Saw "The Last King of Scotland" tonight. Yeah, the critics are right, actually. If Forest Whitaker doesn't win the Oscar for this performance, well, I don't know. It will mean the polar bears really are completely doomed. Which I guess they might be anyway. But I digress. According to the IMDB, this movie was released in the states in September? Can that be right? The movie is about a Scotsman for christsake. And it's just been released here. Well. As a staunch lover of films, I so often overlook mediocre or even lousy acting because the other elements of film are good. Even Pan's Labyrinth, which I still say is one of the absolute best films of 2006, had maybe two decent performances. But, as a fairy tale, believable acting is not really a requirement. Most of the characters were more caricatures, archetypes, than sympathetic, believable, multi-dimensional characters. The film in part called for this, and in part was made weaker because of this. There was something that bothered me at the end, something I couldn't quite put my finger on, that kept me from proclaiming, "one of the great masterpieces of filmmaking!" and instead compelled me to admit, "a great film, though not without its flaws."
Ok, "The Last King of Scotland" is one of the great masterpieces of filmmaking. It is wonderful, brilliantly written, brilliantly acted, beautifully shot, well put-together, brutal but not overly-so. Even the lighting was amazing -- I don't know how they consistently lit the lead actor so that his blue eyes appeared to be glowing from the inside-out, despite everything happening to him and around him, but they did. At the end there is some footage of Idi Amin, and, and, and had the performance not been so multi-leveled and multi-faceted, I would say that Forest Whitaker simply pulled off the most brilliant impersonation ever committed to celluloid. Except it wasn't an impersonation, because impersonations are notoriously cardboard. It's more like he was channeling Amin.
The story arch and pacing, also, were perfect. The set-up and the knock-down perfectly executed. Acting, dialogue, story elements that could be easily overplayed were pulled off expertly. I know this "review" is woefully uncritical, so I will say that there was one point when I was brought out of the film's world, when the director (who has previously only directed documentaries, and clearly does his best work when sticking to that format, even when tackling narrative fiction) adopted some cliche filmic techniques in order to illustrate a character getting drunk. If I had to complain, if I was forced at gunpoint to find a weak point, this would be it. It's about 10 seconds, and really only stands out as weak because of the perfection of the rest of the film that surrounds it. In a lesser film, it wouldn't even be noticed.
This is a great film. The folly of youth. The corrupting power of power. Brave, brutal, fucking brilliant. I'd recommend you see it.
15 January 2007
13 January 2007
The telephone's out of cigarettes.
Edinburgh winters. I've been trying to write fiction, trying to not drink, trying to get to sleep at reasonable hours. The term started. Writing is a struggle, not drinking is a struggle, sleeping is a struggle. Sanity is slipping sideways, so I'm trying to keep a handle on that. The sun doesn't come out, and the winds are so extreme that people are being killed by flying debris. It is very Mary Poppins here, very very Mary Poppins. Tom Waits helps some, jazzy Tom Waits, late 70's Tom Waits. The piano has been drinking, not me.
I know it's too early to resign myself to life as a spinster, and yet.
The term is keeping me very busy, and extra time goes to writing stories, and that is my excuse if there is nothing of worth here. Mainly I'm grateful I haven't begun hibernating, despite my natural inclinations.
The carpet needs a haircut.
I know it's too early to resign myself to life as a spinster, and yet.
The term is keeping me very busy, and extra time goes to writing stories, and that is my excuse if there is nothing of worth here. Mainly I'm grateful I haven't begun hibernating, despite my natural inclinations.
The carpet needs a haircut.
07 January 2007
Tableaux (a revision)
"So," said the little girl, "so this is how it ends up."
"You're disappointed?" asked the young woman, "you expected more?"
"I expected more than you just exploiting my fears and weaknesses."
"You have a better idea? It's easy to criticize, but you offer me no alternatives."
"I have an idea," said the child, "I have hundreds of ideas."
"Name one."
"Well . . . I've forgotten them just now." The little girl wrinkled her brow. "You never nurtured them so I lost them, somewhere."
"Oh, don't blame me for your irresponsibility." The woman's face was tight. "Where did you put them? How could you lose something so important?"
"Don't be cross; I know where they are. I remember now."
"Well?"
"I put them somewhere in the void that divides us. I gave them to someone there. She said she'd pass them on to you."
"She didn't give me anything but poor choices and insecurity. Why would you do such a foolish thing?"
The little girl stared sullen at her shoes while the woman looked on. "I didn't have any choice," she said, "She took them and made fun; she said she had no need for silly childish things, and she hid them away."
"Where did she go?"
"She's where she's always been – pining after some boy."
"You used to do that too, you know."
"Yeah, but it wasn't the same," said the little girl. "I was just curious. She obsesses. She thinks the unattainable will save her from herself . . . or from you, maybe."
"She's foolish and insolent," said the woman. "She longs for something she doesn't understand. She looks outside herself for something that can only be found inside."
"I feel sorry for her," said the child.
"You have too much empathy. She's ruining my life and your dreams. I'm going to find her."
"Wait. Please don't leave me here alone. I'm scared."
"You're so good at imagining nightmares. Why don't you imagine yourself someplace safe and warm? I have to go."
"Please?"
"Oh, grow up."
The young woman found the teenager bony and agitated on a beach, hugging her knees against the sea breeze and staring blankly at the expansive horizon. She sat down beside her. "I've been looking for you."
The teenager looked up suddenly. "It's you!"
"You have something that belongs to me. I need it back now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman glared. "You do know. You stole it from a child and then god knows what you did with it, but you'd better remember because I need it."
The teenager looked away, expressionless. Slowly, she glanced back and crinkled her eyes. She studied the woman's face. "Are you in love?"
"What the fuck? Are you even listening to me?"
"Are you?"
"I don't need anyone but myself."
"Yeah, but are you in love?"
"No," snapped the woman, glancing down at the girls knees, "have you been cutting yourself?"
"Leave me alone! I can't believe you're not in love."
"You're disappointed too? Look, there's more to life than love." She quickly clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late. The words had escaped.
"Like WHAT?" There was venom in the adolescent's voice.
"I mean I was in love, but now I’m happy to be alone."
"You were in love?" The girl's eyes perked up.
"Yeah, for a while. It didn't work out. We weren't good for each other."
"Did you . . . you know?"
"Of course."
"What was it like?"
"Good. It was good." The woman sighed. "Listen, I need you to remember."
"When?" asked the teenager.
"When what?"
"When did you first . . . you know?"
"In college. Listen, I shouldn't even be telling you this."
"College?! That's like, ugh. Was it worth the, you know, the wait?"
"What wait?"
"Do I know him?"
"No."
"Oh . . . " The teenager frowned.
"Can you just focus? What did you do with my . . ."
"Leave me alone. I don't know what you're doing here anyway. You certainly aren't helping."
"I'm not here to help you," said the woman, "I'm here to get something from you. Then you can go back to brooding or pining or slicing up your legs or whatever."
"I hate you," mumbled the teenager, rubbing her nose.
