RIDE DA WAVE...

…or something. Yes, today matters because Kentucky and Nebraska and Texas and other super progressivist states will now have to get down on their knees and celebrate gay love together. Like in a big willing gay orgy. Naha. Not much more to be said though. Last night, I got a shocking wave of anger rushing through my spine, one that almost got me to get up and pour out the poison onto my clavier. But then I chose to hit the kitchen for greasy food. Hey, you can’t give up all your dirty little mood stabilizing habits, can’t ya. Why thy anger, one might ask. In case you didn’t know (and then, clearly, you and I must become friends) it’s fashion week in Paris right now. But that’s no surprise, as it’s always fashion week somewhere. Here it comes. It’s PFW as they say, and Louis Vuitton Homme made a fucking embroidered satin jacket with a Louise Bourgeois piece.

Colette
Colette

I purposely left an extra blank space here. Like a brain pause. Like my brain and heart both need a minute, and a double space to continue. Because it gets worst. People LOVED it. They love that shit. I’ve been reading lots on gender theory lately. And yesterday, the pages I read from Kate Bornstein’s Gender Outlaw brought forth the danger of the split between « us » and « they » - given, in a trans spectrum context. How seeing the trans community as a whole, vs. a a rich world of nuances, was allowing more of the segregating way of thinking inside of it. Quick and simplified example. Wait. No. I got it wrong. Or to say it better, that’s what I made of what I read yesterday. The actual idea Bornstein evoked was, the hierarchy inside a then young M2F trans community (book was written in 94) - how post operative transsexuals were looking down on pre-operative ones, and so one till we get to the bottom, the closet cases.

My point is. That fucking Louise Bourgeois jacket. There truly is an « us » and a « them » here. And if not, let me create it. Inside my group, I will take in people who will at the very least question such things as an artist’s integrity being raped by their own trusts/estates, entities so thirsty for money and power they would sell anything to anyone. No, kidding, not anyone. Preferably corporations able to bring in tons of K$. And I’ve been a prime witness of such incidents three times in the past few months. Three fucking times. Thrice. Like, Judas, twice, thrice you know. By witness I mean, artists I personally knew or know (one is still alive) are being so despicably used and sold to the highest bider. That’s how you end up with studios saying they found more sculptures from back when the artist was still alive, when they have actually recently been made. Obviously, and that’s what really sucks today, I can’t even name names. Because it won’t help the good people who are still sitting at the table of trusts, trying to prevent such shit to happen. In the case of Louise, just to mention this one. My girlfriend, last night, a witness of my anger and hurt, said to me: « But you KNOW. You are one of the few people who had a relationship with Louise. And a real intense one. So let them be. You KNOW. » And you know what? Fuck yeah. I did meet Louise when I was just a kid. And our bond was oh so special. Our weird phone conversations that I barely recall the content of. That black glitter hat with red hearts she gave me. And her book, of course. That’s what matters. There is a you and there is a me. And I’m so glad. Because I will happily let you have an aw moment for that meaningless piece of fabric she would DEFINITELY not have approved of, because I will forever have my sweet, so sweet and so personal memories of her. Embrace the business of art and fashion like your life depends on it. In my group, we don’t need any of that. Because we care about deeper truths. We expect and wish for more. We make the effort (which is more of a joy) to look for that more. To read, look at, compare, write, and meet. Who did you meet recently? Like, really meet? Who did you look at, and took the time to listen to, and try to understand?

Besides all of this, let me come out completely: I love Miley Cyrus. And to celebrate one thing with another, completely unrelated (or?) let’s listen to some vapor.

[embed]https://youtu.be/yergWdn968o[/embed]

PORN FOR ALL

My brain has cum about fifteen times since this morning. It feels so fucking good. Intellectual stimulation is the ultimate jouissance. I’d give my brother away for more. I’m an only child, but still. After weeks of a brain void, things are lining up. I guess it was my grey mater’s way of taking a holiday break without giving its notice. Once you get to touch the other side of the bank with the tip of your toes - yeah, that’s when you start having a massive brain-gasm. ‘cause you can look back and see the puzzle. Looking back even a few hours back is satisfying enough.

Ya, we know, last week was Frieze week. And what a fucking disaster that was. Wink. A good sign for me that art has lost its soft and sneaky touch (what?) is when I see all the people I know from the fashion/nightlife/cool magazine circles talk/write about/attend art related events. I wouldn’t even dare say art without adding « related event » now. The cool crowd has been migrating to the art world for quite some time now. I had a vague hope it would pass - meaning, they wouldn’t overstay their welcome. oh no. They moved in for good. But that’s okay. We just need to climb up to a higher step. Wouldn’t be bad for us anyway. You know. Remembering that philosophy, language, ontology, big words like this, don’t have to not be part of art.

