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David Cronenberg understands that for voyeurs — aka cinema audiences — arousal is not stimulated by seeing sex acts so much as it is from seeing their participants’ pleasure. In Crimes of the Future, his first feature in eight years, half-closed eyes, low moans, and arched backs are as integral to his vision as shots of metal tools piercing and pulling apart flesh. The film may depict a future world in which pain doesn’t exist and “surgery is the new sex,” but that heady sci-fi concept is almost beside the point; in its marrow, it transfers a deep erotic charge.Surgery is the name of the game for performance artists Caprice (Léa Seydoux) and Saul (Viggo Mortensen). He uses his body as a petri dish to grow new organs, which she then ceremoniously extracts during live performances. They’re artistic partners, sometimes lovers, and she is also his full-time carer, as their art makes it difficult for him to digest food and sleep. They have no work-life balance, cohabiting in an ascetic lair dominated by bug-like contraptions (like a “SarkUnit” and “OrchidBed”) that would look right at home in Alien.From Crimes of the FutureThe story plays out in a dilapidated Greek seaside town, one of crumbling pillars, deserted streets, and shadowy corners that make ideal lurking stations. Cronenberg’s regular production designer, Carol Spier, excels in the creation of an austere world dotted with futuristic contraptions in muted shades. Against this dank color scheme, metal surgical tools and Seydoux’s red lips are as striking as shooting stars. Little exposition is given about the precise system undergirding this dystopia. All we need to know is that it is dark and seedy and the human body has evolved beyond our current understanding. Performances carry the illicit allure of underground cabarets in Weimar-era Germany. Thrill-seekers gather to admire spectacles like a man with extra ears dotted across his body writhing in his underpants.Saul, who skulks about in a cape, is a celebrity in this after-hours world. He and Caprice are summoned by the National Organ Registry, specifically the bureaucrats Wippet (Don McKellar) and Timlin (Kristen Stewart), who are investigating “Accelerated Evolution Syndrome.” Saul is also an informant for New Vice, meeting with a detective (Welket Bungué) in a rusting shipyard where intestinal coils of rope represent another visual coup from Spier. Finally, Lang Dotrice (Scott Speedman), the head of a group of revolutionaries who subsist on plastic, is shadowing Saul in the hope of convincing him to do a performance-autopsy on his dead son (whose murder by Dotrice’s distressed ex-wife opens the movie).These plot mechanics are convoluted, and give the impression that Cronenberg dashed out a framework fully aware that the story isn’t what draws people to a sexy body horror film. Much like in porn, where a buff engineer shows up at a woman’s door “to fix the shower,” he’s all but winking at the audience as his sizzling cast reacts with physical abandon to the sensations of being sliced up. Said cast are also in harmony earnestly delivering the wild script. “Watching you filled me with the desire to cut my face open,” Seydoux whispers seductively after watching one artist at work. Shortly afterward she does exactly that, bearing bright facial welts for the rest of the film. From Crimes of the FutureTimlin is a shy paper-pusher who has a sexual awakening after seeing Saul and Caprice perform, and Stewart plays the discovery of her depravity with hushed urgency, quivering as she scuttles about like a postcoital mouse. Seydoux was born for her role, a Bond Girl through the looking glass, one part vah-vah-voom bombshell and one part sicko. Caprice was once a trauma surgeon, and brings the steely professionalism of the operating theatre to the actual theatre. Surgical instruments are guided by a malleable mouse pad, a touch of visual absurdity that pops beside the deadly serious performances. Crimes of the Future is a revamped megamix of vintage Cronenberg vibes, featuring the sci-fi stylings of The Fly, the sexual fetishism of Crash, and the bodily transmutations of Videodrome. Released a year after Julia Ducournau won the Palme d’Or for her woman-fucks-car opus Titane, it plays like a joyful and generous reminder that the Canadian godfather of gore is still up to deliver the goods for a specific type of cinephile. Funny, serious, and sexy all at once, it plumbs a vein of body horror that, while provocative, has blood pumping in its hot little heart. Cronenberg presents the appetites of these characters without comment. If surgery is the new sex, then so be it. Aided by Howard Shore’s throbbing, echoey score, he views the primal urgency driving his characters into the future as the same force guiding us now in the present.Crimes of the Future opens in theaters June 3. It would be obvious to the point of triteness to go on for too long about the unfortunate timeliness of a