"What?"
"I said I HATE YOU!" She jumped up and ran toward the sea, screaming.
"Jesus Christ," said the woman, rising to follow her.
By the time she reached the water the girl was up to her knees, fully clothed, with tears streaming down her face. "How old are you?" she yelled through her tears.
"Twenty-five," said the woman, wading into the water. "I'm in grad school. I'm going to be an artist."
"Like I care." The teenager rolled her eyes and sniffed.
"You have something that I need."
"You're single?" demanded the girl.
"Yes. You know, there are worse fates for a woman my age."
"Like what?"
"Being depressed, or ill, or out of ideas. Losing inspiration . . ." She stared at the girl.
"Maybe you lost your inspiration because you don't have LOVE." She shouted the word 'Love,' spitting it like a poison into the woman's face.
"Why are you so fucking angry?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" she screamed, wading further into the water.
"You'll drown out there, or catch pneumonia. Come on, let's go someplace warm." She reached out a hand.
"Ha! You'd be happy if I died! I can tell!"
"That's absurd," the young woman insisted, though she knew it was probably true. She grabbed for the girl's hand.
"Only once?" she shouted, pulling her hand away and stepping backwards over the crashing waves.
"Only once what?"
"You were only in love once?"
"Uh, yeah, maybe twice. I'm not really sure."
"You don't KNOW?" The water was icy, and the girl was starting to shiver.
"Fuck," the young woman thought to herself, "so this is how it ends." Her teeth chattered. "No," she shouted, "I don't know. Once for sure. But it wasn't good for either of us, so it ended."
"God!" screamed the teenager, "you are SO LAME! You don't know anything! Why are you even here? Why don't you just leave me alone? You're a STUPID BITCH and I HATE YOU and YOU'RE UGLY and I Don't FUCKING have what you're looking for!"
"Fine." The young woman turned and headed back to the beach cold and annoyed. When she reached the shore she looked back toward the water.
The girl stood holding her fists clenched over her head, screaming the Gloria Patria through choking sobs: "GLORY BE TO THE FATHER, AND TO THE SON, AND TO THE HOLY SPIRIT, AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, IS NOW, AND EVER SHALL BE, WORLD WITHOUT END, AMEN"
At the sight of this, the young woman sat down on the ground and wept. Then she closed her eyes and sat silent. After a time, she sensed a presence. She looked up to see the little girl standing beside her, watching the water.
"Hey," said the woman, wiping her face with a sandy sleeve.
"Is she ok?" asked the child, pointing toward the sea. The teenager sat in the water up to her neck, floating her arms in front of her.
"I don't know. I guess so."
"She didn't have them, did she?"
"I guess not. She wasn't very eager to help."
"Will you play with me now?"
"I can't just leave her out here."
"Her will to live is stronger than her will to die," said the little girl, holding out her hand.
The young woman sighed and took the child's hand, standing up. "She wants to know someone cares."
"No," said the child, "she just wants space to be alone and work things out. You should understand that."
"How did you get so smart?" asked the woman as they walked toward the cabin holding hands.
"How did you get so dumb?" asked the little girl, laughing.
"Ha! Not funny!" and she reached to tickle the girl who screamed and ran ahead. The woman ran to catch up, yelling, "I'm gonna get you! I'm gonna get you!"
In the cabin, the woman changed into dry clothes and lit a fire. She prepared some sandwiches and then the two sat down and began telling stories. They played intricate games of make-believe long into the evening, acting out adventures and inventing strange creatures. Much later, after both had fallen asleep on blankets before the fireplace, a lone figure watched through foggy windows and tried to understand.
"You're disappointed?" asked the young woman, "you expected more?"
"I expected more than you just exploiting my fears and weaknesses."
"You have a better idea? It's easy to criticize, but you offer me no alternatives."
"I have an idea," said the child, "I have hundreds of ideas."
"Name one."
"Well . . . I've forgotten them just now." The little girl wrinkled her brow. "You never nurtured them so I lost them, somewhere."
"Oh, don't blame me for your irresponsibility." The woman's face was tight. "Where did you put them? How could you lose something so important?"
"Don't be cross; I know where they are. I remember now."
"Well?"
"I put them somewhere in the void that divides us. I gave them to someone there. She said she'd pass them on to you."
"She didn't give me anything but poor choices and insecurity. Why would you do such a foolish thing?"
The little girl stared sullen at her shoes while the woman looked on. "I didn't have any choice," she said, "She took them and made fun; she said she had no need for silly childish things, and she hid them away."
"Where did she go?"
"She's where she's always been – pining after some boy."
"You used to do that too, you know."
"Yeah, but it wasn't the same," said the little girl. "I was just curious. She obsesses. She thinks the unattainable will save her from herself . . . or from you, maybe."
"She's foolish and insolent," said the woman. "She longs for something she doesn't understand. She looks outside herself for something that can only be found inside."
"I feel sorry for her," said the child.
"You have too much empathy. She's ruining my life and your dreams. I'm going to find her."
"Wait. Please don't leave me here alone. I'm scared."
"You're so good at imagining nightmares. Why don't you imagine yourself someplace safe and warm? I have to go."
"Please?"
"Oh, grow up."
The young woman found the teenager bony and agitated on a beach, hugging her knees against the sea breeze and staring blankly at the expansive horizon. She sat down beside her. "I've been looking for you."
The teenager looked up suddenly. "It's you!"
"You have something that belongs to me. I need it back now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman glared. "You do know. You stole it from a child and then god knows what you did with it, but you'd better remember because I need it."
The teenager looked away, expressionless. Slowly, she glanced back and crinkled her eyes. She studied the woman's face. "Are you in love?"
"What the fuck? Are you even listening to me?"
"Are you?"
"I don't need anyone but myself."
"Yeah, but are you in love?"
"No," snapped the woman, glancing down at the girls knees, "have you been cutting yourself?"
"Leave me alone! I can't believe you're not in love."
"You're disappointed too? Look, there's more to life than love." She quickly clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late. The words had escaped.
"Like WHAT?" There was venom in the adolescent's voice.
"I mean I was in love, but now I’m happy to be alone."
"You were in love?" The girl's eyes perked up.
"Yeah, for a while. It didn't work out. We weren't good for each other."
"Did you . . . you know?"
"Of course."
"What was it like?"
"Good. It was good." The woman sighed. "Listen, I need you to remember."
"When?" asked the teenager.
"When what?"
"When did you first . . . you know?"
"In college. Listen, I shouldn't even be telling you this."
"College?! That's like, ugh. Was it worth the, you know, the wait?"
"What wait?"
"Do I know him?"
"No."
"Oh . . . " The teenager frowned.
"Can you just focus? What did you do with my . . ."
"Leave me alone. I don't know what you're doing here anyway. You certainly aren't helping."
"I'm not here to help you," said the woman, "I'm here to get something from you. Then you can go back to brooding or pining or slicing up your legs or whatever."
"I hate you," mumbled the teenager, rubbing her nose.
"What?"
