It’s often difficult for me to watch films in art spaces. Whenever I come across a film screening at a museum space or a gallery, I become an official member of camp-narrative, or camp-movie-theater. I want nice chairs, I want popcorn, I want to fall asleep on someone’s shoulders (yes yes, the critique of entertainment,…

I write this on the seventh anniversary of my immigration to the U.S. To me, being an immigrant, similar to being queer, is about making new relations in the world. From the vantage point of immigration’s disorienting spatiotemporal (dis)placement, nothing’s going to be “the same,” as “sameness” is rendered irrelevant with a constantly wiggling reference…