…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.