Category: Performance

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Spent

Wow, I never thought this would happen so quickly, but I just met with Bob, and we chatted away like old times. I had asked for him to meet me, and over coffee offered several possible solutions to our current post-breakup quandry. Basically, there’s just no way that either of us is ever going to accept the other’s perspective so I suggested that we each compromise, especially since everything’s boiled down to one final item of contention. He said that he’d think my offer over, and then we chatted on about art, travel, Reese, etc… I even hugged him goodbye. Walking home I just started crying. As you all may have observed, I’m not terribly good at dealing with loose ends, even though I seem to create a lot of them, and the past year has been pretty tangley. Actually, the past 5 years. No wait… When have things not been tangley? I don’t want Bob to not be a part of my life, and I hope that we can agree to disagree, compromise, move on, and see if it’s possible to salvage the positive aspects of our relating. I just feel emotionally spent right now.

On the bright side, Charlie Kaufman and Alexander Payne received well-deserved Academy Awards.

I took D out for his birthday last week to see the Trisha Brown Dance Company in Berkeley. I saw her l’Orfeo in Paris a few years ago, one of the artistic high points of my life, and have been eager to see her smaller-scale pieces. Her dancers are very fluid, and move through many different visual planes, often being held aloft as they walk perpendicular to the audience or across and over and on top of each other. The first piece included a set design by Robert Rauschenberg that was so arresting that I had to mentally push it off to the side so that I could focus on the dance and Laurie Anderson’s vocals. A second dance, set to music by John Cage from the late 40’s, pushed movement into the even more abstract, and at points the audience gasped in unison, everyone stunned.

I’m off to see Altman’s Images, with Susanna York–that is, starring, Susannah York, not accompanied by, unfortunately.

My diet is going okay. I’ve decided to–hold your breath everybody–limit myself to one glass of wine when I drink. If I feel like getting loopy, I have 2. I hope I’m as lucid sober as I think I am pitched slightly on the edge of intoxication. No more lampshades for a while. Remember that Simpson’s episode where Marge wages war on violent cartoons? Where she succeeds in convincing the cartoon creators to make non-violent cartoons and all the kids turn off their TV’s and step outside, rubbing their eyes and then quickly engaging each other in creative game-play and healthy outdoorsy-ness? That’s kind of how I feel right now–but I know how the episode ends, so I’m going to make the most of it and enjoy my healthy non-pickled heart.

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A Play, an Exhibition, a Movie, the Daves, and Alicia Finally Leaves

I saw Caroline, or Change at the Curran last weekend with my fellow Underbears, BC and D. Caroline, the maid, is allowed to keep the change that she finds in the pants pockets of the boy whose family she works for, when doing laundry. The tension, excitement, and apprehension that result are given context in the racial turbulence of the 60’s and the emotional conflicts and changing dynamics within the families. It’s an amazing play, with clever lyrics, beautifully sung music, and a pared-down dazzling production. The Underbears say “3 paws up!”

The Hairy Bodies show is coming together nicely, with dynamite pieces by Nayland, Nick, Dean Smith, and BC, a sumptuous video by Ruth, a really strange and disturbing installation by Su-Chen, and my own first dive into video. My videos are going to be static, and sculptural, jiggling accompaniments to my photographs. Please come to the opening next Friday!

Last night I saw Million dollar Baby, the new Clint Eastwood flick. I really like his films. He’s like old Hollywood, well, his is old Hollywood. There’s no dazzle, or gimmickry, just straightforward storytelling. And nothing new in the storytelling department either. The story was almost mythic, very lyrical and allegorical. And Hilary Swank gives an amazing performance, very modulated, yet energetic and extremely moving.

