BC, you know, the one that I’m supposed to be separated from, and I are on the flight to New York City, for a three week stay in the West Village. Our purser’s name is Chad. His voice and entire being radiate calm efficiency and dedication to service. We’re staying at my friend, Lilly’s, who’s going to China for the month. Lilly’s a fascinating film maker, a passionate and intense woman whose films have focused largely on her Jewish heritage, both on very grand and very intimate scales. Very happy to be able to spend the evening with her before she sets sail for the Middle Kingdom.
Having dreamt about having a solo show in New York city since deciding to pursue being an artist, it’s with an unavoidable level of disappointment that I go there now, with the gallery closing and my show being canceled. Start spreading the word. I will not be a part of it. I had a dream that Michael Kimmelman’s review of the Whitney Biennial mentioned my show, telling people to head over to Chelsea to see where the real pulse was. I don’t know if I’ll have another opportunity to show in the center of the art world again, and am trying to be comfortable being a peripheral anomaly relegated to the artistic backwater that is San Francisco. I’ve asked my artist friends to make recommendations for introductions with dealers, and have at least one solid lead to follow. I’m not the aggressive type, you know, when it comes to approaching galleries, that is, so if all else fails, I’m going to love exploring the city for an extended period of time, and will get back to work in San Francisco renewed and invigorated. Or ready to take off for Italy.
Last night I watched Jacques Demy’s delightful Lola, which momentarily blew me out of the doldrums and into new wave paradise. Anouk Aimee plays Cecille, a dancer nicknamed Lola, who clings optimistically to the return of her lover and father of her child, who left 10 years ago after getting her pregnant and with the promise to return rich. Meanwhile, everyone falls in love with her, but this is Jacques Demy, so by the film’s end, the lover returns, sure enough rich, with all of Lola’s floozie dance buddies in tears and her many suitors heartbroken but wiser and off to all ports not Lola. I see Jacques Demy as a new wave anomaly of sorts. His films are almost postmodern in their appropriation (Lola is an ode to Max Ophüls) of style and content, but always with his unique fairy tale stamp.
Okay, three more hours to go. What shall we talk about? Do you have any more questions for me? Want to hear about my vestigial nipple? Well, I don’t have one, but at least two of my past lovers did. And I’m not one to kiss and tell. That’s kiss–make love to every day, devote every second to, spend two years looking for the perfect sofa with, break up in a public and painful confession of indiscretion–and tell. Oh, wait, I won’t be posting this for hours, so I obviously can’t answer your questions while I have all this time on my hands, so let me anticipate some questions for you, Dear Readers…
Chris, just how did you get the nickname ‘Coco’?
That’s a very good question! I was the first relative that my nephew, Nathan, addressed who had not only a single-syllable name, but one that began with all these consonants. There were “Ma-ma,” “Pa-pa,” “Di-di,” Nathan was even “Na-Na,” and then me. If you’ve ever babysat an infant, you suddenly realize how long 8 hours are. Sort of like being on a plane, but having to keep everybody amused. There I was, trying to get Na-Na to say my name, and he’d get the “C” sound okay, but I guess the two-syllable thing was already too heavily ingrained, and out came “Co-co.” “Chr-is,” I’d say. “Co-Co.” “Ch-ris.” “Co-co.” So it stuck.
If you were stuck on a desert island with only one person, who would it be, and why?
I’d love to get shipwrecked with Talullah Bankhead, because I’ve already seen how entertaining and resourceful she can be, fishing with her diamond bracelet in Lifeboat. If she somehow couldn’t make it, then I’d choose Bob Hoskins because in the absence of practical matters, like checking e-mail or having to work for a living, I’d just want to have sex all day, and he’s the only man who could ever please me. Isn’t he the son of a preacher man?
What’s the most memorable break-up you’ve experienced?
Alfonso, my hot Basque potato. He looked like Jean-Luc Picard (+25 pounds), and ran into the Pacific naked. We went to the beach together one afternoon, in Santa Cruz. There was a couple making love on the beach, under a blanket, very tenderly. I thought how wonderful, and looked over to Alfonso with hearts and stars bursting from my eyes, and he said, “The whore.” Later than evening, as we supped on a light but fiery Basque specialty, he suddenly leapt from the table and turned the gas on the stove. “Do you see that?” “Yes, Alfonso, I see that.” “But do you SEE?” “…?” “There is no spark–and without a spark, there is no flame.” I was so turned on by his inventiveness that I tore his clothes off and made love to him one last time before hopping in my car and driving back to the city in tears.