This morning I woke up on the fifth floor in San Jose. I looked out the window to a plaza below which was hosting a kids' concert. The grass was pocked with strollers and a band was rocking out.
To The Wheels On the Bus. Yeah. Go Round and Round. Exactly.
As if I don't already spend approximately 100% of every day trying not to get songs stuck in my head.
An hour later, after showering and chugging down a cup of bad hotel room coffee, I walked across the plaza for the real shit: Starbucks.
(ps If I knew a good local independently-owned organic fair trade cooperative that brewed coffee strong enough to melt my stomach lining, I'd go there. In lieu of that, helloooo evil megalithic corporation).
I passed the stage where the musicians were breaking down their equipment. A CD was blasting through the PA and I caught the line:
"I like to eat, eat, eat, eeples eend beneenees..."
And I fucking started SINGING ALONG.
Which begs two questions. Why? And perhaps more importantly, How?
Obviously, it's catchy. The song is all about learning vowels and it sings on the subject of eating apples and bananas while teaching the different vowel sounds. I wandered through during E.
If I'd passed by a few minutes earlier I might have been schooled in U (uuples and bunuunuuus) or in I (iiples and biniiniis).
Annoying. Or so I thought, until I starting singing AKA betraying myself.
See, back in December and then again in March and May, I drove around London with Joanna Hudson and her two-year-old, Alfie. In order to keep Alfie busy in the car seat, Joanna would play a music CD.
The CD was American and Joanna would say to Alfie, "Jessica sounds like the lady on the radio, doesn't she?"
And we'd play the songs, supposedly to keep Alfie from screaming his head off, though I had my doubts after Joanna got ALL EXCITED before one of the tracks came on and said, "Ooh, this is my favorite one!"
"Would you listen to yourself?" I said.
Joanna knew exactly what I meant. The girl who'd stomped into my house in the early 90s in her Doc Martens, all authoritative on raving and the Stone Roses and Oasis and the Charlatans UK, was getting off on track 3 of the toddler mix.
I continued making fun of her and she said something like, "Don't you dare write about this!" She may have mentioned something about ruining her reputation. I sadly promised not to but that was months ago. Our contract expired yesterday.
In Starbucks, I navigated past a double stroller and a child with a muffin crumbling out of his fingers. I ordered my large coffee and was pouring half and half and stirring when I thought, "None of us are immune. We are all in danger."
I'd made relentless fun of Joanna back then but today I eepled and beneeneed my ass off. Furthermore, after ten days in the Hudson home, I'd started talking like Alfie.
"Are you ready for dinner?" Joanna would ask.
"Yeah, I'm hongee," I'd say.
I started calling the remote the "ganny telly" (don't ask) and I was psyched when Alfie decided to watch Nemo instead of Bob the Builder because I was kind of into Nemo, too.
So? Yeah. Maybe you haven't heard but the wheels on the bus go round and round and it's awesome.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
7.09.2008
4.09.2008
Doris Salcedo
There is a 548-foot-long crack in the floor of the Tate Modern Museum and for six months it has been pissing people off.
When I went to the Tate last January, I glanced at the crack from the atrium and thought, "Oh, a crack. It's big. Moving on."
When I went back last week, there wasn't much else for me to see since I'm not on friendly terms with Marcel Duchamp, the main exhibit, and I'd seen most of the rest. The crack it would be!
The crack is called Shibboleth and was made by a Colombian woman named Doris Salcedo. It starts small before it grows and splits into jagged sections like bolts of lightning.
I had a moment while staring into one of the bigger chasms where I felt like I was in a plane and looking into canyon and I wondered how Doris did that. Just as quickly I decided I didn't care, that it was more interesting to see its effect on people than understand the mechanics.
Most people were walking slowly, peering in, or zigzagging so that they had to keep stepping over the crack. Kids were by far the most enthusiastic zigzaggers.
Do you remember being engrossed by walking down a sidewalk, avoiding all the cracks so as not to break your mother's back?
For kids this crack, at places three feet deep and ten inches wide, would be the HOLY JACKPOT of making sure you were careful. Not only would you eff your mother up if you stepped on it but you'd hurt yourself.
Which, apparently, an old lady did shortly after the opening of Shibboleth. Her tumble prompted the flyers posted about which essentially said PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THERE IS A HUGE CRACK ALL OVER THE FLOOR - WATCH YOUR STEP and editorial comments from people like, "I can't believe people who went to look at a crack in the floor, and presumably therefore knew it was there, went on to fall into it."
All I can say is that once I went to an art opening with Lukas in Brooklyn and SOMEONE who may have been a little tipsy almost spilled red wine on one of the pieces. Accidents happen.
The controversy over the crack is predictable. That's not art. How many taxpayer dollars did this cost us? My kid knows how to dig a hole, too.
Yeah, but can your kid enter into a discourse on how the hole is an expression of a poor migrant's experience in a rich western capital? Has your kid tried to symbolize racial division and segregation lately? I DIDN'T THINK SO.
Yes, once you start talking about art you enter the danger zone of pretension. The language surrounding art can sometimes be too much to handle. Sometimes I hang onto every word and sometimes I plug my ears and say la-la-la and just use my eyes because I can't take the attitude.
But I liked the crack; It was causing a reaction. It was performance art, the performances being given by those who went to see it and who wrote letters to the Guardian and the Times and the Telegraph about how they felt about it.
As for taxpaying dollars, it cost 23,000 pounds to ship the crack to London from Colombia. That is a lot of money. But I bet that if people looked closely at any national budget there would be a LOT more to get upset about than 23,000 pounds spent on something that might be making you think.
It's not like, killing you or an innocent person in, I don't know, the Middle East.
Maybe budgets for art should be respected anywhere that values spirit and invention and tolerance and the kind of disagreement that happens when people do something unexpected. Or should art just be about making pretty stuff?
One negative comment made about the crack that I did relate to was from a man named Bob in Manchester who saw people were on the other side of the room looking at normal little cracks in the floor, going, "ooh", "wow", "amazing". Ha!
Yeah, people, you don't have to prove how much you get something. Don't shit yourself in the process of being amazed. Just let it sink in.
When I went to the Tate last January, I glanced at the crack from the atrium and thought, "Oh, a crack. It's big. Moving on."
When I went back last week, there wasn't much else for me to see since I'm not on friendly terms with Marcel Duchamp, the main exhibit, and I'd seen most of the rest. The crack it would be!
The crack is called Shibboleth and was made by a Colombian woman named Doris Salcedo. It starts small before it grows and splits into jagged sections like bolts of lightning. I had a moment while staring into one of the bigger chasms where I felt like I was in a plane and looking into canyon and I wondered how Doris did that. Just as quickly I decided I didn't care, that it was more interesting to see its effect on people than understand the mechanics.
Most people were walking slowly, peering in, or zigzagging so that they had to keep stepping over the crack. Kids were by far the most enthusiastic zigzaggers. Do you remember being engrossed by walking down a sidewalk, avoiding all the cracks so as not to break your mother's back?
For kids this crack, at places three feet deep and ten inches wide, would be the HOLY JACKPOT of making sure you were careful. Not only would you eff your mother up if you stepped on it but you'd hurt yourself.
Which, apparently, an old lady did shortly after the opening of Shibboleth. Her tumble prompted the flyers posted about which essentially said PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THERE IS A HUGE CRACK ALL OVER THE FLOOR - WATCH YOUR STEP and editorial comments from people like, "I can't believe people who went to look at a crack in the floor, and presumably therefore knew it was there, went on to fall into it."
All I can say is that once I went to an art opening with Lukas in Brooklyn and SOMEONE who may have been a little tipsy almost spilled red wine on one of the pieces. Accidents happen.The controversy over the crack is predictable. That's not art. How many taxpayer dollars did this cost us? My kid knows how to dig a hole, too.
