I don’t know what to make of this.

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

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


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.
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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.
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This weekend we celebrate Pride here in New York. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how vital Pride is because I live just steps away from Stonewall, the epicenter of where the gay rights movement began. It’s not because I’m unaware of the persecution against LGBTQ+ folks—I’ve lived through my share of hardships because of my sexual identity. But amid the comings and goings of everyday life, it’s sometimes too easy to become comfortable.
Read MoreIt’s high time I bring you an update about my work to support Cambodian Children’s Destiny. As you may recall, last year when my Angkor Wat project came out I launched a fundraiser to raise money for the NGO school. Between the online fundraiser and additional in-person donations, I was able to raise about $1,500. This was enough money to construct walls for two classrooms and still have some left over for other needed supplies!
I also donated several gently used laptops for use at the school. These machines were old and clunky by our standards… but a precious thing for these Cambodians. It took a lot of love (and muscle) to lug those all the way around the world. But airport security didn’t bat an eye. I was prepared for all sorts of, “Why are you traveling with so many laptops?” questions. Luckily, it was no problem!
To give you a better sense of everything I’m talking about, here are a few photos from my visit to the school this past October…
In my Angkor Wat book, I wrote in the “ancient hall” poem, “this is only the beginning.” When I wrote that line, I had no idea just how prophetic a statement it was. Not only did I end up writing the entire book and album as they exist now, but I also traveled back to Cambodia a second time to do so. And now I am here for the third time. This time it wasn’t my book that brought me here, but my charity work for Cambodian Children’s Destiny. Today I visited the school in person for the first time. I have to admit that I haven’t been able to put the experience into words just yet. It’s so hard to describe what life is like in Cambodia. You have to see it for yourself. And, even then, the more I see, the more I realize that I never really understood it at all. The truth is that I probably never will understand it. That’s how different things are here. What I can say with certainty, though, is that I–and all of you back home reading this–are incredibly privileged. I know it’s hard for you to see that sitting where you are. It was hard for me to see it too. But from where I’m at right now, it’s perfectly clear.
“This is only the beginning,” indeed. I don’t know where I’m headed. I don’t know what will come next. But I know the things I have experienced have changed me. I will never be able to look at life and the world the same way again. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
Dear friends,
I decided I would make posts here to keep you in the loop in “real time” about my work in Cambodia. I just arrived in Siem Reap a few hours ago. After a more than 24 hour journey, I am, of course, beat. So at the moment I’m just relaxing for a bit and trying to adjust to the new time, new place, new… everything! But I’ve got to break through the jet lag so while I may have a brief nap, I have to make myself stay awake until a reasonable hour. You fellow travelers know what that’s like!

Understanding the difference between skillful vs unskillful fear is an important Buddhist concept. I’ve been thinking about this in very personal terms. When I did my convergence installation earlier this year, I had to face some fears. The piece is installed in the middle of the woods. To fully experience the piece, you must visit in the dark of night with no lights. That can be a somewhat scary thing, especially with the constant sounds of the forest and all the animals around you. But I pushed myself forward to do this with skillful fear. I remember sitting there under cover of darkness, the convergence orbs glowing nearby, hearing the snaps and cracks of animals and birds all around. I even heard the snorting of deer who dashed away as soon as they detected my presence. My heart raced at these encounters with skillful fear, helping me ultimately get more in touch with my love for these animals and nature at large.
I captured one of the encounters on video when I heard something moving towards me. It turned out to be an armadillo! I had never seen an armadillo in Georgia before. When I showed the footage to my parents, they were amazed as in their almost-70 years of living there, they also had never seen an armadillo. I guess it takes a New York artist working in the woods—and a bit of skillful fear—to bring them out!
No matter what your fears may be, I encourage you to practice skillful fear. Use your fear as a tool to uncover more productive feelings within—not as a weapon in defense.
9/11 is forever etched in my mind. It’s a day that forever changed the course of history. But it’s also a day of intense personal experience for me as a young New Yorker. It was only natural that I would communicate about that experience through my writing and art. In 2014 I collected a tightly curated selection of that work for The Language of History exhibition at NYPL Jefferson Market Library. I also published a book by the same name to expand upon that show. But both the show and the book were tightly curated. My archive contained so much more that remained unseen and unpublished.
In 2015, when the 9/11 Memorial Museum expressed interest in my archive, I decided to prepare something totally unique and original just for the occasion. I designed a special anodized aluminum limited edition box to house original photographic prints from this body of work as well as a copy of The Language of History book. While the original book contained only 26 photographs, this special I’m set expands the total number to 129.
The purpose of the box is archival in nature. Many of these photos are not necessarily aesthetically pleasing or even good photographs in a technical sense. But they do document a very specific time and place and cover an aspect of the 9/11 tragedy—the local experience from Greenwich Village—in a way I’ve never seen done before. It’s hard to remember how back in 2001 we didn’t have cell phone cameras documenting events all around us, so that fact that I created all these photos is more unique than it might sound. My intent is to commit these personal images to the narrative preserved by the 9/11 Memorial Museum so that our larger collective history can remember the quiet stories of those dark days us New Yorkers experienced so many years ago.

Independence Day stirs thoughts in me about the visual aesthetics of the United States and the role artists, architects, and designers play in constructing American visual identity. I’ve always been fascinated at how so much of American architectural style is based on Classical proportions.
Read MoreI’ve released two short video diary clips leading up to a more formal video which I’ll be releasing about the woods are watching, a brand new work that I am very excited about. Tune in to Michael Harren’s podcast this Thursday, 17 September, to learn about the work. In the meantime, watch these two clips and subscribe to my YouTube channel—it really helps if you subscribe—so you don’t miss the new video when it comes out!
UPDATE: The full video is out now!
I first performed my journey meditation walk in 2011. I was deeply enmeshed in the Jordan’s Journey project at the time and the meditation walk video was a one-off creative experiment that I did while I was working on the Jordan’s Journey videos. In fact, the meditation walk video clip ended up being part of that trailer. I sat aside the footage and in 2012 first created the standalone journey video both as documentation of the original performance and as original video art.
This is the bd Blog: studio projects, writing, and encounters with artists—an ongoing record of the practice.
Explore the full archive.
seaside magic is a multimedia body of work by luke kurtis that combines photography, video, poetry, drawing, music, and design.
Vigil
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Springtime in Byzantium
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Architecture and Mortality
$30.00
Hang Five
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The Girl Who Wasn't and Is
$20.00