"I said I HATE YOU!" She jumped up and ran toward the sea, screaming.
"Jesus Christ," said the woman, rising to follow her.
By the time she reached the water the girl was up to her knees, fully clothed, with tears streaming down her face. "How old are you?" she yelled through her tears.
"Twenty-five," said the woman, wading into the water. "I'm in grad school. I'm going to be an artist."
"Like I care." The teenager rolled her eyes and sniffed.
"You have something that I need."
"You're single?" demanded the girl.
"Yes. You know, there are worse fates for a woman my age."
"Like what?"
"Being depressed, or ill, or out of ideas. Losing inspiration . . ." She stared at the girl.
"Maybe you lost your inspiration because you don't have LOVE." She shouted the word 'Love,' spitting it like a poison into the woman's face.
"Why are you so fucking angry?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" she screamed, wading further into the water.
"You'll drown out there, or catch pneumonia. Come on, let's go someplace warm." She reached out a hand.
"Ha! You'd be happy if I died! I can tell!"
"That's absurd," the young woman insisted, though she knew it was probably true. She grabbed for the girl's hand.
"Only once?" she shouted, pulling her hand away and stepping backwards over the crashing waves.
"Only once what?"
"You were only in love once?"
"Uh, yeah, maybe twice. I'm not really sure."
"You don't KNOW?" The water was icy, and the girl was starting to shiver.
"Fuck," the young woman thought to herself, "so this is how it ends." Her teeth chattered. "No," she shouted, "I don't know. Once for sure. But it wasn't good for either of us, so it ended."
"God!" screamed the teenager, "you are SO LAME! You don't know anything! Why are you even here? Why don't you just leave me alone? You're a STUPID BITCH and I HATE YOU and YOU'RE UGLY and I Don't FUCKING have what you're looking for!"
"Fine." The young woman turned and headed back to the beach cold and annoyed. When she reached the shore she looked back toward the water.
The girl stood holding her fists clenched over her head, screaming the Gloria Patria through choking sobs: "GLORY BE TO THE FATHER, AND TO THE SON, AND TO THE HOLY SPIRIT, AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, IS NOW, AND EVER SHALL BE, WORLD WITHOUT END, AMEN"
At the sight of this, the young woman sat down on the ground and wept. Then she closed her eyes and sat silent. After a time, she sensed a presence. She looked up to see the little girl standing beside her, watching the water.
"Hey," said the woman, wiping her face with a sandy sleeve.
"Is she ok?" asked the child, pointing toward the sea. The teenager sat in the water up to her neck, floating her arms in front of her.
"I don't know. I guess so."
"She didn't have them, did she?"
"I guess not. She wasn't very eager to help."
"Will you play with me now?"
"I can't just leave her out here."
"Her will to live is stronger than her will to die," said the little girl, holding out her hand.
The young woman sighed and took the child's hand, standing up. "She wants to know someone cares."
"No," said the child, "she just wants space to be alone and work things out. You should understand that."
"How did you get so smart?" asked the woman as they walked toward the cabin holding hands.
"How did you get so dumb?" asked the little girl, laughing.
"Ha! Not funny!" and she reached to tickle the girl who screamed and ran ahead. The woman ran to catch up, yelling, "I'm gonna get you! I'm gonna get you!"
In the cabin, the woman changed into dry clothes and lit a fire. She prepared some sandwiches and then the two sat down and began telling stories. They played intricate games of make-believe long into the evening, acting out adventures and inventing strange creatures. Much later, after both had fallen asleep on blankets before the fireplace, a lone figure watched through foggy windows and tried to understand.
01 January 2007
a girl's first hogmanay
sat in my bedroom watching crack tv and eating chocolate until 2200. checked the internet which said that hogmanay celebrations had been canceled due to bad weather. at 2230 decided to get dressed, brave the weather, and walk to a party. couldn't be worse than spending new year's alone. put on a party dress and some thermal pants and a hooded coat and walked across town. rang the wrong doorbell and asked at the intercom, "is there a party?" the man's voice on the other end answered, "there's always a party, baby." then I noticed the number on the door was 45 and not 59. walked around the corner and found the right number, went up to the flat and realized i knew nobody, it's only 2300, i have an hour before the new year. got right to the task of getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible, made some small talk, crafted a unicorn out of the wire basket from a bottle of champagne. drank more, drank faster. watched fireworks out the window. the witching hour came and went as i held an unlit sparkler in my hand, no countdown, no realization that the time had come (and gone), until someone came by and squeezed my arms, wishing me a happy new year. "it's not," i mumbled, pulling out my phone. 23:59. it is. went to the bathroom, got another drink, drank that. decided to blow the party since i only knew two people -- the host and a married man who was busy trying to call his wife in cuba. walked up the royal mile where a crowd of people gathered screaming and singing and dog-piling. walked up to the castle terrace. two girls sat on top of a mounted statue, on either side of the general. one girl stroked the general's face, saying, "i love this horse, i love this horse, i love this horse, i love this horse." walked a bit further and looked down at prince's street, desolate and empty as the street party had indeed been canceled. stopped to make a note in a journal and two drunk french boys tried to carry me away. diverted their attention and walked around and back toward the royal mile, where the two french boys again caught up with me and tried to carry me away. diverted them again and headed down the hill. a ginger-bearded scottish man told me he would ask me to marry him in 2008. he grabbed me by the hips and said, "I'm going to marry you in 2008." "I'll be looking for you," I responded, and he trotted back to his friend, exclaiming, "she doesn't believe me. i'm going to find her in 2008." walked along the grassmarket where random men hugged me and slapped me high-five. a man with a roman nose stood in the doorway of a georgian flat on his cell phone, saying, "oh, yeah, i'm a big fan of drugs." men hugged in the streets and women screamed, "happy new year!" and the sidewalk was covered with piss and vomit. chatted with a young art student studying in newcastle, who was looking for a party. composed this letter in my head, and finally came home. i enter 2007 with virgin lips and endless possibilities, and a mind that is desperately trying to wrench it's way open, wide open.
happy new year, fools.
happy new year, fools.
27 December 2006
My hands are full, would you hold my breath?
Watched 'Perfume' tonight. I've never read the book, and my opinion is still solidifying about the movie. In the middle, I was thinking, bah, this is no good at all. Well, they could have done without Dustin Hoffman, for one thing. But this is not meant to be a review of the film. I'm not in the mood for that. The themes, however, got me thinking. The film is beautifully shot, and the focus is on senses. People praise the filmmakers for being able to capture scents through film, though I don't find this any more impressive than doing it through writing. Film is another way of telling stories, and we communicate our sensory experiences through language, story telling . . . this is natural. I'm getting off-track. The film made me think about the concept of being a 'sensualist,' which is, I suppose, one way I would describe myself. All artists, at their cores, I imagine, are sensualists. All creative people . . . and craftspeople as well, because perfecting a craft requires an acute sensory attunement to whatever it is one is crafting, be it bread (smell, touch, taste, sight, sound), shoes (touch, sight, sound, smell), perfume (smell . . . sight? taste?), painting (sight, touch). I often (often) ask myself if I might be happy simply as a craftsperson, but I think the reality is that I am too much of an intellectual (read: I enjoy intellectual meanderings, not: I am intelligent) to be satisfied with craft alone.