The Daves are here, the Daves are here! Dave and Dave are in the final stages of their 2004-5 Western Hemisphere Tour, staying with BC. We were all treated to a delightful dinner at Steve and Jack’s a few nights ago. I gained back all of my recently shed poundage in an intimate bonding with their delectable lasagna. I could have had a third slice if my inner Thighmaster had been a little more intoxicated. I contributed my first tarte tatin, actually a pear tarte tatin, to the dinner. It worked! nicely caramelized and full of pear-ness. I was given the opportunity to see why such a thing tastes so good–it’s like HALF butter!

Alicia, my delightfully irresponsible houseguest, has flown back to Telluride, and Les, after a yummy dim sum brunch, back to Massachusetts. Alicia was going to stay just a night, but I made her a big dinner when she arrived and breakfast the next morning, so she decided to stay for three more days of pampering and feeding. She told me of her recent, well, eight or so years ago, trip to some Caribbean island, where she saw an ad for a hostess on a ship, and ditched her boyfriend and went to work on a boat for three months. Her work consisted of “making” cereal for breakfast and tuna fish sandwiches for lunch everyday. The captain made dinner, which consisted of the day’s catch. For this she was paid $500 a week. The owner took his clothes off and swung his willy in circles for her, demanding that she, too take her clothes off when at sea. She didn’t tell me if she had to swing anything, too. The captain asked Alicia what she was into. She said yoga, art, meditation–what are you into? “Masturbation.” Which, she says, he did many times a day, at sea and on land, wherever a closet or bush was to be had. She’s currently juggling 2 lovers–one the father of her child, the other a poor carpenter who “loaves me, Chrees!” She’s still a knockout at 44, with gorgeous gray streaks in her long brown hair. Her utter devotion to her self, though, is challenging to be around for more than a few days.

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Spongebob and Ligetti, the Last Dinner Party

Tonight the Spongebob movie opens, which means Reese and I are going to be hysterical until we see it. Spongebob is our hero—all of us clinging optimistically to our immaturity for as long as we can. Last night BC and I saw Ligeti’s Le Grand Macabre at the SF Opera, a modern opera about the end of the world, which never comes and love conquers all. It opens with a symphony of car horns, and there’s lots of cross-dressing, a housekeeper who turns her astrologer boss into a sex slave, and a counter-tenor, Prince Go-Go, and a delightful exchange between the Black and White Politicians, insulting each other through alphabetical name-calling–the name “Ass-licker-Ass-licker!” opens the third scene. I didn’t bother to look at my tickets until 7:15 to notice that it started at 7:30, so we jumped in a cab and yelled, “Quick, to the opera house, the curtain goes up in 7 minutes!” as if we were supposed to be behind the curtain in 7 minutes. Our driver got us there just as the lights went down. As we settled into our seats, I could see the disappointment in the faces of those behind and next to us who thought they were going to enjoy unobstructed views and elbow room.

Tonight the birthday week winds down with the sacra familia over for lasagne and a sampling of the current Beaujolais Nouveau. Stop by if you’re in the ‘hood!

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The Black Rider

Last night BC and I saw The Black Rider at ACT, sadly missing AA Bronson’s lecture at CCA. It was a really wonderful and magical production, although I would love it if our country embraced and supported a true avant-garde, like presenting Wilson’s 12-hour silent opera or something, but hey, I’m happy to settle for Marianne Faithful as the devil, and William Burroughs writing about a woman who gets shot at the end of the piece. Some images were just stunning, as in the family lounging around the bloody carcasses of the animals that Wilhelm shot to win his love’s hand. (The father of his lover prefers that she marry a hunter rather than Wilhelm, a clerk, so Wilhelm makes a deal with the devil for some magic bullets that will hit any target.) Marianne Faithfull’s voice is like a sculpture itself, occupying the space so fully and distinctively. Susan Sontag said something once about her first experience of a Wilson opera as eliciting a “shock of recognition.” I think that she was talking about seeing something that she had been longing to see, but without knowing what it was, until she finally saw it. I felt a similar sense of recognition, but it was more related to seeing so many familiar styles and media synthesized into such a fresh experience.

