Tuesday, September 27, 2011

About a month ago my mother and I migrated to NY for a temporary stay. She suggested we go on a whim, and considering this city always serves me well I took up her sudden offer. I'm not one for all the touristy bullshit that comes along with NY; my mother's approach to traveling however strongly contradicts mine. So we split during the afternoons. Therefore, I got a chance to go around where I wanted to, without interruptions.

Frankly, there were only three things I was desperate in making it out to: the Chelsea Hotel, the Comme des Garcons boutique, and the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan. The Chelsea closed three days before I arrived in NY, which was a complete bust (I did get to step foot in El Quijote however). On the second day I took the subway to the West Village and went to the CdG boutique (among other stores, eg. Balenciaga, where I just shamelessly pet everything). The graffiti of Mao in drag was the perfect welcome, as was the entrance itself; it was as if I was walking into a spacecraft. The staff and fellow customers were incredibly kind, even complimenting my collared shirt with the gold beading. The doorless change room was such a mind fuck too (see picture below), and completely mesmerized by it all I caved and bought a Play tee, the most inexpensive article of clothing in the store. The happy go lucky middle aged woman beside me at the check out counter spent over three grand. Must be nice.

Finally, as tenacious and patient as ever, I pulled through a monotonous four and a half hour long wait to enter the McQueen exhibit. Anticipation trumped frustration, and looking back, there is absolutely nothing negative to say about the experience, even as a whole. As you entered the first room, you recognize the attention paid to every part of the exhibition. For one, the pieces were placed in unbelievable atmospheric settings; the mood of each room worked in perfect conjunction with the collections that were situated in them. And there was something about seeing everything in person that even the most perverse of McQueen's work became delicate in their intricacies; I don't mean simply craftmanship, but the details involved in his design process. i.e. The sculptural quality of his work in that each angle mattered was obvious. When he said he designed from the side and worked his way to the front and back, he wasn't fucking around. Seeing it in person made me appreciate him even more, and subsequently pained me even more. I got all sappy by the end and for the following few hours I was especially fragile.

Proving that fashion and art can be hybrid and no longer mutually exclusive was definitely Lee's speciality. Grateful I got to see his brilliance up close.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Stan Brakhage's The Stars are Beautiful, part one.

And part two.

Chosen excerpts:
The sky is altogether not composed of such great distances as we suppose. In truth, it is an old fire. The stars are sparks. The Sun a burning coal.

The black of the sky at night is ashes in a bubbling drop of water. This is the same with us—i.e., as the universe burns, so do we. Our heads contain water very much like the sky holds moons. The burning in us keeps the water in our heads boiling and sputtering.

The sky is the dead, decaying body of God. The stars are glittering maggots.

The sky is the solid state of time. The Sun? Its emergence. The Moon, the tube it falls into. The stars are the fragments that never move on.

Everything is happening at once, but the sky is a clock, and makes things look like they are happening one at a time.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

I'm going to update this more often now, I've made a point to do so. I will follow routine at first until all is no longer ritualistic and simply becomes the norm. I've fallen out of the loop with many things and most of them I wish to revive; this here is one of them. I will have a dissimilar approach this time around, though. I'd rather not limit myself to one aspect of my interests and let all of them reflect the character of this blog.

So ahem, hello again, if anyone is still out there.

Unknown times two, Sally Mann, an untitled diptych (self-portrait).

Both of these albums have been on repeat recently.
Ambient noise band Loveliescrushing's "Ghosts that Swirl" from Xuvetyn.
German krautrock band Can's "Halleluwah" from Tago Mago.

This lost video that I discovered in the abyss of my hard drive is from March 5th, 2010. Song that is playing is Alarm Call by Björk. Anything with sequins on it is from H&M, the rest is thrifted, that Batman necklace (rip) was made from a loose chain and a mask from a costume shop.

Lastly, some writing from earlier today.

The night takes me by the wrist and does not release me until oblivion sets in. I wander into the ice fog, my eyes become iridescent in the mist, and suddenly I cling to consciousness. I am a newborn attached to my mother’s breast as hunger strikes. A soldier clutches the edge of the cliff, as the sea below threatens to consume him, a comatose state threatens to consume me. I will not be forced into submission; I will tear the night from its seams until light breaks and the morning dew sets on my skin. Now you are insentient, I hear. A persistent vegetative state.

The light has appeared. I feel as if I am transcending, my corporeal being now a figment of the past, which has now faded into nothing. The mind cannot keep the past alive - the present’s arrival means each passing moment has suddenly found its demise.

Yesterday is dead, tomorrow is not yet born. Though it does not matter; I now exist in a state where there is no notion of tangibility, nor of time. The body is a disposable shell made of matter that eventually decays into dust. The air lifts us up and we become the ice fog that films over the living’s scintillating eyes.