Yeah, but can your kid enter into a discourse on how the hole is an expression of a poor migrant's experience in a rich western capital? Has your kid tried to symbolize racial division and segregation lately? I DIDN'T THINK SO.
Yes, once you start talking about art you enter the danger zone of pretension. The language surrounding art can sometimes be too much to handle. Sometimes I hang onto every word and sometimes I plug my ears and say la-la-la and just use my eyes because I can't take the attitude.
But I liked the crack; It was causing a reaction. It was performance art, the performances being given by those who went to see it and who wrote letters to the Guardian and the Times and the Telegraph about how they felt about it. As for taxpaying dollars, it cost 23,000 pounds to ship the crack to London from Colombia. That is a lot of money. But I bet that if people looked closely at any national budget there would be a LOT more to get upset about than 23,000 pounds spent on something that might be making you think.
It's not like, killing you or an innocent person in, I don't know, the Middle East.
Maybe budgets for art should be respected anywhere that values spirit and invention and tolerance and the kind of disagreement that happens when people do something unexpected. Or should art just be about making pretty stuff?
One negative comment made about the crack that I did relate to was from a man named Bob in Manchester who saw people were on the other side of the room looking at normal little cracks in the floor, going, "ooh", "wow", "amazing". Ha!
Yeah, people, you don't have to prove how much you get something. Don't shit yourself in the process of being amazed. Just let it sink in.
4.07.2008
Naomi Campbell throws a hissy fit
Oh, Naomi.
I agree that it would be super annoying to check into a flight and take my seat only to find out that my bags had already been lost. That's why you should have done what I did: DON'T GET ON THE FLIGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE.
Instead of doing what you did: throw a temper tantrum, spit on a police officer, get arrested, and get possibly banned from British Airways. BA is currently deciding whether to ban Naomi Campbell for life or just take away her VIP card, which I find funny. You are rich and will give us lots of money but we think you're bitchy and therefore not Very Important anymore.
Heathrow Airport opened new British Airways Terminal 5 the day I arrived in London and immediately began haplessly f'ing over flyers. The baggage system melted down and at last count 28,000 bags have been misplaced. Hundreds of flights have been canceled.
A few days before I flew to Berlin, I checked my flight info and realized I was on a flight out of you guess which terminal. Oh, hell. I checked the website and it said that less flights were being canceled every day but travelers should know that it may take baggage several extra days to make it to the destination.
I did not find this heartwarming considering I'm not flying to a place where I have other things to use while I wait for my luggage. That North Face bag is all I've got and it's full of things I carefully chose because I want them WITH ME, not wandering all over the rest of Europe while I sit in Berlin turning my panties inside out.
I immediately started looking for a new flight. Joanna thought I was being excessive and couldn't believe I was that afraid of losing my things. She said she'd send the pack to me if I wanted. But I was resolute: I have one backpack and it's staying on my back.
Ryan Air flies out of Stansted Airport so cheaply that it barely hurt to throw money at the potential problem to make it go away. You hear that, Naomi?
4.06.2008
No Country for Old Men
If you've spent the day reflecting on how scary killers are (like I have), No Country for Old Men might not be the best film to see that night.
Regardless, it was PHENOMENAL. And Javier Bardem? Veeeery convincing as a psychopath. Everything about him: the cattle gun, the red-rimmed eyes, the claggy face, the voice that sounded as if he'd just scraped it off the bottom of his cowboy boot, the hair.
The goddamn hair.
I spent two hours with a tingling spine, willing myself to watch scenes that were KILLING ME, because I didn't want to miss how the Coen brothers would direct them. More than story, it was mood and detail.
Surely it helped to exit the cinema to surroundings as different from West Texas as could be: dark, damp, narrow London streets full of black cabs and club music and drunk people getting pushed out of pub doors.
Which doesn't mean I didn't still square my shoulders and walk to the tube quicker than usual.
Regardless, it was PHENOMENAL. And Javier Bardem? Veeeery convincing as a psychopath. Everything about him: the cattle gun, the red-rimmed eyes, the claggy face, the voice that sounded as if he'd just scraped it off the bottom of his cowboy boot, the hair.
The goddamn hair.
I spent two hours with a tingling spine, willing myself to watch scenes that were KILLING ME, because I didn't want to miss how the Coen brothers would direct them. More than story, it was mood and detail.
Surely it helped to exit the cinema to surroundings as different from West Texas as could be: dark, damp, narrow London streets full of black cabs and club music and drunk people getting pushed out of pub doors.
Which doesn't mean I didn't still square my shoulders and walk to the tube quicker than usual.
4.04.2008
Quiet London times
I've been thinking how great it's been to have this family time in London before I hit Berlin where almost no one knows me. Except for time spent with Spice friends and time wandering the city, I've been a homebody. I catch the train from Liverpool Street and 15 minutes later I'm back in Walthamstow. I drink white wine and talk to Joanna and watch American Idol for research purposes and fall asleep on the couch. I wake early.
Last Sunday Joanna, Jon, Alfie and I walked to Tottenham to have Sunday roast at a pub. We walked along a trail and a canal and there were people on bikes and dogs and families and the sun was shining. Alfie fell asleep in the buggy - sorry, stroller - and we sat in a beer garden and drank Guinness and lager before going inside for Yorkshire pudding and roast beef.
Another night I babysat so that Joanna and Jon could have a night out. They hovered by the baby monitor while I typed away on the computer and told them to get out, I could handle it. I've been taking care of children for a million years.
"It's just that he might wake up in a minute and if you're the only one here, he'll have a row," Joanna said.
"GO," I said.
Ten minutes later Alfie woke up and had a row.
I heard him come out of his room and I called up the stairs, "Go to sleep, Alfie." When he heard my voice, he screamed what my mom would call bloody murder. I went up, scooped him up, and held him through a few futile hush little babies and you are my sunshines. He was terrified and shaking and I knew exactly how he felt. For years, I was the kid who couldn't get to sleep without my parents in the house, who had to come downstairs and curl up in the beanbag chair and sob and shudder while some babysitter rubbed my back. So I gave in quickly, "Do you want to come downstairs with me?"
"You can," I said. "You can lie down on the couch, but it's quiet time, not play time. And we're not gonna put on Nemo, we're watching Rockstar Daughters on E."
Alfie was compliant and silently listened to Calico Cooper and Liv Tyler's stories before shutting his eyes. When Joanna and Jon got home, we were both curled up on the couch, asleep.
Last Sunday Joanna, Jon, Alfie and I walked to Tottenham to have Sunday roast at a pub. We walked along a trail and a canal and there were people on bikes and dogs and families and the sun was shining. Alfie fell asleep in the buggy - sorry, stroller - and we sat in a beer garden and drank Guinness and lager before going inside for Yorkshire pudding and roast beef.
Another night I babysat so that Joanna and Jon could have a night out. They hovered by the baby monitor while I typed away on the computer and told them to get out, I could handle it. I've been taking care of children for a million years.
"It's just that he might wake up in a minute and if you're the only one here, he'll have a row," Joanna said.
"GO," I said.
Ten minutes later Alfie woke up and had a row.
I heard him come out of his room and I called up the stairs, "Go to sleep, Alfie." When he heard my voice, he screamed what my mom would call bloody murder. I went up, scooped him up, and held him through a few futile hush little babies and you are my sunshines. He was terrified and shaking and I knew exactly how he felt. For years, I was the kid who couldn't get to sleep without my parents in the house, who had to come downstairs and curl up in the beanbag chair and sob and shudder while some babysitter rubbed my back. So I gave in quickly, "Do you want to come downstairs with me?"
"You can," I said. "You can lie down on the couch, but it's quiet time, not play time. And we're not gonna put on Nemo, we're watching Rockstar Daughters on E."
Alfie was compliant and silently listened to Calico Cooper and Liv Tyler's stories before shutting his eyes. When Joanna and Jon got home, we were both curled up on the couch, asleep.
