Since I’ve worn “vintage” clothing since the early, mid-1980s, from high school on (mostly late 1960s to early-mid 1970s), I’ve got things that old I’ve hung on to. I’ve also always decorated/outfitted my apartments with period furniture, linens, dish ware, etc. first with Deco, then mid-century, then space-age Panton era stuff, too, so this stuff will find its way into the shop too. Hopefully, the recent passion for all things “vintage” – Gap adverts acknowledge its lure, promoting their “technologically advanced” fabrics as a way to counter the competition – has created enough of a competitive market for it that I’ll make some money:)            

People are certainly willing to pay a lot more than I ever did or do. Time will tell, and romanlovesgigi is still in its infancy, the process being quite tedious (I will never look at an online auction/individually owned business the same again), so vintage lovers check back often as I’ll be uploading new items every day.        

On a totally different note, I just finished reading John Edgar Wideman’s 1990 novel, Philadelphia Fire, a poetic, meta-narrative about the infamous MOVE organization, whose West Philly headquarters were infamously fire-bombed by the city in 1985, killing 10 people, and decimating many houses around them.

Its a rather elliptical rendering, with very minimal attention to the facts told through tertiary narratives that take the form of the narrator’s recollections of growing up in Philadelphia as an African-American, working-class kid who became a creative-class/academic. These quasi-biographical discursions nonetheless evoke the guts and heart of the people moving in and out of the shadows of this historic catastrophe, and Wideman writes them right after it happens, so it’s both very vivid and yet removed from linear time (not enough facts/reflection to draw from so soon?).

If you want to better understand the tensions leading up to the fire-bombing (imagine your city block suddenly attacked like that as a means of routing out the inhabitants of one house), and the cult nature of MOVE, they are very compellingly conveyed in this great 2013 documentary, Let the Fire Burn, which you can watch for free! Its comprised mostly of found footage, and is just as entrancing as Wideman’s book, which is its poetic corollary.
You really get a sense of how much John Africa, the very intelligent founder of MOVE, was able to marshall this rag-tag army of followers, and turn their refusal to live by social norms into a revolution of sorts. And the way the state responds. It got me thinking about Jim Baker, another guru/leader whose philosophy over time became distorted by power, evolving into its own incendiary form of anarchy, if not literally. There’s a 2013 doc on his cult (I use that word, btw, in its most neutral sense) , The Source Family, also free online.     Along with the renewed interest in vintage stuff, it seems the fascination for all things cult has also re-emerged, perhaps in relation to the populist trend for going off the grid, and forming self-sufficient communities anathema to corporate-consumer existence.

The whole 1970s cult phenomena, a time when there were over 3,000 such self-identified orgs, its link to spiritual, civil rights, and sexual revolutions of the time, is of course, perpetually fascinating to me. I did, after all, in a moment of naive embrace, consider joining the Hari Krishnas in college when they came recruiting on campus, and joined a coven for a brief time after grad school with a boyfriend.

Of course, I could never submit to an individual’s authority, esp. a man (I got enough of that growing up Catholic), but the desire for spiritual growth has and will always appeal, and not just to me. Thinking, as atheists do, that any such pursuit is simply fantasy-inducing escapism, a willing of your power away to some non-existent force, is a bit like throwing the baby out with the bathwater imho. Though the dangers of leaders gone awry, of the inevitable corruption that comes with power, etc. are of course, inescapably real.

Probably why when I participated in a summer solstice ritual this weekend, which brought me back to my “new age” moment of the 1980s, I experienced pleasure/nostalgia with a smidgen of cynical doubt, the same irony from which this blog’s name derived. How to be authentic without the foundation and legacy of tradition, historical, cultural, and biographical? Does donning the clothes of another era beg the same question? Certainly when I watch 20-somethings parade around in their long hair and beards, shirtless in their birkenstocks, I do wonder. Food for thought….

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― Jean Genet, The Thief’s Journal, 1948

The Thief’s Journal is one of my favorite books. The kind you can deeply commune with, and reread for the poetry and wisdom and offering of art and pain. Its been on my nightstand for years. Among the ever-shifting pile of books that have bored me, and wait for me to resurrect interest.

My friend Lee Gordon, who died 5 years ago this coming Memorial Day, once told me he thought Genet was too hung up on Catholic guilt. As a gay Jew and PLHIV, who had a truly sadistic father, his perspective halted me. His opinion about things was always well informed. I reasoned that for its time it was revolutionary, and he conceded it was. We were both right.

I miss Lee, and was sad to see there’s no work of his online. Somewhere in an old computer are a few jpegs, but I want everyone to see them. It renewed my desire to organize a memorial show here in NYC for him (preferably not on Memorial Day, I can hear him say, lol).

