A wonderful conversation here between Shelley Jackson and Vito Acconci at The Believer.
From the perspective of, say, his Mur Islandâ€”a floating island in Graz, Austria, that is simultaneously bridge, theater, cafÃ©, and playgroundâ€”Acconciâ€™s early poems look like odd little landscapes, with corridors and columns, through which the reader can stroll. Mur Island, in turn, looks like a poem. As a writer whose own words have a way of wandering off the page, I often ask myself why writing, of all the arts, is so narrowly defined. What new books might we write, if we could learn to use objects and spaces, buildings and bodiesâ€”the way Acconci learned to make architecture from words on a page?