Category: Friends

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Nighmare, Noir and Elin

Last night I had a really scary dream. Steve told me and Bob about a really great old house that was for sale, cheap and very grand. It was in horrible shape–the roof leaked, the floors were falling apart, no insulation, etc… but it had lovely bones, an old victorian mansion with magnificent detailing, so we bought it, thinking we could fix it. Well, after a while the house terrified me–I was convinced it was haunted. Then the ceiling started caving in. I told everybody to get out (there were all these interesting people living there already), and we escaped just as the entire house caved in on itself and there we were, in the rain, not knowing what to do or where to go.

Perhaps it’s too easy to read, this dream, and hence my anxiety.

Elin’s visiting, my friend from Vinalhaven. Her visits are always very intense, with lots of activity, mostly centered around food and expensive objects. The other night we saw a wonderful film at the Castro, Clouzot’s Quai des Orfevres, (1947). (There’s a small genre of noir films that rarely get screened, including the unique noir musical, Lang’s You and Me, which borrow from both the gangster films of the 30’s and the screwball comedies.) At the center was beautiful chanteuse Jenny Lamour, who teases men to distraction and to develop her career, but is a one-man woman, married to cute pudgy bald Maurice (totally my type). At one point she says “He’s my flame–he may not burn very brightly, but he lights the way…” Her photographer friend, Dora, is infatuated with her, and we become infatuated with the drop-dead beautiful Dora, but in the end, the inspector says to her, “We’re alike—when it comes to women, we’ll never have a chance…” elevating her to some unknown category of unattainable beautiful lesbians. I won’t tell you about the plot, because you should see it. Just delightful.

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Fukasaku, Bridge Club

This afternoon I saw Fukasaku’s Black Rose Mansion, (’69), the disappointing follow-up to the absolutely outrageous Black Lizard, one of my all-time favorite camp extravaganzas from Japan (with transvestite actor Akihiro Maruyama as the infamous jewel thief Black Lizard, and featuring Yukio Mishima as one of her human dolls!). Maruyama again starred, but this time as a shadowy chanteuse at an exclusive men’s club. She’s almost Medusa-like in the effect she has on the poor men who gaze upon her and fall instantly in love with her, and are thus doomed.

Last night Big Chrissy and I went to Sarah’s in Atherton for our bridge club. Sarah lives in this really fabulous house with a topiary maze and a Modigliani. She and her husband have a very interesting and quirky art collection, with several major pieces by Nam Jun Paik, Odd Nerdrum, Frank Lobdell, Dale Chihuly, and Alan Rath. There’s a door in one of the downstairs closets that leads to an underground swimming pool. Sarah is a very interesting artist, and I invited her last night to submit some work to the Marjorie Wood Gallery. She served a delicious meal of lamb shanks and white bean soup, and after helping her taste wines for a fundraiser that she’s involved in, we were all a little distracted and a little lit.

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Larry, Merce and Alex

This week I saw an incredible show by Larry Sultan, my former teacher, at Stephen Wirtz.  Larry’s known for a very sensitive and intimate body of work in which he photographed his aging parents in their affluent suburban retirement.  His recent work consists of large-scale photos taken on porn sets, also in suburban southern California.  Unlike Ken Probst, whose images of gay porn sets include both the central action and the peripheral activity of cameramen, lighting guys, etc…, Larry focuses soley on the activity surrounding the shoot.  Occasionally you’ll see a leg sticking in the air, or a tumble of indistinguishable body parts half-seen through a rose bush.  My favorite image is almost like a Cartier-Bresson in its capture of the decisive moment.  A woman in a slightly-parted loose-fitting robe revealing a bare leg and enormous high heel strolls off a set,3 dogs groveling at her feet.  The form of each dog mimics the curve of her heel, their asses high in the air, simultaneously begging and offering.

