Cracks. That’s what it all comes down to, the security guard concludes, two-thirds into an eight-hour shift watching his City’s most popular monument. It’s not the site itself — just another roped-off section in an otherwise nondescript park. It’s not the fall — most of the tourists and schoolchildren lining up to see this thing won’t remember learning how or when that happened. The crack, though — that, they’ll remember. Like everybody’s base-head uncle.

More about: Career Crooks, Small Pro, Zilla Rocca

The great marvel of the past is how malleable its shape becomes in the hands of both artists and revisionists, abrading the old guard, chipping away at stubborn monoliths until they give out, easy as sand through the fingers. Brooklyn’s own Widowspeak are riddled with ghosts, hovering between each breath, every reverb-soaked gesture.

More about: Widowspeak

Lithe feline rises to meet stately dog. They touch only in their separation. What would be the division of the whole becomes division’s amelioration, peace, only by the addition of their bodies that in other contexts might be selling shoes. The LGBTQ+ rainbow becomes an additional cage. Almost logos, the animals are trapped and enslaved by the bars their own bodies connote. Division itself fractures and fragments, all the while displaying its opposite with its own face.

More about: Hype Williams

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More about: Liars