Ramblings in the foothills: Paul Kingsnorth is an English novelist, a Greenpeace organizer-turned-Orthodox scythe-wielding hill farmer, and a must-read radical in environmental spaces for the last two decades. His “dark ecology” philosophy, expounded in his recent polemic Against the Machine, scorns environmentalists selling out to green energy and neglecting what he believes are the deeper, more spiritual causes of environmental destruction. But Kingsnorth is no crystal-toting Brooklynite, preaching the gospel that it’s ‘all about what’s inside your head, man.’ His appeal arises from a discipline based in tradition. He has grounded his critiques of technology with extensive references to those who have ventured before him (Mumford, Berry, Ellul, Fisher) and is as likely to publish a meditation on a fourteenth century theologian as he is on a dramatic news development of the day.
Fascinatingly, these emphases on tradition and intellectual discipline have given Kingsnorth appeal on certain corners of the New Right, inspiring an environmentalism that speaks the language of Nature and God rather than the technocratic parlance of liberal wonks. I was excited, then, when I heard he had a book coming out—right-wing, edge-lord, highly literate Orthodox environmentalism seemed, at the very least, like it would be interesting. And yet, it wasn’t. Against the Machine has the tenor of a Twitter rant and the organization of loosely stitched Substack series—ironic, given that it aims to critique modern technology. Like so many others that bubbled up through the “vibe shift,” Kingsnorth has grown monomaniacal, vague, rambly. Against the Machine shows that Kingsnorth has lost his discipline. All that’s left is culture war commentary, revealing too much time spent on the worst parts of the internet.
Declan Rexer, managing editor
Aspire to architecture: The Art Institute’s Bruce Goff: Material Worlds, on view through March 29, lets viewers briefly enter a dreamscape amidst the harsh temperatures and grey skies plaguing winter quarter. The exhibit showcases Goff’s architectural models, abstract paintings, and personal belongings, from his start as a teen apprentice to Frank Lloyd Wright, to the University of Oklahoma’s school of architecture developer, to a private designer of kitschy midwestern homes.
Though people crowded the room, the exhibit felt privately hopeful in a way foreign to the modern day. Goff’s exhibit doesn’t celebrate trends of the past like today’s nostalgic media; Goff was enigmatic and outside the mainstream, designing against the increasing minimalism of his contemporaries. Though midcentury gaudiness might prevail in his work, you can feel how personal Goff’s art is to his experience as an openly gay man in the late 40s.
A visual artist myself, Goff’s work left me in shock. A chuckle of relief escaped me when I noticed the label “unbuilt” next to some of his plans that I considered impossible and tedious. Why was I so uncomfortable with these beautiful, magical homes? Perhaps because, amidst constant irony and impending hyper-conformity, curiosity and play are forms of personal and social resistance, especially in queer and artistic communities. I encourage anyone that feels humanity slipping from them to seek out this exhibit and appreciate the commitment Goff has to art, and with it, to people.
Mimi Mikhailov, contributing editor
(Re)visiting Miami: Miami tempted me with a Dubai chocolate empanada over winter break. I opted for cheese instead, but was nevertheless pleased to be promised such extravagant culinary fusion. It was quintessentially Miami, despite no part of the dish originating from there.
I picked up a copy of Joan Didion’s Miami at Books & Books in Coral Gables soon after discovering the Dubai chocolate empanada. The 1987 collection of essays served as a cogent introduction to the city through another visitor’s eyes. I consulted Didion when visiting the Wynwood Art District, an old warehouse neighborhood converted into swanky art galleries with street art facades. Even in the 1980s, the city’s proliferation of high end real estate projects “had a kind of perilous attraction, like a mirage,” according to Didion. “The construction cranes still hovered on the famous skyline … floating as it did between a mangrove swamp and a barrier reef.”
To explain Miami, Didion looks to its internal tensions—Spanish and English, immigrant and exile—as well as its connections to other places: “Delays were explained by weather in Panama. The very names of the scheduled destinations suggested a world in which many evangelical inclinations had historically been accommodated, many yearnings toward empire indulged.” These days, Miami’s cosmopolitan concoctions seem to be taking the form of flaky dough surrounding a pistachio cream filling. If you’re in need of some Vitamin D of the sunlight or Didion variety, I recommend (re)visiting Miami as soon as possible.
Elena Eisenstadt, contributing editor
Image: Peter Paul Rubens, Diogenes Looking for an Honest Man, oil on oak wood, 1630–40 (Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main).