4.02.2008
I'd tap the ho
There's something excellent about meandering through the Tate Britain gallery with your iPod on Spank Rock and not even realizing that you're whispering I'D TAP THE HO out loud.
Computers promote antisocial behavior
I found a coffeehouse on the corner of Brick Lane and Bacon Street. It has free wireless and all kinds of sofas and chairs to lounge in so I did this for hours after buying my large white americano.
When I told Joanna how long I sat there, she practically beat me with the end of her umbrella for being such a terrible customer.
But! I tried to defend myself. It's a huge place and it was busy and people were in and out all day and there were a million other people camped out with computers.
"They're doing great business!" I said, defensive.
Joanna shot back something Englishy and aghast like, "Harumph! No thanks to you lot."
I took this opportunity to deal a semi-low blow, considering the fact that she's raising a 2-year-old and not able to spend entire afternoons staring out coffeeshop windows, picking scuz out of her bellybutton and writing about it on the internet.
"When is the last time you even WENT to a coffeeshop? That is what you DO."
She wasn't having it and said if she were the owner she'd give me dirty looks and whisper behind my back.
I don't think those are especially powerful deterrents but I concede that owners could demand more from customers or at least offer more expensive food or alcohol that has a higher markup than a two pound cup of coffee.
But I said to her that it's true, no one wants to hang out somewhere where the people working are rude. There's too many other places to go. I also reminded her that we used to do the same thing when we were high school seniors.
"Don't you remember going to Kaldi and Highland in Cincinnati?"
I returned to the corner of Brick and Bacon today and saw this graffiti in the bathroom. It reminded me of a few things. When I was draining cup after cup of coffee in those Cincinnati coffeeshops, I was never on a computer. That was before I even knew what email was so unless I was writing a paper or studying flashcards for an AP exam, I was talking to people.
Maybe I didn't drop a lot of money but I was more sociable. With people in my ACTUAL, not virtual, presence.
And I don't really feel bad about this but I did read a blurb in the free daily London newspaper about internet addiction, written dramatically with references to studies and authorities and REHAB.
Yeah, there are a couple of other issues in my life I'd address before looking into cyber rehab.
So what if I have to tell myself as a house guest, "Do not get your computer out right now. Wait until they go to sleep. They will think you are a jerk"?
So what if Alfie walked into the room yesterday and said in gibbery baby talk, "Jess 'puter"?
"Did he just say Jess's computer?" I asked.
"Yes," Joanna said.
"I don't like that," I said.
When I told Joanna how long I sat there, she practically beat me with the end of her umbrella for being such a terrible customer.
But! I tried to defend myself. It's a huge place and it was busy and people were in and out all day and there were a million other people camped out with computers.
"They're doing great business!" I said, defensive.
Joanna shot back something Englishy and aghast like, "Harumph! No thanks to you lot."
I took this opportunity to deal a semi-low blow, considering the fact that she's raising a 2-year-old and not able to spend entire afternoons staring out coffeeshop windows, picking scuz out of her bellybutton and writing about it on the internet.
"When is the last time you even WENT to a coffeeshop? That is what you DO."
She wasn't having it and said if she were the owner she'd give me dirty looks and whisper behind my back.
I don't think those are especially powerful deterrents but I concede that owners could demand more from customers or at least offer more expensive food or alcohol that has a higher markup than a two pound cup of coffee.
But I said to her that it's true, no one wants to hang out somewhere where the people working are rude. There's too many other places to go. I also reminded her that we used to do the same thing when we were high school seniors.
"Don't you remember going to Kaldi and Highland in Cincinnati?"
I returned to the corner of Brick and Bacon today and saw this graffiti in the bathroom. It reminded me of a few things. When I was draining cup after cup of coffee in those Cincinnati coffeeshops, I was never on a computer. That was before I even knew what email was so unless I was writing a paper or studying flashcards for an AP exam, I was talking to people. Maybe I didn't drop a lot of money but I was more sociable. With people in my ACTUAL, not virtual, presence.
And I don't really feel bad about this but I did read a blurb in the free daily London newspaper about internet addiction, written dramatically with references to studies and authorities and REHAB.
Yeah, there are a couple of other issues in my life I'd address before looking into cyber rehab.
So what if I have to tell myself as a house guest, "Do not get your computer out right now. Wait until they go to sleep. They will think you are a jerk"?
So what if Alfie walked into the room yesterday and said in gibbery baby talk, "Jess 'puter"?
"Did he just say Jess's computer?" I asked.
"Yes," Joanna said.
"I don't like that," I said.
1.26.2008
London days
The tour went to Manchester after a month in London and soon we'll be in Boston. My spirits were cloudy those last few days in London; I didn't want to go. I'd gotten comfortable in my routines. Every morning I walked through the lobby and across the street to buy coffee at Costa.
"A large white for the lady," the cashier would say when I entered. I was a regular and they knew what I drink. I had two pounds twenty pence counted out already. I talked to the guy who made the coffee and told him that I was returning to the States.
"I'm sorry for you are leaving," he replied. I'm sorry for I am leaving too.
We talked more and I listened hard to understand his broken English. He told me he was taking time off from work but I couldn't make out whether it was for eye surgery or a beach vacation.
I'd put on my headphones, sit across the from the Liverpool Street station and watch people exit the trains and tube. Our hotel was in the city center, the financial district, and almost everyone wore a black wool coat. Sometimes they wore grey. Sprinkled in with the lawyers and bankers were backpackers and bike couriers.
I'd carry my coffee back to my room, turn on the computer and prepare for the day. Breakfast was included in the bill and I'd call room service and order an omelette and fruit. Joanna stayed over once and we went to the restaurant downstairs which reminded us of the Titanic with its domed ceiling, pillars, and white tablecloths. We polished off full, meaty, bloody English breakfasts, and whispered to each other, embarrassed over being waited on officiously by a team of Eastern European women.
The week Charlie was with me, we CASHED IN. We tested the limit part of their unlimited breakfast: tea, coffee, waffles with fruit compote, toast, eggs, omelette, muesli, soy milk, fruit, yogurt, AND a pastry selection. What we didn't eat in the morning, we shoved in the mini-fridge for later.
In the early afternoon, Mario or his father Dmitri picked our group of band and dancers and management up in a mini-coach and the rest of the day was spent at the O2 arena. Some of the crew grumbled about being in one arena for so long but I liked it. I liked knowing that one of the local security had been a Polish exchange student to the University of Cincinnati. I found that another was obsessed with meteorology and that if I was going to carelessly comment on the weather, I'd better have a lawn chair and a cigarette in my pocket. I liked to stand outside and see the same green laser slice through the night sky, a marker of time, Greenwich Mean Time.
I liked that once, at 3:30 AM, while walking home from Club Aquarium, a fox crossed the deserted street in front of me. I ate chocolate in bed at night and read. I pictured Heinrich Harrar's Tibet and Paul Theroux's train travels and crumbs fell on my shirt. Before falling asleep, I'd shake it out over the rubbish bin. I mean trash can.
Oh yeah, that. A few times I thought the following words: bloke, wanker, jumper. I may have "reckoned" a thing or two. One day I said "mate". "Oh yeah, they're mates," I told Joanna without thinking. I guess I'm going to have to let people off the hook more. I always thought it sounded pretentious when Americans use British vernacular, like they're trying too hard. When maybe a place had just gotten into them and under their skin.
"A large white for the lady," the cashier would say when I entered. I was a regular and they knew what I drink. I had two pounds twenty pence counted out already. I talked to the guy who made the coffee and told him that I was returning to the States.
"I'm sorry for you are leaving," he replied. I'm sorry for I am leaving too.
We talked more and I listened hard to understand his broken English. He told me he was taking time off from work but I couldn't make out whether it was for eye surgery or a beach vacation.
