Category: Performance

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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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Michelle, Our Belle

Last night I attended a performance by Michelle Rollman, David Johnston, and Philip Horvitz, at New Langton Arts. The piece was presented in conjunction with Michelle’s stunning exhibition, Dark Horse. Michelle is a very dear old buddy of mine who, along with everyone else except me, moved to New York about five years ago. About a year after she moved there, she came back to SF for a visit and came to my house for dinner, and casually showed me pictures of her new life in New York–a dude in a dress (“That’s Dana, my boyfriend”), and herself with a saddle on her back, hooves, and a bit in her mouth. It was all too much, “What has New York done to my little Michelley belly?!?!” I finally blurted out, tears welling in my eyes. Evidentally, she’s into “pony play.” Her performance last night was an autobiographical song and dance extravaganza called Velvet, which delved into the nature of her relation to the horse, the death of her own horse when a child, and Elizabeth Taylor’s National Velvet. The piece culminated in Philip mounting Michelle in her full horsey regalia and riding her across the stage. The sounds of her clomping and whinnying sent shivers through the entire audience.

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Two Saints, Godard, Work and a New Haircut

Überbearpornstar Jack Radcliffe gave me a big sweaty hug at the Castro Street Street fair on Sunday last. The crowd parted and the sun revealed his dazzling smile and outstretched arms. He’ll always be a Bellini saint to me. I spent the following Thursday evening with a less-hairy and more-than-likely less-hung saint, Messaien’s Saint Francois d’Assise at the SF Opera, which aside from being melodically challenging and brilliantly staged, Neue Sachlichkeit meets the Franciscans, and five hours long, introduced me to the ondes martenot, an electronic instrument dating from 1928 similar to the theremin, but with fixed notes and a keyboard, which Stravinsky described as “the musical equivalent of a colonoscopy.” I’m not sure that I would agree with Stravinsky, unless he thought colonoscopies were stimulating fabulous experiences. Seeing the opera in San Francisco is so much more comfortable than what I imagine the experience to be like in other big cities. First of all, you could wear a t-shirt, or khakis after Labor Day, or a pink tuxedo and nobody notices, not even the society people, who all wore black, as they don’t deviate from what’s expected of them seasonally, and would anything they say about me get back to me anyway? Their little world is very closed and their behavior very apelike–all posturing and preening and feral. I was very hot, as in sweating like a pig, in my Dolce & Gabbana chartreuse velvet suit. (80% off at Wilkes Bashford.) I am definitely dressing like the little dude in line at the bar downstairs next time and going for the t-shirt and gap khakis look. I’m sure that all of us non-society people who saw him thought the same thing–forget this velvet designer crap, I’m wearing my underwear next time! The opera was pretty stunning, with a rotating stage consisting mainly of an S-shaped ramp with a detachable snow-covering which hovered a few feet over it in the winter scene. On either side of the stage was a 3-level open tower, out of the second floor of one a blue angel with one wing appeared cantilevered over the stage below.

Last night I saw Godard’s new film, In Praise of Love, which I can’t honestly say I liked or not. I and the audience (all 5 of us) slept through half of it. I think I’d like to see it again, for what I did see seemed intriguing–a film about a director making a film about the four stages of love, and the obstacles that frustrate creativity. The first half was black and white, and looked exactly like a new wave film from the early 60’s, but not self-consciously. The second half was filmed in digital video, but that’s where I got lost in slumberland, so not much else to say about it. There did seem to be no joy, and a lot of anti-American sentiment which, while a necessary plot device, left me feeling slightly battered.

His Contempt is still one of my favorite films.

Today at work I set up an e-mail account for my boss’ friend, who is traveling to Bali next week for a month. She runs a travel service offering scuba tours of Indonesia. She’s currently her only client. She and the boss have property in Panama and are planning on building a house together. Their joint ventures remind me of Bob’s parents’ 2 big investments; Israeli oil and California City. After his parents’ Israeli oil stock became worthless, it was discovered that their property in California City couldn’t be developed because of the desert tortoise.

Yesterday I got my hair cut by the same barber who sexually harassed me a few haircuts ago. (Little Dave calls him “Big Red.”) He’s purchased the shop down the street from me and is going to make it into the haircutting equivalent of the Starbucks on 18th Street. A bear barbershop. His demeanor was disappointingly subdued, but he did shave my neck with a straight razor. Hot!