“Also worth a look are paintings by Lee Gordon. For several years Mr. Gordon has been producing exquisite, strange watercolor self-portraits in which he sometimes appears wearing women’s lingerie. In the new work in watercolor and oils, he assumes an infant’s body, which gives the several paternal encounters depicted a distinctly erotic cast…his watercolors are so good that he should be awarded a full-scale show soon.” HOLLAND COTTER, NYT, 1995

Lee never got that full-scale show. He kept on making art though, even while working a very demanding job. I’d like to at least give him some version of it, posthumously. So I contacted his best buddy, another great artist, Tony Feher, whose exquisitely gorgeous retrospective at the Bronx Museum of Arts, was so deserved, btw (I can at least post a couple of those), and will try to set that in motion. This post is in memory of Lee. RIP.

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From John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men, 1937, on the death of Lennie:

The little evening breeze blew over the clearing and the leaves rustled and the wind waves flowed up the green pool. And the shouts of men sounded again, this time much closer than before.

George took off his hat. He said shakily, “Take off your hat, Lenny. The air feels fine.”

Lennie removed his hat dutifully and laid it on the ground in front of him. The shadow in the valley was bluer, and the evening came fast. On the wind the sound of crashing in the brush came to them.

Lennie said, “Tell how it’s gonna be.”

George had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment he was business-like. “Look acrost the river, Lennie an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.”

Lennie turned his head and looked off across the pool and up the darkening slopes of the Gabilans. “We gonna het a little place,” George began. He reached in his side pocket and brought out Carlson’s Luger; he snapped off the safety, and the hand and gun lay on the ground behind Lennie’s back. He looked at the back of Lennie’s head, at the place where the spine and skull were joined.

A man’s voice called from up the river, and another man answered.

“Go on,” said Lennie.

George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again.

“Go on,” said Lennie. “How’s it gonna be. We gonna get a little place.”

“We’ll have a cow,” said George. “An’ we’ll have maybe a pig an’ chickens…an’ down the flat we’ll have a …little piece alfalfa—”

“For the rabbits,” Lennie shouted.

“For the rabbits,” George repeated.

“And I get to tend the rabbits.”

“An’ you get to tend the rabbits”

Lennie giggled with happiness. “An’ live on the fatta the lan’.”

“Yes.”

Lennie turned his head.

“No, Lennie. Look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the place.”

Lennie obeyed him. George looked down at the gun.

There were crashing footsteps in the brush now. George turned and looked toward them.

“Go on, George. When we gonna do it?”

“Gonna fo it soon.”

“Me an’ you.”

“You…and me.” Ever’body gonna be nice to you. Ain’t gonna be no more trouble. Nobody gonna hurt nobody nor steal from ‘em.”

Lennie said, “I thought you was mad at me, George.”

“No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”

The voices came closer now. George raised the gun and listened to the voices.

Lennie begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s get that place now.”

“Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.”

And George raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the mussel of it close to the back of Lennie’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

George shivered and looked at the gun, and then he threw it from him, back up the bank, near the pile of old ashes.

The brush seemed filled with cries and with the sound of running feet. Slim’s voice shouted, “George. Where you at, George?”

But George sat stiffly on the bank and looked at his right hand that had thrown the gun away. The group burst into the clearing, and Curley was ahead. He saw Lennie lying on the sand. “Got him, by God.” He went over and looked down at Lennie, and then he looked back at George. “Right in the back of the head,” He said softly.

Slim came directly to George and sat down beside him, sat very close to him. “Never you mind,” said Slim. “A guy got to sometimes.”

But Carlson was standing over George. “How’d you do it?” he asked.

“I just done it,” George said tiredly.

“Did he have my gun?”

“Yeah. Tha’s how.” George’s voice was almost a whisper. He looked steadily at his right hand that had held the gun.

Slim twitched George’s elbow. “Come on, George. Me an’ you’ll go in an’ get a drink.”

George let himself be helped to his feet. “Yeah, a drink.”

Slim said, “You hadda, George. I swear you hadda. Come on with me.” He led George into the entrance of the trail and up toward the highway.

Curley and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, “Now what the hell ya suppose is eatin’ them two guys?”

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I will say I don’t think I could’ve succeeded if I’d had to conduct business this way. Talking on the phone is one of my least favorite things to do (I feel easily trapped), so having to perform for a machine may be a step up, but I’d still rather meet someone in person or correspond via email. No one leaves voicemail anymore, anyway. That’s why this is such an analog time capsule. An artist friend recently played me excerpts from answering machine tapes he’d kept from the early 90s when he was w/his now quite famous ex, with whom he made notable work with as well. They led a very glammy queer downtown drug-fueled life, riding a tide as swell, I’d bet, for their time, as Moorman’s must have been in hers, albeit shorter. I remember thinking how Warhol it all was in a post-Aids way. Anyway, I really hope he makes art out of them as was the plan.

Not feeling so great, so that’s it here, though a couple pics of the mama and baby kitty kats from my backyard, who I mentioned, I think, before. I finally got some close-ups during a feeding. And only because I’m at eye level and they’re starving would they come that near, trust me. Mama’s eyes read pretty feral, I think. Today, in frigid weather they lay huddled in a clump of long dead grass smack in the middle of the yard. I got a shelter tonite for them. From one of cat colonies I help out w/ (thank god for that contact, but good breeds good) so that’s out now with a line of catnip leading in:) Hope Mama figures it out. She’s a good mother and often lets her baby eat first. I have ‘cuter” pics but its best to remember these are creatures fending for themselves not images to make us feel warm and fuzzy. We can help them survive or not. Same with homeless people we pass by in the winter. Its really tough out there. Please give.