Maybe I’ll talk about instagram’s art oriented feed a bit. Apparently, I don’t have lots of followers (no, really, about 300 people.) Interesting how the areas in which people can compare themselves to have exponentially multiplied with capitalism. Such areas include, duh, social media presence. Or to be more accurate, social media relevance based on a sole criteria: how many people know about what you post, like, comment, and so on. The 2015 genderless version of « how big is your dick? » So out of the 300 I deemed followable on instagram, I think I chose to leave behind about 100 in the past couple of weeks. Pretty much anyone using a #brand is gone. Reading some of the angry messages I received as a consequence of my action, I almost felt the guilt pet owners must experience upon abandoning their big dog on the highway before the summer vacation starts, and after they mistakenly left a tv spot on animal shelter run for its entire duration. Long sentence, structure douteuse, but you got it.

Today. Present time. I’ve been the main character, the actor (as in act, action) of the colliding of three distinct planets. Project A, B and C are exploding together. A is connected to B which is connected to C. People I met within the last few months are coming together so unexpectedly. What a fucking blessing (jeez, could I have become more Americanized?) My maman doesn’t know the real reason I stop our phone conversation after a few minutes. It’s because I can’t speak proper French anymore. And she would be very, very unhappy about that. So back to it. Project A involves gender. Project B porn. And project C contemporary romance. A is a few months old, taking a more concrete shape only in the past few of weeks. B is about three weeks old, and is still in its early development stage - research and words. And C happened today. And that’s when I got it. The common thread, and the key to all three, is philosophy. Wait. Or is it porn?

Pornosophy? My parents met through philosophy (how French) even though every one assumes it only had to do with my mom being a dancer HERE. Not. It was Deleuze, and Derrida, and Hegel. I mean, thanks maman for reading The Phenomenology of Spirit to me every morning before I went to school at age 6. That, and Thus spoke Zarathustra, and other comic books like those two. I found out about porn through Koons. What a house. That explosive combo might be why I was such a weird kid - an old(er) person forced into being a kid. Or something. Pornoshophy. That’ll be it. Oh and. I’ve also decided against quantity. At last. Shit. I might be growing up. And down. And up. More thoughts, more thinking, more reading. Less posts for the sake of posts. You know, like followers and likes and content that gets reported. Hu, what? Forget about it. Tonight, and for the ones to come, it’ll all be about Rue Descartes. Kiss kiss.

HAIRY GLORY

Whenever I remain silent, you can pretty much be sure I'm up to no good. Proven and proven again over time. So, 'sup you guys? I’ve missed you. My brain took a (series of) day off. Welcome back to me. I did venture out in the real world those couple of weeks I remained under cover.

Living Room Index and Pool, a collaboration between Lauren Bakst and Yuri Masnyj. Promising, huh? Went to see their performance at Pioneer Works two Sundays ago. I do even have a very sad video to prove it. I took notes too, while I was in hell. Let me look for those. Oh there we go. It’s pretty simple, it reads: bad performance and hairy armpits. That’s it. It occurred to me there, that those two little things are actually super fucking connected. Not sure which makes the other their bitch, but they come in pair. At least, they did that day. A picture is worth a billion trillion gazillion words.

The guy in the background is NOT part of the act. Poor bastard. He was like me. An outsider. A viewer, I guess. How dare they make us viewers in such cases? I don’t know. I do know the two girls were kinda of super duper upset after their little show. I know, cause my GF and I were not spying on them as they sat down on a sofa to debrief and get mad at one another. Ya, the problem always is the audience, you go girls.

It surely had nothing to do with adding up at random disparate components and having nothing to say through your body language, reading of poetry (was it?) and game of selfies with your MacBooks. That’s how performance gets degraded into empty uselessly complicated pretentious acts of « look at me.»

Wanna be vain? Be vain! Wanna have no message at all? Embrace it. Love that. Own it. That’s ballsy. But stop the whole « I have no real talent nor something to contribute so to hell with it, I’ll make it up as it goes and pretend I have a strong message to convey » type of thing.

And for fuck sake, please shave those fucking armpits.

FUCK ME

Unforgivable it is. But it's TAX season for fuck sake. I can't do it all. Well I could, but I must prioritize, or so I’ve been told. I truly didn’t see the weekend happen. Did you?

See. I moved back into my place. Celebrated Paolo Canevari’s 22nd birthday (his words) on Thursday. Which ended up in us both riding a tiny car around Becky’s -our wonderful hostess- home. Yes I have a photo. Then what. Worked on my overcrowded Omnifocus life organizer. BTW, god bless the GTD movement. Had tea and a casual meeting with a dear family friend, photographer Joan Lieber (youhou). Mhm what else? I don’t know. Just work stuff. Writing proposal for upcoming projects and such. I’ll explain in details what it is I do for a living, one day. So I didn’t watch any movie. Or listened to new music*. Except for Mozart’s Requiem to mask my new neighbors voices. Walls are paper thin around here. Like. I’ve been in the same apartment for 4 years. And heard said neighbors fuck roughly 5 times. And we get newcomers every year. So that’s not a lot of sex. Unless they always all are super quiet. Ya. Maybe that’s an American thing. Whatevs. I didn’t see any shows either. Nor did I go to a bookstore, or participated against my will in a performance. Nada (not the fair)

