Category: Family

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The Weekend and the Emeco 1006 Chair

The weekend was been quite fun–is it over already? We got an early start on Thursday with the Bruce Conner films at SFMoMA. Bruce was there, introducing 14 shorts from the past 40 or so years. I had seen or slept through most of them in art school, and it was thrilling to see them again, and while awake, and with him there. The first film was the most memorable, editing like fireworks, images flashing quickly by to the sound of Ray Charles singing “What I Say,” live in concert. My other fave was a film set to the tune of Devo’s “Mongoloid,” with all found imagery from strange science and health films, or people engaged in meaningless and unexplained exertion–a very clever wedding of sound and imagery. How wonderful to have an icon of 20th Century postwar art still here in our town. Big Chrissy and I then had dinner at Zuni with our bridge partner, Sarah, and her friend, Ruth, who is a very interesting and engaging filmmaker. I told her about the bear show, and she has an interesting idea for a film that she’d like to include in the show, so I’ll be meeting with her in a few weeks to see if it would work out to include her. I think we’re going to call the show “Hairy Bodies.” How does that grab you?

Friday Reese performed in his drama workshop’s summer show. The kids wrote and performed a piece called “Kid’s News.” One piece of news concerned the disappearance of George Bush, with Condoleeza Rice, “head of security,” reporting in a very deadpan voice, “The president has been missing for three days, and no one seems to know where he is,” and another about the retirement of the Ice Cream Man, with several kids screaming hysterically about the different flavors that they were going to miss, and the news announcer declaring, “Well, folks, you heard it here, they all scream for ice cream.” My favorite commercial was for Old Old Navy, with the kids dressed up like old people, “I got my Hip new Hip at Old Old Navy!” I joined up with the boys later on at Jack and Steve’s for the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I almost cried, I’m such a sucker for pomp. And man, Greece really pulled it off, with the fabulous centaur, the monolithic cycladic sculpture breaking down into other sculptures, and Bjork’s dress smothering all the athletes. I want a dress like that!

Saturday morning I saw Open Water with Dean, and loved it, especially the creepy scene in the pitch black storm, our doomed divers and the sharks swimming around them illuminated only by the lighting! Aaaaaaaah! What’s that bumping against my leg?!!!!! Later that night BC and I saw a hypnotic butoh performance by InkBoat, called “Ame to Ame,” which means “Candy and Rain” in Japanese, two words sounding the same but having different meaning. It was the most romantic butoh I’ve ever seen, “romantic” not being a term I’ve ever thought of in relation to butoh. Two dancers, one male and one female, alternately mirrored and repelled each other’s actions, a meditation on desire and illusion. Among the words that appeared in the music that sound the same in Japanese but have different meanings were “river” & “skin,” “flower” & “nose,” “belly” & “field,” and my favorite, “hair” & “god.” Hey, it’s the same in my language, too!

Today I shot a few more rolls of D, this time with a red backdrop. I’ll be winding up the photography on this project this week, and hope to finish it before the end of September. In addition to my composite Red, Blue, and Green pieces, I’ll be making a central piece consisting of images from all of the pieces, bringing them all together into some wild new 3-colored form. Yeah baby!

It is just an amazingly beautiful day today! I love living here! I love you! And I’ve finally figured out which chairs to buy for my kitchen! Yes, the main obstacle between me and my divorce party–3 aluminum “1006” chairs made by Emeco! Unfortunately they are $330 each, but I’m hoping to find some vintage ones for considerably less, like $30 each, okay, $75 if you insist. They were designed for the Navy just after WWII, and the design hasn’t changed at all in all those years. They were made to withstand torpedo blasts, so I’m sure that there are some out there somewhere in good shape.

Find this chair for me:

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Proteus Inhibitor

John Greyson, what gives? You were supposed to liberate gay cinema, and now you seem imprisoned by its conventions.

Proteus was moving, with slight gestures that seemed borrowed from his previous work, but with less meaning, like the use of anachronism, which I guess meant to remind us that times haven’t changed that much, I mean they’re still chaining gay men together and tossing them off boats for buggering each other, right? Oh, it was fine, I almost cried, but I’m a sap for 18th century sodomites. The love story was given too much importance, I thought, when other more interesting elements were introduced and then not followed through, like the reasons why the prison warden let the affair between the two prisoners continue.