historical documentary about abortion activism coming out now. Of course, even before the recent Supreme Court leaked draft opinion to revoke Roe v. Wade, abortion rights were already in danger in much of the United States, with the procedure effectively outlawed in some states. The conservative assault on reproductive rights has been waged for decades now, and a film like The Janes exists to remind pro-choice activists of the stakes in this battle, looking back at the time when abortion was illegal.Rather than attempt a broad but shallow overview, the film smartly keeps its focus on a specific milieu which it makes emblematic of the wider conditions in the country during the pre-Roe era. Looking back at Chicago in the late 1960s and early 1970s, directors Tia Lessin and Emma Pildes interview people involved in an underground network that provided illegal abortions to those who needed them. Though fairly conventional in its approach, the film draws urgency and poignancy from its pressing subject matter and the conviction of its cast. These subjects — many of them women who either had to get illegal abortions or knew someone who did — speak with the weight of history repeating on their minds. From The JanesFrom an educational perspective, the documentary is also a compelling look at the interlocking institutions, both official and “illegitimate,” that form around a social function like abortion. For some years, the mob had been the go-to handlers for abortion work — an obvious example of how the criminalization of needed services will simply empower professional criminals. The network of “Janes,” as they were called (if you needed an abortion, you would dial a covert phone line and “Ask for Jane”) developed a set of procedures to ensure privacy and safety both for themselves and those seeking their help. It’s also curious to see how different the relationships between cultural attitudes and these institutions were back then. While abortion was illegal, former police officers interviewed for the film claimed that they frequently declined to follow tips about abortions happening, simply because pursuing every report would have taken up too much of their time. And while the Catholic Church was of course staunchly against abortion, the film delves into how individual priests both covertly and publicly supported it.The Janes is most interesting in its commitment to a firsthand account of this history. From members of the Jane network to local doctors to a blue-collar worker who became an amateur abortionist, no one without lived experience of these times testifies about them. It creates a sense of immediacy bridging the decades past to now. The film also encourages serious reflection and even self-criticism among the subjects, as they reflect on how, for instance, their network was mostly White and could have done more to help pregnant Black people. One could not exactly look to this film as an instructional on what to do if or when abortion again becomes illegal in the US — greatly expanded surveillance capabilities, a more energized and violent right-wing, and other factors would demand new and different tactics from organizers. But the movie is a reminder that no matter what a patriarchal authority may try to impose, people can always find ways to help each other.The Janes debuts June 8 on HBO. PASADENA, CA — Nancy Buchanan, Marcia Hafif, and Barbara T. Smith were in the first MFA program at the University of California, Irvine, in 1969. Run by Robert Irwin in the then-undeveloped ranch lands of Orange County, the studios not even built yet, it was a hotbed of experimental art. The work of the three artists, whose decades-long practices span performance, painting, video, and sculpture, is the subject of the group exhibition how we are in time and space at the Armory Center for the Arts. While conventional histories tend to isolate art-making as a solitary pursuit, art is as much the product of communities as it is of individuals. What the exhibition calls “empathic overlaps” are in fact the ways in which artists shared ideas, materials, spaces, and bodies as communal resources in the creation of a new avant-garde art. Between the three artists are multiple and intersecting connections, as they shared studio and exhibition spaces, babysat each other’s children, and took part in one another’s work. “I was most interested in choosing the objects that most elegantly articulated the relationships between them,” curator Michael Ned Holte said in a conversation with him and the artists. “Some of them are very explicit connections, collaborations, portraits of one another, and then in some cases, they’re more oblique or inferred.”Installation view of how we are in time and space at the Armory Center for the Arts, Pasadena. Pictured: Nancy Buchanan and Barbara T. Smith, “With Love from A to B” (1977) (photo by Ian Byers-Gamber, courtesy Armory Center for the Arts)Buchanan and Smith, part of the emerging Southern California performance art scene, were