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The rumors are true (or, how one thing becomes another)

I’ve seen the headlines. The rumors are true—or so it seems.

For the past few years, I’ve been working inside the strange world of a harras—a cycle of surreal and absurd poems that slowly expanded into a book, an album, and a short film. The project has always been about change, so in some ways it feels inevitable that the music itself would eventually transform as well.

Today I’m releasing crossmyheart (a harras reworks), a remix album built from the original vocal recordings but radically reimagined musically. The result moves through ambient atmosphere, industrial textures, ceremonial rhythms, and flashes of pop energy—what I’ve started to think of as something like synth-pop poetry.

Two tabloid-style newspapers against a black background featuring the headline “LUKE KURTIS SELLS OUT, GOES POP,” with bold red-and-black graphics, a blurred portrait photo, and a small black-and-white image of a basement interior in the upper corner.

Have you seen this? We’ve seen it too.

a map of fragments

A close-up, black-and-white image of a person holding their head in their hands, eyes closed, with a distressed or contemplative expression. — Still from *a harras* video by luke kurtis

i took some time to myself the past year or so. last summer i went to Austria and Hungary, where i made a conceptual photo-text work. i didn’t tell many people about it, because that’s what i needed—creation without expectation, burden, or responsibility. if you know me at all, you know i’m an introvert to the nth. and sometimes art-making in a public way is too much.

if i’ve learned anything, it’s that art is best when it’s on my own terms—when i don’t worry too much about how it will exist in the world (if it even needs to). there’s a certain rawness i’m still figuring out how to hold without smoothing it over.

i went to Japan for the winter—back to my beloved Tokyo for the first time since the pandemic. spent a few days up in Sapporo for the snow festival (bucket list moment), then settled in Osaka for a while. Osaka was grand, but Tokyo will always be the one. there’s just something about being alone in the biggest city on earth, but never feeling like your introversion is an obstacle. which is pretty much the opposite of New York—a city that dares you to keep up or get out. no wonder punk was born there (among other places).

Somewhere between Hungary and Japan (or, the update I meant to write last year)

The last time I posted an update—well over a year ago—I said I’d be sharing stories from Japan, where I hoped to shake off the post-pandemic malaise of middle age. That didn’t happen as planned. But I did spend a good part of the summer in Central Europe.

I did a lot of photography while I was there—including AURA, a conceptual photo-text work made from images I shot in Vienna and ideas I worked through while living quietly in Hungary, reading Walter Benjamin and thinking about how we see and remember art.

A woman browses a rack of clothes outside a yellow boutique with mannequins and a display table near the entrance. — A shop in Szombathely, Hungary

Cover of "the immeasurable fold" album by luke kurtis — Cover of “the immeasurable fold” album by luke kurtis

Five years ago this year I published the immeasurable fold, a selection of my best poems written from 2000-2015. Several years later during the pandemic, I recorded audio versions of all 42 poems in the book. I combined spoken word with original compositions and soundscapes to create a unique musical and literary experience. Now I am excited to release an album of those tracks.

an AI-generated image of a robot deep in thought while reading a book — (by luke kurtis with assistance of DALL-E 2)

I like to ask ChatGPT to interpret my poems, curious about what meaning it might pull out. Sometimes I’ve even given it abstract and surreal poems, expecting it to hallucinate something totally off the wall. But, virtually every time, it comes back with an impressive interpretation.

I find this reassuring. It gives me confidence to know that if an AI can pull meaning out of a poem that aligns with my intentions as the poet, then I must have successfully imbued that meaning within the text in the first place. And I know it’s not merely copying what someone else has said because typically, I’ve shown it poems that have yet to be published but never even seen by anyone other than me.

So, asking ChatGPT for its thoughts on a published poem you may have read and sharing that with you would be interesting. I chose “sutras,” published in Amethyst Review. Here’s what it had to say, unedited.

An update from luke kurtis

i’ll be 44 years old this year. all the things they say about midlife crises seem to be true. it’s a thing. i haven’t been myself, creative or otherwise, for quite some time. the pandemic, middle age, and work circumstances all collided, smashed together, split apart, ripped me in two. i’m still trying to put things back together.

Celebrating five years of collaboration

When Dudgrick Bevins and luke kurtis met in NYC in the mid-2010s and discovered they were originally from the same area of northwest Georgia, they knew an eventual collaboration would make sense. Both were born in the same town, though from different generations. Both made art based on their upbringing in rural Appalachia. Both knew what it was like to be rejected by family, friends, and their communities. The resulting collaboration was a 2017 chapbook titled Georgia Dusk, followed by more books by Bevins and edited/designed by kurtis.

Five years later, both the lives of these artists and the world at large have evolved. But the spirit of their collaboration remains the same. The pair came together to record their poetry just before the pandemic. kurtis later composed the accompanying music. And here we are—five years since the original book—with a spoken word EP celebrating the artists, who they were then, who they are now, and who they are becoming. After all, a life well lived and art well made is in continual transformation.

