Triumphant Return to Modernism
Weekend news. Kids news. I don't feel amazing today. I feel kind of like I'm getting sick? That can't be, I have a show this week. I'm not gonna worry, but I am gonna take care of myself. I don't feel amazing yet, I should say. My horoscope said to come back to life. Horoscope said I'd come back from the dead, that I'd live again but that my loved ones might not understand, my family and friends might feel neglected.
Went to Lola's housewarming party on Friday night. The theme was "I'm Fabulous!" and it was also a 1970s themed party. She wore a gorgeous vintage house dress and we listened to the famous ladies of the 70s (Donna Summer, Laura Nyro) and we drank potato vodka and sat on her new green shag carpet and looked through her nail policy collection and talked about fucking, talked about orgasms. Like liberated women. I ate way too many chips and too much guacamole but had a very nice time nonetheless. Went to bed early instead of having fun. I never want to go out on weekend nights anymore. Something's changing. I feel gross. Do I?
Saturday I went to an Artist in Residence meeting in Park Slope, then a rehearsal for our cabaret show in P-Town this week, then to the Kim Gordon art show exhibition at White Columns. A wonderful show, really. Cool and cynical and funny and sweet. The silver glitter on the floor was a bit of a bummer, though, I must say. It was a kind of retrospective, I guess. In interviews throughout the years, Gordon's always articulated that she doesn't really identify as a musician, or a designer, or a singer, or fashion icon. She always identifies as an artist, and she's not just being snobby. It was cool to see some of her work throughout the years contextualized properly, as conceptual work. She's like a dream critic, essayist. Maybe Essaying is the best way to sum up her style? In a sort of expanded way of thinking of the essay? I was really impressed by her show, it's been such a thrill to live in New York City and get to go to see Kim Gordon Art Shows. I remember the first time I saw her band name paintings in real life, and now it's so rad to get to see them more fully; within the context of the rest of her work. I still have this promo poster on my bedroom wall for Free Kitten's Sentimental Education, which has a paitning by Kim Gordon on it. I've always loved that image. I'm biased. I'm a big fan.
After the art show I went back to Brooklyn to drink some Gin and Juice. I've been really obsessed with Snoop ever since watching his Reincarnated documentary last week. The accompanying album is really good, but not as good as the movie. After feeling bored and drinking a lot, PLD and I went to the Bushwig afterparty. I wish I had seen the performances during the day! The party was cute. I think if I had just moved to New York I would have been more drawn to it. As it is, I don't think I really have the wherewithal or desire to be a peacock, but I like looking. There were obviously millions of gorgeous people there. The boy I have a crush on, the boy you have a crush on. And their boyfriends. And their girlfriends, their room mates, everyone's a lover. It was a nice tableau, psychedelic whirlwind to find myself being pulled into. Of course on our way out I ran into everyone. It's ok. There was one really cute boy who I've seen around a while, at this sort of thing. He was bragging about being on lots of molly and having done 8 bumps of coke. I knew he was too mucbh of a party boy for me. Or not even that, really, since I like to party too I guess and I admire it in a cute boy, but doesn't eight seem profoundly unlucky? I would have stopped at seven.
Sunday I took my time getting dressed up to go to a Fashion Week presentation that I was actually legitimately invited to. It was a madhouse getting in and I didn't get to see the show. Maybe I should have badgered my way to the front of the line, to remind the door person that I was invited, that I'm (at least nominally) press, that I'm here on official business. That I have a right to be there. I'm never sure I have a right to be anywhere, though, so it's hard to demand it. Besides, socialites were describing the show today as for "fam only". So once again it's this Fashion Industry thing of the deliberate exclusivity being the actual art on display, right? In a way, I was the show. The fuckheads who know everyone, they need to cut in line to get into the show and there has to be some poor schmuck in the line, patiently waiting to be refused entry. So I served a purpose. I think it's funny; I don't know why other people are so oblivious about the kind of ajbection we all eroticize. You know, exclude me, baby. Charge me extra, humiliate me. Isn't this the point of the whole thing? Tie me up, make me wear these ugly things.
Instead of getting into the fashion show I was actually invited to, i went to Chanel to buy nail polish and Uniqlo to buy a new shirt to wear to work, and I feel pretty alright about everything. It was a gorgeous day, I went to my usual Fay Da bakery for bubble tea and red bean buns. Went over to the LES to check out the myriad of openings. I had approximately 3,487 glasses of free white wine, which made my epick walk seem so worth it. Oh, on another note, if you are an art gallery and you are charging for booze, as opposed to serving it for a suggested donation, I think that sucks. And I am fully cognizant of what that distinction is, implies, and requires, and I have a big mouth. Gimme that dang hooch, artso.