Last night I and Alex saw the Merce Cunningham Dance Troupe at Zellerbach.  One piece, How to Pass, Kick, Fall and Run, from 1965, was accompanied by a composition by John Cage consisting of two voices, Merce Cunnigham and David Vaughan, reading short very droll pieces about domestic life, at alternating speeds.  At times, one story was very clearly heard, at other times, the words blended together into just sounds.  While it was great to see and hear an icon of 20th century art, the first piece, though, Pictures, was pure magic, with various groups of dancers alternately moving around each other and then freezing into very sculptural tableaux.

Alex and I rode in the last car of the last BART train, but were unlucky in securing any company other than ourselves for the ride back to the city.

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They’re Heeeeeeeere!

The Daves have arrived. Last night after dinner out with Peter and Luis, I popped over and caught them all lounging around Big Chris’ in their scivies, watching The Graduate. I couldn’t rouse them for a more formal shot, so here they are, sprawled in front of Chris’ 10-foot screen. It’s not the most flattering shot of three of my favorite fellows. Chris is quite fond of his leather pillow. A close inspection reveals a partial peek at Big Dave’s special place, for those interested in such areas. The Daves also brought with them from Sydney a special product, which I am itching to try.

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Internet, Dinner at 5 for 6

The top keywords used this week in search engines to gain access to my website…

“butt of a famous male sculpture” (a?)
“photographs of female erogenous zones” (This person must have been very disappointed)
“hirsute female form” (is there a She-bear community?)
“photos of the human buttocks” (No sales, alas)
“symplegades” (! Yay! )
“furry male gallery bear” (my kind of dude!)

This week my site was visited by 12 surfers from the United Arab Emirates and 15 from Saudi Arabia, and 1 using the old Arpanet. An overwhelming majority of visitors enjoyed my website and art work for 0 to 10 seconds.

Other internet news…. I’ve completely, well, somewhat, updated the Marjorie Wood Gallery pages. I’ve discovered the animated gif, and am now freed from the constraints of static content!

The Daves of Sydney arrive in San Francisco this week. Big Chrissy and I are having the Chris Pratts up to celebrate the Daves’ temporary return to the fold, to grieve Chris and Dan’s impending departure to the Great Pacific Northwest, and to enjoy a dinner for 6 people and 3 names–Chris, Dan, and Dave. What to make! I’m thinking of braised duck legs with onions and cabbage, fennel and mushroom salad (with white truffles), and poached pears with burnt caramel and ice cream for dessert. Or hotodogs for Superbowl Sunday?

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An Old Sauterne and a New Apple Pie

During dessert last night at Peter and Luis’, Luis treated us to a 1949 Calvet Sauterne, an unexpected compliment to my apple pie and vanilla ice cream. I’ve never had a dessert wine so old, and it was a completely new sensual experience. Its color was a golden amber, the bouquet of honey and flowers, and the taste was only slightly sweet but intensely fragrant, like honeysuckle and daphne, fresh and smooth. It was like stepping into another time, running slowly through fields of flowers at sunset.

Peter and Luis used to be major arts and crafts queens, but over the past few years have completely reinvented themselves as collectors of what they call “chinese federal,” which includes a Tang dynasty ceramic horse, numerous Ming, Song, and Qing objets, a turkey chair, tonka paintings, etc… It’s like going to Auntie Mame’s house–and they’re just as fabulous!