But this is not exactly the point I intended to get at either. There is more dealing with the themes of the film -- this desire to possess these sort of intangible, ephemeral essences of life, to put in a bottle the scent of beauty, to make the transient eternal, to hold something which cannot be held. This is one of my driving forces as an artist, one I have ignored, neglected, since I decided I shouldn't be a photographer in the 12th grade. I thought, I am trying to make a document which contains my life, and this is impossible, and in attempting to make this document, not only am I guaranteeing disappointment, but I am also failing to live my life in the present, but instead am only experiencing life for the express purpose of creating and preserving a memory. Well.
I walk through cities. I make notes to myself: "the smell of hops and yeast," "an asian couple wearing mickey-mouse earmuffs," "the damp cold, my aching bones," "fireworks light up the foggy horizon like some celebratory battlefield," "buskers on the Paris metro," "inviting lips," "the smell of sauerkraut," "the click-click-tap of rose pastilles in my mouth bouncing against my teeth," "santas playing bagpipes in front of Jenner's department store." I want to capture these things, in a story, in a work of art. I want to place them somewhere for view again and again, where I can study them, use them, try to understand them, possess them.
I am writing a story. It is self-indulgent, sensual, sexy. In it I have the chance to sleep with all the beautiful men and walk away unscathed. I can control every aspect of my world. I say to myself, "is this art, is this literature, or is this pornography?" Should I get off on writing a story? Or, perhaps more importantly, should I feel guilty for getting off on writing a story?
Lars von Trier wrote this: "There is only one excuse for living through -- and forcing others to live through -- the hell of the filmmaking process: The carnal satisfaction in that fraction of a second when the cinema's loudspeakers and projector in unison and inexplicably give rise to the illusion of motion and sound like an electron leaving its orbit and thus creating light, in order to create ONLY ONE THING: a miraculous breath of life! . . . For here is my confession: LARS VON TRIER, A SIMPLE MASTURBATOR OF THE SILVER SCREEN."
(yes, I recognize how disturbing this revelation is in view of such works as 'Breaking the Waves,' and 'Dogville,' but this isn't so much about Lars von Trier or his work as it is about the statement removed from any context.)
I have no conclusion tonight, I'm leaving this To Be Continued (or maybe I've said all I want to say on the matter?). Thoughts? You're always so quiet.
But this is not exactly the point I intended to get at either. There is more dealing with the themes of the film -- this desire to possess these sort of intangible, ephemeral essences of life, to put in a bottle the scent of beauty, to make the transient eternal, to hold something which cannot be held. This is one of my driving forces as an artist, one I have ignored, neglected, since I decided I shouldn't be a photographer in the 12th grade. I thought, I am trying to make a document which contains my life, and this is impossible, and in attempting to make this document, not only am I guaranteeing disappointment, but I am also failing to live my life in the present, but instead am only experiencing life for the express purpose of creating and preserving a memory. Well.
I walk through cities. I make notes to myself: "the smell of hops and yeast," "an asian couple wearing mickey-mouse earmuffs," "the damp cold, my aching bones," "fireworks light up the foggy horizon like some celebratory battlefield," "buskers on the Paris metro," "inviting lips," "the smell of sauerkraut," "the click-click-tap of rose pastilles in my mouth bouncing against my teeth," "santas playing bagpipes in front of Jenner's department store." I want to capture these things, in a story, in a work of art. I want to place them somewhere for view again and again, where I can study them, use them, try to understand them, possess them.
I am writing a story. It is self-indulgent, sensual, sexy. In it I have the chance to sleep with all the beautiful men and walk away unscathed. I can control every aspect of my world. I say to myself, "is this art, is this literature, or is this pornography?" Should I get off on writing a story? Or, perhaps more importantly, should I feel guilty for getting off on writing a story?
Lars von Trier wrote this: "There is only one excuse for living through -- and forcing others to live through -- the hell of the filmmaking process: The carnal satisfaction in that fraction of a second when the cinema's loudspeakers and projector in unison and inexplicably give rise to the illusion of motion and sound like an electron leaving its orbit and thus creating light, in order to create ONLY ONE THING: a miraculous breath of life! . . . For here is my confession: LARS VON TRIER, A SIMPLE MASTURBATOR OF THE SILVER SCREEN."
(yes, I recognize how disturbing this revelation is in view of such works as 'Breaking the Waves,' and 'Dogville,' but this isn't so much about Lars von Trier or his work as it is about the statement removed from any context.)
I have no conclusion tonight, I'm leaving this To Be Continued (or maybe I've said all I want to say on the matter?). Thoughts? You're always so quiet.
18 December 2006
Notes from Paris
From the Paris journal:
Friday, 15 December
Dear Jana,
I sit in a Greek restaurant in Paris, nearly empty, staring at a decrepit boar's head hanging from the wall. The maître d'/waiter is busy outside trying to lure customers. He says, "François, Español, English?" "Oui, anglais," I reply.
To my left, over the stairs, hang a variety of masks and plates from Malaysia, Buenos Aires, Martinique. The dolmades have come. They are not impressive. Neither is the wine. Tomorrow I have to eat in a French cafe. . . I should have listened to David Sedaris' Paris episode of This American Life before I left. I think I chose this restaurant because I felt confident the waiter would be nice to me.
This pen says 'Paris' on it, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. When I bought it, the man in the empty souvenir shop tricked me into kissing him twice. Then he said, "In France, we kiss three times -- here, here, and here," pointing once to each cheek and finally to his lips. "Uh huh. Pardon, au revoir." I remember a time years ago, at a party very drunk and very high, a college boy pulled a similar trick. The Frenchman stank of cologne. I felt dirty, but only for a minute. On my way out, a handsome man asked for money for some children's charity. "I'm sorry, I have no money to give you." "But it's for the chiiiiiiiiildren," he whined as I walked away.
At the Eiffel Tower I decided the lines were too long. I walked along the Seine and thought of "Before Sunrise." Then I walked down the Blvd. Saint Germaine and felt a bit warm and satisfied.
The music in this restaurant is nice, and so is the wine, even though it isn't.
In Paris, couples are constantly kissing. There were two handsome young people climbing on one another to make out on a bench under the Eiffel Tower.
Here is the main . . . The pork is bland and fatty. The rice is cold. The potato isn't even good. How do you screw up a potato? People walk by and stop, contemplating coming in, reading the menu. I try to send them telepathic messages: "Don't be fooled. Keep walking. What you've heard is wrong; you can find lousy food in Paris." Ah, the boar's head should have been a dead give-away. Maybe the baklava will be good anyway.
This waiter -- slicked back hair, big mustache, soul patch. A piece of work. Would I . . . No, probably not. Too greasy.
More plates: Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Bahamas, New Orleans, Hawaii, Australia, Singapore, Canada, London, New York-2000, Trinidad, Stockholm, Thailand.
