My Meteorite: Or, Without The Random There Can Be No New Thing

16.99 JOD

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Description

‘Where can the human animal seek its energy in this era of lockdowns and social distancing? Dodge may help us to find out’ Guardian‘If you’re a fan of Maggie Nelson’s work, you’ll like this book. It’s truly beautiful’ DazedIs love a force akin to gravity? A kind of invisible fabric which enables communications through space and time? Artist Harry Dodge finds himself contemplating such questions as his father declines from dementia and he rekindles a bewildering but powerful relationship with his birth mother. A meteorite Dodge orders on eBay becomes a mysterious catalyst for a reckoning with the vital forces of matter, the nature of consciousness, and the bafflements of belonging. Structured around a series of formative, formidable coincidences in Dodge’s life, My Meteorite journeys with stylistic bravura from Barthes to Blade Runner, from punk to Pale Fire. It is a wild, incandescent book that creates a literary universe of its own. Blending the personal and the philosophical, the raw and the surreal, the transgressive and the heartbreaking, Harry Dodge revitalizes our world, illuminating the magic just under the surface of daily life.’Holds you in its thrall like a brilliant friend. Dodge is a masterful writer’ Miranda July

Additional information

Weight 0.451 kg
Dimensions 3.2 × 14.4 × 22.2 cm
by

Format

Hardback

Language

Pages

336

Publisher

Year Published

2020-4-2

Imprint

Publication City/Country

London, United Kingdom

ISBN 10

1787302342

About The Author

Harry Dodge is a writer and visual artist whose work has been exhibited at venues nationally and internationally. His solo and collaborative work is held in numerous institutions, such as the Museum of Modern Art, NY; and Museum of Contemporary Art, LA. In 2017 Dodge was awarded a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. He lives with his family in Los Angeles.

Review Quote

Dodge has offered a new, luminous angle on autobiography that not only traces where the body has been—but also what it loves, how it thinks and feels within the potent intellectual and physical detritus of its lived world. Reading this book is like being bathed in the bright, gritty sear of a comet's tail. But the mark it leaves is stunningly terrestrial: a thumbprint of a mind on paper—singular in erudition, hurtfully wonder-struck, and true.

Other text

Harry Dodge’s voice and vision are singular, but his genius is for revealing how each of us is plural. This is a beautiful record of his loves and deaths and ways of making, but even its most intimate moments open out, become portals to other possible worlds. No genre can hold this book. It is a work of tender force, prying open every category. My Meteorite is breathtaking—or breathgiving, because the whole thing oxygenates discourse, makes me feel alive.