Yesterday we celebrated Reese’s 11th birthday. Bob made a totally over-the-top Baby June (from Gypsy) cake for Reese–upright, doing the splits with hands thrown up in the air, golden locks spilling down over her shoulders. Her skirt was made of puff pastry triangles filled with whipped cream. Her meringue arms were a little too close to the candles, though, so we sang the happy birthday song at quadruple speed as they started to burn. The candles were those trick candles that wouldn’t blow out, so the arms nearly burst into flames as Reese blew and blew in smoke-filled Angie and Megan’s little kitchen, full of coughing kids. Big Chris and Bob got along swimmingly, and he even charmed Megan, a feat not for the timid. Okay, there’s Mrs. Roper again, “Miiii-ni!” Off I go, nighty night…

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Dinner With the Sibs

BC and I just returned from a fabulous dinner with my siblings. We celebrated Mark’s wife’s mom’s birthday–Joe (Joe Mamma). Diane finally revealed the mystery behind why Mark and I were never asked to be altar boys. Evidently she and Chino Gonzales were caught in the rectory eating hosts, a little too eager before their first communions for a taste of the body of Christ. This led to a discussion of the legitimacy of agnostics, with June saying that she didn’t believe in agnostics, that after a certain number of years a decision was essential. “You have to decide,” she said. I guess she doesn’t believe in bisexuality either. I love the idea of not believing in agnostics. This somehow led to a conversation about how many tree houses Mark and I built (4), which of course led to the many activities associated with our tree houses. My dad walked into the woods one day and came upon Mark being given a shotgun (marijuana smoke blown into his mouth) by Kenny, Robin’s boyfriend. Dad quickly turned away after Mark waved “Hey Dad” with held breath, and then exhaled a big cloud of smoke in Dad’s direction. Mark said that Kenny started laughing hysterically, and then Mark ran after Dad screaming, “Dad, it’s not what you think, I’m not gay, I’m just doing drugs!” We also used to drink a lot of beer at the tree house, which Dad also asked about. “What are all those beer cans doing around the tree house?” Mark said that they were part of our beer can collection. “500 Budweiser cans?” Mom and Dad wanted so badly to believe that our straight A’s were accompanied by a similar sense of teen responsibility, and believed anything that we told them. Mark was better than I at making up things. I think he even told Dad that we were collecting beer cans for a proposed shiny path to the tree house. I have no idea what they thought when at 16 I brought my 26-year old boyfriend home for a “sleepover.”

I love my siblings. I’m number 6 of 7, and can’t imagine them not living forever.

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O Solo Coco

O SOLO COCO

I am Coco, here me roar.

The house is almost together. I still need kitchen chairs, preferably Deco, chrome, and red leather; and a quarter-priced Saarinen Womb Chair if there is one to be found, for my office; and a ladle; and some napkins–but Casa Coco is where it’s at, baby!

First of all, since Bob has moved out, the toilet paper now rolls over the top of the roll, as God intended, the toothpaste is squeezed from the bottom of the tube, Mack hangs hung over the mantel, Jack Radcliffe protectively over the delicate California Faience, and the rest of my muses radiate their furry warmth from the remaining walls of the house.

Reese has a problem with Mack’s appendage taking such a prominent place in the new decorating scheme, and strategically places a pillow on the mantel whenever he comes over. BC has suggested making a stand with a fig leaf to use whenever the need for propriety arises. 10-year old Reese and I have been debating aesthetics for the past few weeks. He’s convinced that I’m a pornographer, and resists my arguments about irony, context and beauty. (He says that I should be photographing him, “innocent Reese.” Now that’s irony…)

My new model arrived for his closeup on Monday. Perhaps I shouldn’t refer so obliquely to my complete erotic ideal. I’ve worshiped his likeness at Greek temples, fantasized about creeping under the toga of his twin in the Roman senate depicted in marble in the Capitoline Museums…

My Galatea…

Highlights of the weekend included a faboo Matmos performance on Friday. This dynamic duo presented a 4-channel video piece of a pretty boy slung over a man’s lap, ass in the air, being spanked–the sound of the slap repeated and processed and built into a head-bobbing dance beat. Spank me, Matmos! 3 other composers presented sound pieces that ranged from 50 minutes of scratchy feedback, to mesmerizing samples of sounds that faded slowly or instantly from the recognizable to the abstract, layered in a melange of cacophony and melody.