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The Lunar Society

Last night I had dinner at John’s house, a beautiful turn-of-the-century mansion on Gough Street, and a beautiful silver-haired man. John and I had a brief affair many years ago. His sister is the Catwoman. Every full moon, John hosts a dinner party for 10 men culled from various intellectual, artistic, and political circles for conversation, drink, and good food. I represented the artistic circle. He calls us the Lunar Society, after a similar group in the late 1700’s England which also convened on the night of the full moon, when the roads were lit for night-time travelers. So anyway, this was the 225th dinner. I’ve been going since, I think, 1989? The evening is highly structured, with cocktails at 7:30, dinner at 8. The theme of the evening was politics. Great. My suggestion that we forget about bombing Iraq and invade Israel and turn it into a secular state instead did not go over very well. Kevin McC was there. He’s currently adjudicating over the Barry Bonds 76th homerun baseball battle. Unfortunately, he couldn’t share. Jim H was also there, a lawyer closely associated with the Civic Center rehabilitation, and didn’t he run for something a few years ago? His mom died recently and so he was very excited about coming into a few bucks to do some remodeling around the house. Everyone else seemed very connected politically, even the cute little dudes, one of whom (didn’t have the chance to talk to him, though) seemed to be running for something. John typically starts off the dinner with a toast to the moon, and last night he focused on the feminine aspects of the moon, what a loyal companion she is to the earth, having never strayed from her orbit, and the romantic and secretive activities that happen under the light of the moon. The conversation that followed included discussion about the various ballot initiatives, Iraq, and a lot of trashy queen talk about local politics.

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A Wedding, Silent Japanese Films, Peter, Lee, Emily and I Want My Beard Back

My family is in town for my little brother Mark’s wedding, all of them, and they’re all staying with me, on the floor, in my bed, my studio… Carol and Sue are putting the finishing touches on Keith’s (the bride’s) dress, 80 buttons, Carol’s design–a low-back silk/satin sheath with a bateau neckline, lace appliqué and pearls, fish-tail hem, detachable silk organza sweep train. It’s stunning. Carol’s designs remind me of Adrian’s–typically cut on the bias and form fitting. She has a line of clothes called “Retreads” using vintage designs and made from vintage table cloths, wool blankets and such.

I saw three really interesting silent films at the PFA on Sunday. The films were presented with the live accompaniment of a Japanese benshi, one of the few remaining practitioners in Japan. Benshi provided simultaneous spoken interpretations of the dialogue and plot of silent films during screenings in the silent film era, which lasted in Japan well through the 1930’s. It was an art form that was integrated into the experience of silent film, similar to the narrator in Kabuki. The benshi, Midori Sawato, has been performing for 30 years, and although I didn’t understand much of what she said, her tonal inflections and mimicry of the dialogue really brought the images to life. My friend Earl Jackson, who speaks fluent Japanese, told me that she not only related interpretations of the dialog and scenario, but also offered her own interpretations of and speculations about manners, language and style.

One of the films was a very early film by Ozu, I Was Born, But…, made before he developed his signature visual style of single long shots, compositions with no closeups, panning, or tracking shots. The film is about how two young boys learn about the hierarchy of the Japanese social structure, coming to terms with who has power in the adult world and why, while realizing also that it doesn’t apply to them yet, and working it while they still can. There was also a short about a man who is killed by his lover’s father and then comes back as a ghost to successfully woo her. He returns to the world of the living only after trying and failing quite comically to get comfortable in his teeny little grave. The final film was Cecile B. DeMille’s The Cheat, and featured an evil high society Japanese character, who BRANDS his white socialite would-be-lover when she fails to surrender the pink after borrowing $10,000 to cover for her failed stock market investment–and remember this was all shown with the benshi’s near-hysterical renderings of all male and female dialog, in Japanese.

I’ve reconnected with my very dear friend, Peter, my oldest and bestest friefnd in town, with whom, for some inexplicable reason, I’d lost contact. His boyfriend of 13 years is leaving him, or until last night, was, anyway, but now it seems that they’re willing to call time out until the boyfriend works through his confusing and conflicting desires. Peter came over for dinner Friday and I wouldn’t let him go. Have you ever enjoyed someone’s presence so intensely that you fear the silence that will follow their departure? In Wuthering Heights, Cathy describes her love for Heathcliff and their kindred souls in increasingly histrionic terms, culminating in the realization “I AM HEATHCLIFF!” I AM PETER!

Speaking of Peter’s once and maybe future boyfriend–he has opened a Chinese antique shop south of market–I went to the opening tonight. It was like Auntie Mame’s place after the trip to the Orient. Oh my God. If you need a Tang Dynasty horse, get on down to “Artique.”