Look at the waiter leering at the evening strollers. He is feeling desperate, I can sense it. The winter is hard. His business might fail. Better food would help. Word of mouth is important.
The weather is beautiful. Fog in the morning burned off by noon, sunny day, warm, perfect, global warming, perfect.
Waiting for my baklava and coffee. At least I am in no hurry, soaking up the bricolage atmosphere of this sub-par Parisian Greek establishment. If I were Parisian I would have demanded my dessert by now. I'm not even a decent American – too meek. C'est la vie. C'est moi.
Half hour. Oh wow, the baklava isn't even good. I think I’m actually impressed. They survive quite well for being so across-the-board lousy.
Saturday, 16 December
Dear Me,
[penned while enjoying onion soup and Perrier in a charming French café hidden behind a winter market in an out-of-the-way courtyard] The rain today has made me feel ill. That, and the crowds, and the scratchy socks I'm wearing, and the fact that all I've eaten is a pain au chocolat and a can of coke. The crowds in department stores today, this rainy Saturday two weeks before Christmas, were enormous. Of course. The one – what was it called? [Printemps] Went up 9 floors, had window displays with expertly choreographed dancing teapots and table settings, and crowds, no, hordes of families – little children, couples, tourists – were gathered staring. I guess it must be the same in New York, London.
On the metro a couple danced while a busker sang 'Imagine' in a thick and nasally French accent, with an amp pumping out karaoke accompaniment.
Sunday, 17 December
My maternal grandmother makes an infinite amount of sense in the context of Paris. Did she take extravagant shopping vacations here as a young woman? Or . . . maybe this is what New York high society was like in the 1950s. The chain mail clutch purses, fancy mahjong sets, old women with impossible hats impossibly balanced on impossible coiffures, above impossibly painted-up faces, and outfits so gaudy they've come back around to the height of fashion, teetering on the thimble-size points of dangerously high heels, every blue curl in place, spooning raspberry parfait into their violently red mouths. My grandmother would have loved this. This is the world she was so desperately trying to recreate with each passing year, to locate within the decaying walls and sunken faces of Catskill resorts in the 1990s.
The 21 year old Mexican tango dancer from Monterrey staying in my hostel, called Andrés, is reading, "Los Hombres son de Marte, Los Mujeres son de Venus." He has a baby face, is useless on his own, but when I close my eyes and listen to him speaking to his mother on the phone in Spanish, in that deep Mexican accent, he is the most beautiful man I have ever known. There is something about a Latin accent that gets me every time. And I miss my baker, my sweet man, mi hombre impossible, mi novio incomprehensible. Funny what Paris does to the loins.
Friday, 15 December
Dear Jana,
I sit in a Greek restaurant in Paris, nearly empty, staring at a decrepit boar's head hanging from the wall. The maître d'/waiter is busy outside trying to lure customers. He says, "François, Español, English?" "Oui, anglais," I reply.
To my left, over the stairs, hang a variety of masks and plates from Malaysia, Buenos Aires, Martinique. The dolmades have come. They are not impressive. Neither is the wine. Tomorrow I have to eat in a French cafe. . . I should have listened to David Sedaris' Paris episode of This American Life before I left. I think I chose this restaurant because I felt confident the waiter would be nice to me.
This pen says 'Paris' on it, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. When I bought it, the man in the empty souvenir shop tricked me into kissing him twice. Then he said, "In France, we kiss three times -- here, here, and here," pointing once to each cheek and finally to his lips. "Uh huh. Pardon, au revoir." I remember a time years ago, at a party very drunk and very high, a college boy pulled a similar trick. The Frenchman stank of cologne. I felt dirty, but only for a minute. On my way out, a handsome man asked for money for some children's charity. "I'm sorry, I have no money to give you." "But it's for the chiiiiiiiiildren," he whined as I walked away.
At the Eiffel Tower I decided the lines were too long. I walked along the Seine and thought of "Before Sunrise." Then I walked down the Blvd. Saint Germaine and felt a bit warm and satisfied.
The music in this restaurant is nice, and so is the wine, even though it isn't.
In Paris, couples are constantly kissing. There were two handsome young people climbing on one another to make out on a bench under the Eiffel Tower.
Here is the main . . . The pork is bland and fatty. The rice is cold. The potato isn't even good. How do you screw up a potato? People walk by and stop, contemplating coming in, reading the menu. I try to send them telepathic messages: "Don't be fooled. Keep walking. What you've heard is wrong; you can find lousy food in Paris." Ah, the boar's head should have been a dead give-away. Maybe the baklava will be good anyway.
This waiter -- slicked back hair, big mustache, soul patch. A piece of work. Would I . . . No, probably not. Too greasy.
More plates: Guatemala, Puerto Rico, Bahamas, New Orleans, Hawaii, Australia, Singapore, Canada, London, New York-2000, Trinidad, Stockholm, Thailand.
Look at the waiter leering at the evening strollers. He is feeling desperate, I can sense it. The winter is hard. His business might fail. Better food would help. Word of mouth is important.
The weather is beautiful. Fog in the morning burned off by noon, sunny day, warm, perfect, global warming, perfect.
Waiting for my baklava and coffee. At least I am in no hurry, soaking up the bricolage atmosphere of this sub-par Parisian Greek establishment. If I were Parisian I would have demanded my dessert by now. I'm not even a decent American – too meek. C'est la vie. C'est moi.
Half hour. Oh wow, the baklava isn't even good. I think I’m actually impressed. They survive quite well for being so across-the-board lousy.
Saturday, 16 December
Dear Me,
[penned while enjoying onion soup and Perrier in a charming French café hidden behind a winter market in an out-of-the-way courtyard] The rain today has made me feel ill. That, and the crowds, and the scratchy socks I'm wearing, and the fact that all I've eaten is a pain au chocolat and a can of coke. The crowds in department stores today, this rainy Saturday two weeks before Christmas, were enormous. Of course. The one – what was it called? [Printemps] Went up 9 floors, had window displays with expertly choreographed dancing teapots and table settings, and crowds, no, hordes of families – little children, couples, tourists – were gathered staring. I guess it must be the same in New York, London.
On the metro a couple danced while a busker sang 'Imagine' in a thick and nasally French accent, with an amp pumping out karaoke accompaniment.
Sunday, 17 December
My maternal grandmother makes an infinite amount of sense in the context of Paris. Did she take extravagant shopping vacations here as a young woman? Or . . . maybe this is what New York high society was like in the 1950s. The chain mail clutch purses, fancy mahjong sets, old women with impossible hats impossibly balanced on impossible coiffures, above impossibly painted-up faces, and outfits so gaudy they've come back around to the height of fashion, teetering on the thimble-size points of dangerously high heels, every blue curl in place, spooning raspberry parfait into their violently red mouths. My grandmother would have loved this. This is the world she was so desperately trying to recreate with each passing year, to locate within the decaying walls and sunken faces of Catskill resorts in the 1990s.