among the founders of F Space, the Santa Ana industrial park where Chris Burden infamously shot himself in the shoulder. The two later went on to share a space at the Woman’s Building in Los Angeles’s MacArthur Park. The exhibition features their 1977 collaborative video installation “With Love from A to B,” a black and white single shot featuring two pairs of hands enacting a tabletop romance, as well as footage of Buchanan’s 1974 performance “Please Sing Along,” which had the two artists fighting in karate uniforms on exercise mats before melting into an embrace.Though Hafif was primarily known as a minimalist painter, and left California for New York shortly after graduate school, one of Holte’s inspirations for the show was her 1970–77 Super-8 film Notes on Bob and Nancy, which documented the lives of Buchanan and her then-boyfriend, Robert Walker, as they went about their daily business. Another classmate, the critic Barbara Rose, also appears in the film. Hafif, in turn, later mailed Buchanan a plastic bag of her hair to use as an art material. (For a dinner party, Buchanan once asked Smith what she could bring. “She said ‘Hair!’ so I brought a big garbage bag full,” said Buchanan. “Barbara then sent friends envelopes that contained some hair and instructions to forward the hair to me.”) Installation view of how we are in time and space at the Armory Center for the Arts, Pasadena (photo Anya Ventura/Hyperallergic)In many ways, this cross-pollination was of the zeitgeist. The narrowing line between art and life, the feminist emphasis on the lived and personal, and the transformation of the social event into its own aesthetic category all fed into a collaborative ethos. “We helped each other by attending the performances because there was no audience for this,” said Smith. “You’re sitting there with all this work you want people to see, well, then, get another friend or two together and have a show in someone’s backyard. Don’t let the art world ruin you.”At the same time, each artist followed her own distinct path, every one deserving its own major retrospective. Organized around common themes of dwelling, communication, and the body, Holte has managed to condense what he calls “150 years of collective art making” into a single impressive exhibition. In documenting the affinities between the three women’s work, it reveals how art is made possible not only by individuals but also the institutions and personal relationships — the complex physical and emotional infrastructures — we rely on to survive.Ephemera case in how we are in time and space at the Armory Center for the Arts, Pasadena (photo Anya Ventura/Hyperallergic)Installation view of how we are in time and space at the Armory Center for the Arts, Pasadena. Pictured: Marcia Hafif, Notes on Bob and Nancy (1970-77), Super 8 film transferred to video, with sound, 60 minutes (courtesy the estate of the artist and Fergus McCaffrey, New York. Photo by Ian Byers-Gamber, courtesy Armory Center for the Arts)Nancy Buchanan, “Hair Art, Dirty Art” (1974), photograph (courtesy the artist and Charlie James Gallery, Los Angeles)Marcia Hafif, Notes on Bob and Nancy (1970-77), Super 8 film transferred to video, with sound, 60 minutes, installation photo at Armory Center for the Arts (courtesy the estate of the artist and Fergus McCaffrey, New York. Photo by Ian Byers-Gamber, courtesy Armory Center for the Arts)how we are in time and space: Nancy Buchanan, Marcia Hafif, and Barbara T. Smith continues at the Armory Center for the Arts (145 North Raymond Avenue, Pasadena, California) through June 12. The exhibition was curated by Michael Ned Holte. LOS ANGELES — When my Uber driver nears my destination on a sunny weekday afternoon, he tells me, “This is where all the good tacos are. And all the good birria.” We do, after all, pass Birrieria Baldomero, with its red-orange exterior. But our destination takes us to a mostly nondescript building I only recognize from its sign: Tlaloc Studios.Tucked into a residential block in Historic South-Central, the 3,700-square-foot space was previously known as the Dalton Warehouse until anti-gentrification protestors made their criticism known. Founder Ozzie Juarez gave it new life, and now 13 artists make art in the space. A dedicated area displays the work of artists, salon-style. Depending on the exhibition, there might be work from the resident artists on the walls. But generally, the works run the gamut from up-and-coming names to artists already established in the gallery world (for example, the show includes work from Shizu Saldamando, whose solo exhibition Respira, at Charlie James Gallery, recently closed).From bottom left to right (clockwise): Tidawhitney Lek “The Mask,” (2020), lino on paper, 13 x 10 inches; Liz Gusman, “Untitled” (2022), acrylic on canvas paper, 8 x 12 inches; Dulcito Soledad, “Bolsote (piñata de la Calle)” (2022), Bolsas de Mercado, thread; Juri Umagami, “One wish,” (2022) graphite & plaster on board, 10 x 10 inches; Juri