So I don’t have anything to comment on today. Which is a relief in a way. Which also means, there’s probably gonna be an outpour of material coming out of my brain in the next day or so. Yeah, that stuff needs to go somewhere eventually. And that is, here. Oh I know. I did get a major cold, and watched more House of Cards than I could handle.But taxes. Taxes. I’d rather head to Texas <3 * Actually, not true. Misterwives, Borns, Bleachers, Family of the Year, Electric Guest, Cherub, Local Natives, Cults, Small Black, Savoir Adore, Washed Out, The Naked and the Famous. That counts for something new.

LET'S NOT DIE

Oh dear Lord. Fuck me. I was being so good with that schedule thing. But yeah, that’s life. What can you do. I have tons of great excuses, and even better stories. Well, actually, not really, but that’s still a good way to make an entrance, ain’t it? I would apologize, but I’ve been told it would cramp my style (do people even still say that?) So what happened, where did I go, what did I see?

It all started with Joke Post (hi Joke!) Joke is an architect, and works with Reversible Destiny Foundation. The firm was founded by Arakawa and Madeline Gins, two of the most intelligent, creative, and fanciful people the earth knew. Arakawa and Madeline’s architecture is positioned against death. Nothing less. They were (are, because they will never die) poets, architects, thinkers, philosophers, painters, writers. And on top of it all, they were human beings. I was too young to remember when I first met them. I do remember the birds Arakawa had. He passed away a few months after I moved back to NYC, and because I was too shy to give him a call, I didn’t get to see him again.

But Madeline. Madeline! Madeline, I wouldn’t let that happen. So we often met for very long and lively lunches in Soho, close to the house of RD. We talked a lot about manhood,femininity, life force, death of course, and arts. And Joke instantly became our third voice. There were conversations at the office about Dakis Joannou, the right dimensions for limited edition prints, and us working together on a book of biotopological poetry (a work in progress.) She would give me books she had written, others that Harry (papa) had published, and a couple of manuscripts she was working on. She also asked if she could use me as one of her guinea pigs for her visionary -and extremely complex- website. Madeline’s words and aura threw me out of what I had envisioned as « possible » and « impossible. » And for that great intelligence, and the great discomfort it sometimes created in my growing being, I’ll be forever grateful. A bit sad to think I could never told her that when her physical being was still with us.

So anyway… Joke invited me to Ezuff Film Festival last Friday, where RD was presenting two short films. Ezuff stands for Elvis Zapp Urban Film Festival, fyi. I was confused for a second by the name of the location: Spectrum. Wait, the super fun, drugged up, gay party in faraway Brooklyn we used to go to last year? That tiny super warm first floor apartment transformed (more or less) into a club? Well, that wasn’t it. The Spectrum I went to on Friday is, and I’m quoting because I’m too lazy (and too late) to come up with my own phrasing: « a technology-intensive site for innovative music, multimedia and art » which mission is « to foster innovation and virtuosity in the arts. » Fucking brilliant if you ask me. Because it is very low-key, and unpretentious, and yet extremely innovative indeed. It’s all of that, and so much more. Super comfy mix and match chairs, big bonus worth mentioning. You feel at home whilst are being fed what could be an intelligence potion. The screening was entitled « Apodyopsis » and all the videos presented were about urbanism and architecture.

Of course, out of 2 hours, not everything was to my taste - when does that ever happen? But I was watching content I had never seen before, and that I couldn’t even connect to things I had seen in the past. Most of the films, videos, projects, had a DIY feeling, with weird editing. Some were cut in the middle - or was it all on purpose? Madeline used to do that to my brain and psyche. And so did the festival. It’s becoming rare for me to be happy after an « art event. » It’s more like leaving angry after I lost 2 hours being held hostage to some shitty ostentatious art attempt without a soul. So. Yes. Yes to leaving thinking about the work, asking myself questions, trying to figure it out, and discussing the different works with my again super cool girlfriend (hey baby <3 ) Ezuff didn’t have a program I could steal, so I was that annoying person taking notes on her iPhone. I wrote down: Amanda Bonaiuto, Reel bricolage ; Andrew MacNair, Egg ; and Ama Mermaid pearls of the river (except the words are not in the right order, oopsie.)

The next Festival they’ll be having is 3 months from now, so clear your schedule, ya?

PS: Also, I totally forgot to go to the opening of Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian at the Guggenheim. They even had a breakfast planned, goddamit. But do not worry, my dears, I now have a super tight schedule. In which there is a defined and blocked time frame in my day to drown you in petty art gossip (un peu), art reviews (maybe more) and the overuse of the word « fuck » (mom, that one is for you). Okay, peace out readers. I need to get back to my other job. The one I’m the boss of.