The 21 year old Mexican tango dancer from Monterrey staying in my hostel, called Andrés, is reading, "Los Hombres son de Marte, Los Mujeres son de Venus." He has a baby face, is useless on his own, but when I close my eyes and listen to him speaking to his mother on the phone in Spanish, in that deep Mexican accent, he is the most beautiful man I have ever known. There is something about a Latin accent that gets me every time. And I miss my baker, my sweet man, mi hombre impossible, mi novio incomprehensible. Funny what Paris does to the loins.
12 December 2006
Pickled Irishman
I love coming home from a concert covered in bruises. I love the putrid smell of spilt beer and the sweat of 1000 Scottish men. I love the ringing in my ears.
Yes, it's true that the Pogues have to sort of prop Shane McGowan up onstage, it's true that the rest of the band seems in fine form and good health, as Shane sort of bobs and sways and looks as though the image of him standing of his own free will must be some sort of optical illusion. The band glances at him with a bit of sadness, a bit of frustration and embarrassment. My Irish friend says, well, he is a bit of an embarrassment. But the fact remains that the audience is there to see Shane, to see the spectacle and the legend. The rest of the band knows this; this is, I'm sure, the only reason they are working with him again. What's truly astonishing is that EVEN on three bottles of whiskey a day, even though he can barely stand, he's a bit bloated and unwell, nearly knocking on death's door (though he has been for years), even with all this, he can STILL fucking sing. He drank an entire bottle of Powers while performing onstage . . . I should say, he drank an entire bottle of Powers in about three goes while performing onstage (yes I did see him down half of the bottle in one go, and proceed to sing a rousing Irish traditional without hitting a single sour note, without even forgetting any words). So is he embarrassing? Or is he impressive? It's sort of bittersweet, true. I'm sure he hasn't written a song in years, and this is a bit painful when he sings these brilliant brilliant fucking songs, these songs with lyrics and melodies that simply tear you to pieces with their poetic genius, their brutal sincerity. And I know, (we all know), that if he were, by some unlikely chance, to suddenly quit drinking, he would surely drop dead immediately. I'll keep my ticket as a memento to prove the unlikely truth that I did see Shane McGowan perform with the Pogues in 2006, he already about 85% pickled, with dark sunglasses and a pirate shirt, mumbling incomprehensibly but still tearing the house down, and still STANDING, and when he spun around for nearly five minutes at the end of "Fairytale of New York," I was SURE he would fall over. But he never did, he was still standing all the way to the end.
Yes, it's true that the Pogues have to sort of prop Shane McGowan up onstage, it's true that the rest of the band seems in fine form and good health, as Shane sort of bobs and sways and looks as though the image of him standing of his own free will must be some sort of optical illusion. The band glances at him with a bit of sadness, a bit of frustration and embarrassment. My Irish friend says, well, he is a bit of an embarrassment. But the fact remains that the audience is there to see Shane, to see the spectacle and the legend. The rest of the band knows this; this is, I'm sure, the only reason they are working with him again. What's truly astonishing is that EVEN on three bottles of whiskey a day, even though he can barely stand, he's a bit bloated and unwell, nearly knocking on death's door (though he has been for years), even with all this, he can STILL fucking sing. He drank an entire bottle of Powers while performing onstage . . . I should say, he drank an entire bottle of Powers in about three goes while performing onstage (yes I did see him down half of the bottle in one go, and proceed to sing a rousing Irish traditional without hitting a single sour note, without even forgetting any words). So is he embarrassing? Or is he impressive? It's sort of bittersweet, true. I'm sure he hasn't written a song in years, and this is a bit painful when he sings these brilliant brilliant fucking songs, these songs with lyrics and melodies that simply tear you to pieces with their poetic genius, their brutal sincerity. And I know, (we all know), that if he were, by some unlikely chance, to suddenly quit drinking, he would surely drop dead immediately. I'll keep my ticket as a memento to prove the unlikely truth that I did see Shane McGowan perform with the Pogues in 2006, he already about 85% pickled, with dark sunglasses and a pirate shirt, mumbling incomprehensibly but still tearing the house down, and still STANDING, and when he spun around for nearly five minutes at the end of "Fairytale of New York," I was SURE he would fall over. But he never did, he was still standing all the way to the end.
11 December 2006
How To Marry A Millionaire
Five years ago, Martin Creed won the most prestigious award in art in the UK, the Turner Prize, for a work that consisted of a room with a light that turned on and off. In an interview, he said that the idea came to him when he was trying to figure out what to exhibit, and he couldn't decide if he should exhibit in a room with the light on or the light off . . .
Last night he gave a performance at the Royal Scottish Academy, which was not particularly impressive. He did show a really nice video of a pretty girl in cowboy boots and a short skirt vomiting large amounts of glistening red liquid onto a hard floor. The sound of the vomit hitting the floor was a highlight. Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to, I did like the video, and one of the songs he sang was nice as well. Other than that, he gave a sort of stilted, uncomfortable talk, which I guess was the point, but it mostly bored me and I caught myself dozing at more than one point.
Later I was introduced to a couple middle aged men, one a charming musician and the other an incredible (ugly, vulgar, immature) millionaire. At one point, the millionaire made a comment about feeling most sorry for the poor saps stuck in the middle class, as it is only those with everything or nothing that have true freedom. He went on to define the "poor saps stuck in the middle class" as those making £100,000 a year… Shortly after this, he was wagging the limp end of a pockmarked-flesh colored frankfurter in my face, claiming this was the closest he would ever come to being in a porno movie.
I think that must have been the exact moment I turned the bitch on. It might serve me well to be more pleasant to crass millionaires, but I just can't imagine how.
Funny thing, later at the party, after a few more drinks, the millionaire became a bit more eloquent and tolerable, had some decent and even thought-provoking things to say. According to this man, the amount of success and joy in one's life is directly related to the amount of risks one takes. This is a very simple and very brilliant observation, and it was at this exact moment that I began to regret turning the bitch on.
The Christmas season here is all mince pies and mulled wine and ice skating and hot cocoa and Santa hats and Christmas parties and German markets and fruitcake and furry slippers. When they put up the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round in the last week of November, I thought everybody must be completely mad. Who wants to go on a Ferris wheel in the middle of winter? I'm beginning to understand the appeal; the cold makes everything more exciting, more intimate, more immediate. People gather closer, sipping on hot rum and mulled wine, rubbing shoulders, wrapped tightly in gloved hands and wooly scarves. The talk faster and laugh harder, clap louder when the young men juggle flaming sticks for their amusement. The desire to keep warm feeds the warmth that grows, until walking through the market on a Saturday evening two weeks before Christmas, you feel you are part of something.
Je ne parle pas français . . . (?) I'm going to Paris on Wednesday. Alone, which I'm quite looking forward to. The musician I met last night had never been to Paris, because at a very young age (17 was it?) he had promised himself that he would only go to the city of love with someone with whom he was in love. Twenty years later, (more?), he has never been to Paris. I considered inviting him along with me, but I didn't.