I'd put on my headphones, sit across the from the Liverpool Street station and watch people exit the trains and tube. Our hotel was in the city center, the financial district, and almost everyone wore a black wool coat. Sometimes they wore grey. Sprinkled in with the lawyers and bankers were backpackers and bike couriers.
I'd carry my coffee back to my room, turn on the computer and prepare for the day. Breakfast was included in the bill and I'd call room service and order an omelette and fruit. Joanna stayed over once and we went to the restaurant downstairs which reminded us of the Titanic with its domed ceiling, pillars, and white tablecloths. We polished off full, meaty, bloody English breakfasts, and whispered to each other, embarrassed over being waited on officiously by a team of Eastern European women.
The week Charlie was with me, we CASHED IN. We tested the limit part of their unlimited breakfast: tea, coffee, waffles with fruit compote, toast, eggs, omelette, muesli, soy milk, fruit, yogurt, AND a pastry selection. What we didn't eat in the morning, we shoved in the mini-fridge for later.
In the early afternoon, Mario or his father Dmitri picked our group of band and dancers and management up in a mini-coach and the rest of the day was spent at the O2 arena. Some of the crew grumbled about being in one arena for so long but I liked it. I liked knowing that one of the local security had been a Polish exchange student to the University of Cincinnati. I found that another was obsessed with meteorology and that if I was going to carelessly comment on the weather, I'd better have a lawn chair and a cigarette in my pocket. I liked to stand outside and see the same green laser slice through the night sky, a marker of time, Greenwich Mean Time.
I liked that once, at 3:30 AM, while walking home from Club Aquarium, a fox crossed the deserted street in front of me. I ate chocolate in bed at night and read. I pictured Heinrich Harrar's Tibet and Paul Theroux's train travels and crumbs fell on my shirt. Before falling asleep, I'd shake it out over the rubbish bin. I mean trash can.
Oh yeah, that. A few times I thought the following words: bloke, wanker, jumper. I may have "reckoned" a thing or two. One day I said "mate". "Oh yeah, they're mates," I told Joanna without thinking. I guess I'm going to have to let people off the hook more. I always thought it sounded pretentious when Americans use British vernacular, like they're trying too hard. When maybe a place had just gotten into them and under their skin.
1.24.2008
In a Lonely Place
Skimming the shelves of the British Film Institute bookstore, I saw a familiar book: In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes. The 1950 movie starring Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame is probably more well known than the book but I wouldn't have known either had I not worked for the Feminist Press. During my days as the marketing associate for the publisher, one of my tasks was to sell this book. It was part of the new Femmes Fatales series and I was supposed to pitch it at conferences and to schools and bookstores. The pulp series debuted shortly before my time at the Press came to a staggering halt and by then I knew I was no saleslady.
If I'm not REALLY excited about something, I can't fake it. And even when I am really excited, I still kind of think it's up to everyone to decide for themselves what they like and don't like, what they need. Mine is not the Salesperson of the Year attitude.
"Oh, you don't care? That's cool, wanna talk about something else?"
I liked coordinating events and readings and wanted to talk to people without sales figures getting between us. At the British Film Institute I was happy to see In a Lonely Place on the shelf and thought the possible implications were swell, that the Feminist Press is doing well and hasn't backslid into dry academia and at the very least the pulps, by far the most titillating titles on the list, have made it across the Atlantic.
But I was beyond relieved to have nothing to do with it anymore. I started working with books out of lust for letters and ideas. Had I carved out an editorial space for myself in publishing, maybe that energy wouldn't have been gobbled up by trying to sell other people's ideas and wondering what font they used on that cover. I tried to salvage time while working in publishing to linger over what books said inside but I was burnt. Forget about what I had to say inside.
So I plucked In a Lonely Place off the shelf and flipped it around in my hand, then put it back and kept wandering around London's South Bank, grinning. Because with my touring work now, I do sometimes actually find the space to relish letters and all the ideas that they spell out.
1.21.2008
Personal art history
I'm not sure when I starting caring about art. I always appreciated what was between the lines more than anything spelled out directly or clearly. I always liked photos taken of moments that could easily go unnoticed: the quiet and unrehearsed. Photos of smiling, posed, and preening people were always a little disappointing.
Groups of girls at prom in tacky dresses, big smiles, and elbows hooked around each others' necks make me want to slam Jack Daniels until I pass out. Landscapes can be stunningly beautiful and my photos of places that held me in awe - Wyoming's Grand Tetons, Juneau's ice fields - or reached deep into me and squeezed tightly - the Ecuadorian coast - are invaluable to me.
But even those shots lack something, something like tension or mystery, a human element. NOT TO BE CONFUSED with a human figure plunked right in the middle of the shot.
After a summer of leading people around the US, camping in national parks and reciting historical soundbites, I craved trash. I took my campers through the mountains of the west, hiked trails, and crossed innumerable passes of yes, majesty, but I was thrilled to finally reach a dark Chicago alley.
I lied to one group. I dropped them off at the Sears Tower, told them I had to get our 15-passenger van serviced, parked it a few miles away and stood under the El while it thundered above. I took photos of a dirty stop sign. And felt relief.
In elementary school at Sands Montessori I went on museum field trips and filled out my teachers' questionnaires, finding answers to their questions on museum cards and in the art itself. They'd set us free for an hour to roam and look around and figure out what they wanted us to notice. We had an art lady that came to our classroom, usually somebody's mother, with paintings and we talked about the pieces. She'd point out lines of color and the way it drew our eye to patterns. We talked about themes and made connections. We asked questions.
Our art teacher, Ms. Gross, taught us different mediums and then let us make whatever we imagined. She guided us and then let us get creative. But I wasn't able then, or for a long time afterward, to grapple with the idea that what we were doing was important. I thought that art was restricted to a special group of people, Artists. It was a bonus, IF YOU WERE INTO THAT, but not fundamental.
In college, I went to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis to see an exhibit by Marcel Duchamp and was underwhelmed. I couldn't connect with a faucet bolted into the wall and a pile of newspapers on the floor called FAUCET and PILE OF NEWSPAPERS. The fact that I couldn't touch these totally touchable objects - called art because they were within a gallery space - irritated me.
Abstract art was enjoyable, if the design or colors were intriguing. With more traditional paintings, pictorial representations of something I recognized, I'd stand and stare because I was impressed that someone had those skills. I admired their craft but still I wasn't honestly excited. If the painting was famous, I'd try harder. Photography, especially black and white, was about the only thing that made me feel something that I couldn't describe, something wonderful.
At Evergreen State College, I started developing a sense of humor about the whole thing. Evergreen art students were particularly interdisciplinary, true to Evergreen tradition, and this lent a performance/public edge. THE WORLD AS GALLERY.
Rubber chickens hanging from the trees on the way to class Monday morning? Maybe an acid-induced inspiration from the night before. Or? An art project that someone was getting school credit for. Tough call.
.JPG)
My friend Halle was in a dance troupe and I went to some of their performances. My favorite part was Halle tap dancing furiously. Because that was something I couldn't do. Whereas I could easily hang rubber chickens around or dance interpretively. Aha! That's what had been bugging me for, like, YEARS. If I needed a context and explanation to appreciate what people were creating, I didn't understand why they bothered messing with an audience. Why share with others if no one besides you gets it? Keep it in your dorm room, I thought, or your studio or your journal. Or tell me more! MAKE ME UNDERSTAND.
Halle, too, had a sense of humor about it. She studied Butoh performance and would tell me stories that had us rolling: her getting so lost in the Butoh movement that she thought she was a beetle or a blade of grass or she was drooling on herself. Right in the middle of the school's public square. Slowly, for an hour.
I liked Kevin's approach to art. He'd find pieces of driftwood on the shores of the Olympic Peninsula and put them together to make figures. Paint images on pieces of canvas and staple them anonymously to telephone poles. Anonymous, organic, democratic. He gave me scraps of canvas to paint on sometimes and I did, while questioning if I was good enough to do that.
