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Tausif Noor
Tausif Noor is a critic and doctoral student at the University of California Berkeley, where he studies modern and contemporary art history. His writing on art, literature, and visual culture appears in Artforum, frieze, The Nation, The New York Times and other venues, as well as in artist catalogues and various edited volumes.

Articles Available Online


Devil in the Detail: on Leesa Gazi’s ‘Hellfire’

Book Review

July 2021

Tausif Noor

Book Review

July 2021

British-Bangladeshi novelist Tahmima Anam’s debut A Golden Age (2007) tracks the early stirrings of revolution in East Bengal from the 1950s to the climax...

Art Review

May 2019

Simone Fattal, Works and Days

Tausif Noor

Art Review

May 2019

For the last five decades, Simone Fattal has produced works that refract the particularities of the present vis-à-vis a...

 1 PhD   Blue bedroom, Grandma’s house, Aigburth, Liverpool   I gave birth to one hundred thousand words Tessellated, affectless, still   I was in a pair of stirrups, draped in black Behind me were cascades of water and municipal marble, people sitting inanimately I printed me out on acetate for the overhead projector   Vagabond pronunciation, vigilant renunciation, off with her head   Brashness and redness and badness and rudeness and leaving and wasting and waste   Fat lowly bearable extrapolation, fine gradations of change   Grandma came in and turned the big light on, offered photographs Women in terracotta silk, cars parked outside garage doors, Mum shoving an apple in Jeremy’s mouth She put a cup of Douwe Egbert’s on the side Was I sad because I wanted a boyfriend? I turned away, rinsed in salt     Hornsey, London   Matthew was in the kitchen, glancing with accusation at a Bolognese tidemark in the sink His grey jogging bottoms were tucked under his heels, nestling in his arches He switched off the little lights underneath the kitchen cupboards and turned it into the sort of conversation that is a prelude to an unlit room I don’t like those sorts of conversation He wished me luck   On the train a little boy was talking at his dad, who was thumbing his screen with maniacal grace They started a game of what five things the little boy would put in his supermarket basket Cucumber, ice cream, tomato, all the puddings, and trifle   Lunch with Paul He kneaded his sandwich with his fingers It was doughy and airless at the perimeters and the butter and salmon fattened into triangular pouches, a sophisticated solution to refrigerated bread His teeth were translucent   We spoke for ninety minutes, the foetus on my lap He gave me a gift, his book I asked him if he wanted to sign it My cheeks were hot Let me look at it No I need to see it No Can’t you blog it?     Rose’s, Bristol   We went to a café in the rain Children ate sausages from Falcon enamel The goats at the petting zoo had their horns zapped off If Rose were an animal she would be a fox Not

Contributor

March 2018

Tausif Noor

Contributor

March 2018

Tausif Noor is a critic and doctoral student at the University of California Berkeley, where he studies modern and contemporary art...

INTERVIEW WITH ANAND PATWARDHAN

Art Review

July 2018

Tausif Noor

Art Review

July 2018

By the late 1990s a right wing government in the shape of a BJP-Shiv Sena alliance had come to power for the first time...
Danh Vo, Take My Breath Away

Art Review

April 2018

Tausif Noor

Art Review

April 2018

‘When you love, you are nailed to the cross,’ says a character in Rainer Fassbinder’s film In a Year of 13 Moons (1978). In...

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Interview

September 2016

Interview with Garth Greenwell

Michael Amherst

Interview

September 2016

Garth Greenwell’s debut novel What Belongs to You has won praise on both sides of the Atlantic. Edmund White...

Interview

July 2014

Interview with Geoff Dyer

Tom Overton

Interview

July 2014

‘I’ve always believed that an artist is someone who turns everything that happens to him to his advantage’, Geoff...

poetry

November 2011

Cooper's Hawk

Elyse Fenton

poetry

November 2011

My breath’s the wind’s breathless down-stroke hasty claw like the gnarred finger of juniper just now clambering for a...

 

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