Oh, there's a new cut and soundtrack for my squirrel video HERE, as well as a cleaned-up and very low res version of my first animation. I'll try to have a second animation up before Christmas, but I'm not sure I'll be able to swing it with all my globetrotting . . .
Last night he gave a performance at the Royal Scottish Academy, which was not particularly impressive. He did show a really nice video of a pretty girl in cowboy boots and a short skirt vomiting large amounts of glistening red liquid onto a hard floor. The sound of the vomit hitting the floor was a highlight. Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to, I did like the video, and one of the songs he sang was nice as well. Other than that, he gave a sort of stilted, uncomfortable talk, which I guess was the point, but it mostly bored me and I caught myself dozing at more than one point.
Later I was introduced to a couple middle aged men, one a charming musician and the other an incredible (ugly, vulgar, immature) millionaire. At one point, the millionaire made a comment about feeling most sorry for the poor saps stuck in the middle class, as it is only those with everything or nothing that have true freedom. He went on to define the "poor saps stuck in the middle class" as those making £100,000 a year… Shortly after this, he was wagging the limp end of a pockmarked-flesh colored frankfurter in my face, claiming this was the closest he would ever come to being in a porno movie.
I think that must have been the exact moment I turned the bitch on. It might serve me well to be more pleasant to crass millionaires, but I just can't imagine how.
Funny thing, later at the party, after a few more drinks, the millionaire became a bit more eloquent and tolerable, had some decent and even thought-provoking things to say. According to this man, the amount of success and joy in one's life is directly related to the amount of risks one takes. This is a very simple and very brilliant observation, and it was at this exact moment that I began to regret turning the bitch on.
The Christmas season here is all mince pies and mulled wine and ice skating and hot cocoa and Santa hats and Christmas parties and German markets and fruitcake and furry slippers. When they put up the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round in the last week of November, I thought everybody must be completely mad. Who wants to go on a Ferris wheel in the middle of winter? I'm beginning to understand the appeal; the cold makes everything more exciting, more intimate, more immediate. People gather closer, sipping on hot rum and mulled wine, rubbing shoulders, wrapped tightly in gloved hands and wooly scarves. The talk faster and laugh harder, clap louder when the young men juggle flaming sticks for their amusement. The desire to keep warm feeds the warmth that grows, until walking through the market on a Saturday evening two weeks before Christmas, you feel you are part of something.
Je ne parle pas français . . . (?) I'm going to Paris on Wednesday. Alone, which I'm quite looking forward to. The musician I met last night had never been to Paris, because at a very young age (17 was it?) he had promised himself that he would only go to the city of love with someone with whom he was in love. Twenty years later, (more?), he has never been to Paris. I considered inviting him along with me, but I didn't.
Oh, there's a new cut and soundtrack for my squirrel video HERE, as well as a cleaned-up and very low res version of my first animation. I'll try to have a second animation up before Christmas, but I'm not sure I'll be able to swing it with all my globetrotting . . .
09 December 2006
At the Artists' Retreat, the Artist Retreats.
+
My head is empty, but my belly is full. Aspiring artists also tend to be very good cooks.
02 December 2006
Notes from Budapest
(Thursday)
"Live as if you were to die tomorrow; Learn as if you were to live forever."
Dangerously handsome German artist, charming but not such a great dancer (spectacular artist, just not such a great dancer), three Polish artists, one handsome but scarred, somehow, one cute yet severe, one shockingly beautiful, beautifully ugly, all expert dancers, wild, mad on the dance floor. This club, this Hungarian dance club with a DJ and an accordion (!!!) player, seamlessly moving between American hip-hop, gypsy dance tracks, and latin salsa numbers. This was fantastic. This was worth the trip, sipping ouzo, moving slowly to the music in a sort of blissed-out haze of cold medicine, fever, and alcohol, "this is a real gypsy dance party!" Steve proclaims as he points out the accordion player letting loose in the DJ booth.
The swirl of artist talk, art discussion, leaves my head swimming, leaves me at a loss for words. I invited myself here but contributed very little. I was ill, found it hard to concentrate through the fever and cold medicine, found it hard to organize my thoughts. "Jana is being very quiet," proclaims the mad curator. The people, the talks, the exhibitions, the experience leave me speechless. I'm still (still) trying to understand why art (my art) is important, and what it is that i "do." And I'm so sexually frustrated I can hardly see straight. And what about those six months with the baker in Seattle? Because no matter how much I like to think it was a different life, and a different me, it wasn't. How does that reconcile with this world, this academic, intellectual, esoteric (recondite, obscure...) fantasy land, and what is holding me back, and what is propelling me forward, and when (when?) will I give in and commit, completely, to my art?
(do I actually have something to say?) (am I just a leach? a parasite?) (am I actually dim?) (will they find me out?)
WORKING CLASS vs ACADEMY/ARTISTS/INTELLECTUALS (with MONEY)
(motivations, lifestyles, values, etc)
Working class:
Sex, Drink, Hobbies (crafts, art?), TV (cartoons?!), Comedy, Gossip, History (PERSONAL history), Family, Obligation (Duty, Necessity), Tradition, Drugs, Movies.
Academy/Artists/Intellectuals:
Debate, Art Practice (production), Sex, Drink, Film, Connections, Networking, Gossip, History (Political, Art, Personal), Desire, Ambition, Deconstruction, Subversion, Drugs.
...(*Epiphany*) It feels like play but it is WORK -- this exhibition, the drinks, the talks, the parties, this is how the art world Works. Connections, introductions, networking, leads to projects in Germany, New York, Collaborations with Hungarian artists, Polish artists . . .
[I dreamt about (nearly) sleeping with the German artist last night. It felt good.]
Turkish Baths -- natural hot springs feed these huge, ornate pools that open onto the sky, white steam rising thick into the crisp evening air, old men sit in the corner of the pools, with bathing caps on, playing chess on stone tables that emerge from the sulfured water, as impossible bodies (impossible!) shed robes and dip toes, bellies as big as pony kegs (no exaggeration).
[...Am I trying to break into a BOY's CLUB? All the women here are Curators, or Artist's Girlfriends (even if they are artists themselves), or High-Priced Call Girls. What The Fuck? ...]
(Friday:)
My first and only free day in Budapest. Also, the first day of advent (the Christmas Market opened today). Lunch with a former conspirator/lover/revolutionary of my mother. He is more put together and reserved than I expected, tall, grey hair, and aging quite well. He seems utterly freaked out. Takes me to a nice place near the college where I have a schnitzel bigger than my head and a cup of tea. He has a beer and slowly begins talking. I don't ask about the past, but he is reluctant at first to answer the questions I do ask -- how did you end up in Budapest? What are you working on now? He talks about a film about gypsy music (!!!), but creative problems with the producer leave a bad aftertaste, so I don't push it. A book about market halls, another interesting topic. I talk a bit about myself, my path, about my family and my mom (was I supposed to tell him mom's writing a memoir?). They went to Woodstock together. I feel warm to him, though awkward. He is intelligent, and working on interesting projects. He says, "Ask your mother what it was like working at the Cafe A-Go-Go the night Eric Clapton played." (I did, she claims to remember nothing.) Finally, I say, "Is it weird, me contacting you like this, this meeting?" He says yes, very, he's still not sure how it happened. I try to explain, but I'm not so sure myself. He shows me a small market hall (hidden!!) and gives me directions to a larger one. I take his picture. He looks doubtful. In the end I feel a sudden desire to embrace him, so praise this european custom of farewells with a kiss (always, always with a kiss, all the beautiful artists kissed me, how lovely!).
