until you've seen the stars
reflect in the reservoirs.

[ -Morrissey, First of the Gang to Die.]

--
i think it's official. my clothing line will be called Editions on Purpose.

 

file under; +; for the future; quoted
link / 1236 have made it up

today i added Mizu's beautiful blog, Ewig und Drei Tage, to the sidebar. the title is in German, but she writes in English. i think maybe the reason her blog is so incredible is that she understands fate in some way i can't.

i put her blog title into Google Translate and received this in return:

Eternally and Meet to Three.

hell_yes__

 

file under; rebel rebel
link / 1 have made it up

Touching Each Other Oh My God

 

file under; +; drawn; morrissey
link / 0 have made it up

here's me in front of all my mom's Spode, in her new bungalow in Pasadena. everyone in L.A. keeps telling me they love my 'haircut'. i'm totally a compliment whore, so great; but: really? are these people serious? it's basically a hair-uncut, growing everywhichway because i'm waiting for my bangs to be long enough for a Franzboy before i actually pay for a cut. meanwhile, everything except my bangs is growing first and frizzy. if you ask me, i look like Andy Warhol.

 

file under; los angeles; photographed; self capture
link / 2 have made it up

James Dean, photographed by?

 

file under; male beauty; photographed
link / 2 have made it up

softcover
Editions On Purpose

 

file under; staging area
link / 1081 have made it up

Saint Plus
alwaysmore

 

file under; staging area
link / 0 have made it up

Time Magazine's Person of the Year is you.

let's not get this confused with 'it is everyone'. you personally; you specifically.

infinite loop: there's still time -->

 

file under; quoted
link / 0 have made it up

i got a full-time job at the Lower East Side American Apparel. the store's at Houston + Orchard. i take the F from Carroll to 2 Ave. because of the holiday rush and their problem of being understaffed [which is why i got hired], i've been consistently working these insane grueling days, like 10-12 hours on average. other people who got hired at the same time, i see how much tougher it is for them. the thought of being asked to 'stay late' is such a drag, for them. i say whatever and a few more hours pass easily. is that what you call a 'work ethic'? odd thought. i feel more like what Hesse had Siddharta say: 'i can wait'. fundamentally, i like being there. my job title: 'filler'. i move clothing between the stockroom and the sales floor. i love seeing both sides of the operation.

anyway, i'm physically exhausted all the time. constant labor is new. everything other than work is neglected. i'm briefly going to California around Christmastime. i don't know my specific plans. i'll update you.

in 2007, i'm going to launch a line of t-shirts and other garments printed on American Apparel stock. i don't know what the name of the line will be yet.

 

file under; rebel rebel
link / 31 have made it up

1. interchangeable parts
2. non-interchangeable parts

 

file under; writ
link / 0 have made it up

The 2000s Are The Oughts

there's still time

infinite loop: specifically -->

 

file under; staging area
link / 0 have made it up

as previously promised, here is the mp3 to the song from which Look at My Hands takes its title. this song has a few of my favorite guitar riffs ever. in particular, i love the one that first starts at about 0:31 and repeats several times throughout the song.

right- or ctrl-click to save / 320kbps mp3 / ~9MB

Green Grow the Rushes by R.E.M.
on Fables of the Reconstruction, 1985 / lyrics

extra photograph
Michael Stipe 2002 -->

 

file under; male beauty; photographed; r.e.m.; sung
link / 2 have made it up

Top: Kermit Oswald 1981. The photo is from his own collection, but I don't know who snapped it. Kermit was Keith Haring's best friend throughout his childhood, and when Keith was briefly studying commercial art at a now-defunct art school in Pittsburgh, Kermit organized a carful of Keith's friends to all go visit him as a surprise, in conjunction with some art thing Keith was doing there at the time. Kermit was surprised by how much this touched Keith, his major impression of the experience being that Keith Haring, the artist, was 'obviously on his way'. Kermit saw the edges of a star expanding fast, fusing light. He also remembers that Keith tried to talk to him, but something stalled and failed. He remembers being embarrassed without understanding why.

