Wendy Brenner’s classic 2005 profile of snake enthusiast Dean Ripa, who died Saturday. By now I’ve grown accustomed (and rather devoted) to Dean’s rhetorical style—outrageous overstatement, subsequent qualification—but I think I recognize something else, something authentic here: a certain strain of introverted misanthropy… by Wendy Brenner | May, 2017

In his project I Need Some Rest, Florida photographer Carson Gilliland seeks the “clues locked in a profound stillness of primeval night bathed in sodium vapor glow and humid sky.” by Carson Gilliland | May, 2017

The artist works in a style he calls “romantic realism.” In his paintings people are twenty pounds thinner and twenty years younger, often surrounded by heavenly light, riding exotic animals, or framed by mountain ranges. This willingness to flout the… by Nicole Pasulka | May, 2017

Photographs from This Land: An American Portrait. Jack Spencer spent thirteen years working on the project and traveled more than eighty thousand miles across all forty-eight contiguous states looking for scenes and moments that he says are “an expression of the… by Jack Spencer | May, 2017

The introduction to a previously unpublished poem by Margaret Walker.  Nearly twenty years after her death and seventy-five years after the publication of For My People, this magazine sent me a previously unpublished poem of Walker’s. The poem, “An Elegiac Valedictory,” is… by Kiese Laymon | May, 2017

A previously unpublished poem by Margaret Walker.  For a dozen wonderful writers:Goodbye to all you girls and guyswho walked this weary way who climbed these hillsand walked these milesthis rocky wooded chase.A dozen wonderful writers by Margaret Walker | May, 2017

My mother was an instinctive cook. Words and directions did not hold much for her. She was a keen observer. She learned to cook from watching her aunts; her grandmother, Maw; her own mother. She loved recipes. Clipped them from the… by Ronni Lundy | Aug, 2016

An installment in our weekly series, The By and By. 

Toni Tipton-Martin, Ronni Lundy, and I hope to offer a set of shoulders upon which the next generation of women—of many different colors and cultures—can stand. We ended our morning with a call to action: to fill our Southern tables with Southern food and use it to bring different people together. Go to the uncomfortable places, talk about your truths, and agree to disagree if you must—but break bread together, with respect.

The region of South Carolina coast dubbed the Grand Strand is known for its beaches and attractions that draw millions of people in the summer months. In Above the Surface, Tyler MacDonald looks beyond the popular tourist spots to explore the region’s unique landscape and community.

An installment in our weekly series, The By and By. 

Touring is not for the faint of heart. Without a child, it is an animal exercise in mileage, calories, and sleep, which leaves me plagued with thoughts about what my karma must be that I have landed in a sickly-colored motel in this or that middle of nowhere. Touring with a child is more pleasurable, a true exploration, but frankly, tiring.

The artist works in a style he calls “romantic realism.” In his paintings people are twenty pounds thinner and twenty years younger, often surrounded by heavenly light, riding exotic animals, or framed by mountain ranges. This willingness to flout the laws of space and time and his largely unflappable good nature have allowed Cowan to form relationships with the kind of people who will pay for a portrait of themselves with a lion, at the mast of a ship, or gliding through a Venetian dreamscape.

In his project I Need Some Rest, Florida photographer Carson Gilliland seeks the “clues locked in a profound stillness of primeval night bathed in sodium vapor glow and humid sky.”

Listen to Rev. Sekou’s powerful album Times Like These, paired with an essay by the activist artist. 

Mama taught me to read when I was four years old. It was my job to read the mail for Miss Roberta, who could not read but carried a wisdom that I am yet to adequately conceive of. She dipped snuff, walked with a cane, and was indeed royalty, and she loved me. Zent, Arkansas, was a kingdom of dignity. Folks like Miss Roberta tore off the best pieces of themselves and sowed it into a quilt that shields me to this day. If it was not for that covering, I would have long been consumed by rage.

Michael Shewmaker’s exceptional debut hinges on the need not to resolve form but to further open it, a puzzle, a question, as though the very act of questioning keeps him in balance.

From 1830 to 1860, Richmond, Virginia, was the largest supplier of enslaved Africans on the east coast of the United States.

Parts of the nation would succumb to despair as entrenched racial prejudice was mined to soothe the emotional needs of isolated, angry people. But those willing to resist the chatter, sit in silence, and sink into the pain found spiritual liberation in the struggle for racial justice. Those willing to look found humanity, joy, and love. For them, the summer of 2016 was to become a true Summer of Love.

An installment in our weekly series, The By and By. 

One of the paradoxes of George Ellis’s career, in hindsight, is that alongside his run of cheap exploitation films, he maintained a parallel career as Atlanta’s first great arthouse film exhibitor. It adds a layer of complexity to his work, to know that his own taste was impeccable—he understood the full range of cinematic possibilities and would have seen exactly where his films fit into that spectrum. Around the time Demented Death Farm Massacre was hitting theaters, Ellis was introducing Atlanta to the French New Wave and the New German Cinema, hosting retrospectives of Chaplin and Bergman.

A poem by Phillip B. Williams from our Spring 2016 issue. 

First thought: the speckled darkness 
was a storm’s arrival shocking birds
from their perches. 

But those are facts, and “facts” are exactly what I don’t want to know, inasmuch as they will inevitably get in the way of the little fictions I’ve enjoyed telling myself during my walks for most of the last twenty-five years.