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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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Handel’s Giulio Cesare

Well, I made it to the opera after all. Bob and I stood around outside the opera house with our little sign that said “We need 2 tickets,” along with several other inhospitable-looking characters waving money, intent on re-selling whatever tickets they picked up. Just as the doors were closing, and perhaps because we weren’t wearing blankets like the rest of the people looking to buy tickets, a cute guy walked up to us, handed us two orchestra tickets and said, “My plans have changed, enjoy the show.” !! So we got in, free excellent seats to Handel’s Giulio Cesare. The opera had several counter-tenors, including David Daniels as Cesare, which was a bit jarring at first hearing that high-pitched voice coming out of that big hairy body. Ruth Ann Swenson played Cleopatra, and their pairing made a really hot combo, with all sorts of trills and flourishes. There were even two humpy bald buttboys who pawed at and slithered around Tolomeo, as Cleopatra speculated, while gesturing at the buttboys, that perhaps he’d be luckier at love than with politics–it was very San Francisco. The extreme ornamentation in the music was carried through in the set and costume design–a baroque version of Egypt. Okay, I’d better get to sleep. Nighty night.

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More Good Victuals

Long lunch with Arnie today at Chez Papa, an excellent new French restaurant on Portrero Hill. I had the potato, artichoke, asparagus salad w/bacon and whole-seed mustard vinaigrette, the halibut with fennel, onion and olive oil, and for dessert we shared the tart tatin and the chocolate souffle. Completely delicious, and excellent service. All of the waiters are crazy about the food, and their enthusiasm makes the experience even more enjoyable. Arnie chose the wine, which was great, but by the time I thought of looking at the bottle, I couldn’t really focus that well, so who knows what it was. I’m supposed to go see a Handel opera tonight, but I don’t know if I can stay awake. I was up really late last night with Stanley and Giuliano, dear old friends of Bob, and another great meal (bruschetta with liver pate, flavored with sage and anchovies [!], asparagus again, wild mushroom risotto, and blackberries for dessert). Stanley is a playwright. He wrote a wonderful play called The Chinese Art of Placement, that was produced here a few years ago, a hilarious and wacky play involving a single actor and a single chair. The central character, well, the only character, Sparky Litman, ruminates on the events leading to his current delusions of normalcy as he telephones past and present acquaintances to invite them to help him celebrate, all the while trying to find the perfect placement for the chair and the meaning behind it, and everything else. Giuliano owns a place in Guerneville up the hill from my house there, a cool old mobile home from the 50’s that he’s been trying to replace for as long as I’ve know him. Tomorrow I photograph Chris for the next few pieces in my Thundercrack! series. I’m itching to get to work…

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Buried Child

I saw a production of Sam Shepard’s Buried Child tonight at ACT. I love Shepard’s use of the American voice, well, the mid-western American voice. The principal family members were mostly detached, or insane, and watching the outsider girlfriend try to get their attention was like watching a dream, the kind of dream where nobody does what you want and they keep repeating the things that frustrate you over and over again with no forward momentum? Ultimately, the climax, or secret that the family had been sitting on, proved not as interesting to me as the way the characters related to each other, or didn’t relate to each other, and the marks left on the family by their complicity in and denial of the secret. I’m fascinated by the bonds of family, and how people who ordinarily wouldn’t even chat with each other end up living together for decades, oddly tolerant of and even blind to schizophrenic and sociopathic behavior.

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Olympia and Spidie

Olympia Dukakis Friday night with Bob, in Michel Tremblay’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again at ACT. The two-person play, which got a little sentimental in the second half, and yes okay I got all weepy, was completely entertaining. The sentiment even evolved into this magical over-the-top ending where the playwright re-imagines his mother’s death as a Technicolor sendoff in a winged balloon. Prior to her sendoff, Dukakis marvels at the beautiful landscape she finds herself in, and then she wanders behind the scenery and remarks about how ugly it all looks from the other side. Her son replies that it’s made to be viewed from our–the audience’s–perspective. It was theater that wavered between artifice and acknowledgment, fantasy and memory.

I finally saw Spiderman yesterday. Tobey is such a cutie-pie, and the effects are dizzying. Reese tried to climb the walls of the bathroom when we got home.

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I Want to be a Tango Dancer When I’m 64, Bald, and Fat

Last night I attended a performance of a dance troupe from Argentina. The performance contained elements culled from the gaucho dance tradition malambo (originating in the 17th Century grasslands of Argentina as a tournament of gaucho skills, danced solely by men), the tango, and flamenco. There was the alpha male dancer–potbelly, shellacked thinning hair, mounds of chest hair sprouting from beneath the tuxedo collar–seducing all the foxy younger babes. The older dude in Argentina seems to have it made. Oh my God, and then there was the bandoneon player with his sad droopy eyes and floppy jowls–watching him relate to his instrument brought more than one blush to my cheek. The tango has to be one of the most histrionic, if not sexiest, of art forms. My favorite piece involved a dance between two men that bordered on the erotic, but of course was presented as a fight over two (or was it several?) women. Everything came to an abrupt end when a wife-like (big tits) woman appeared in the background and Mr. Potbelly Stud scampered off the stage, tail between his legs.