Category: Art

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I am Ophelia, Queen of Necrophilia

Today I attempted to shoot Dean’s lips, for a sort of bear-lips dentata grid, furry folds of cub-devouring flesh surrounding a void of nothingness, but found that my camera couldn’t get close enough, or that he couldn’t open his mouth wide enough. (It all came back.) I photographed him anyway, and then ordered an extension tube for my Hassey and plan to re-shoot next week. Maybe there’s something in the photos from today that could be pieced together into something strange and toothy, who knows. Stay tuned.

So I am playing Ophelia, after all, Friday night. And Fortinbras, briefly. For Ophelia, I am inhabiting a sexy 70’s black chick as inspiration, except when I have to sing an excerpt from Yentl, and magically transform into Barbra.

Speaking of inhabiting someone else, I can’t wait to inhabit my self again. “And that’s when he became the sad Carlotta…” Structurally, the breakup with Bob has presented challenges that I hadn’t anticipated–I did everything that interested me with Bob. Yes I have many pals to share these interests with, but none who’d follow up with a rim job. Do I want too much? I spent a lovely evening with Big Chrissy last night, who reminded me yet again of his qualifications. I’m happy at the moment to share his friendship, and remarkable insight, but I just feel empty, and sad, despite going out with the sweet Teddy Bear, a longing, or grieving, for a kind of companionship that comes only with time. So maybe it’s my self by myself that I’m having the hard time adjusting to.

Well, anyway…

Saturday was bear day at the Kabuki. What a bunch of cutie!  Funkybear Martin, Brian, Ted, Chris D, English John, Little James, and our special guest star, Arno from Seattle, steamed ourselves silly, even clogged the filter in the cold plunge. I got gonged twice while chatting up Arno. We quickly moved into the steam room where Arno helped me with my salt rub, much to my delight, and then, after noodles, ended a perfect day by smushing his hairy butt crack against the window of Ted’s car as we dropped him off at his hotel. Sigh. I heard my college professor, Hank Wessel, “Always take your camera with you…” Indeed.

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Where Does the Time Go?

Today Superhairymodel D came by and dropped his all-too restrictive drawers for a planned diptych, Twin Peaks, my first piece of the year. His fur-enshrouded misty mounds will make for a fine landscape on some I.T. Bear’s mantle. It wouldn’t seem likely that all this thinking I’ve been doing about these bodies is leading me towards landscape photography, now, would it?–well, maybe I should say “the terrain of the body.” His belly button wasn’t large enough, however, believe it or not, for a second piece, a planned lunar pastiche, but I think Ted’s belly should do nicely.

Ted, yes, let’s talk about Ted. I haven’t mentioned him since meeting him, have I? He’s like a mini-Mack, solidly built, with features that are simultaneously boyish and manly, with a wicked little giggle and a cute bubble butt. And freckles. He lives with a sweet German shepherd named Bruno, whose disposition is well-matched to Ted’s affectionate nature. He’s a good cook and seems like the kind of guy you’d like your daughter to marry. If she were into muscle queens. And he’s completing his course work and dissertation for a Ph.D. in Epidemiology. How much more handy (or… sexy?) could this guy be? “Quick, Ted, go over those rates of infection, again, like you did last night, oh yeaaaah!” The past few weeks have involved lots of dancing and general merrymaking, some new muscular contractions, and lots of sweet new friends.

Now I need to get to work. The muse has spread her furry butt in my face. “Coco, step into the light…”

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I Woke Up in What This Morning?

A fabulous breakfast with Dean and Emily this morning in Oakland: Emily wore a blue cookie-monster coat and radiated glamour and confidence; Dean was his charming self, the successful and talented artist, still glowing from his success at Christopher Grimes last month. A few years ago we talked about starting a band. I wanted to play the tambourine and be beautiful, a bearded Lori Partridge. They are my best friends, and really lifted my spirits today. They listened with wonder to my tale of shattered hearts left in the wake of this week’s boyfriend shakeup. At one point I looked at them and saw reflected on their faces the memory of me a few months ago saying how I’d never leave Bob, that they shouldn’t take me seriously the next time I announced my need to have a boyfriend my age, etc… Bob wouldn’t take me back at this point, I’m sure. I sure wouldn’t. So I’ve been very up and very down this week. And Bob’s a cold fish.