Umagami, “Conceal” (2022), graphite & plaster on paper, 8 x 6 inches; Andrea Aragon, “Summoning the tribe,” (2022), oil and spray paint on cradled wood panel, 24 x 24 inches; Joyce Lee, “Poolside” (2022), pastel on paper, 12 x 8 inchesCurated by Tlaloc Studios and Los Angeles-based artist Hely Omar Gonzalez, Retrato features works around the theme of portraiture and considers the many ways in which an artist can create a portrait — of people, of course, but also places. Some scenes veer into the surreal, while others reflect common LA markers, like the tall palm trees in Tidawhitney Lek’s linocut “Meet Me at the Beach” or the hand-painted auto body sign and chain-link fence in Janeth Aparcio’s mixed media drawing, “Mantis Religiosa en Camino a La Amapola.” Other scenes capture intimate moments, as seen in both of Genavee Gomez’s expertly detailed oil on canvas portraits, as well as Kiara Aileen Machado’s “Regalitos de mama,” another focus on a femme body, but with allusions to heritage and family history also rendered in its composition. The endearing figures of Sydnie Jimenez’s “Twizzy,” standing on a pedestal, encourage a closer look because of their varied, textured surface (and the pair’s undeniable coolness).Installation view of Retrato, Tlaloc Studios, 2022Left: Genavee Gomez, “Verdad saliendo de su post” (2021), oil on canvas, 30 x 40 inches; right: Kiara Aileen Machado, “Regalitos de mama” (2022), oil on canvas, 36 x 36 inches Sydnie Jimenez, “Twizzy” (2021), ceramic, slip, glaze, underglazeNot all portraits need to involve the portrayal of a body, of course, and Dulcito Soledad’s bright and cheerful “Bolsote (piñata de la Calle),” makes that clear. The piece made me nostalgic for childhood bus rides, where the bag you used to carry your groceries or lunch for work showed a peek of who you might be as a person. At the end of a hallway, Fatima Nieto’s “Muñeca Chingona,” a plexiglass and plexiglass-mirror figure, reflects the viewer back to themselves. The piece looks so at home on this particular strip of wall, removed slightly from the rest of the show, that I double-check if it’s part of the show or a permanent fixture. It’s the former, of course, and when I photograph it, I capture my own likeness.The author and Fatima Nieto, “Muñeca Chingona” (2021), plexiglass and plexi mirrorThe effectiveness of the group exhibition lies in the way it surveys up-and-coming as well as established artists in a way that feels authentic. You can find plenty of alternative spaces in Los Angeles, but walking into Tlaloc Studios’ no-fuss exhibition space, the focus clearly stays on the art. There’s a car parked nearby, and someone chatting away on the phone when I visit. This isn’t the type of art space where you can meander in after getting a couple of cocktails at an IG-photo-ready bar. A visit requires more intention. A QR code is the only signage, which isn’t always ideal for all art visitors, but seems par for the course in an increasingly digital age. Waiting for my ride at the end of my visit, the only sounds were a dog barking in the distance, an engine being revved nearby. Installation view of Retrato, Tlaloc Studios, 2022Retrato continues at Tlaloc Studios (447 East 32nd Street, Historic South-Central, Los Angeles) through June 10, 2022. The exhibition was curated by Tlaloc Studios and Hedy Omar Gonzalez. In June 2017, a public housing tower block in West London went up in flames, the blaze exacerbated by the building’s cost-saving flammable insulation (“The cladding went up like a matchstick,” recalled one resident). As many activists pointed out in the aftermath, most of the more than 70 people who died in the Grenfell Tower fire were immigrants of color. That fire still rages in “Another Burning,” the final poem of British-Jamaican poet D. S. Marriott’s Before Whiteness:this paper is on fireand the earth is a roominside the flames incinerare breathed like a rope of air where we took our final, faltering steps down smoke-filled stairs, down narrow corridors a roaring in our ears openmouthed, blindsided, our mouths already burning from the portrayal.That descent down the smoke-filled stairs of the tower block parallels Marriott’s descent through language and history — the history of slavery, of immigration, and of the movement of refugees. A central question underlying Before Whiteness is whether language itself can provide a path to survival, even liberation, or whether the poem simply erects a temporary monument against time and forgetting: for you and Idescent meant rescue, but there was black smokeall around us, and our mistake was in thinkingthat language meant expectancy or survival—and not something endlessly abandoned, evacuated.a word petrified, then cracked, a void endlessly imprinted, shaped into concrete.One form of remembering is the elegy, and Before Whiteness is punctuated with a series of them to other writers. Marriott’s elegiac remembering has a global reach: the Black American poets Stephen Jonas (“Jonas Runs the