^that's interpretive, some of it. K+K were of course best friends; the Pittsburgh carful happened; the 'obviously' quote is real. The remainder =how I read one of the memories Kermit shares in Keith Haring's official biography [1991], a book composed of quotes from Haring and people who knew him [family, friends, boyfriends, artists, musicians, Timothy Leary, etc]. Kermit Oswald has a few long passages. I find myself absolutely stuck on his story.

different scene from Kermit, in his own words [emphases mine];

When Keith and I graduated from high school, Keith went off to Pittsburgh, and I enrolled at the Kutztown State Teachers College, which is now called Kutztown State University. [...]

Around 1977, I was into chalk drawings, which is part of a well-kept secret. I did them all over the university. I did them on every wall... I was getting sick of working in the classrooms. I was sick of making objects that nobody was paying attention to. So I decided to take my art to the streets.

In addition to the chalk drawings, I did chicken-fat drawings, which I did on the cafeteria steps. I did salt water drawings on the gymnasium floor, to represent sweat. I was making paintings with salt. I was carving wax. I was experimenting all over the place. So these were pretty aggressive works which I did all over the campus , and I was nearly thrown out of school. I lost my student job. I was stripped of financial aid. I have nasty letters from the president of the university.

Well, when Keith came to visit, I showed him my stuff, and he said, 'This is urban guerrilla art!' It really raised the hair on the back of my neck- like, all of a sudden, something clicked. And he said, 'Kermit, on this one you're years ahead of your time!' And it scared the living shit out of me, because for the first time in my life the person I really looked up to and respected for having the balls to go after what he really wanted, was slapping me on the back for something he admired. I kept thinking to myself, 'What the fuck am I going to do to top this?'

Now: not to say that a single thing Keith H ever said to Kermit about loving Kermit's art was disingenuous. Not to say that at all. Keith was probably the biggest fan of Kermit Oswald's art who ever lived [for those familiar with another discourse, we might say Keith Haring : Kermit Oswald :: Morrissey : Linder Sterling]. And, certainly, Kermit makes his art sound completely prophetic for 1977. Just reading his descriptions; you can tell- Kermit Oswald is a fantastic rhetorician or an extreme bullshitter, or he is a genius that hardly anyone ever knew because he thought, quote, 'you can't really go after art; it's more like it wants you.' Still, Kermit eventually did get a workspace one day, a place in Nyc where he could paint, and like I said before, he ended up doing a whole bunch of paintings of trees that apparently no one found even the slightest bit interesting, because I've never been able to learn anything about them other than the fact that they exist[ed?]. I'd really love to see them.

__by the time Kermit is interviewed for Keith Haring's official biography, there is still something he doesn't understand.

Even though Keith and I were separated and doing our different things, we still kept up our friendship. In fact, he'd come back from Pittsburgh and so we'd be in contact every thirty or forty days. And, we were always writing to each other. I mean I have these really beautiful letters from Keith and these incredible drawings that he'd send me. The letters didn't make sense, somehow, because I wasn't aware of the gay issue... all of a sudden this guy I've been spending my whole childhood with turns around and has an attraction for me.

So when I started receiving these really beautiful letters and drawings I said, 'What is this?' I mean, what does this suggest? Because part of me was experiencing some sort of guilt about what people might think about me. I mean, they'd obviously assumed that Keith and I must have had our moments. But I would point out we had done absolutely everything together but that! So it is what it is.

Yeah. First of all, what I would give to read those letters and see those drawings. Wow.