Oh wait, did I tell you guys about this? I’ve broken up with Bob, my lover of 10 years. The same one I broke up with him a few months ago, but we’ve continued cohabitating in this Boschian domestic scene, and following the Big Chrissy drama, I decided to take some responsibility for my loved ones by telling them to run as far away from me as possible. His new book just came out, so he’ll really be moving on, to Europe in January for a two-week book tour. We’re not quite sure what to do about the living arrangements. I’m staying in my studio downstairs, until Matthew comes to town tomorrow night for Bob’s book-release party and the launching of the Clear Cut Press. I’ve offered Bob the unit below ours, and above my studio, so that he and Reese can continue being a part of my life. Besides, we love living here, and this has been his home, too, for 10 years…

Okay, okay I hear you. You don’t even have to say it.

Is this denial?

This doesn’t seem real yet.

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The Lobster Dude Cometh

Well, the last few days have been fairly uneventful, except for meeting Ted, which was actually quite eventful, stagnant impulses in me significantly stirred after only one afternoon of tea and dog walking. He’s an exceptional person, very inspiring to be around, full of vibrance and direction, wit and delight, intelligence and warmth. I am very excited about getting to know this dynamic young man better.

I’m working on Dean’s exhibition design for Marjorie Wood. Dean’s work is just sublime. The challenge for me here is to create something that mirrors the depth found in the rigorous simplicity of his gestures. Thus far, the “circle.” Tomorrow I’m experimenting with the “rectangle,” a bold departure into horizontality.

Okay, so Monday morning I hear this screaming and then feet running across the floor above my studio. Several more minutes another scream and feet again. After the third scream, I run upstairs, thinking perhaps Albie was having a heart attack and was rolling around in his desk chair trying to dial up an ambulance with his big toe, and there he is, the lobsterdude boyfriend of DM, visiting through Sunday. “The vacuum cleaner, it’s following me everywhere, I can’t get away from it!” “Well, I’m sorry that you’re bothered by it, but the cleaning lady’s here for another hour, maybe you’d like to take a walk or perhaps get out of my house, you’re in San Francisco and there’s a lot of stuff to do other than audibly masturbate all day when I’m right below you and you know that I’m hearing everything and I’m really not getting off like you imagine I am.” He’s the one who left an espresso machine on the stove last time he visited until it burned up (like, all of it), so I’m not too thrilled about him being here again and the promise of more destruction to my little housie. He and DM, whose bedroom is below mine, make love at least five times a night, loudly, thrillingly, sure, but at the expense of my much needed beauty rest. And this after beating off all day. For the last few days, several times a day, whenever he hears the slightest noise–the vacuum cleaner on Monday, a leaf blower on the sidewalk today, he screams, leaps up, runs across the flat, back and forth, and switches on all the TVs and stereos in the house, trying to drown out the sound. He’s like Roderick Usher on crystal meth. Today I rang his bell, “Hello, hello, Mr. Loster Dude…” but no answer, only everything turned on full blast. I turned everything off, didn’t find where he was hiding, and returned to my work. The bad energy in the house is actually cool, it’s so rare, I’m amused by it. Come Monday morning, though, I will talk with DM and suggest that perhaps if his boyfriend were to visit again, a padded cell somewhere might more sufficiently accommodate his desire for city life without city life.

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Neo-Benshi Tonight Only!