Voodoo Down”) and Bob Kaufman (“Blue in Bandoe”), the Zimbabwean writer Dambudzo Marechera (“Clash City Poets”), and the British anarchist Sean Bonney (“Goodbye Pork Pie Hat”). This last poem perfectly captures Bonney’s incandescent rage, as well as his love of language and his insistence on the necessity for street-level activism:someone beckons & reminds you that each gathering is a celebration of the already-deadand each word mattersless than it should, (the hard facts fluttering like banners over bloodsoaked pavements)Marriott is an impassioned but subtle poet, thoughtful and challenging. While his poetry sometimes evokes the incantatory and jazz-inflected tones of American Beat poets (and even, in “Murking,” the British rapper Stormzy), he has deep affinities with such postwar British avant-gardists as J. H. Prynne, Andrew Crozier, and John Wilkinson. The poems of Before Whiteness present a host of questions about contemporary race and class relations, personal and historical memory, in a complex and oblique idiom, aware always that poetic language itself is (in T. S. Eliot’s words from East Coker) “a raid on the inarticulate, / With shabby equipment always deteriorating.” There are no easy answers, no simple solutions.The very title Before Whiteness is intentionally ambiguous: does “before” mean coming earlier or “facing”? Some of Marriott’s poems seem to reach toward the roots of the Black/White dichotomy. “Hoernejongetje” (a Dutch word, meaning “boy whore”) examines a “ledger,” “its leather sweat-soaked / in its clinkered cubicle”; is this the record book of a slave ship, as referenced in the earlier poem “The Dream, Called Lubek”?The writ should not be black from the sentence.Loose the flaps but not your tongue.Release the words from their trap,but don’t forget to nuance the meaning.This is where true ownership begins.A hand scratching worth from zero.Those last two lines are key: is this the beginning of the master/enslaved relationship, the slaver inscribing the name of the enslaved person, thereby rendering them something of financial “worth”? Or is this (more hopefully) a scene of self-creation through writing, the Black poet rewriting “paper already dirtied” and asserting self-ownership? This scene of writing and literacy recalls Before Whiteness’s first poem, “The Ghost of Averages,” which begins with an allusion to Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery:The French grammar lies open on a tablesmeared with grease, oil,— unfettered by the chainsopening the mind begins its flightThe practical-minded Washington had called the sight of a young Black man studying French grammar “with grease on his clothing, filth all around him, and weeds in the yard and garden” one of the “saddest” things he had seen; for Marriott, it is “proof the ancient memories lie unredeemed” — unredeemed, but available for conquest and learning.Far less hopeful is the intense (and in places stomach-churning) “The Rest Unfinished: In Dedication to the Young Negress, Kara E. Walker.” Much of this longish poem is a phantasmagoria on the artist Walker’s silhouettes of antebellum America: scenes of rape, incest, coprophilia, and mutilation. “Tableaux of pain and perversity,” Marriott calls them, but tableaux in which something liberatory, violent, but ultimately abortive, can be perceived:The imagined,suckled big with our black milk,swollen like a creek, all the tributariesincessant, held captive from mouth to slave,weighed down, anchor-likein the Tallahatchie river,is something unaccountable—a sword, a broom,a row of urns, axes, and pumpkins,and a runaway caught on the roadway.Marriott’s poems are not easygoing, not merely due to their generally grim outlook and occasionally violent imagery, but because they refuse to follow linear lines of discourse, description, or argument; they dart from subject to subject, voice to voice, carrying the reader along by the force of inventive language and relentless surprise. Often, however, as in the title poem’s “Coda” (which reads, for all its references to Martin Buber and The Little Prince, as a kind of fantasy autobiography), Marriott rises to a magnificent oratorical pitch:Through crowded trainsin which I cry and ambut an isolated fury,listening to several voices,as day comes up out of dirtied windows,I write of this shameso as to possess it,and to idolize its pride, its black nobility.This and many other passages in Before Whiteness constitute their own monuments of memory among the smoke and welter of history and contemporaneity.Before Whiteness by D. S. Marriott (2022) is published by City Lights Books and is available online and in bookstores. Summer is the season for corn worshippers, so it’s the perfect time of year to appreciate a recent archeological discovery from Palenque in Chiapas. The highlands and dense rainforest of this southern Mexican state, which borders Guatemala, are flecked with Mayan archaeological sites, one of which recently produced an approximately 1,300-year-old