And yeah second, you probably don't become a major artist if people think you had sex with Keith Haring and this is somehow a problem for you. Rushing to point out that you did everything 'but' that is... 'what it is'? Is that actually a helpful way to think about it, 'it is what it is'? Maybe Kermit is right when he says that art has to claim you, and not the other way around, but I think he is talking only about himself.

of course
talking about yourself, to yourself
[as Kermit did]
there's a name for that. think it's
the rainbow connection?

anyway, yeah. discomfort Has
a fucking beautiful face [more images] -->

 

file under; drawn; keith haring; male beauty; photographed; quoted
link / 2 have made it up

one day i will take a trip to Kutztown, Pennsylvania, where Keith Haring grew up with his sisters- Kay, Kristen, and Karen- and his best friend, Kermit Oswald, who was also his first sexual fascination. Kermit knew Keith from elementary school onwards, and Kermit eventually moved to New York City too, several years later than Keith. after an unsuccessful career painting mostly trees, Kermit went on to make frames, like for paintings, and he also supervised the construction of most of the gigantic, public, metal sculptures Keith designed late in his life. one of those sculptures is in front of the Moscone Center in San Francisco, and has been since the SFMOMA Keith Haring retrospective in 1998. that, incidentally, was brilliant shit. at the time, i already knew Keith Haring's work well from art books. that was my first real experience, in an art museum, where i was like 'shit wow now i'm seeing the _real thing_'. i'll never forget spotting A Pile of Crowns for Jean-Michel Basquiat- the actual, large, triangular canvas- out of the corner of my eye, for the first time. and what was that super-early, super-unusual work that i saw at the SFMOMA retrospective but have never seen anywhere else, not even in books- something like I Know Where Meat Comes From It Comes From the Store? god, that was amazing. i wish i could see that painting again.

so this gate to Kutztown: it's located somewhere in the 20s at Nyc Port Authority. the ride from here takes around 3 hours. i don't know anything about Kutztown, which is generally described as a 'borough' [whether of Reading or Philadelphia, i have no idea]. i'm pretty sure the ticket price must be under $35, but i've never tried to actually find out and i have no idea where the ticketing counter for that particular bus line even is. i don't know where, in Kutztown, the bus lets you off. once i got to the bus station, i don't know where i'd walk from there.

all i need to know is: Kutztown, Keith, Kay, Kristen, Karen- and somehow; especially: Kermit. i will bring Keith H's journals and official bio, and maybe some of his favorite writings on art, and i will bring my sketchbook.

so far, i have tried to learn as little as possible about Kutztown. i know there is a Haring sculpture there that i have never seen [one that Kermit constructed]. apparently there's some kind of small quaint downtown area. i hear it is 'conveniently located' to Allentown [which i've never heard of really] and Reading [where Keith H was actually born].

buses leave from Nyc Port Authority every day. it's just a question of packing my backpack one day and getting on one of those buses.

in other news, i won't be posting many drawings in the coming weeks, because i'll be doing gift drawings that are going to belong only to the people that receive them. i'll stick something public up every one in awhile, though. i can never resist.

in the meantime, photographs. today at Port Authority, which is becoming one of my favorite places in the world, this confounded me.

--
edit: also, on the photo for the Kutztown bus gate, you see where it says 'Departure Times See Schedule Below'? literally, the only thing 'below' that lit sign is a door and then the floor and then i guess the dead.

 

file under; photographed; writ
link / 2 have made it up

--
Polaroid self-portraits by Robert Mapplethorpe, 1973

 

file under; hero worship; male beauty; photographed; robert mapplethorpe
link / 0 have made it up

Look at My Hands

--
my first concert: R.E.M. Monster tour 1995, near Halloween. the first time i encounter Michael Stipe 'in person', in concert, he's already glammed-up and confident. i've told my parents that i'm staying the night with a friend, which i essentially am. we sneak out. believe it or not, a teacher from our high school picks us up and drives us to what was then the Blockbuster Pavilion, now the Hyundai Pavilion: supposedly the largest amphitheatre in the western half of the United States.

we're relatively close to the stage, maybe 5 rows back. when Michael Stipe first appears, he looks like he's wearing about 2 layers of clothing, max, like maybe 2 t-shirts with a pair of jeans. throughout the concert, swear to fucking god, he must take off like 10 different tops. he never looks like he's wearing more than 1 or 2 shirts at any time, but they keep coming off and keep coming off. his arms get totally bare and he starts to flex, blinking at his Krazy Kat tattoo. still, from someplace, the shirts keep coming off.

he never gets down to a bare chest, never runs out of shirts. Michael Stipe is, at that point, the most desirable thing i have ever seen. an animal so beautiful, i don't realize it's eating me.

the title for this drawing comes from one of my favorite R.E.M. songs, Green Grow the Rushes. mp3 maybe tomorrow.

