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art Dogs Gay NYC

More Caviar

Courtnay

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art Hollywood Los Angeles

Jonathan Zawada @ Prism Gallery

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art Fashion Film Gay Hollywood Money

The Picture of Dorian Gray

So, here it is.  Up and running.

My controversial, contemporary retelling of Oscar Wilde’s 1890 Lippincott version of  The Picture of Dorian Gray.

I really hope you enjoy it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sq13aF5EQMA

Categories
art Fashion Love

Blondie V Philip Glass

Here is something beautiful for you:  Blondie and Philip Glass

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art Hollywood Los Angeles Malibu Photography

LA Portraits

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art

Warhol in The Sittingroom

There’s a Warhol in the sitting room. It’s a big pink cow originally bought at the Leo Castelli gallery in the 60’s.

During all the time I knew Fred Hughes I only spoke two words to Andy.

I was Fred’s odd teenage ‘friend’.

Andy only once initiated a conversation with me. He asked about gay life in London.  When it became obvious I didn’t really know…he looked vaguely perplexed and walked away.

From that moment on we considered each other from afar, suspiciously and never exchanged another word.

I think Fred preferred it like that.

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Categories
Fashion Gay Uncategorized

Family Court

So, I went to court today.

If you want to know what happened email me and I will let you know.

I am not going to stop telling you how it feels to be me.

Arrived in NYC two nights ago.

Fashion week!  Fashion’s Night Out tonight.

Yesterday, I had dinner with Dan at Prune.   We had been to the Patagonia party at the Bowery Hotel and then ended up with new friends at Rogan.  Met Greg Long.

I had a great time even though my foot aches like hell!  Met Alex on the street.  He said, “Are you crying?”  I wasn’t crying…but I was distressed and there were huge rain drops on my cheeks that looked like tears.  I was thinking about the following day.  I just kept thinking how I had no desire to look at that man ever again and I knew that I had to.

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Alex and I walked back up The Bowery to the Bowery Hotel, ended up at B Bar for new French label Surface to Air party.  Super cool.

I love the rain.  I love the streets.  If my foot wasn’t so painful I would have walked home in the rain.

Breakfast today with Jenny A and Robby at the Mercer.   That woman is a dream…such a dream.

You know that I got sober because of Jenny.   15 years at the end of this month.  After breakfast we went to an AA meeting and I felt the love.  Thank God for AA!

Spent afternoon with the most beautiful Russian at the totally revamped, gorgeous private club.

I love being here.

Jenny sat at the back of the court and was dumbfounded at the ego in the room…mine included.

She said, “Did you see that man’s suit?  Even his wedding ring is cheap.”

Exactly.

I am here all month.

I want to tell you that it is hard work hating someone, anyone.   It was hard hating my step-father.  He was a bad man.  He deserved what he got.

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Malibu

Bougainvillea

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The huge hedge of Bougainvillea that separated the house from the garden is all but gone.  It has taken Robby and me two days to chop it down and cart it to the compost at the end of the drive.   The house now feels as it is floating above the forest of specimen trees and succulents.  Uninterrupted views all the way to the hot tub and the drive.  More importantly, as one enters the garden, the full glory of this house, this post and beam gem can be fully appreciated.

On Sunday, after my AA meeting and wander around the Palisades Farmers Market,  Anna popped by.  We ate a particularly foul, tasteless lunch at the newly refurbished Malibu Inn (at my suggestion) and then we walked the length of the Malibu Pier which, I am ashamed to say, I have never done.

It really is very beautiful.

Nicely decorated shops and restaurants, fisherman (mostly Mexican) fishing on both sides.  A seal lazily swam on it’s back looking up at us.  The water around Malibu is teaming with life.  Seals, Dolphins, Whales.  At the end of the Malibu Pier are two elevated rooms which might be perfect for hiring.  I suddenly thought that rather than have a birthday party at my house this year I would have my party there.  What do you think?  I didn’t celebrate last years mile stone so this is maybe a perfect opportunity and location.

Whilst in the Malibu Inn the beginning of a rather bizarre incident began to unfold.   One that caused some consternation later on that evening.  A rather jolly, good-looking young man handed me his number.  A usual occurrence here in LA.  Especially if one has been on TV.  Whilst serving us he had overheard Anna and I talking about the entertainment industry.  I took the number and we started texting, agreeing to meet after he had gotten off of work at 7pm.  I asked if he had a car and if he could get up here or if he needed to meet on the PCH.

