Even as this text overtly laments the degree to which Marxist art criticism has focused too greatly upon the political underpinnings of the artwork (ideology critique), this study ultimately finds itself succumbing to its own third way politics.
While this elite benefaction may help to undergird the lucky artist’s work, it certainly does not offer a hell of a lot of relief to this lost listener who cannot afford their dietary staples.
This genealogy of American violence suggests the West as an extension of a mechanism long set in motion, always going to break in the singular, inevitable way it could have.
Moten’s poetry crafts a situation in which the melody stays hidden. He never plays the head of the composition, even if he alludes to the conceptual sphere of the movement.