 

file under; +; drawn; hero worship; male beauty; r.e.m.
link / 1065 have made it up

The Libertine
[self-portrait as libertine]

--
Patrick Wolf:
'The troubadour cut off his hand and now he wants mine
Oh no'

 

file under; +; drawn; self capture; the libertines
link / 0 have made it up

Endboss

--
an idea for an endboss where the 'fight' is you have to humiliate yourself. there is no real 'fight' other than that. if you fuck up, a bomb will go off. this will cause ugly quilts to get made and create a new machine that no one understands. in this rendering, the player [right] has 2 lives left.

 

file under; drawn; for the future
link / 0 have made it up

Fléxîgäy

--
one day i will build this, i swear.

 

file under; drawn; for the future
link / 0 have made it up

in-process: another American

 

file under; drawn
link / 0 have made it up

Future U.S. President

 

file under; drawn
link / 0 have made it up

I own Taschen's softcover 1994 Wassily Kandinsky book because Kandinsky's art was the first art I ever pointed to in a museum and said I liked it. This happened at LACMA when I was I guess about five or six. Later, when I was in fifth grade, in a bizarre school project that was part of some program called 'Art Docents' that made absolutely no sense, my classmates and I were instructed to render a copy of Kandinsky's 1911 painting of a running horse, entitled Lyrical. There was, for some reason, a contest involved, with a prize or something for the closest copy. A poster-size print of the painting was stuck on the blackboard, and we were all given some rough-textured paper and pastels. We all tried to make as close a copy of the painting as possible, and in the end, the class and teacher and visiting 'Art Docent' decided that I'd come closest to copying the lines, and this dude Eric [who was smart, attractive, and i think gay /edit: and i just remembered his name was Craig, not Eric] had come closest to copying the colors. We both got some kind of prize. Maybe just recognition actually. I remember standing at the front of the class with [Craig], holding up our horse drawings. I was actually very into horses at the time, and within a couple years, I would [briefly] own a horse.

I brought the drawing home, and I know I explained the whole business of the contest to my parents at the time, because I thought it was an absolutely ridiculous way to teach art and I hadn't even enjoyed doing it. Somehow, though, they forgot or weren't listening or whatever, and they were so impressed with this impressionistic drawing of a racing horse that they _framed_ it. It was only after it had been hanging framed for at least a few years that I finally had the chance to bring it up and explain it to them that it was a copy of a famous painting.

I swear to god, this is all true. I think the framed drawing is still in my father's office someplace. I'm going to check when I'm in California this Christmas.

I got the Taschen Kandinsky book for Christmas in 1994, after having been reminded of Kandinsky by the film Six Degrees of Separation, which includes a long, hilarious nonsense treatise on the paintings of Kandinsky and The Catcher in the Rye. In it, Donald Sutherland plays a Manhattan aristocrat obsessed with art, who rants, 'Kandinsky left areas of his canvas blank, if he had nothing to paint on them, rather than have imperfection.' [What else you need to know about the film: while very passionate about something or other, it has nothing to say about art. Will Smith, who reveals himself to be kinda shitty at playing queer in the first place, has a stunt double kiss Anthony Michael Hall because he was thinking, quote [Entertainment Weekly], 'What are my boys in Philly gonna say about this?' His character is a con man who claims to be the son of Sidney Poitier.]

Kandinsky left blank space at the apparent risk of imperfection? Blank canvas is perfect? You would think this meant Kandinsky left giant open spaces on his canvases. Kandinksy's canvases actually tend to be- i dunno, pretty full so far as canvases go? Of course Kandinsky uses what's called 'negative space', but not more than any other random artist. It's such a bizarre moment in that film. Everything the movie says about The Catcher in the Rye is similarly daft. At the end of the film, Will Smith supposedly hangs himself with a pink shirt. 'That burst of color,' Stockard Channing tears. Whatever.

In the fucking meantime?

