Where Did You Go? Rhythmic tintinnabulary cabalettas inside soft baked fairy tale threnodies - lilting moontouched theremins, psychic lithographs of balloons - sleeping during dogwatch in the crosstrees by the languid moans of threadbare weatherboards - gritty euphonic lo-fi transmissions from long dead moon farms - the invocations from antique radios short circuiting in cool spring rain.

Como eu me sinto sobre ser vovó? Eu não me vejo velha. A velhice é um presente. Abdômen redondo, pele flácida,. Traseiro rotundo e seios caídos. Mas que resguarda uma alma jovem,. Animada, realizada e cheia de sonhos ainda. Não trocaria nada do que tenho. Amigos, trabalho, saúde, estabilidade,. Equilíbrio, cabelos brancos, experiências. Nem de ter filhos ou de vê-l.

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As for us still-baffled academics, the timing of our conversations about anti-fascist art has not been lost on us. We never thought our work would speak to our own time. For a fearful, angry world, is just a start.