Speaking of antiquities, I picked up my latest piece of California Faience today–a matte blue vase, tapered severely at the base (making it top-heavy and thus scarce), with an elegant flanged top and inwardly tapered lip.

Tonight over dinner with the fabulous and talented artist Emily, we talked a lot about consumption, and love. As I was signing the bill, I realized that I had lost the ability to write cursive in sixth grade due to an intense crush that I had on Lee Little. Lee… I didn’t quite understand and couldn’t articulate the attraction that I felt for him back then, but instead adopted his printed upper case R’s and E’s as a way of having him in some way. Every time I wrote my full name, which has three R’s and two E’s, I was making love to Lee Little. Being him was the next best thing to loving him–or the only thing I could think of.

Okay, so after my brother’s wedding, I’m growing my beard back. I keep stroking my phantom fur, and there’s face, only face…

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Mole Poblana and The Miguel Arteta Film Festival

Bob is at the Opera tonight, sans me, for Turandot. We went to see the production a few years ago when I was buddies with the Development Director, who gave us free front-row right corner seats. The far right corner. There was all this hype about the lion that they made for the production–it was even paraded through town for the opening–and sets by David Hockney. Because of our seats, we were able to see only a giant paw and the waving hand of the princess, and the far left corner of the Hockney set.

I am listening to the strangest compilation of sounds, burned onto a CD and presented to me by Mamooshka! last night. He came over to feast on chicken molé poblano with me at Big Chrissy’s, and he also presented us with the strangest but oddly compelling bottle of wine, shaped like what you would imagine a ribbed condom to look like if it were filled with 750ml of wine and made of glass. Chris and I kept rubbing it all night, like Marylee stroking the oilwell on her daddy’s desk at the end of Written on the Wind. So the CD–imagine Nino Rota lost in the Bulgarian Girls’ camp with Serge Gainsbourg and… and.. was that a harpsichord? What am I listening to? Mamooshka!, thank you for making all these sensory experiences possible.

The one thing I regretted was not being able to indulge in Mamoo’s dessert completely, due to an allergy to pecans (note to future hosts and hostesses). As a kid, my parents, who are generally wonderful supportive liberal freethinkers, somehow could not grasp that I was allergic to pecans, or especially walnuts, because the family pastry from the old country had walnuts in it. Dad learned to make it from his mom, and she from hers, and on up the tree… Even now, when they come to visit, and Dad proudly offers me the family pastry, both he and my mom together ask in that same sincerely surprised and disappointed way when I once again gently decline to have a near-death experience to prove to them that I am allergic “You’re allergic to walnuts?”

I’m having a little Miguel Arteta film fest tonight all by my Chrissy. I so admired The Good Girl and Chuck and Buck, particularly Arteta’s balance of parody and sincerity, and artifice and depth, that I’m watching Star Maps, his first film. Okay so maybe one film doesn’t qualify as a film festival. If a film from 1930 is “classic” and Barry Bonds is a “legend,” and you can order Huevos Rancheros “with eggs,” then a “film festival” can be me and my little movie.

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Dinners

Mamooshka, what a grand feast Big Chrissy and I are preparing for you, our honored South Bay guest! …And in honor of your slightly closer proximity to our nearest southern neighbor, we are making a South-of-the-Border fiesta–special for you!

Although lard will not play as primary a role in our fiesta as it typically does—It’s bear vs. twink host here in San Francisco, so this will be more like a New World experience through the tastebuds of a Eurotrash supertaster.

So Reese enjoyed the full Rosh Hashana treatement tonight–lighting candles and the “mick-a-licka high mick-a hiney ho” prayer, chopped liver, chicken soup and kreplach (sp?), roast chicken, potato kugel, and creamed spinach. At one point, he asked me, “Coco, why are you celebrating this occasion with us and not Chris, since he’s not Jewish, like you?”

A lively discussion ensued.

He’s in the tub now, cleaning his Jewish foreskin, which, thanks partially to my input, he has.