Mystery Bear was at the Matmos performance, and standing next to him during the 50 minutes of scratchy atonal feedback in the cramped unventilated space, I focused on the intoxicating sweetness of his smell. His arm hairs brushed against mine in soft contrast to the sound. I extended a single finger at one point, barely touching his forearm hair, my spine tingling, heart pounding, boxers rising…

Saturday I was treated to a faboo brunch with the effervescent Rootbeers, their charming friends, and Pat, Victor’s sweetheart of a Texas mom with the 10-gallon accent, and then swiftly back home just as another Victor whisked Davide from the airport to his new temporary digs in my studio downstairs. Now Davide is just about as adorable as Italians come, and that’s pretty dang adorable. He’ll be staying here for a while, so stop on over and say benvenuto! Sister Sue is also visiting. Good lord, this entry’s getting wordy. But hey, you haven’t heard from me in a long time, and I am sparing you the events of the past several weeks, so carry on, Gentle Reader…

Sunday Big Chris, Little Dave in from Sydney for a few days, and I, did (to use the Australian verb again) the gay parade and celebration. The Bears of SF were happy and bouncy and hot as, well, a truckload of bears. Then dinner with my brother and sisters, and dancing at Planet Big at the STUD where we hugged, bumped, and/or danced withKeanunear, Mamooshka and John, Kris and Truckerfucker, and Nick Dong. I wanted to take the go-go bear in the red jockstrap dancing in the cage above the dance floor home with me, but I’d be afraid to let him out of his cage. We were delighted to be treated to a private sex show in the back, which got kind of strange at one point, when Naked Exhibitionist Guy suddenly jumped off the lap of his poor would-be suitor and said something like “Don’t touch me” and took off. I didn’t think there were any breeches of etiquette to warrant such a disruption. We were pretty speechless. I mean, wouldn’t one assume when a person takes off his clothes and sits on a lap that it’s because he wants to be touched?

So I look forward to hearing about what’s been going on with all you swell cats and kittens. Maybe I’ll see some of you tonight at Kiki and Herb?

I’m gonna make it after all!
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Days of Ginger Wine and Hybrid Roses

Greetings from sunny Florida! Yes, that’s why I haven’t returned your e-mail. And your call. And not picked up that package. I’ll be home Friday, so ring me up then. I’m having a swell time, playing cabana boy at my sister Carol’s, watching sunsets on the beach, pruning everyone’s bay and citrus trees, drinking my niece’s homemade ginger wine…

A few nights ago we had dinner at a friend of Sue’s, a wonderfully eccentric fellow who raises chickens and corn out back, and hybridizes roses out front. Inside, he listens to Yoko Ono’s latest dance music cranked way up, and has mirrored the entire floor, walls, and ceiling of his fabulous little house, interspersed with sparkly glittery things, like walking into a Jack Smith film, or a Jerome Caja painting.

I’m being very low-key on this trip, or trying to be, but there’s always something too interesting to do. Tuesday we’re off to see an exhibit of Cabinets of Wonder at the Platt Museum. These “cabinets” were the forerunners of museums, collections meant to arouse a sense of wonder at the amazing objects on display. There was an interesting book a few years ago by Lawrence Weschler, Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonder, about the Museum of Jurrasic Technology in L.A., which is one of the most interesting museums I’ve ever been to–displaying genuine works next to elaborate fabrications. Read the book, and then go to the museum.

Speaking of books, I’m reading The Confessions of Max Tivoli, a book about a man who starts life with the body of a 70 year old, and develops backwards, physically, as his mind develops normally. It’s just delightful, very inventive, with dazzling prose. Plus it’s set in an historically accurate San Francisco of the late 19th Century, which is fun to imagine, and there’s much about love and longing that’ll just break your little heart.

So anyway, the thing I love most about being in Florida is all the guys walking around without shirts on–or much of anything else. For those of us living in chilly climes, it’s like going to a bathhouse. I am in a constant state of titilation. And of course I cruise the scantilly clad dudes with the bellies and the beards, only these aren’t the Lone Star versions, these are the real (and straight) prototypes. Sigh. “Look and perspire, but don’t touch the Hell’s Angel, little Chrissy.”

I would love to talk about the distressing and amazing Sopranos episode tonight, but I’d blow it for those of you back home who don’t have an east coast feed. It’s about to start–go watch it and we’ll chat when I get home. Oh Adriana…

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A House Divided

Today Bob and I divided our things. It went really well, with both of us fairly content with the results, and no heated debates about anything. I’m sorry to say goodbye to some beloved works of art, but I know they’ll be well-loved in their new home–or sold for a very good price to support Bob in his infirmity, whenever that becomes necessary, and hopefully not for a long time. I ended up giving Bob three pieces of mine, but he wouldn’t budge an inch on the empire chaise, on which I would look quite fabulous being fed grapes and such. He wants to sell it, and I said, “I just gave you $8,000 worth of art, could we consider it a trade?” To which he replied, “You gave me those pieces…” …”So give me the chaise!” We’ll see, no big deal, and we had fun arguing our points. I helped pack his pottery collection, most of which I had given to him as gifts for birthdays or whatever, and just broke down on sealing the box. He was on the phone at this point, in another room, and I was sitting in the living room, looking at the remains of our broken home, our cozy little environment that we spent so much time creating together. This is so not easy for me, transition. But didn’t I tell you that already? Like, again and again? Do you get the picture yet? I’m no longer excited about the unknown. I want regular sex and tea and the New York Times in bed every morning, with a big hairy man snoring away right there next to me. Big Chrissy took me out to dinner, bless him, to try to cheer me up, and then spilled a glass of ice water on my crotch, the second glass of water spilled on me by a date in the past few months–I found it charming, and refreshing, as I was burning up in the place, anyway. I know this transition will be over soon, oh I hope so, and I’ll be back to some kind of regular something. Like sex. Lots of it. But didn’t I say that already? Hello?? Call me!

