Monday, December 14, 2009

Girls Gone Wild

This weekend I watched "My Best Friend's Wedding" - Cameron Diaz's character killed "I Just Don't Know What to do with Myself" (the original version) during an ambush karaoke performance, which I think made me want to listen to the White Stripes good version of the song that much more. My stream of consciousness went like this (from there):
"I Just Don't Know What to do with Myself" - Kate Moss writhing around in lingerie - Sofia Coppola's direction - Marie Antoinette (watched that last week, as well) - New Order on the soundtrack - "Temptation" by New Order - music video stars Victoria Bergsman (of The Concretes, aka That Girl who sings on the PB&J track "Young Folks" - yeah, that blonde illustrated hippie girl in the music video was all a farce. This girl's even more beautiful and mysterious) - oh, hey, Victoria's stealing from a record store, being bad in her own way, much like Miss Moss' tantalizing performance. IT ALL COMES FULL CIRCLE!!!

So, here you go: Two of my favorite music videos ever made



Oldie But Goodie

Ever since I saw "The Duchess", I've had a lady crush on Keira Knightley. Ever since I started drawing the models in Vogue hand-me-downs from my grandmother at the age of ten, I've been in love with Grace Coddington's cinematic fashion stories. And way before that, after seeing the Wizard of Oz - both in film and live on ice - I've fantasized about taking a trip to Oz and meeting my beloved Tin Man. This spread was a fantastic ice cream sundae dreamboat fantasy come true; I wish I could step into the pages like Alice through the looking glass.







(Thank you, Annie Liebovitz)

I found a pair of red sparkly ballet flats from a pretty vendor at Artists & Fleas over the summer - one pair in my size, practically brand new from Zara - my dream realized! I'd been looking for a pair ever since I'd grown out of my last (second) pair of ruby slippers from my days of playing dressup. Tonight at TopShop I fell in love with a red pair of maryjane heels... I might just have to go back for them.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Elderly Alter Egos

I painted this self portrait with watercolors and gouache last spring, and I've just recently decided to do a series of "elderly alter ego" portraits of my friends. People tell me all the time that I'm an old lady - I've got a bad back, terrible heartburn, knit a ton of scarves, love Frank Sinatra, collect dressy hats, and wear more florals than a Laura Ashley model. I love the idea of the alter ego - human beings are such complex creatures; we all have the makings of something completely different from what most of the world knows us to be. That teenage girl you see on the street might be well on her way to becoming a Cat Lady, or a Lady Who Lunches, or my personal favorite, The Cougar. Other possible subjects: The Mafia Don, The Eccentric Millionaire, The Botox Addict

The Night is Young, Younger than Jesus

The line stretching across the sidewalk in front of the New Museum on that cold Tuesday night in April would have been laughable had any other onlooker been observing. You see, I was at the back of the line, praying to the museum management gods that a friend of a friend could grant me access to the opening reception of the “Generationals: Younger than Jesus” exhibition, a reception which I could see clearly through the two-story glass windows placed just feet from the fateful waiting line. Oh yes, the waiting line. This line consisted of people who appeared to have been transplanted on to the middle of the sidewalk, taken from their dive bars and performance art parties to stand, shivering and huddled, sandwiched between industrial barricades that did nothing to complement their stilettos and chunky knits and vintage eyewear. This was not a matter of a carriage turning back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight; these New Yorkers did not have to leave the city for good that evening, as I did. They easily could have returned to the museum at a later date, when an official invitation was not required and there was room inside to breathe. But this was a special night. These people needed to get through those front doors tonight. Tonight was the party -the party of the workweek- which everyone who was anyone would attend. For many, it was less about the art and more about mingling with drag queens and recording artists and getting your picture posted on a party photo website.

After two attempts at getting in without a sacred invitation among my three-person party, we managed to make it into the throng of people mingling in the lobby. I circled my head like an owl to take in my surroundings. Against one of the massive white walls stood a little jukebox, a kitschy little magnet stuck on a modern stainless steel refrigerator door. Around the jukebox danced the second coming of the Manhattan Club Kids, each with his or her own persona (and corresponding face paint). The sole objet d’art on the ground floor was a dramatic, hand-painted sign-filled scene surrounded by towering walls of glass. It was not terribly representative of the exhibition as a whole, I soon realized, because the theme which tied everything together was simply the youthful perspective with which all of the fifty artists involved see the world. I question whether the requirement that a submitting artist be born after 1976 (in order to be younger than Jesus Christ at death) was relevant to the art itself. It seems to me a combination of arbitrary rule-making and a desire to create a cheeky title for the show.

Of course, as I’d mentioned before, the art itself was only half of the reception’s appeal. The Garden of Eden would be found on the top floor. Every single partygoer, including myself, was willing to take the stairs all the way up to the roof due to the minimalist elevator service. Music which seemed to have been stolen from my own iTunes library blasted on muffled speakers to a room filled with people dressed to impress, sipping Campari and chewing the fat with this month’s most beloved artists. All of New York’s ego was in that room. That much influence over what’s considered hip should never be put in one filled-to-maximum-capacity top-floor space.

Finally, a look at the art. My friends and I only made it to one or two of the four display floors due to the insane crowding. The friend of a friend’s artist friend, Steven Rhodes, installed an Oval Office chair surrounded by frightening warped flagpoles and spectral images of Dubya and co. This led me to comment on how happy I was that my conservative boyfriend had just left to go to the bathroom. Upon his return, an expected “Can we move? That is freaking me out.” So we followed the suggestion of the friend of a friend to go to a small cubical area to watch a video. Before we reached the right spot in the loop –which involved a series of strung-out teens acting like savages- we were asked to leave because the reception was ending at the early hour of ten o’clock. The curators probably had better parties to attend that night.