News from Home (Some Epistolary Exposures and Passages of Ambient Paranoia for Mimosa)

<p>Los Angeles is burning, hot pink and toxic. In the images of my childhood city that I look at from my laptop in Athens, its liquid cars and matte rooftops and attenuated palms are coated a sickly chemical pink—monochrome and almost fluorescent—from the flame retardant spilled in aerial flows from above. The city a furnace, firing and oxidizing its objects to a pink glaze. The lurid color rhymes with the covers of Mimosa Echard’s various books and zines that are glowing on my desk: the dark pink screen of <em>Sporal</em>, glitching and quilted; the soft-focus blanket, strewn with flora, covering <em>Mauve Dose</em>. Big pink vibes, dystopian and cogent, princessy and pharmacological. Or so I delineate some chromatic correspondence between artist and ecocide, personal palette and aesthetic of apocalypse, the femme advertorial irony that strobes both. Or so I write to Mimosa in New York, where she is in residency…</p>