Part of me wanted art to be accessible to anyone and part of me wanted it to remain exclusive, something only for really, really talented people. I wasn't sure how I felt about dipping my brush in mediocrity. I wanted to delight in (someone else's) genius.
But cracks appeared on the faultline of whether I could be a part of art or not. It may have secretly started in Olympia, or Ecuador. I noticed, however, in Seattle that I liked wandering off alone and finding art in people's yards and in the streets and in museums - anywhere - and writing down how I felt upon finding it. What did it make me think? Any new interesting thoughts?
This is a big difference from only worrying about how it looks or what it meant to the artist.
Aha x 2!
Part of the experience is me. Art's significance isn't only in the moment of creation. Artwork doesn't have to just sit or hang forever, getting dusty, in a museum for others to revere from a cool distance. Wherever it is, it evolves through each person who chooses to pay attention to it. It's personal.
It doesn't mean that all art is good; it means that who you are determines what you connect with. It's a lot like with people. You don't have to possess a certain aesthetic for me to be attracted to you, but I have to be drawn to SOMETHING. Real interest isn't completely reliant on form. Initial attraction, however, must spark something new - a thought, a curiosity, an excitement - to actually connect.
If not, it makes more sense to keep walking. That's why I walk past pieces on gallery walls or stop just briefly. I thought there might have been something there for me but there wasn't, at least not that day. Around the corner, though, under another light, there might be something that changes everything.
Groups of girls at prom in tacky dresses, big smiles, and elbows hooked around each others' necks make me want to slam Jack Daniels until I pass out. Landscapes can be stunningly beautiful and my photos of places that held me in awe - Wyoming's Grand Tetons, Juneau's ice fields - or reached deep into me and squeezed tightly - the Ecuadorian coast - are invaluable to me.
But even those shots lack something, something like tension or mystery, a human element. NOT TO BE CONFUSED with a human figure plunked right in the middle of the shot.
After a summer of leading people around the US, camping in national parks and reciting historical soundbites, I craved trash. I took my campers through the mountains of the west, hiked trails, and crossed innumerable passes of yes, majesty, but I was thrilled to finally reach a dark Chicago alley.
I lied to one group. I dropped them off at the Sears Tower, told them I had to get our 15-passenger van serviced, parked it a few miles away and stood under the El while it thundered above. I took photos of a dirty stop sign. And felt relief.
In elementary school at Sands Montessori I went on museum field trips and filled out my teachers' questionnaires, finding answers to their questions on museum cards and in the art itself. They'd set us free for an hour to roam and look around and figure out what they wanted us to notice. We had an art lady that came to our classroom, usually somebody's mother, with paintings and we talked about the pieces. She'd point out lines of color and the way it drew our eye to patterns. We talked about themes and made connections. We asked questions.
Our art teacher, Ms. Gross, taught us different mediums and then let us make whatever we imagined. She guided us and then let us get creative. But I wasn't able then, or for a long time afterward, to grapple with the idea that what we were doing was important. I thought that art was restricted to a special group of people, Artists. It was a bonus, IF YOU WERE INTO THAT, but not fundamental.
In college, I went to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis to see an exhibit by Marcel Duchamp and was underwhelmed. I couldn't connect with a faucet bolted into the wall and a pile of newspapers on the floor called FAUCET and PILE OF NEWSPAPERS. The fact that I couldn't touch these totally touchable objects - called art because they were within a gallery space - irritated me.
Abstract art was enjoyable, if the design or colors were intriguing. With more traditional paintings, pictorial representations of something I recognized, I'd stand and stare because I was impressed that someone had those skills. I admired their craft but still I wasn't honestly excited. If the painting was famous, I'd try harder. Photography, especially black and white, was about the only thing that made me feel something that I couldn't describe, something wonderful.
At Evergreen State College, I started developing a sense of humor about the whole thing. Evergreen art students were particularly interdisciplinary, true to Evergreen tradition, and this lent a performance/public edge. THE WORLD AS GALLERY.
Rubber chickens hanging from the trees on the way to class Monday morning? Maybe an acid-induced inspiration from the night before. Or? An art project that someone was getting school credit for. Tough call.
.JPG)
My friend Halle was in a dance troupe and I went to some of their performances. My favorite part was Halle tap dancing furiously. Because that was something I couldn't do. Whereas I could easily hang rubber chickens around or dance interpretively. Aha! That's what had been bugging me for, like, YEARS. If I needed a context and explanation to appreciate what people were creating, I didn't understand why they bothered messing with an audience. Why share with others if no one besides you gets it? Keep it in your dorm room, I thought, or your studio or your journal. Or tell me more! MAKE ME UNDERSTAND.
Halle, too, had a sense of humor about it. She studied Butoh performance and would tell me stories that had us rolling: her getting so lost in the Butoh movement that she thought she was a beetle or a blade of grass or she was drooling on herself. Right in the middle of the school's public square. Slowly, for an hour.
I liked Kevin's approach to art. He'd find pieces of driftwood on the shores of the Olympic Peninsula and put them together to make figures. Paint images on pieces of canvas and staple them anonymously to telephone poles. Anonymous, organic, democratic. He gave me scraps of canvas to paint on sometimes and I did, while questioning if I was good enough to do that.
Part of me wanted art to be accessible to anyone and part of me wanted it to remain exclusive, something only for really, really talented people. I wasn't sure how I felt about dipping my brush in mediocrity. I wanted to delight in (someone else's) genius.
But cracks appeared on the faultline of whether I could be a part of art or not. It may have secretly started in Olympia, or Ecuador. I noticed, however, in Seattle that I liked wandering off alone and finding art in people's yards and in the streets and in museums - anywhere - and writing down how I felt upon finding it. What did it make me think? Any new interesting thoughts?
This is a big difference from only worrying about how it looks or what it meant to the artist.
Aha x 2!
Part of the experience is me. Art's significance isn't only in the moment of creation. Artwork doesn't have to just sit or hang forever, getting dusty, in a museum for others to revere from a cool distance. Wherever it is, it evolves through each person who chooses to pay attention to it. It's personal.
It doesn't mean that all art is good; it means that who you are determines what you connect with. It's a lot like with people. You don't have to possess a certain aesthetic for me to be attracted to you, but I have to be drawn to SOMETHING. Real interest isn't completely reliant on form. Initial attraction, however, must spark something new - a thought, a curiosity, an excitement - to actually connect.
If not, it makes more sense to keep walking. That's why I walk past pieces on gallery walls or stop just briefly. I thought there might have been something there for me but there wasn't, at least not that day. Around the corner, though, under another light, there might be something that changes everything.
1.18.2008
hair odyssey, fast forward
The first time I went on a hair odyssey was in New York. I was tired of having straggly, stringy hair down my back and wanted a short cut. I chose seven photos of different boys in a Japanese fashion magazine, brought them to a stylist in Williamsburg and asked him to create a haircut based on those boys.
Earlier that day, I'd been hanging out with Michael Bova who invited me to lunch with his friends. I declined because I had to go thrifting; I needed clothes to match my future as a Japanese boy. He shrugged, "Just meet us later for a drink."
When I walked in the Metropolitan that night with short hairs of different lengths going in all directions and a brand-new-to-me Adidas hoodie, Bova laughed, "You totally did it." I curtsied.
A week ago, I was drinking Guinness in East London with Charlie, Antony, and Anna. Antony and Anna, both hairdressers, started arguing about how they'd cut my hair. They grabbed my chin and and the crown of my head and moved me around like a mannequin while shooting back and forth, "No, no, I wouldn't do that, she doesn't want that! I'd do this!"
I, meanwhile, caught Charlie's eye between the hands gripping my face and he offered the futile suggestion that they ask her/me what I want. That didn't happen. No, Antony told me that he had a vision and that I should trust him.