Again, being excluded, abjection as erotic, etc. So I ended up getting lots of free booze, and checked out the fantastic shows up now at Strange Loopas well as, below, a photo of a peanut butter installation fromAlex Da Corte's fabulous new show1000Island at Joe Sheftel. Both highly recommended. So lovely to see dear Alex, I also ran into Internationally Renowend Boy Genius Sam McKinniss as well. Lovely.
Also yesterday, earlier in the day, I thought I saw my friend Cotton on the street. It was weird, this guy looked just like him, I stopped in my tracks, he and his friends saw me looking and them and they stopped, I apologized, embarrassed, when i realized it wasn't my friend and walked on. How stupid of me, of course it wasn't him, how could it be? But in New York, you know, sometimes people do just show up, without warning. I think that's more common here, a place where pretty much everybody wants to be.
Last night I went to go see the new movie by Rob Roth and Michael Cavadias, featuring miss Erin Markey and miss Cole Escola. It was fantastic! You can see the trailer below:
Hanging out on the street after I wanted Erin eat a taco. I was so hungry. I couldn't wait to go home and order takeout. It was cool.
These websites, you know. You make profiles and you have two options; to let it automatically make you into you, let it just collect and post all known images and details about your. OR, you carefully curate your profile and manually make any updates or changes. You must remain vigilant, though, or you end up like me. With profiles on dating or socializing websites which have out of date photos. Here, look at that one, that version of me, from years ago. Using a kind of dead boy or human shield, right? I feel like everybody does this, too. In a way.
Bouncing around some ideas. The notion of being a fashion blogger. As in drag. As in a role, something to explode/kill. Y'know that game, kill fuck marry? It's kind of like, one after the other, right? Some concepts I've been thinking about lately:
- Fashion Karma ("Everything happens for a season")
- Blog keywords/themes/concepts: Buddhism, Fashion, Psychoanalysis, Postmodernism, American Hikikomori, Woo-Woo.
- Interested in being a bad cabaret singer. The new character I'm thinking of, for my new show. Maybe he has a graduate degree in Rastafarian Studies.
- The overlap between Rastafarian history and Modernism in Western art.
- Finding a way to engineer an honest sentiment behind the phrase "A Triumphant Return to Modernism". I'm so curious in how things get thrown out. In trash. I see trash as a verb and I generally see it as a kind of repression. Like in the 1970s when second-wave feminists talked about "trashing". Essentially, ostracizing members of the community. This is a form of repression. I wonder how unhelpful it is to be so attracted to the language of Psychoanalysis.
- Anaïs Nin as goth style icon. Full disclosure. Career of disclosure. She was also a model, right?
- These yuppies in my neighborhood. They make me so nervous. I used to think that I was the gentrifying agent here and I was comfortable with that. I want to be the worst person in the room, because then it would justify the hunch I always have that everyone hates me. Like, part of me really does want to get dreadlocks, because I want someone to destroy me for the right reasons. At least that way there'll be a reason, a good one, for destroying me. Rather than right now where I might be secretly awful but no one is willing to confirm and punish me for it. Or if they do want to hurt me it's for the wrong reasons. Anyway these yuppies on the train this morning make everything seem different. A stark reminder that my neighborhood isn't mine, never was, nothing is. That my tiny, humble little place is pretty much up for grabs. As a kid, nothing used to infuriate me more than food bing snatched off of my plate.
Right, that brings me home. I'm desperately embarassed to even thiunk of this but if I had a disease right now (and we're all, y'know, just one test result away from having it) it would be Jealousy. But not even of anything in particular. Not of a person; of a person's habits. In that Junkie Doctors movie they asked a character if they were jealous of themself. I almost wrote a song called that "Jealous of Yourself". I'm not actually jealous of me, but I'm feeling the pangs of jealousy for what could, perhaps ought to be. I don't want to be you but I want to have had your stuff. I want your power. I want your garden. I want your demonstrations. I want your proof. I want your entitlement, your certainty. I want to be as indulgent as you are.
I know this guy, he's a big tease. I don't like that word but it fits. It's not mean, though, the teasing. He thinks I don't notice, and I think he doesn't notice when I do it to him, too. He tells me other people want to sleep with me and I tell him that's ok because I just want to sleep with him. It's practice, right? Toying pretty much forever with the idea of poverty, with the idea that I don't have enough so I need someone else's. There is a trick here, there's an option I'm not talking about, and it's switching to point, to a mindset, to a presumption of plenty. Of enough.