…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.


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.



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.