When I showed up to Antony's salon yesterday and sat in the chair he told me his idea again. "That's great," I said, "Except I don't really like heavy, blunt bangs." He stood behind me and looked silently in the mirror. There was no menace in his stare but I could hear him thinking really hard. "We'll talk about it later," he said.
Later, he asked me in his soft voice what I had in mind and I caved. "I'm letting go," I said and threw my arms out from underneath the smock, "I've LET go. It's your vision and I'm bored. Knock yourself out."
After the first horizontal slash he did above my eyebrows, he stepped aside and asked what I thought. "I'm...INTERESTED...in what's happening," I said.
By the time he was done and we were walking down the street, however, I was on a new hair high. "It's much more you," he said. I thought that was funny and sweet since it was only the third or fourth time we'd met but I agreed that it felt much better than the growing out dishwater blond thing.
"You're right," I said, "I'm not identifying as a California blond." "You don't seem like a California girl," he said. "I'm not," I said, "And now my hair reflects that. You have given me my head of the future."
Lindsay text messaged and asked about the hair. I told her that a) I was a punk rock Katie Holmes minus her face and in case that wasn't totally clear I added that b) I was all bangs all the time and looked like c) a German Scientologist.
Which I didn't know I was going for. But THAT? That is what a hair odyssey is about.
Earlier that day, I'd been hanging out with Michael Bova who invited me to lunch with his friends. I declined because I had to go thrifting; I needed clothes to match my future as a Japanese boy. He shrugged, "Just meet us later for a drink."
When I walked in the Metropolitan that night with short hairs of different lengths going in all directions and a brand-new-to-me Adidas hoodie, Bova laughed, "You totally did it." I curtsied.
A week ago, I was drinking Guinness in East London with Charlie, Antony, and Anna. Antony and Anna, both hairdressers, started arguing about how they'd cut my hair. They grabbed my chin and and the crown of my head and moved me around like a mannequin while shooting back and forth, "No, no, I wouldn't do that, she doesn't want that! I'd do this!"
I, meanwhile, caught Charlie's eye between the hands gripping my face and he offered the futile suggestion that they ask her/me what I want. That didn't happen. No, Antony told me that he had a vision and that I should trust him.
When I showed up to Antony's salon yesterday and sat in the chair he told me his idea again. "That's great," I said, "Except I don't really like heavy, blunt bangs." He stood behind me and looked silently in the mirror. There was no menace in his stare but I could hear him thinking really hard. "We'll talk about it later," he said.
Later, he asked me in his soft voice what I had in mind and I caved. "I'm letting go," I said and threw my arms out from underneath the smock, "I've LET go. It's your vision and I'm bored. Knock yourself out."
After the first horizontal slash he did above my eyebrows, he stepped aside and asked what I thought. "I'm...INTERESTED...in what's happening," I said.
By the time he was done and we were walking down the street, however, I was on a new hair high. "It's much more you," he said. I thought that was funny and sweet since it was only the third or fourth time we'd met but I agreed that it felt much better than the growing out dishwater blond thing.
"You're right," I said, "I'm not identifying as a California blond." "You don't seem like a California girl," he said. "I'm not," I said, "And now my hair reflects that. You have given me my head of the future."
Lindsay text messaged and asked about the hair. I told her that a) I was a punk rock Katie Holmes minus her face and in case that wasn't totally clear I added that b) I was all bangs all the time and looked like c) a German Scientologist.
Which I didn't know I was going for. But THAT? That is what a hair odyssey is about.
1.11.2008
different stops on the same train (2)
Some days I just want to hang out with someone who's family. Joanna is my sister because she lived with us Ronckers for a year when I was 17. And that was NOT a good year to have to share a room with me.
Some days I just want to take photo after photo of us spending more uncut time together than we have in a long time. And I want those photos to reflect one thing besides unconditional love: BEER.
Some days I just want to take photo after photo of us spending more uncut time together than we have in a long time. And I want those photos to reflect one thing besides unconditional love: BEER.
Walking through Tate Modern
Listening to my mix and walking through an art museum:
CRIPPLE & THE STARFISH, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
Some days I get up and want to focus on a different sense. Whether I'm deep in my own head or skating through the world outside, I filter out, or in, what I crave that day.
OPEN TO END, LONG WALK HOME
I walk to Tate Modern and watch people. The backdrop I hear is music that reminds me of Berlin. Inside the museum, I keep the music in my ears and I find the Poetry and Dream Exhibit. I walk past surrealist paintings but don't stop, only glance. I read that for the poets and artists of the surrealist movement, dreams stand for all aspects of the world repressed by rationalism. I nod my head but I'm pretty sure it's to the beat, not the information.
DIE GEDANKEN SIND FREI, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
All of a sudden I remember a dream I had the night before. I was terrified because I looked at a building and it exploded into flame. It leaned in my direction and started to fall, all orange, burning.
EARLIER BAGHDAD, T BONE BURNETT
I notice a television set high in the corner. The camera is behind the shoulders of a man in a grey shirt who walks down a city street. I think New York or Philly. He gets to the curb and a garbage man pushes a cart of bins in the middle of the street and the grey shirt man falls out of the frame. I think he's tripped off the curb.
CONROY, CAKE
More paintings. I don't stop.
NEW WORLD, BJORK
I take a right into a gallery full of functional-looking sculptures. If they weren't in a museum, I would definitely sit on them.
TWILIGHT, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
There is a window in the corner and I note that outside it is twilight.
KREUZBERG, BLOC PARTY
I see something that I am allowed to sit on: an empty ottoman in a semi-circle of ottomans. They face a small screen hung from the ceiling. I sit and watch. It appears that a series of paintings are projected to create ongoing movement. Water splotches jump around the screen as a man in a grey suit walks with his hands clasped behind his back.
SWEATSHOP, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
The man is on a brown path, green to his left. The brush strokes in his grey jacket shift around as he takes steps. I have a feeling that nothing is going to happen. I'll think that the projection is a nice idea but I'll get up and move on, bored.
But the man looks over his shoulder and it really feels like he's looking at me. He's wearing black glasses and his face changes color from olive to white for a second. He looks back to the ground in front of him. I write something in my journal about how this painting just stared at me.
When I look up, a little painted dog comes into the picture from the opposite direction. He passes the man and the man falls to his knees, both hands on the ground. The man just gets up and walks on, hands back behind his back. Every time I look down to write and then watch again, I see a new detail.
OTHER SIDE, LONG WALK HOME
When I've had enough, I get up to read the card on the wall. The artist is Francis Alys and the piece is called The Last Clown. Suddenly my music sounds muddy and I take my headphones off. I realize that I missed a whole element of the piece: the clown music and laughter piped in from a speaker by the wall. For a second, I think that's a bummer but then decide I like my version.
DANSE DE TRAVERS, ERIK SATIE
Another television with a video shot on a city street. This time the camera is right behind a dog's head. Hold on a second, I'm having an idea. I think all these pieces are related and I'm just now getting it.
ALL IS FULL OF LOVE, BJORK
Francis Alys lives in Mexico City and loves chance encounters and absurdities of everyday life. The Last Clown is based on a real incident when he was walking in London's Hyde Park with a curator who was tripped by a passing dog. Francis Alys likes humor and surprise and he also likes walking. Sometimes he observes and sometimes he disrupts everyday situations. The Last Clown is passive compared to some of his work. Alys is an instigator!
JIQUE, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
There are nine videos scattered around the galleries that show a man being tripped by a dog from different viewpoints. Together they are called Choques and you get the whole story only if you watch all nine videos. I only find eight. In the eighth one, I notice that the man is wearing Converse and I catch another man come into the frame and clap his arms together. CUT.