When he arrived at the house (shrouded in marine layer) we chatted for a few moments, whilst chatting he must have received at least 10 calls from his parents wanting to know where he was and when he was coming home.  “Perhaps you had better go.”  I said.

We continued our conversation regardless.  He wanted, of course, to be an actor.  An actor who wants to be in action films.  He mentioned that he had thought about modeling.  He is a great looking guy but, I told him, maybe a little too short for modeling.  He told me that he needed money to finish his tattoo and move out of his house.  He wanted to be free of his family.   I sympathised and told him to work harder at Malibu Inn.  When young men start talking about how much money they need I disconnect.

Then, I noticed that there was someone looking at us.  A man on the terrace looking in.

I opened the door and there was a man (my age) with a friendly looking German Shepherd and asked him what he wanted.  I noticed another person scurrying up the path.  A woman with long black hair.

He said gruffly, “I’ve come to collect my boy.”

I demanded an explanation.  He explained sheepishly, losing some of his bravado, that he was the young man’s father and rather than the young man having driven himself to the house as he had implied, his father had brought him.   I suddenly felt rather set up.  As if I was part of something that had been planned rather than being as spontaneous as I had first thought.

“Why didn’t you come in?”  I asked him.   “Rather than skulking around the garden.”

“You should conduct business meetings in your office.”  He chided.

“This wasn’t a business meeting.” I snapped.  “It was personal.”

I asked the young Malibu Inn man if he was OK and he nodded, his face reddened with embarrassment.  I asked his ‘father’ if everything was OK.

“For the time being.”  He said.  The inherent threat was not lost on me.

They left.

I heard them stall their cheap car on the steep drive, spinning their tires on the damp concrete.

My next door neighbour Jerome was in so I stopped by and told him what had happened.   The more I thought about it the more I realized that this may very well have been some sort of opportunistic venture on their behalf.  They must have thought that being a self-proclaimed sex addict that I would ‘try’ something.  Not realizing that I only really respond to sexual advances rather than initiate.

I suddenly felt quite vulnerable.

Thankfully the twins arrived home.  It was a spooky night, the man emerging from the mist.  The strange boy who needed $150 to finish his tattoo of a skull in the shape of a dollar sign.

Spent most of Monday taking down the last of the Bougainvillea.  Breakfast on the PCH.  Dinner with friends.

Categories
art Gay

Cannes

I thought that you might enjoy this picture as much as I enjoyed creating it.  Inspired by Hasidic Jews in Brooklyn.  My Hasidic Easter Bonnet.

Spent yesterday planning my trip to Cannes.   Of course, I love Cannes when everyone is there for the film festival.  I am deliberately revisiting all the places that we visited together so that I can expunge him from the memory of the locale.

As NYC becomes less emblematic of those painful days with him and more joyful as I remake this city with the other.  The streets are no longer associated with those miserable days of fruitless longing.

The sunshine is mine and mine alone.  I love the streets!

Could you imagine anything more ghastly than sitting in an office day after day for thirty years with minimal vacation?   Looking forward to retirement?   Eww.

My therapist and I are planning my escape.  An escape that will include the possibility of a return to what I used to enjoy:  peace of mind.

On Saturday morning I saw a young mother drop her baby on its face.   The baby was fine.  Mainly made of gristle they are more resilient than they look.  Sturdy little things.  The young mother, more from embarrassment, screamed out “My baby!”   The restaurant hushed, her other child started crying, her own mother with whom she was having breakfast, sat immobilized by fear.  There was, however, something about her scream that reminded me about the moment the Big Dog was hit by the truck.

The trauma associated with that ghastly moment lives with me, shapes my thinking and holds me hostage to the notion that I must never be hurt like that again.

When we were interviewing old people last month we met an old man who told us that he couldn’t own pets any longer because he fears the depth of emotional pain that comes with a beloved pets death.

I know what he means.  The pain felt around the death of anything you love, the loss of anything one cares about (as one gets older) is without parallel.

In many ways I am more numb now than I have ever been.  Less able to feel for fear of being badly hurt.  How could I have got this far without…and then I thought back.  I remembered the excruciating pain of being dropped again and again as a small baby/infant/child.   Suck it up Duncan.