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Alexis, OUT, Reese, and Sam

A-gallery-ing today… Alexis Rockman’s show at Catherine Clark really rocks. He is such a great painter. The canvases in the show are comprised of virtuoso gestures that convey so much about paint and experience. I looked at one little mutant fish in the corner of one painting for several minutes, confounded by how he could have loaded that much color in the brush and achieved such a gestural quality with so much detail and depth. I bumped into Catie’s husband, Ray, who’s having a career in New York now, from this coast, after getting the boot from Haines. He says a New York Times review of his current show is a possibility. Yay, Ray. Jeffrey Frankel is showing Felix Gonzales-Torres, and I’m warming up to him, Felix, not Jeffrey, although I used to be Jeffery’s gardener, and set off his alarm I don’t know how many times while he was out of town, each time having to wait for the firemen to save me. Gonzales-Torres’ work is also very gestural, but simple. Not in a bad simple way, but pared down, just the material to say what’s necessary. One floor work is a mound of candy equivalent in weight to the weight of him and his partner (both now deceased). The viewer is invited to take a piece of candy from the pile, which is replenished by the gallery, and maintained at the specified volume. I got a little teary, eating the sweet candy, thinking of the dead lovers, the space that they formerly occupied, the unchanging space of the piece, and the lack of an artist’s hand or presence in the work… I didn’t see much from San Franciscans that was impressive, which has been the case for some time. Vic Muniz’s show at Bransten, large photographs of toy soldiers arranged to resemble famous paintings and portraits was impressive, like much of photography today that relies on awesome scale–clever and grand.

Monday I’m photographing a triathlete for OUT Magazine. They’ve commissioned 4 artists to photograph 4 different gay athletes. I’m not sure yet if I’ll be photographing mine in a straightforward manner, well, straightforward for me, or for a triptych, or just very oiled-up. In order to prepare for Mr. SF Triathlete, tomorrow I’ve had to cancel plans with Victor, poor dear, with whom I’ve been meaning to get together for forever. Hopefully next Friday he and I can see Mean Girls with Reese.

Reese appeared on stage Friday night, as the sad clown star of Caravan of Dreams at the Marsh. Afterward a lady praised his mournful rendition of Bad Luck in Love, to which he replied very seriously, “I studied 4 years with the Boy’s Chorus of San Francisco,” a total diva at 10.

So I’m seeing tons of movies these days, and need to go, actually to watch Sam Fuller’s Pickup on South Street, which has one of the top ten screen deaths–Thelma Ritter’s at the hand of a cowardly Commie.

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Fluffy and Ruffy

Reese and I have been working on a website for the comics that he makes with his little friends. Reese and his buddies have a little club called the “Uffy Club,” all 10-year olds, and they make these groovy comics. We only have a few up, but check ’em out…

Fluffy & Ruffy

(That’s Reese at the top of the page, with an apple in his mouth.)

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Really, Coco, Get a Grip

The Italian has flown back to the home of balsamico, Elin back to her island, Mom & Dad back to Dixie, and I now get to sit here and enjoy the sound of one hand clapping, my own, at last. Listen… that’s the sound of one minute going by on my mid-century starburst clock. Elin’s visit did wonders for Bob’s spirits, and our cohabitating is going along a little less bumpily. We even went to David Ireland’s Oakland Museum show together, and slipped into old dining habits at La Cote afterward with Dean Smith in Berkeley, sharing our plates and drinks and friends and stories.

I’m not doing much reporting on the wild and fabulous activities filling my every spare moment, but ending my 11 year relationship with Bob is just plain hard, and eclipses any desire to relate my typical fluff. I know it took three years to get to this place, but it actually took three years of constant avoidance. Now I have to deal with it. I adore our life together, our rhythms and interests, and am having a really hard time watching it all disappear. I’m going to be a drag for a while, I warn you, and don’t mind if I moan about Bob-this or Bob-that, but I am the sad Carlotta.

And everybody I know is getting married.

I will have a fabulous divorce party sometime in June or July, after I get my new house together, okay?