sculpture representing the head of a Mayan maize god, according to the National Institute of Anthropology and History (INAH).A statement by INAH released on May 31 noted that the artifact was found facing east to west, “which would symbolize the birth of the maize plant with the first rays of the sun.” The sculpture was discovered during conservation work on a corridor connecting sections of a palace complex, inside a pond receptacle “emulating the entrance of the deity to the underworld.”The representation of the Mayan god, more than 1,300 years old, was found during conservation work. (photo by Gibrán Huerta) Archaeologist Arnoldo González Cruz excavating the sculpture in July of last yearCorn was a crop of huge significance to various peoples of Mesoamerica, and the maize god was subsequently one of the most important deities, especially in the Classic Period, the golden age of the Mayan Empire. According to research by the Dallas Museum of Art, the earliest representations of the maize god appear among the Early Classic Maya and typically depict a young male with stylized maize on the top of the head. During the Late Classic Period, the so-called “Tonsured Maize God” represented “mature and fertile maize, depicted with an elongated human head shaved in sections across the forehead.” The Palenque sculpture fits with these stylistic parameters.The sculpture was placed on a pond. (photo by Palenque INAH Archaeological Project)Because the sculpture was found under extremely wet and humid conditions, it required a period of drying out before restoration efforts could be undertaken. The interdisciplinary team that makes up the initiative to restore the find is co-directed by archaeologist Arnoldo González Cruz and restorer Haydeé Orea Magaña from INAH. The discovery was made during conservation work on a palace complex. (photo by Palenque INAH Archaeological Project)“The discovery allows us to begin to know how the ancient Maya of Palenque constantly relived the mythical passage of the birth, death, and resurrection of the maize deity,” said Cruz in the statement released by INAH.As we head out for a season of corn on the cob and celebrating colonial holidays, we might all take a moment to give thanks and salute this a-maize-ing discovery! The gold tabernacle at St. Augustine Roman Catholic church in Park Slope (left) and its protective metal case (right), which was sawed into by thieves (image courtesy New York Police Department)On Saturday, May 28, Father Frank Tumino opened the doors of the St. Augustine Roman Catholic Church in Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood and found a missing tabernacle, a decapitated statue of an angel, another statue destroyed, and the eucharist thrown over the altar.St. Augustine’s gold tabernacle is valued by the New York Police Department (NYPD) at $2 million. In 1888, when construction on the Gothic Revival church began, parishioners donated their own jewelry to adorn the tabernacle, according to a video produced by the Catholic Church in 2013. For over a century, the tabernacle has housed the eucharist, the offering given during communion each mass.One of the damaged statues (image courtesy DeSales Media Group)A video taken before the robbery shows the tabernacle up close and its position behind the altar.“This is devastating, as the tabernacle is the central focus of our church outside of worship, holding the Body of Christ, the Eucharist,” Tumino said in a statement.The theft occurred sometime between 6:30pm on Thursday, May 25, and 4pm, according to the NYPD. The church thinks it took place on Friday.St. Augustine had security cameras, which the NYPD said were not working, but Tumino said the DVR recording of the footage was stolen as well. The church was under construction at the time of theft.The thief or thieves reportedly bypassed the tabernacle’s own electronic security system and sawed through its one-inch-thick metal case.“To know that a burglar entered the most sacred space of our beautiful Church and took great pains to cut into a security system is a heinous act of disrespect,” Tumino said.The exterior of St. Augustine’s, designed by the Parfitt brothers (via Wikimedia Commons)A safe was sawed into as well, but there was nothing inside to take.Designed by the Parfitt brothers, the architects behind much of Park Slope’s characteristic brownstone landscape, St. Augustine was completed in 1892. The interior of the church — featuring stretching arches and stained glass windows — took over 30 years to finish. The interior of the church (photo by Adam Fagen via Flickr)An NYPD spokesperson told Hyperallergic that the investigation was ongoing as of June 3. The incident was not being investigated as a hate crime.“For somebody to come in and desecrate our church is a horror,” Maryann Taranto, a Brooklyn local and one of the church’s parishioners, told the New York Times. She added that she was praying for the tabernacle’s return.

Capital Knowledge in Art (CapitalKA)

by DHAdmann