters like Rembrandt and Matisse. When I discovered drawing I really loved it. I didn’t have the passion, at the time, to paint, because I didn’t have the compatible materials to prepare for a painting. On one occasion my friend Abraham Crurvillegas, asked me what I did as a child. I told him I made copies of my father’s comics, and he told me, “Maybe you can recover all of these activities…this past is your personal heritage. This is a part of you.” When I was in school the teacher told me to forget about what I was doing before and start from zero. But when I stopped to recover my past of drawing, I also recovered the comfort and the joy of it.


CG: Where does text come into your drawings?


JS: I’ve been a little fearful of text because I understood I wasn’t the best writer in the world. Doing the comic books is a way of forcing me into coming up with a storyline, and then characters start to form.


CG: Do you think drawing is still a viable medium?


JS: It’s gotta be. It’s the easiest thing to produce. You can make it anywhere.


DG: I think that’s right; you can draw on whatever paper you want. When you buy tortillas in Mexico they give them to you wrapped in a very rough, cheap paper, and I would draw on it because I loved it and it was accessible. I know the way paper works with different drawing materials, and I had a marvelous relation with that paper because of the heritage of my Mexican culture. For me, drawing is one of the best experiences in order to connect with life.


Artwork: Daniel Guzmán


CG: What does the production process look like in your studios?


JS: I’ve got an assistant who traces stuff, and paints things white, and does the simple stuff, while I do all the rendering stuff, for the most part. Once I get in front of the painting or the drawing, it’s as if the world disappears and I get sucked into it. If I didn’t have deadlines I’d overwork everything to death. The thing about making music is I’m a terrible musician and I have to collaborate. I have an over-educated wrist, so I can draw and paint pretty much whatever I feel like, but with music it’s a whole other world.


DG: In the studio, I work alone and make almost everything. I share technical problems with a school friend of mine and he helps me come up with a solution, but in the drawings, I do everything. For me, with my band creating is totally different and collaborative, which is kind of a liberation from my personal activity. I have no responsibilities because we share all of the responsibilities together. When we’re playing on stage, it’s a completely different experience, and I’m really in another world. I feel free.


You mentioned the collective. The collective is more about making art. It’s a shared responsibility to create a new world, and it’s an anonymous thing.


CG: The work you’ve produced functions as a really interesting portrait of the underbelly of society, in many ways. There are a lot of human fears, desires, and anxieties identified within both of your work. I think it would be a missed opportunity if I didn’t ask what you think about the current polarized state of this country.


JS: Well you know, I’m a baby boomer from the midwest, so I can understand where all these people who are voting for Trump are coming from. All these people who entered the workforce were supposed to have a job that lasted until they were 65, and then they were going to retire to something nice, but if you lose your job now in your 50s or 60s, you’re sort of shit out of luck.


A lot of people are blaming Mexico or illegal and undocumented aliens for their lack of a job, which is absurd, because they’re doing the jobs that nobody else wants to do, like field and agrarian work. The world has also become totally dominated by white European stock. There was a change in immigration law in the 1960s, where they allowed Europeans to immigrate here before changing it to allow the whole world an immigration opportunity. The face of the nation has changed ever since then, and they haven’t gotten used to that.


I’ve lived in basically Mexican migrant areas most of my time in Los Angeles. As far as Trump goes, I’d be more scared by a Cruz presidency, personally. I don’t really think he means everything he says, but it’s crazy. I was really shocked that he hasn’t dropped out, because he did the last time he ran. He seems like Sarah Palin; he doesn’t really want to work that hard, but he loves getting all the attention.


CG: Daniel, from somebody who lives in Mexico, what do you think?


DG: It’s strange, because a big part of the population in Mexico aren’t well informed about who Donald Trump is or what the reasons are for his ideas about Mexican people occupying the workplaces. I think it’s a dangerous thing, because you see a lot of news outlets and media who don’t have hard information to share with the people, and so there is a degree of not taking people like Trump seriously.


Photography: Shane McCauley for NeueJournal 

Ferus Gallery

A Conversation with
Ed Bereal, Ed Moses, & Larry Bell


New York City has historically been the hub for culture, setting itself apart as the city that dictates trends and success in every aspect from business to the arts. In fact, there are very few people who are not familiar with the oft-quoted mantra, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere;” which makes the history of the Ferus Gallery inexorably more interesting. In the late 1950s, and throughout the following decade, Los Angeles – a city as desolate culturally as environmentally – ripped through the art scene with the founding of the Ferus Gallery by Walter Hopps, Edward Kienholz, and, later, Irving Blum.


The gallery wasn’t solely the haven for arts in a city reliant on the film industry, but it became the dictum for a new style of creation and super-stardom, turning a slew of artists, such as Ed Ruscha, Robert Irwin, and John Altoon, into legends. The Ferus Gallery revolved around creation and hedonism, and although the gallery closed its doors in 1966, its influence is eternal. In a rare reunion, Ed Bereal, Ed Moses, and Larry Bell – three prominent Ferus artists – sat down for dinner at NeueHouse Hollywood, where they talked to us about everything from sexual freedom to the “secret sauce” that set apart the roster of icons who became part of the Ferus (and art) history.


NeueJournal: Do you think the freedom to create something as renegade as the Ferus movement still exists in the art world today?


Ed Moses: Of course it’ll continue. Walter Hopps sort of put it all together in this peculiar way; he brought in some really strange outsiders. Irving Blum wanted to come in, he wanted to know why all those people were in there, like Artie Richer and Bob Alexander. They stood at one of the openings one night arguing and Artie and the other guy Boza, said, “Hey man, I don’t wanna ball ya, I wanna fight ya.” And that’s what they were doing. There was this strong sexual encounter that I couldn’t even consider at the time. Only on the view I have now on the thing, I realize, “Yeah, these guys were all horny guys and they wouldn’t discriminate between if it was a man or a woman.” But they just did the women because that’s where they were conditioned, right?


Ed Bereal


NJ: Who out of the bunch was the wildest?


EM: John Altoon.


Ed Bereal: I learned a lot of stuff from him, so I got my share of women as a result.


NJ: What do you admire most about each other’s work?


EM: Every one of these people has this special quality. I call it “secret sauce,” and every one of them has that material. How are they initiated? How do they initiate? There’s a psyche, and they have this thing sort of rattling around, like two wall bearings going back and forth in their brain all of the time. These poor fuckers are walking around with those wall bearings in their heads. I’m trying to get some nomenclature.


NJ: How would you describe the color blue to a blind person?


Larry Bell: Color blue? I would never try to do such a thing.


NJ: If you could relive a moment in your life, which one would you choose?


LB: Oh, shit.


Larry Bell


EM: I remember I fucked this little girl…


Everyone: OH MY GOD ED! OH MY GOD, NO!


NJ: Let’s ask a different question…Is there anything you look back on that you would do differently?


LB: Oh, a bunch of shit.


EM: How about everything…


EB: How about nothing…


Ed Moses


NJ: What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?


EB: That’s a Christian question.


LB: Yeah, it is a Christian question. I video taped a birth. I don’t know if it was beautiful or not, but it was fucking amazing. People coming out of people is pretty fucking far up, you know?


EB: Now that you say that, I would have to agree that just watching my three kids being born was probably…


EM: That’s so basic and biological! I can’t accept that situation at all.


EB: Well, you weren’t there.


Photography: Anthony Cabaero for NeueJournal