Our friend just opened a new solo show, KOM INTE OCH KNACKA PÅ (Don't Come and Knock) at Galleri Thomassen in Gothenburg, Sweden. The show consists of many new works on paper "Isolation and fear were recurring thoughts during the work. I often get stuck on a single word or sentence, this should not be mistaken for a theme or an explanation. Rather, the process itself should lead the works in the direction they wish." - Daniel Götesson 2025
When we can't fully express ourselves to our friends and family, some of us decide to find a therapist. Therapists can hold up the mirror to show us the maladaptive patterns we're repeating over and over. The brave therapists risk our anger and resentment as they professionally and respectfully challenge us to consider the mistakes we're making. They help us overcome our shame and teach us that our depression, our anxiety, and our hate all find no purchase on the steep slope of emotional support,
"Train Dreams" is a beautiful movie, but I can't say that I entirely trust its beauty. The director, Clint Bentley, and the cinematographer, Adolpho Veloso, have composed a studiedly rapturous hymn to the American wilderness-to the scenic glories of babbling brooks, wispy cloud formations, and trees soaring majestically heavenward. It's an exaltation of the natural world, rendered with an almost supernatural intensity of light and color, and with a score, by Bryce Dessner, whose rippling chords seem to evoke the sounds of cascading water.
Grainier, an orphan sent to Idaho by train at the age of 6 or 7 with a destination pinned to his coat, is an ordinary person-a laborer who makes a living building railroads, joining seasonal logging crews, and, as an older man, hauling freight with a wagon. "He'd had one lover-his wife, Gladys-owned one acre of property, two horses, and a wagon," Johnson sums up Grainier's life, near the end of the novella, in a catalog of experience that neatly pins him as a creature of his time, class, and place:
I believe this sentence captures a paradox of the world we live in today. Many of us crave a sense of connection and purpose. We want to belong to something meaningful, to give back, and to make a difference in the places where we live. However, despite being constantly plugged in, the kind of community that nourishes us can still feel distant and hard to reach.
The titular summer people are the Allisons from New York, who rent the same off-grid country cottage each year. This time, instead of heading back to the city, they decide to extend their holiday for a month longer something that seems to unsettle everyone in the nearby town. All pass on the same veiled caution that nobody has ever stayed at the lake beyond Labor Day.
It's mostly just a shame that we don't connect anymore. I went through my big rough patch and barely made it to the other side. I know why I hesitate to reach out, but I'm still disappointed when my old friends are still silent. I'm just a lame three lagged dog who can't play the same games or something. Life
With only the lazy Joshua trees and hovering buzzards out here to bear witness, this isolated expanse of high-desert plain could well be among the quietest places on the planet. By day, the summer heat hammers hard and the dull whistle of the wind is the only discernible noise. Come nightfall, the eerie silence is often pierced by the woeful bleat of a wandering burro.
"All of a sudden I started realising that, when interesting things happened to me, I was excited to tell her about them. That's when she stopped being an it and became a her."