Articles

The people and things that John Wilson assembles in his beguiling anthology remain unassimilable in their bizarre singularity.

The latest iteration of the Chicago Architecture Biennial is not a place, it’s a direction. Who knows where it’s going?

The pieces titillate and tantalize and taunt, appearing always on the edge of their next mutation.

The politics of land use can breed feelings of disenfranchisement.

“Can the Olympics be secured?”

Time becomes ambiguous.

I’m not going to complain about a free city beach.

A piece of metal laying across a wooden pallet may have been one of the missing works, I don’t know.

Even the best-laid line, like the most careful of plans, can go its own way.

The video captions exude zen-ish positivity, with only semblances of ironic self-awareness.

The “good-design-is-good-business” ethos had come under fire.

Spare sketches of coiling umbilical cords and swollen nipples

Discomfort with the American dream is present, too.

A wild look at the real-world effects of social media, and the lasting implications of deathbed desires

I realized that the building I was in was weird as hell.

A land of dreams on the brink of turning into nightmares