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Dave, BC, LC, Meltdowns, Slight Betrayals

If you people haven’t seen Dave’s comedy sketch group, Uphill Both Ways yet, then get thee to the Shelton Theater for a really good laugh.  BC and I went last night, after trying to undo the latest technological meltdown at Casa Coco–this time we deleted all of the files on my surviving computer. Chris was an absolute angel to throw so much time and energy at the problem. As my last backup was in May, 2003, all of my work and data from the past year have been lost. Some good news is that I’m able to use my laptop if I never close or jiggle it. Oh well… so Dave was a big fly in one hilarious sketch about the 1-minute life span of a fly, and luckily Big Chris and I had empty seats next to us to flop around in, for we were laughing like giggling sea lions, flopping all over the front row. The guy sitting a few seats to my right, looking suspiciously like a friend of the family, turned out to be a fellow blogger, Shnitzmi.  Perhaps because Chris and I had just seen Six Feet Under a few moments before, the Brenda Chenowith in me responded a little too vaguely to his inquiry about our relationship status. BC seemed unphased. Hopefully I won’t be given 2 more opportunities to deny my savior. Stay tuned for next week’s show…

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Jim and Morissey

Jim Brashear’s multimedia refraction of Morrisey at New College last night was just stellar. Jim’s this really big hairy guy, I mean, really big, and like really hairy. He’s been one of the top models at Studio Coco for years, always available, always willing to have water sprayed on him, plunked in a bubble bath, or nearly set on fire. Anyway, his performace included a clever video of Freud discussing vanity, mothers, and homosexuality; Jim singing variations of Smiths songs in his deep lush voice; a tour-de-force-lipsynching that evolved into a strange and wonderful sculptural face twisting; another video combining scenes of Elvis from Jailhouse Rock with images of Morrisey, very fragmented and nearly hysterical, accompanied by Jim singing bits of Smiths’ songs and miming Elvis’ pelvis thrusting. If you went to art school, you had to sit through dozens of performances like this, but Jim’s connection to the material, his gorgeous and confident, rich voice, and the compelling visuals made it all come together in a fresh way.

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SuperModel SuperStar

My Superbearmodel, Jim Brashear, is performing tonight and tomorrow night at New College…

Jim Brashear in Bulfinch’s SMITHology (or, Reflecting Morrissey)
August 3 & 4 (Tues and Wed), 7PM
New College Theater, 777 Valencia (at 19th), San Francisco
$5-10 (sliding scale, no one refused)

also featuring a performance by Damon Smith: “This Little Dream of Mine”
part of the Experimental Performance Institute’s Faultline Festival, July 27-August 8

Whatever happened to The Boy with the Thorn in His Side? Besides his solo career… In a multimedia performance of song, poetry, movement, and video, Jim Brashear embraces, redresses, and violates the myth of Morrissey, refracting his misanthropy, self-loathing, and profound sentiment through the looking glass. Or something like that.

Jim Brashear combines his experiences in voice, poetry, and computers to create multimedia performance art. Since first opening his mouth in 1998, he has sung with Eliane Radigue, Eric Glick Rieman, Marco Eneidi, Coro Hispano, Blectum from Blechdom, and the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus. In October 2000, he performed Difference Engine, a multimedia operetta on Alan Turing, at the Mills College Concert Hall. He has also read and performed at New Langton Arts, Intersection for the Arts, ODC Theater, 21 Grand, Tehama Alley, and the Berkeley Art Center. Along with Kathy Lou Schultz and Robin Tremblay-McGaw, he edits and publishes Lipstick Eleven, a literary journal of experimental writing and cultural criticism. His chapbook Zealander will be published by Duck Press in Fall 2004.

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A Cough, A Vixen, the Valley, and Three Hot Dogs.