Hello Prophet --> [let's talk about the artist]

 

file under; drawn; filmed; hero worship; kandinsky; quoted
link / 0 have made it up

The things that confuse most people have never confused me. Who I want to fuck? Myself as Robert Mapplethorpe, forever. What happens to us after we die? We flop back onto the world as one instead of many. The things that confound me are tiny and specific: numbers, flames, pieces of hair. I wouldn't really say I've chosen those confusions, but I've always found them easier than enormous things like creation. It is easier to have a clear picture of creation in your mind, I always thought, than of a fire.

Last night, though, sitting on the edge of my bed in my first track jacket [red of course], I experienced my first spiritual crisis while looking at a pretty small cross-section of delivery menus from my neighborhood. It was one of the most ecstatic things I have ever felt in my life. Now I get why people like to be confused about giant things like why we are here; how: the slip never ends? Freefall surely isn't the only freedom, but it must be in the top 3.

When I was growing up, I was never a particularly churchy person because my parents only ever took me to one [obviously not unusual], La Cañada Presbyterian. Kevin Costner and his family also went[/go?] there. The place is preppy, fake, and boring to the max. I loathed being ordered to dress up. Too many people in the congregation had had plastic surgery[*], and the entire sight was just kind of sickening and scary to me. The church was located across from the only place I ever remember seeing a cigarette machine, a chain restaurant called Conrad's in a strip mall that also held a Vons market, Baskin Robbins ice cream, and my mom's favorite drycleaner.

I remember what bugged me most about church, starting from when I was little and through high school [after which i kind of forgot that people even go to church], was the idea that the world had been created for humans. I found it arrogant, and also for some reason, a lot of people used this idea to justify the idea of eating meat to me, or even to instruct me to eat meat [including, repeatedly, i shit you not, the extremely conservative Christian math teacher i had throughout most of high school]. When I think about the idea of a human-centric world now, the idea of 'meat' just has nothing to do with it. I'm sort of fascinated by the fact that these concepts were even connected in the minds of so many people I knew.

So, last night. I was ever so slightly drugged and sitting on the edge of my bed with maybe like 4 or 5 menus in my hand [we probably have about 40 from restaurants that will deliver here], trying to think of what I wanted to eat, and I got extreme vertigo, and I fell, not over physically, but just fell, dropped out. It was like being a ghost and walking through the papers that were in my hands in front of me. It felt so amazing. I don't know how long it happened. It wasn't instantaneous, and it didn't last longer than 15 minutes, but it could have been a few minutes or a couple seconds, I don't know.

I was realizing that there were god, what?, over 500 [vegetarian] dishes that I could order and have brought to me? And suddenly I considered that if the world was created for humans to use? That is actually the humblest way to possibly think of it. If the world was not created for us, we absolutely took it anyway and we are going to use it right up. How. Fucking

um

oh

For the first time I read the introduction to The Thief's Journal in the original French. The Grove translations of Genet's books are all loveably awkward [lots of 'i buggered him' and 'we were buggering together'... i expect to see new ones sometime in my lifetime]. The translations of Sartre's introductions are also slightly off. The idea at the end of the introduction to The Thief's Journal more or less makes it through, though: basically, every person's greatest secret is that s/he is exactly the same as you. This is totally distinct from the idea that 'we are all the same', which is how a lot of people misread the introduction. What Sartre is pointing to is the bigness and darkness of the secret, and the possibility of endless twins and mirrors. S/he is the same as you, s/he is the same as Jean Genet, and you are the same as Jean Genet, but the three are not the same. There are secret endless twins, but no triplets. I guess I'd phrase it: what no one will ever reveal to you, specifically, is that s/he is exactly the same as you, specifically.

It took me a long time to put my head back on after I read that. As far as I am concerned, there is hardly anywhere to go from there except to blood and bleach and out. It was months before I even started the actual book.

If that is our enormous and unlit, well, a smaller wink belongs to you and me

--

Our Littlest Secret

 

file under; brooklyn; drawn; jean genet; photographed; self capture; writ
link / 7 have made it up