MAN IS THE BABY, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
Francesca Woodman photography. I haven't heard of her and I instantly like her images: small, moody, black and white, indoors. Nudity in unexpected positions. I read on the wall that she killed herself in her apartment at age 22 and my face flushes and my nose fills with fluid and I have to swallow to keep myself from crying. Where did that emotion come from?
GNOSSIENNE NO.1, ERIK SATIE
There's a darkened room around the corner where a film is shown but I'm so full of Francis and Francesca, I can't digest anything or anyone else.
BIRD GERHL, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
I was going to meet Joanna hours ago and I leave. I don't want to be late for dinner.
CRIPPLE & THE STARFISH, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
Some days I get up and want to focus on a different sense. Whether I'm deep in my own head or skating through the world outside, I filter out, or in, what I crave that day.
OPEN TO END, LONG WALK HOME
I walk to Tate Modern and watch people. The backdrop I hear is music that reminds me of Berlin. Inside the museum, I keep the music in my ears and I find the Poetry and Dream Exhibit. I walk past surrealist paintings but don't stop, only glance. I read that for the poets and artists of the surrealist movement, dreams stand for all aspects of the world repressed by rationalism. I nod my head but I'm pretty sure it's to the beat, not the information.
DIE GEDANKEN SIND FREI, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
All of a sudden I remember a dream I had the night before. I was terrified because I looked at a building and it exploded into flame. It leaned in my direction and started to fall, all orange, burning.
EARLIER BAGHDAD, T BONE BURNETT
I notice a television set high in the corner. The camera is behind the shoulders of a man in a grey shirt who walks down a city street. I think New York or Philly. He gets to the curb and a garbage man pushes a cart of bins in the middle of the street and the grey shirt man falls out of the frame. I think he's tripped off the curb.
CONROY, CAKE
More paintings. I don't stop.
NEW WORLD, BJORK
I take a right into a gallery full of functional-looking sculptures. If they weren't in a museum, I would definitely sit on them.
TWILIGHT, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
There is a window in the corner and I note that outside it is twilight.
KREUZBERG, BLOC PARTY
I see something that I am allowed to sit on: an empty ottoman in a semi-circle of ottomans. They face a small screen hung from the ceiling. I sit and watch. It appears that a series of paintings are projected to create ongoing movement. Water splotches jump around the screen as a man in a grey suit walks with his hands clasped behind his back.
SWEATSHOP, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
The man is on a brown path, green to his left. The brush strokes in his grey jacket shift around as he takes steps. I have a feeling that nothing is going to happen. I'll think that the projection is a nice idea but I'll get up and move on, bored.
But the man looks over his shoulder and it really feels like he's looking at me. He's wearing black glasses and his face changes color from olive to white for a second. He looks back to the ground in front of him. I write something in my journal about how this painting just stared at me.
When I look up, a little painted dog comes into the picture from the opposite direction. He passes the man and the man falls to his knees, both hands on the ground. The man just gets up and walks on, hands back behind his back. Every time I look down to write and then watch again, I see a new detail.
OTHER SIDE, LONG WALK HOME
When I've had enough, I get up to read the card on the wall. The artist is Francis Alys and the piece is called The Last Clown. Suddenly my music sounds muddy and I take my headphones off. I realize that I missed a whole element of the piece: the clown music and laughter piped in from a speaker by the wall. For a second, I think that's a bummer but then decide I like my version.
DANSE DE TRAVERS, ERIK SATIE
Another television with a video shot on a city street. This time the camera is right behind a dog's head. Hold on a second, I'm having an idea. I think all these pieces are related and I'm just now getting it.
ALL IS FULL OF LOVE, BJORK
Francis Alys lives in Mexico City and loves chance encounters and absurdities of everyday life. The Last Clown is based on a real incident when he was walking in London's Hyde Park with a curator who was tripped by a passing dog. Francis Alys likes humor and surprise and he also likes walking. Sometimes he observes and sometimes he disrupts everyday situations. The Last Clown is passive compared to some of his work. Alys is an instigator!
JIQUE, BRAZILIAN GIRLS
There are nine videos scattered around the galleries that show a man being tripped by a dog from different viewpoints. Together they are called Choques and you get the whole story only if you watch all nine videos. I only find eight. In the eighth one, I notice that the man is wearing Converse and I catch another man come into the frame and clap his arms together. CUT.
MAN IS THE BABY, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
Francesca Woodman photography. I haven't heard of her and I instantly like her images: small, moody, black and white, indoors. Nudity in unexpected positions. I read on the wall that she killed herself in her apartment at age 22 and my face flushes and my nose fills with fluid and I have to swallow to keep myself from crying. Where did that emotion come from?
GNOSSIENNE NO.1, ERIK SATIE
There's a darkened room around the corner where a film is shown but I'm so full of Francis and Francesca, I can't digest anything or anyone else.
BIRD GERHL, ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
I was going to meet Joanna hours ago and I leave. I don't want to be late for dinner.
1.09.2008
Louise Bourgeois
I walk to London Bridge and cross the Thames. The cobbled streets along the river are full of kids hopping and couples cuddling, their weekend paces slower than usual. I wear big headphones and listen to my mix, watching everyone as I pass them by. I pretend they too can hear the music and are choosing their own choreography. When I get to the Tate Modern, I see the spider and I sit and stare.
Sculpted from steel by Louise Bourgeois, the spider is called Maman and OH MY GOD. This is the beast that I dreamed was outside my bedroom door when I was kid. Who kept me gripping the sheets and flinching before I snuck into my parents' room and crawled in bed with them. This spider's greatest desire: to devour me alive.
Not surprisingly, everyone else around the sculpture appears unconcerned.
But I know that Louise Bourgeois gets it because Maman was created from her own preoccupations with childhood anxieties and family relationships. Louise knows it's creepy. I take off my coat and sit on a bench. I replay the mix in my ears and watch people interact with the spider and with each other.
Most of them stand at a distance and put someone in the foreground whose smile freezes for a moment before they move on. Some walk up to Maman and pose with one of her 30-foot-tall legs. Giddy couples huddle close to each other and hold the camera away from themselves with one arm outstretched. They're just happy to be there together and if there's a spider leg in the frame, that's cool too.
Two teenage girls dance in circles and leap back and forth like ice skaters. They take turns practicing moves in front of Maman while the other captures it on camera. They run to each other to review the shots, laughing. HIGH FIVE!
1.06.2008
Jägermeister vs. English beer
What I want to know is why, in Berlin, I bought little bottles of 70-proof Jägermeister with Charlie and Mona and drank them on the street, on the U-Bahn, and in the club all night long and remained almost completely sober. Because the other night, in London, I had two beers and was d-runk.
The Spice Girls show was down and a few of us gathered in the O2 arena bar. I sat calmly on a white couch, nursing a beer, staring in awe of how HARD people were dancing to the Ghostbusters theme song.
Later in the loading dock, I laughed until it hurt behind a mini-coach with Lindsay and tried to steal a ten-lb bag of sugar from a shelf on the wall. I don't know how long I stood there with the bag of sugar in my hand but finally Lindsay decided that my idea to "leave a trail of sugar to find our way home" wasn't practical and convinced me to put it back where it belonged.
The Spice Girls show was down and a few of us gathered in the O2 arena bar. I sat calmly on a white couch, nursing a beer, staring in awe of how HARD people were dancing to the Ghostbusters theme song.
Later in the loading dock, I laughed until it hurt behind a mini-coach with Lindsay and tried to steal a ten-lb bag of sugar from a shelf on the wall. I don't know how long I stood there with the bag of sugar in my hand but finally Lindsay decided that my idea to "leave a trail of sugar to find our way home" wasn't practical and convinced me to put it back where it belonged.
12.28.2007
Learning how to sleep
After conquering jet lag, I imagined long stretches of restfulness. I'd get home from the arena at 1 am and start on the computer late the next morning. I'd cash in on the hotel's free breakfast and pot of french press coffee delivered to the room. I'd take long London walks, gulping cold breaths of December air, before going back to the arena to work in the afternoon.
