Working at a fashion event last night. I was the only one of the boys serving drinks who wasn't from a modeling agency. In fact, they all have the same agency. This is something I felt embarrassed about, then angry about my embarrassment. When I admitted, reluctantly that in fact I am not a professional model, one of the very nice teenager model boys reassured me, "Well, you have a really young look. Y'know, my friend told me there's this one agency? They take guys from 15 up to, like, 26!" Which was sweet. Although they were pretty and had some serious complaints about the evening, when it was time to serve drinks, they all excelled at being sweet to people. Which totally blew my mind. Very impressive, boys.
Trying to match their zeal, I seized upon a pile of limes to cut into wedges for the well-heeled crowd's cocktails. Proceeded as if on cue to slice my thumb in half lengthwise, in front of an audience. With considerable grit I managed to make it backstage to the bathroom to wipe up blood. Praying that I didn't get too much of my precious voodoo priestess DNA into people's drinks. Fashion! It's dangerious! Who knew?
I don't know. I feel sort of scared and sort of turned on by this pattern, and this space I'm noticing. I'll describe it for you, blog readers.
I once said that my art form is the Imaginary Boyfriend, and that is still true. I think I do my best work when I'm making an effigy of affection, right? When I'm waxing poetic about something that only I am ultimately qualified to speak about (cause no one call tell you your feelings are "wrong"). This space between the object and the subject is really what I do. Being the go-go boy and being the person who talks about the go-go boy. Like, would you rather be a model, someone really pretty with only a small stake in the project, or the journalist who writes about the fashion show, relaying the experience and ideas to the world at large? The space between the creater and the viewer is what I think is compelling. Reading about postmodernism as essentially double-coded. The value of aesthetic expression is not privileged over, but rather alongside, the discourse surrounding everything else in that expression. Like, having a pretty picture is cool but you also should know that the pretty picture is sort of referencing another picture which you may or may not have seen in which case your experience of the picture will depend on what you know. It sounds mean, but it means that you can have anything mean anything, sort of. Like in New York: Anna Wintour walks down fifth avenue to look at what girls on the street are wearing. Girls on the street are reading Vogue to see what Anna thinks girls reading Vogue think Anna think's is beautiful. The inertia of this kind of continuum is what I'm talking about. I think I want to call my next record, maybe even change the name of my band to NO REAL MAX STEELE.
And I'm not the only one that's onto this "hunch". I'm far from articulate about it, crazed as I am on caffeine. But look: there are a lot of us out there, in this intercourse discourse fucking mindspace between the object and subject of high-low culture. Last night I passed as a model (people kept asking for my "card", which agency I'm from, do I want to go to their after party with them am I Swedish), sorta. But then, you know, I go home and eat chinese food. Listen to punk records. Do "un-cool" things. I can go up or down pretty easily and most people can but not many people want to or feel, as I do, the necessity of fucking the looking-glass. What is the name for people who, because of cultural / social / political structures, are simultaneously creating culture while being banned from it? What is the name for folks who are complicit in the the chaos of their own desires, because we can and must move to either side of the view-finder of American culture? Queer, obviously.
Do I sound like a snob? I've been thinking of Through the Looking-Glass, in the way that Luce Irigaray uses it. Like, this idea of moving back and forth within the discourse of subjectivity is really cool--and, I'll admit it-- sexy, to me. THIS, the incredible shrinking distance, between self and "self", is what turns me on. The mirror, the object is fucking it's own context. Moving back and forth between the double-coded messages, that is the kind of fucking I want.