Please enjoy the Georgia Dusk spoken word EP (and the book, too if you never picked it up).

Anastasia Walker on selfies, seasons, and swimming in the ocean 🤳🍃🌊

I was eager to talk with the gracious and witty Anastasia Walker, trans writer and photographer, to learn more about her transition and the inspiration behind her new book, The Girl Who Wasn’t and Is.

SK: Let’s start with the essay that concludes your book because reading it brought everything together for me. You express a longstanding distrust of cameras, yet you thrive in the medium of photography. How does your reappropriation of the medium help shift viewers’ perspectives?

AW: The selfie that essay starts with is a good place to begin. I took it when I was still finding myself and getting comfortable being out. Selfies, as part of the genre of portrait photography, and paintings before that, are informed by cis-normative conventions. A “good” selfie shows you looking and acting in ways that are typical for cis members of your gender. For women, it means meeting standards of beauty set by the movie and fashion industries. Becoming aware of these expectations, I was confronted with questions. Should I try to summon the smile that my friend in the essay chastised me about? Did performing all those expectations feel authentic? In that moment, it didn’t. And I liked that selfie because I was appropriating the genre to express my truth.

Photo of the poetry book The Girl Who Wasn't and Is by Anastasia Walker — The Girl Who Wasn’t and Is by Anastasia Walker

cyberspace and the sea

I had gone away to spend some time out of the city. We booked a house near the sea because it seemed like a relaxing spot. The goal was to disconnect for a while, spend less time looking at screens all day. I took some creative supplies with me, markers and pencils and such, with the vague idea of, should inspiration strike, being creative in an analog way. And, of course, making photos. But I had no grand plan. I didn’t intend to develop a new project. So this is definitely a case of the work finding me instead of me finding it.

The drawings, poems, and photos I made essentially describe my experience that week. I’m literally talking about hanging out by the beach for a few days, trying to recover from a stressful time. On the surface, it’s not so profound. But it’s the mundanity that makes it relatable. I used that simplicity to tap into the subconscious.

After I got back home and realized I had created all this stuff, I wondered what I might do with it. I put together the video art and designed an experience meant to be seen in person, projected in a dark room with surround sound. I even set up a small screen prototype. The work created exactly the immersive and meditative environment I was going for. But given the pandemic, trying to plan an in-person exhibition didn’t feel right. So I began to consider what I could do digitally.

Three monitors showing the seaside magic video art by luke kurtis are the only source of light in the room. — small screen *seaside magic* video installation prototype

I’ve always been more comfortable in cyberspace, so it’s sort of odd I never did a digital exhibition before. But the pandemic has changed the ways we connect. Besides, I’ve always been somewhat reclusive and find it challenging to communicate with people in person, making digital spaces more effective. So, I hope other people are more open to this way of connecting than they might have been in the past.

It would be easy to think of an online exhibition as an inferior substitute for something else. But I don’t feel that way about this at all. In fact, I’m excited that I can beam this work into your home, no matter where you are in the world.

Please join me and explore seaside magic from your corner of cyberspace. I hope you will approach it with intention and feel the same sense of calm that I felt while making it.

Anastasia Walker’s poetry is a meditation on community, history, nature 🌿

We’re excited to tell you about the newest title in our ongoing series of poetry books. The Girl Who Wasn’t and Is is the debut collection by trans poet Anastasia Walker. Anastasia is a phenomenal poet with almost obsessive attention to detail that informs every word, syllable, and punctuation mark to the point that her poems are bolted together with architectural precision. Her photographs of the natural world and other surroundings, by contrast, are loose and free, the perfect pairing.

Often deeply personal, Anastasia’s poems explore not only her identity as a transgender woman but also her relationships with her family, the experiences of friends and allies, as well as her community’s ongoing quest for justice and dignity.

An abstract image of autumn leaves — Photo by Anastasia Walker

The other day I watched a video about how time seems to go by faster the older we get. I definitely feel that. Where does the time go?

As time moves on, I like to mark the milestones along the way.

It’s the second November of the pandemic. That’s kind of a milestone. How many more Novembers before the old ways begin to fade? I already feel that to some extent and mostly feel comfortable with a new way of living, working, and being. Next November, certain things about the before times will seem even more distant. But there is also a sadness.

Dudgrick Bevins on teaching, trauma, and telling stories 🧑‍🏫😨🖋️

In the sweaty New York City July heat, I sat down with my friend and colleague, Dudgrick Bevins. We talked about his new poetry volume, Vigil, exploring a new generation’s relationship with school shootings and the unheard voices breathing desperately into a chorus of narrative poetry. Bevins is not only a prolific interdisciplinary artist and poet but a fellow educator. Here he reflects on what it means to navigate the role of teacher when talking to students about gun violence while still processing the chaotic internal emotions that each individual experiences in the aftermath of traumatic school shootings.