April 11th, 2011 § § permalink
NYMag ran a series of photographs of artist homes, called The Perpetual Garret. Here are my faves.
John Cage, 1979
Cage and Merce Cunningham shared a loft at 101 West 18th Street. By 1982, Cage had filled the space with 203 plants. // Photo: Lelli & Masotti/Alinari/The Image Works
Cindy Sherman, 1982
Sherman with her blind pet dove in her apartment at 64 Fulton Street, where she lived until 1983. The shower was in the kitchen and the toilet was down the hall. // Photo: Mary Ellen Mark
William S. Burroughs, 1978
Burroughs nicknamed his room in this partially converted YMCA at 222 Broadway “the Bunker.” He lived in the former locker room; twenty years earlier, Mark Rothko worked on his murals for the Four Seasons in the abandoned gym. // Photo: Udo Breger
Patti Smith, 1974
Smith in her apartment on Macdougal Street. She had just performed her first extended gig, a six-day stint at Max’s Kansas City. // Photo: Allan Tannenbaum/Polaris
& New York Times ran some porn shots of Marina Abramovic’s abodes – her loft in SoHo & her country house. In case you didn’t know, she is 63. The article also provides a hilarious glimpse into Marina’s character.
In the city, any guests must abide by Ms. Abramovic’s rules: “They can stay only three days, no more,” she said. Pointing to an austere-looking vintage piece with a thin, hard platform, she added: “And they have to stay on this uncomfortable daybed.”
What does your place look like?
March 12th, 2009 § § permalink
President Roslin, who is dying of cancer sits with a dying woman, Emily, who is at the last stages of her own terminal cancer in the hospital quarters.
“Those are the gods you believe in? Capricious? Vindictive?”
“They are not to be taken literally. They are metaphors.”
“I don’t need metaphors, I need answers.”
I believe in metaphor, thus I believe in God. I don’t need answers or reassurance, because they’re in me already.
I don’t think I was ever truly an atheist. The anagram of my name spells A Mad Angel.
MP3: Frog Pocket – Celebrimbor Tur-Anion (Planet Mu)
January 30th, 2009 § § permalink
I want to go to there.
I want to explore what it means to be me (how cliché is that?), what it means to be allowed to experience everything. Sitting in front of my laptop playing Solitaire isn’t getting me anywhere, but it’s what I do. I’m stressed out. Solitaire. Finished a part of an application. Solitaire. Being told what to do at work while someone else makes the decisions isn’t working me out. It’s wearing me out. Being in the same city since I was a preteen isn’t conducive to risk. But I’ve never been a risk taker, so what do I do? I have these projects lining up in front of me, but I cower. I take them on, on, on but not with all of me. Never with all of me. Where is the exploration in a desk? I don’t want to be no armchair archeologist. I think I’m starting to grow old because I think about my mortality in a different way. In a way that things are changing, moving so fast that all I have time to do is go through the motions. Sometimes I feel because J is such a dreamer, I have to be the one to induce practicality in our lives. He is the one living out his dreams as an artist. I can’t let myself.
MP3: Neon Heights, 16 Again, A View from the Heights
This song is from my favorite downtempo house album of all time, A View from the Heights. My ex introduced me to them. I don’t even recall how and when. I wish I remember the story of how he came across them. I found a copy of the album in some small shop on a corner in downtown Paris. I also bought Cassius’ 1999 and Feeling for You for 5 euros each. This was 2002 and the euro was just taking over, all the prices were still in franks too. This lovely blonde woman worked there. She kept talking to me and I pretended to know more French than I truly did. She found it pleasant that such a young girl was backpacking and still had the will to buy vinyl to carry around so she gave me some French house record. I felt so cool. I didn’t feel so cool when I was sweating buckets in June carrying heaps of records from the different cities I visited, but at that age, the struggle feels less. Always.
November 23rd, 2008 § § permalink
Einstein said:“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?”
There he is sitting at his desk, just like I do, but with my back way more twisted. There are papers everywhere surrounding him and his genius. I am not cluttered, but merely complex and thorough.
These images of Albert Einstein’s desk in his office at Princeton were published by Life magazine in 1955, just months before his death. They can contemplate a blackboard full of equations, a pile of old magazines and even his own pipe momentarily abandoned on one of the notebooks.