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March 3, 2016

It is the consensus of the seriously cool that nobody was ever cooler than Arthur Rimbaud. More than a century after his death, this French poet still blazes as the unwashed apotheosis of the outlaw artist, a beautiful, sexually fluid renegade genius who, as one of his early biographers put it, “lived in three years the literary evolution of modern times.” At the end of those three years, he was only 20. But by then he had conducted and ended a fabled love affair with the older Symbolist poet Paul Verlaine and written the entire body of visionary verse that would anticipate future iconoclasts in art movements from Surrealism to punk rock. No, he didn’t die young (he lived on to a disease-riddled 37), as is traditionally expected of this particular breed of cult idol. Instead, he one-upped the usual gorgeous corpses by walking out on his glory with a sneer and refusing to look back. In other words, Rimbaud was the opposite of nostalgic, which means he probably wouldn’t care much for “Rimbaud in New York,” which runs through Sunday at BAM Fisher. This earnest collage tribute piece from the Civilians, written and directed by Steve Cosson, celebrates Rimbaud as the man who invented downtown as a state of mind.

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