Sunday.  Birthday party with friends.  I ate too much cake.  I was wearing a lilac cashmere sweater that garnered some reaction.  “That’s risky.” A rather bland looking woman commentated.  I smiled and thanked her as if she had just complimented me.

The baby was fine.   A little redness on the forehead but after a few moments of crying he/she was smiling and gurgling.

Incidentally, after all my Jay Jopling bashing for not being political there is a show at Mason’s Yard called NEW ORDER that looks very promising.  This work looks very impressive though a little austere.  Where is Max Beckmann when you need him?

I am desperate to see this.  I hope it is as subversive as it looks.

I have included the gallery’s incredibly verbose description below.  Who writes this shit?  Look at the way they over use/mis-use the word polemical.

Masons Yard 8 Apr—14 May 2011

‘The dream of a suitable political work of art is in fact the dream of disrupting the relationship between the visible, the sayable, and the thinkable without having to use the terms of a message as a vehicle.’
Jacques Rancière, ‘The Aesthetics of Politics’ (2006)

The relationship between aesthetics and politics has been a polemical issue for much of the history of art. In particular, the late twentieth century saw an overt politicisation of critical discourse amidst collapsing colonial hegemonies, global wars and the emergence of civil rights movements across the world. This was coupled with artists questioning the principles of modernism opening up the debate as to what constituted a work of art. A number of key figures emerged on the international art scene, whose practice specifically dealt with issues of power structures, race, injustice, gender and dissent. The works featured in ‘New Order‘ share a focus on the transformation of social or ideological structures that shape experience, and in different ways they explore existing communal, political and physical constructs of the everyday.

The formal geometry and commonplace materials of Miroslaw Balka‘s ‘Kategorie’ (2005) lend the work a pared-down aesthetic generally connected with Minimalist and Conceptual art. A six-metre long, two-metre high tunnel is interrupted by five fine coloured threads, suspended from rotating motors on the ceiling. The work is rich in associative historical and political references, such as the traumatic memory of wartime atrocities in his native Poland which Balka has addressed throughout his practice. The colours of the strands – red, violet, green, pink and black – are the colours assigned to uniforms identifying different categories of prisoner in the concentration camps (red for political prisoners; violet for Jehovah’s Witnesses; green for criminals; pink for homosexual and bisexual men; and black for Romany people, alcoholics and individuals with learning disabilities, among others).

Part of Doris Salcedo‘s ongoing series in which found domestic furniture is used as a vehicle to explore the traumatic political history of her native Colombia, ‘Untitled’ (2008) features tables and wardrobes, conjoined and partially entombed in concrete. The re-assembled components of the hybrid form of the sculpture, each through use embedded with a material history, function as silent witnesses to implied personal and collective narratives.

Rooted in black urban experience, David Hammons‘ practice comments on the iniquities present within social, political and economic systems. Critiquing the relationship between high art and the street, his sculptures often feature found objects laden with cultural association. Hair clippings swept from the floor of a Harlem barbershop are fashioned into a cornrow hairstyle upon a smooth oval rock in ‘Rock Head’ (2000), while in ‘Which Mike Would You Like to Be Like?’ (2001), Hammons takes three vintage microphones that serve as surrogates for three prominent figures in recent popular culture – Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson and Michael Jordan – referencing the limited range of role models for young African-American men.

The densely-layered, collaged paintings of Mark Bradford also incorporate materials salvaged from an urban setting, including torn bill posters or newsprint. The abstract compositions reference alternative cartographies that burgeon within cities, such as the spread of an economic underclass, the movement of immigrant communities and race relations. In ‘Strange Fruit’ (2011), fragments of text drawn from the local ‘merchant posters’ Bradford frequently uses echo across the painting, while the title is taken from the protest song about the lynching of African-Americans in the 1930s, sung by Billie Holiday.

In Julie Mehretu’s ‘Mumbo Jumbo’ (2008), a swirling vortex of shapes and marks on a grey ground, overlaid with architectural passages, give the sense of a gathering storm. Made on the occasion of the inaugural New Orleans Biennial in 2008, the painting conveys the destructive power of uncontrollable nature within a stricken cityscape, mired in bureaucratic chaos.

