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Written by Mythily Meher I'll tell you about the youth I know. This youth is disenchanted, glamorous and bored. It goes to parties, sucks lollipops in the dark and simulates sexual positions at the dinner table, and somebody with a camera takes their picture and puts it on the internet; another exquisite homage to ... whatever - to itself? Its face is beautiful, hungry, leonine, sometimes strange, and its postured show of mutual fondness, of love, is an icon in the making that is being dismantled as we speak. “Amidst this unproductive mentality, culture drags on” says Clara Chon, and you get the feeling she bears no reproach. Culture blooms like full spring in a world once removed from this one, where myth and fiction take their cues from the silver screen, ambiguous lines of lyric and the loose threads of unsolved mysteries. Fandom and Florence Wild pick up the dropped stitches, connect the dots, and together endow the imaginary with flesh and blood and a rosy pallor. In this way, a few famed pop stars live on after death: quiet peaceful lives, far from the prying eyes of the press. And in this way too, spaces and places from stories tell themselves into happening. Culture is alive and well. And there is yet another world once removed from here, one in which flesh, blood and boredom come together some more; love is proclaimed in cumulative increments, friendships are reinforced and time from here is spoon-fed into there, inch by precious inch. Culture, it seems, is both wasteland and wonderland, and I can't be sure where one ends and the other begins.
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