It Ain't Hemingway

NO AGE & TODD COLE “INFLORESCENCE DOCUMENTARY” AVAILABLE HERE!

Renowned filmmaker/photographer Todd Cole and experimental art-punk duo No Age joined forces to create and document a unique performance for the band’s “Inflorescence.” Cole and No Age were paired as part of a series of creative collaborations fostered by the Levi’s Film Workshop, a temporary creative film production facility housed inside the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), Los Angeles.

Todd Cole and No Age are LA-based creative pioneers. Cole is a filmmaker/photographer, whose work has been exhibited internationally at galleries, museums and festivals and featured in publications ranging from the New York Times to i-D. No Age is the duo of Dean Spunt and Randy Randall, they are on a constant journey to explore the furthest reaches of sound. They set out with one particular rule in mind: To write songs that we would be psyched to listen to. They have been been at the epicenter of the DIY art-punk scene in LA, now famously known as having its epicenter at The Smell, a clubhouse where art-life/music-life welded and inspired a creative movement and attitude which has fertilized a purple patch of likeminded punkers and artists around the globe.

The No Age performance took place inside the Film Workshop, marking the close of the Film Workshop and celebrating MOCA’s “Art in the Streets” street art exhibition, a groundbreaking show that saw over 200,000 visitors, breaking all attendances records in the museum’s history.

by Anne Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
 and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.

Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.

They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?