In 1969, Anselm Kiefer photographed himself in a variety of imposing locations (often in settings evocative of German Romantic imagery) making the Nazi salute. The resulting series, entitled ‘Besetzungen’ (‘Occupations’), provocatively confronted the blanking out of history and questioned the collective guilt of an entire post-war generation in Germany. In the works presented in the current exhibition, ‘Heroische Sinnbilder’ (2011), Kiefer revisits the iconography of his own art history, as a means of investigating the resonance of totalitarian symbols across the passage of time.

Categories
art

Armory 2011

Even though, as I was recently told, I have no right to be writing about art…I brazenly decided, against my better judgment, that I should risk making a fool of myself by attending the Armory Show.

God forbid if I write something dumb.  I decided that I would NOT have opinions.  How would that feel?  But, try as I might… within seconds of arriving at the 2011 Armory show… I was overwhelmed with… opinions.  Many, many opinions. Sickeningly, I just could not stop.  Opinions… swarmed… like bees.  Involuntary… like hiccups, like dry heaving, like angina.  In many cases the opinions were as painful as having a heart attack.  Worst of all… I had no idea if my opinions were worth having or not.

I was invited by Adam Gross…thanks for asking Lorcan.  “Who invited you?”  He sneered imperiously.  “What are you doing here?”  I stopped by at 12 midday with my friend Aaron so I could enjoy a leisurely meander around the 200 or so stands on Pier 94 devoted to NEW WORK BY LIVING ARTISTS….rather than fight through a raucous crowd at 5pm like everyone else.  All the usual suspects in attendance.

Remember when Jay first came here?  That little room at the Gramercy Park Hotel?  Those were exciting days.  The White Cube gallery is now an ‘institution’ and looked just like that: a dreary, so what space showing all the usual stuff in all the usual ways. White Cube has lost its edge. In the words of Jay’s greatest victim Miss Tracy Emin it is ‘stuck, stuck, stuck’.

Living artists?

Also stuck: Max Wigram (looks terribly OLD) and Lorcan O’Neill (attractive) who still pedal that same old YBA shit. Lorcan tried to up his game with a mediocre Richard Long mud work but it was too little too late.

Victoria Miro, also an ‘institution’ but less arrogant, more in touch.

There sure were slim pickings this year.  There were a few exceptional stands that inspired and a few artists who caught our attention.  Here are some of them:

My favorite piece and stand were audaciously combined by Paul Kasmin.  Ivan Navarro’s site specific Armory Fence delineated Kasmin’s pitch and excluded even the gallery assistants who sat at the edge taking comments and cards.  It was genius.

Ivan Navarro at Paul Kasmin

Felt a little sorry for the surrounding booths as there was no escaping the nuclear fallout from Navarro’s huge neon piece.

I loved Sean Kelly’s delicious space and choices. I asked him if he had offered Billy Childish a show. “Not to my knowledge.” He said.

Richard Heller showing Devin Troy Strother…not usually worth mentioning but there is something charming about Devin’s new work.

At Josh Lilly I fell in love with the work of Analin Saban who works in LA and shares a studio with John Baldessari. It sold moments before I could pull out my cheque book.

Analin Saban @ Josh Lilley

At Leo Koenig I was drawn to and offered to buy a small and very beautiful work by Nicole Eisenman. Again I was beaten at the pass by an ‘important’ collector. It was the only piece that they had sold. At 6.5k this was a bargain. Studio visit planned for next week. I dragged Stavros Niarchos into the gallery to admire this most painterly of painters.  Leo started in on Vito Schnabel, boasting that it was opening his gallery that inspired Vito to become a gallerist. Really?

Bumped into my friends from the Donald Judd Foundation who invited me this week on a hard hat tour of the space on Spring St that is currently being extensively renovated.

I noticed Jay Jopling all over a Belinde De Bruyckere work at Galleria Continua. Here it is:

Berlinde De Bruyckere

There was another work of hers at Sean Kelly’s:

Berlinde De Bruyckere

Frankly the boys were prettier than the art… and cheaper.  One GORGEOUS Swiss boy working his father’s gallery.

Lunch with Aaron at Soho House.   Steam room.  Saw Joan.  Missed Dan.  Dinner and a cuddle with SH.

On the way home from the Armory we stopped off at David Zwirner’s gallery on 19th street.

Marcel Dzama’s Behind Every Curtain. Delightful:

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