Tonight Bob and Jocelyn will provide narration (see below) to a silent porn film from the 30’s, with a sound piece that I designed to accompany their narration. Hope you can come! Here’s an exerpt from the press release…

Neo-Benshi, or, Voice over Video
Saturday November 29th, 8:30PM
at Craig Baldwin’s Other Cinema, 992 Valencia, San Francisco

Though at one time thriving in Japan and Korea in the era of silent films, the art of the Benshi, or film narrator, has been all but lost. Under the inspiration of Japan’s Midori Sawato, whom we have seen perform in Berkeley, California, and who has maintained the tradition almost single handedly, we would like to revive this art, with a twist, of course, because we are twisted after all.

To this end assembled:

Brent Cunningham
Roxanne Hamilton
Jocelyn Saidenberg & Robert Glück
Scott Stark
Suzanne Stein + 2
Melinda Stone + Bucky!

who each have written a text to narrate, describe and/or accompany a scene of their own chosing. Genres will run the gamut from Cronenberg to home movies to documentary to 30s porn. Almost everyone will be catered to in some degree.

We hope you will come out to Other Cinema during your Thanksgiving recess and allow us to decorate some time for you.

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Gratitude

It looks like the holiday season has muscled into my birthday season again. I saw a brilliant production of Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk at the SF Opera last week, with a very humpy Sergei and a minimal constructivist set, striking social realist tableaux, and interesting music. Dean and Emily came over for the first birthday dinner, which Bob made, including his close interpretation of the tomato tarte tatin that we had in Paris this summer and a super rich cheesecake. Big Chrissy treated me to a nice dinner at Watercress, formerly Watergate, which has moved to the Gramercy Towers, where Le Bistrot used to be. Watercress is notable for the consistently mixed-race couples that mirror its East/West fusion cuisine. I had the family over a few days later when sister Sue arrived from Florida, making my Linguine Seafood Bolognese for them. We’re getting together later today at brother Mark’s for the big Thanksgiving dinner. I’m making brussels sprouts with chestnut–in perhaps a maple butter glaze. Not sure yet.

I have been working, on this new video, which I’ve re-edited several times already, but I think I’m on a good track. Still not sure of the sound, though. I’ve been experimenting with breathing sounds, lapping waves, purring, and the orchestrated beginnings of Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs. Nothing is quite right, but I’ll figure it out. Suggestions welcomed. Remember the plan to borrow from the visual structure of the cropduster scene in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest? Well, things have evolved in a different direction, quite. Although I will come back to that idea for the next video. This time, the camera pans slowly across the surface of super furry D’s super furriness, up and down his neck and arms, the nine-second pans dissolving slowly into each other so that you get only one-second of clarity. I want to maintain a dreamy blurry intoxicating closeness, but frustrate the desire for consummation. I’d love to present this in Smell-O-Rama.

On this day of thanksgiving, I’m very grateful for all the backs out there that have escaped depilation. And dihydrotestosterone and male pattern baldness. Thank you also for Nicephore Niepce and silver bromide. And cheese.

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Good News and Bad

One of my favorite films from the 30’s is coming out on DVD next week–Rouben Mamoulian’s Love Me Tonight, one of the most delightful and inventive films of the period–and I’m so excited I could scream. Now if only When Ladies Meet and The Animal Kingdom would come out, 2 surprisingly adult films, also from the 30’s, that deal with sexuality very candidly. It’s a miracle, truly, that somebody decided to release Mamoulian’s film on DVD, for it’s so not geared toward the 20-something male demographic, towards whom most DVD releases seemed geared. There is still hope that someone other than Quentin Tarantino will reach that demographic.

In other news, it’s no longer possible to get a type-R print made in San Francisco. Type-R prints are positive to positive prints–the medium of all of my editioned color work. Labs now scan the chromes and make digital prints from the scan. I can actually see the difference between my older type-R prints and these newfangled digital prints, which produce a very slight banding to differentiate slight color shifts in, say, SKIN, the subject of all of my photographs. Since I print my editioned work as it sells, I can no longer be assured that the new digital prints will match the earlier type-R prints in the edition. “I hate modern photography.”