So why am I still wake at 4:30 am, television buzzing? I don't remember turning it on. At 4:30 am I lay for hours, mind racing, and drift off again. In the morning I shake out the duvet to find the glasses that fell off my nose.
When I sleep in people's homes, it's different. I have no problem sleeping. On Christmas day with the Hudson family, I wore a paper crown at dinner and ate mince pies. I sipped dry sherry and sweet sherry and glasses of white wine. By the time we played charades, I could hardly hold my head up off the back of the couch, I was so tired and maybe half drunk.
In the morning I heard Alfie outside my room, babbling his baby talk, but I rolled over. Much later, I made myself sit up and join the family downstairs for tea.
Twenty-four hours ago, I landed at Tegel airport, smiling and biting my lip as I walked off the plane and through passport control. On the concourse, I looked around and saw Charlie walking my way. He hadn't seen me yet. When he did, both of our faces cracked and we wrapped our arms around each other, laughing, "OH MY GAWD!"
"I'm so glad I'm not the only one who laughs uncontrollably when it's been a long time that they've seen someone," I said.
We took a bus and train to Hermannplatz, bought eggplant and zucchini and brussel sprouts at the market, and walked to his apartment. The stripped wooden floors and big windows with red curtains reminded me of the first day he walked through my door in New York, shaking snow off his boot. He'd never seen snow before.
Last night we sat on the futon and ate potato chips. He cooked the vegetables with tahini and we drank tea and talked and eight hours later I fell asleep. This morning I saw a figure dressed in black, standing in the middle of the room, red curtain behind. Charlie went to work and I rolled over, heavy still with dreams.
So why am I still wake at 4:30 am, television buzzing? I don't remember turning it on. At 4:30 am I lay for hours, mind racing, and drift off again. In the morning I shake out the duvet to find the glasses that fell off my nose.
When I sleep in people's homes, it's different. I have no problem sleeping. On Christmas day with the Hudson family, I wore a paper crown at dinner and ate mince pies. I sipped dry sherry and sweet sherry and glasses of white wine. By the time we played charades, I could hardly hold my head up off the back of the couch, I was so tired and maybe half drunk.
In the morning I heard Alfie outside my room, babbling his baby talk, but I rolled over. Much later, I made myself sit up and join the family downstairs for tea.
Twenty-four hours ago, I landed at Tegel airport, smiling and biting my lip as I walked off the plane and through passport control. On the concourse, I looked around and saw Charlie walking my way. He hadn't seen me yet. When he did, both of our faces cracked and we wrapped our arms around each other, laughing, "OH MY GAWD!"
"I'm so glad I'm not the only one who laughs uncontrollably when it's been a long time that they've seen someone," I said.
We took a bus and train to Hermannplatz, bought eggplant and zucchini and brussel sprouts at the market, and walked to his apartment. The stripped wooden floors and big windows with red curtains reminded me of the first day he walked through my door in New York, shaking snow off his boot. He'd never seen snow before.
Last night we sat on the futon and ate potato chips. He cooked the vegetables with tahini and we drank tea and talked and eight hours later I fell asleep. This morning I saw a figure dressed in black, standing in the middle of the room, red curtain behind. Charlie went to work and I rolled over, heavy still with dreams.
12.25.2007
Christmas pants
"I need to buy some Christmas pants," I told Michele and Lindsay.
We'd flown back to London for a week off after the Madrid Spice Girls show and in the car from Heathrow, I realized how badly I needed to do laundry. I didn't know if I could wedge laundry in between Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and flying to Berlin on Thursday but my jeans had started to look like droopy denim diapers and they stunk. They were definitely too grungy for a family Christmas day with the Hudsons.
"Uh-uh," I said when I saw the look on Lindsay's face. "Don't get any ideas. I'm not talking about Christmas-THEMED pants."
Though we did all agree that it would be awesome if I had pants with giant snowflakes on the ass. And I'm a little sad that I gave my red corduroys to Matty in Las Vegas because with a little craft project we could have so easily made this dream come true.
We'd flown back to London for a week off after the Madrid Spice Girls show and in the car from Heathrow, I realized how badly I needed to do laundry. I didn't know if I could wedge laundry in between Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and flying to Berlin on Thursday but my jeans had started to look like droopy denim diapers and they stunk. They were definitely too grungy for a family Christmas day with the Hudsons.
"Uh-uh," I said when I saw the look on Lindsay's face. "Don't get any ideas. I'm not talking about Christmas-THEMED pants."
Though we did all agree that it would be awesome if I had pants with giant snowflakes on the ass. And I'm a little sad that I gave my red corduroys to Matty in Las Vegas because with a little craft project we could have so easily made this dream come true.
12.14.2007
jet lag
It's four-something in the morning and I can't sleep. I forgot about jet lag.
I kind of thought that if I drank enough champagne to pass out on the plane, I'd be right on schedule, circadian rhythms intact. I mean, I flew across the ocean in the Virgin Atlantic Upper Class section, which, OH MY.
If anyone ever asks me, "What was the point at which you started feeling a huge sense of entitlement and accustomed to the finer things in life?" I'll say, "Virgin Atlantic. Upper Class. Word."
You don't get a seat, you get a cocoon. Which folds into a bed. You get champagne upon boarding and a several-course meal and slippers and a TV with infinity movies and you can go stand at the full bar and order from a bartender, shoot the shit with the other aristocrats en flight.
I drank, some would say heavily, on this flight and ended up passing out in my bed hugging a box of chocolates that I barely remember scarfing. This may actually explain why my body's rhythms are still screwed; Any substance abuse counselor will tell you that that doesn't qualify as a good night's sleep, which brings me to now:
In my London hotel room with the television tuned to the Christmas countdown of holiday-themed music videos. People, I don't like holiday-themed anything but am officially a shell of my former self.
I can't sleep and I've read my brains out and am now too tired, yet JACKED, to make sense of words and just need noise, even if it's CHRISTMAS NOISE. Yes, that is how low it's gotten for me. The only thing that makes it even slightly okay for me to watch a video by Wizzard called "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day" or anything by Take That is the saucy middle-aged woman dancing in the corner of the screen, supposedly signing an interpretation of the lyrics.
Though I'm not convinced that she even knows sign language. I think she's high. And I want what she's on.
I kind of thought that if I drank enough champagne to pass out on the plane, I'd be right on schedule, circadian rhythms intact. I mean, I flew across the ocean in the Virgin Atlantic Upper Class section, which, OH MY.
If anyone ever asks me, "What was the point at which you started feeling a huge sense of entitlement and accustomed to the finer things in life?" I'll say, "Virgin Atlantic. Upper Class. Word."
You don't get a seat, you get a cocoon. Which folds into a bed. You get champagne upon boarding and a several-course meal and slippers and a TV with infinity movies and you can go stand at the full bar and order from a bartender, shoot the shit with the other aristocrats en flight.
I drank, some would say heavily, on this flight and ended up passing out in my bed hugging a box of chocolates that I barely remember scarfing. This may actually explain why my body's rhythms are still screwed; Any substance abuse counselor will tell you that that doesn't qualify as a good night's sleep, which brings me to now:
In my London hotel room with the television tuned to the Christmas countdown of holiday-themed music videos. People, I don't like holiday-themed anything but am officially a shell of my former self.
I can't sleep and I've read my brains out and am now too tired, yet JACKED, to make sense of words and just need noise, even if it's CHRISTMAS NOISE. Yes, that is how low it's gotten for me. The only thing that makes it even slightly okay for me to watch a video by Wizzard called "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day" or anything by Take That is the saucy middle-aged woman dancing in the corner of the screen, supposedly signing an interpretation of the lyrics.
Though I'm not convinced that she even knows sign language. I think she's high. And I want what she's on.
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