Walk to a huge indoor market hall just as it is closing, just in time to buy some paprika, use the loo, and take some photos. Walk up by the Danube and look across to the Buda side. Breathtaking. Wander down a pedestrian road and buy a hat, then notice crowds of people so I follow them and find the Christmas Market (opening night!), complete with huge tree, nativity, and bandstand. I wander around for hours, buy some things (candles, transylvanian cake -- delicious! -- glühwein), watch the performances. First a band with bagpipes (?!?) plays traditional christmas songs, then a gypsy band. Not great, but wonderful in the context. There is a man with a hawk, ignoring the crowd he is attracting, listening to the music. Beautiful bird. Insane (no, not insane) man. I watch. He sits next to a woman and a baby. That bird next to a baby?! Eventually she leaves. Two old men dance on opposite sides of the audience (I should have bought some gypsy music here). I stare at the man with the hawk. He looks like an american actor. I think about sitting next to him, trying to start a conversation, going home with him. I don't do it. The music ends, our paths diverge.
Pictures?
"Live as if you were to die tomorrow; Learn as if you were to live forever."
Dangerously handsome German artist, charming but not such a great dancer (spectacular artist, just not such a great dancer), three Polish artists, one handsome but scarred, somehow, one cute yet severe, one shockingly beautiful, beautifully ugly, all expert dancers, wild, mad on the dance floor. This club, this Hungarian dance club with a DJ and an accordion (!!!) player, seamlessly moving between American hip-hop, gypsy dance tracks, and latin salsa numbers. This was fantastic. This was worth the trip, sipping ouzo, moving slowly to the music in a sort of blissed-out haze of cold medicine, fever, and alcohol, "this is a real gypsy dance party!" Steve proclaims as he points out the accordion player letting loose in the DJ booth.
The swirl of artist talk, art discussion, leaves my head swimming, leaves me at a loss for words. I invited myself here but contributed very little. I was ill, found it hard to concentrate through the fever and cold medicine, found it hard to organize my thoughts. "Jana is being very quiet," proclaims the mad curator. The people, the talks, the exhibitions, the experience leave me speechless. I'm still (still) trying to understand why art (my art) is important, and what it is that i "do." And I'm so sexually frustrated I can hardly see straight. And what about those six months with the baker in Seattle? Because no matter how much I like to think it was a different life, and a different me, it wasn't. How does that reconcile with this world, this academic, intellectual, esoteric (recondite, obscure...) fantasy land, and what is holding me back, and what is propelling me forward, and when (when?) will I give in and commit, completely, to my art?
(do I actually have something to say?) (am I just a leach? a parasite?) (am I actually dim?) (will they find me out?)
WORKING CLASS vs ACADEMY/ARTISTS/INTELLECTUALS (with MONEY)
(motivations, lifestyles, values, etc)
Working class:
Sex, Drink, Hobbies (crafts, art?), TV (cartoons?!), Comedy, Gossip, History (PERSONAL history), Family, Obligation (Duty, Necessity), Tradition, Drugs, Movies.
Academy/Artists/Intellectuals:
Debate, Art Practice (production), Sex, Drink, Film, Connections, Networking, Gossip, History (Political, Art, Personal), Desire, Ambition, Deconstruction, Subversion, Drugs.
...(*Epiphany*) It feels like play but it is WORK -- this exhibition, the drinks, the talks, the parties, this is how the art world Works. Connections, introductions, networking, leads to projects in Germany, New York, Collaborations with Hungarian artists, Polish artists . . .
[I dreamt about (nearly) sleeping with the German artist last night. It felt good.]
Turkish Baths -- natural hot springs feed these huge, ornate pools that open onto the sky, white steam rising thick into the crisp evening air, old men sit in the corner of the pools, with bathing caps on, playing chess on stone tables that emerge from the sulfured water, as impossible bodies (impossible!) shed robes and dip toes, bellies as big as pony kegs (no exaggeration).
[...Am I trying to break into a BOY's CLUB? All the women here are Curators, or Artist's Girlfriends (even if they are artists themselves), or High-Priced Call Girls. What The Fuck? ...]
(Friday:)
My first and only free day in Budapest. Also, the first day of advent (the Christmas Market opened today). Lunch with a former conspirator/lover/revolutionary of my mother. He is more put together and reserved than I expected, tall, grey hair, and aging quite well. He seems utterly freaked out. Takes me to a nice place near the college where I have a schnitzel bigger than my head and a cup of tea. He has a beer and slowly begins talking. I don't ask about the past, but he is reluctant at first to answer the questions I do ask -- how did you end up in Budapest? What are you working on now? He talks about a film about gypsy music (!!!), but creative problems with the producer leave a bad aftertaste, so I don't push it. A book about market halls, another interesting topic. I talk a bit about myself, my path, about my family and my mom (was I supposed to tell him mom's writing a memoir?). They went to Woodstock together. I feel warm to him, though awkward. He is intelligent, and working on interesting projects. He says, "Ask your mother what it was like working at the Cafe A-Go-Go the night Eric Clapton played." (I did, she claims to remember nothing.) Finally, I say, "Is it weird, me contacting you like this, this meeting?" He says yes, very, he's still not sure how it happened. I try to explain, but I'm not so sure myself. He shows me a small market hall (hidden!!) and gives me directions to a larger one. I take his picture. He looks doubtful. In the end I feel a sudden desire to embrace him, so praise this european custom of farewells with a kiss (always, always with a kiss, all the beautiful artists kissed me, how lovely!).
Walk to a huge indoor market hall just as it is closing, just in time to buy some paprika, use the loo, and take some photos. Walk up by the Danube and look across to the Buda side. Breathtaking. Wander down a pedestrian road and buy a hat, then notice crowds of people so I follow them and find the Christmas Market (opening night!), complete with huge tree, nativity, and bandstand. I wander around for hours, buy some things (candles, transylvanian cake -- delicious! -- glühwein), watch the performances. First a band with bagpipes (?!?) plays traditional christmas songs, then a gypsy band. Not great, but wonderful in the context. There is a man with a hawk, ignoring the crowd he is attracting, listening to the music. Beautiful bird. Insane (no, not insane) man. I watch. He sits next to a woman and a baby. That bird next to a baby?! Eventually she leaves. Two old men dance on opposite sides of the audience (I should have bought some gypsy music here). I stare at the man with the hawk. He looks like an american actor. I think about sitting next to him, trying to start a conversation, going home with him. I don't do it. The music ends, our paths diverge.
Pictures?
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