How acclaimed French violinist and Miami transplant Anne Chicheportiche turned her vision of music’s transcendent power into a groundbreaking experience...

The crow lay gutted on the ground in a circle of crudely drawn voodoo symbols, entrails spilling out beneath glazed black eyes, its beak open in a permanent silent caw.

Though fast-rising Broward the Requiem has made seeking out purportedly haunted locales as much a part of their tour regimen as beguiling audiences with a wall of sound reimagining of Nineties emo-leaning alt-rock and Eighties unabashed goth, the supernatural adventures are often light on the "super" at best, anticlimactic tourist-y kitsch (*cough* Salem, Massachusetts *cough*) at worst.

When the long-nomadic contemporary art gallery Homework first began redefining its signature pop-ups and activations for a more permanent Little River space last year, cofounder Aurelio Aguiló insisted the walls be painted lavender. Try as he and wife/cofounder Mayra Mejia may. However, the dreamlike shade never materialized, and they chose a blue hue instead.

This, at the time, seemed little more than a nod to the art of the possible. Then over the summer, Aguiló found himself laid up, recovering from surgery. Shaken by a brush with mortality, he sought succor from the past. Leafing through old photo albums, he received it: The gallery blue perfectly matched not only his childhood bedroom but also his grandmother's house.

Danny Trejo is in his landmark anniversary era; Last May the living legend who brought colorful, lovably menacing characters to life in films ranging from Heat, Desperado and From Dusk Till Dawn to Spy Kids, Con Air and Reindeer Games turned 80 years old. And next year will mark his 40th year as a professional actor. 
Yet, when asked to reflect on his remarkable professional longevity and what keeps that still-raging fire-in-the-belly ambition stoked, Trejo brings up an entirely different date –...

It’s Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, so I thought I’d disinter this old magazine feature I wrote about the debate between multiple cities over which could lay claim to the writer’s body. It was eccentric and fun and also weirdly, intensely serious—not bad for a man, who as I note below, had a three-minute funeral attended by only four mourners!

I went into the vault for this long out of print, never online feature I did on Spike Lee back along.

If thou gaze long into an algorithm, the algorithm will also gaze into… well, not exactly thee, right? More like a patchy portrait of your likeness churned out by a mimeograph low on ink—sharply delineated in a few areas, sure, but hazy and obscure in many others.