*cough* If this were a movie made before 1956, you’d know at this point in the story that I was going to die before the end. You know, that slight little cough that nobody notices, except you in the audience, and then makes perfect sense as I collapse in your arms and whisper “But darling, loving you from afar has been enough…” before dying of pneumonia, consumption, cacexia, or accute melancholia together with a guilt complex. *cough*

Thursday night I saw a magical version of Janáček’s The Cunning Little Vixen at the SF Opera, with Big Chris, Little Dave, and my big sister, Sue–sexy and very cleverly staged, and then woke early to join Mystery Bear for breakfast and my former teacher Larry Sultan’s The Valley series at SFMoMA. I’ve written about the images before, when a few were shown at Stephen Wirtz, but seeing them all together was quite exciting.

I went with Alex last night to the Giant’s game, not so much downing as felating three hot dogs, and Barry hit his 680th! The fireworks afterwards actually made me cry. Phenomenal. (Doo DOOOO do do do.)

Again, I run to Big Chrissy for solace and support. (And his dsl connection, since mine is down for the next few weeks.) I love him.

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Coco the Monkey and Kiki and Herb

My brain and body are hostage to this flood of chemicals. I feel like primitive man. If only I were australopithecus, and didn’t have to deal with reason. Or patience. Just “oooh oooh aaah aaah” and wild monkey love.

Last night Justin Bond swung into town with his Kiki and Herb act. Justin used to live in San Francisco, and started the act here, performing at Eichelberger’s Restaurant, and other venues. He fled to New York around the same time of the Great Exodus, when Michelle, Nayland, Philip, Darrell, Christian, and everybody who had anything interesting to say or do decided that they had to make it there or anywhere. San Francisco is a great breeding ground for talent, but we don’t know how to keep it here. So there was Justin, living his dream, having made it in New York, returning to a sold-out show in San Francisco, and Kiki was just as fabulous as ever, drinking, slurring and scatting her way through lounge act not-necessarily-standards on up to Kim Carnes, New Order, and Pink Floyd. I remember seeing Justin every day at the Cafe Flor, surrounded by his adoring flock. When asked why he was there every day, he responded, “Do you think I like coming here every day? I have to be here every day. I have to be seen.” Kiki introduces her songs with long drawn-out rambling and outrageous tales of her many husbands, inter-racial offspring, encounters with Grace Kelly and Billie Holliday, and warnings to the few young women in the audience, “Don’t do it!”

“DON’T DO IT!”

Wait, do it with me, climb up my hill, sweep me away, make me promises, eat bananas with me and drag me by my hair through the Castro jungle.

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KBV.2, MoIV

Kill Bill Volume 2 last night with Victor. Uma Thurman has an impact on me similar to the way Marilyn Monroe, in her more serious roles, affects me. Both are stunningly beautiful, but I think that I want to like their acting more than their skill warrants. Marilyn’s comedic roles are brilliant–her timing, delivery and body language superb–but when she screams “Murderers!” in The Misfits, I just cringe. Same with Uma, I’m just too aware of her acting. Think of someone like Meryl Streep–one’s certainly aware of her artifice–yet she so inhabits her characters that I’m taken in by her transformation. So anyway, Uma is Quentin’s star, so I’ve gotta love her. And I loved the movie. The tone was a little less frenetic than the first Volume, with references more specific to the spaghetti western and the Hong Kong Action flick than than to the myriad sources culled for the first film. The scene where Uma is buried alive had me squirming in my seat, opening my shirt collar for air, and about to race from the theater screaming. And then we suddenly cut to a scene of Uma’s training, all the while thinking of her suffocating in that box, under all that dirt, as we meander slowly through her learning to punch her fist through a block of wood, the crucial skill that will save her.

Earlier in the week Big Chrissy and I were treated to Charles Ludlum’s The Mystery of Irma Vep at Berkeley Rep, which I saw Everett Quinton, Ludlum’s lover, perform solo in New York in ’93 or ’94–or maybe it was Camille? The play was a real fun campy Rebecca meets Wolfman. The audience, oddly, was mostly blue-haired ladies–and us.