Ok thats the end of the PSA:) For countermeasure, listen to the latest Keiser Report. Its about the upswing in the art market as shamed bankers look to hide more money with greater insurance. Good for the auction houses, and mega-collectors, bad for everyone else. That’s my layperson’s take. I’d be very curious to see follow that money trail into the museum boardroom. Oh and to remind everyone that humans only THINK they’re smarter than animals, here’s a fox in the Dakotas tracking his prey. The baroque explanation proves only that opposable thumbs, giant brains, and a fetish for tools apparently allows a species to analyze and annihilate whatever it wants. GO FOX GO!

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Fascinating article I have my students read every year as we discuss the Weimar era “New Woman”. I highly recommend it. Here’s an excerpt to get you interested:

“Sexually predatory and educated, she achieved financial independence through employment and spent her earnings on fashion and fun. She had short bobbed hair, wore relaxed masculine clothes, smoked cigarettes and enjoyed the globally notorious nightlife of Berlin’s theatres, cinemas, cafes and bars. According to the historian Ute Frevert, the Weimar women were ‘children of the new age who were variously celebrated or accursed’.”

Kind of interesting to read against this prostitution code from a sex tourist brochure (or adapted from several, can’t recall), which I will share with my students as well:

BOOT GIRLS: Dominatrices whose sexual services
were signaled by the color of their boots, laces, and
ribbons, sometimes worn in combination.
BLACK BOOTS: Buttocks cropping (lying on bed).
BROWN BOOTS: Asphyxiation by boot or
stockinged foot.
COBALT-BLUE BOOTS: Penetration by female.
SCARLET BOOTS: Cross-dressing humiliation.
BLACK LACES: Punishment with a short whip.
GOLD LACES: Defecation on chest.
WHITE LACES: Collared like a dog.
WHITE RIBBONS ON TOP OF BOOTS: Male customer
begins as the dominant figure and ends
as the submissive party.
DOMINAS: Leather-clad women who specialized
in whipping, humiliation, and other forms of
punishment, and worked in lesbian nightclubs
that admitted heterosexual couples and
male clients.
FOHSES: Independent prostitutes who advertised
in newspapers and magazines as manicurists
or masseuses.
GRASSHOPPERS: Streetwalkers who performed oral
sex in the Tiergarten.
GRAVELSTONES: Physically deformed women who
worked in north Berlin.
MEDICINE GIRLS: Child prostitutes who were “prescribed”
by pimps posing as physicians in phony
pharmacies in west Berlin.
MUNZIS: Pregnant women who waited under
lampposts on Münzstrasse.
RACEHORSES: Masochistic prostitutes who worked
in Institutes for Foreign Language Instruction,
where the schoolrooms were equipped with
bondage equipment.
TAUENTZIEN GIRLS: Women wearing the
latest fashions and hairstyles, often working in
mother-daughter teams near the Kaiser Memorial
Church.
TELEPHONE GIRLS: Child prostitutes, aged twelve
to seventeen, who were made to resemble junior
versions of theater or film starlets and were ordered
by telephone.

— from Voluptuous Panic: The Erotic World of Weimar Berlin

And I’d like to get my hands on this book, too.

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So on my way to teach at SVA earlier, I was suddenly craving a grilled cheese sandwich, something I never eat, but my body wanted the grease. And lo and behold A & A Coffee Shop (see pic below) appears! Where I’m able get one quick and cheap without sitting down! This place is one of the last uber tiny mom-and-pop coffee shop/grills in NYC (see pic below), and happens to be in the building next door to my shrink’s. She once mentioned it, but I never went inside.

It reminded me of a place I used to go to when I lived in the Financial District 20 years back (probably because those kind of places were the only ones open after 8pm down there back then). Its like a very narrow pizzeria with a window onto the street, and a few stools at a counter. Another endangered species in this town, WHICH HAS A NEW MAYOR TONIGHT, WELCOME BILL DE BLASIO! He won as predicted. And I voted for him though I was tempted to vote “Green”, the party not candidate. But changed my mind after my student today, who admittedly isn’t the most sophisticated, said in reply to my question of whether she was voting: “Um, I’m not political. I don’t believe in politics. Yeah sorry, I don’t even watch the news anymore.” To which I said, “Well, its going to impact you anyway, you know”, smiling, and she said “I guess so.”

The lack of any real debate, seriously campaigning dismayed me though, and I’m not convinced De Blasio isn’t just a blowhard who knows how to style his songs, if you know what I mean. Here’s a quote from his acceptance speech, if you don’t: “So far, I like it… “We know that we are not defined by the cold steel of our skyscrapers but by the strength and compassion and boldness of our collective spirit. We are all at our best when every child, every parent, every New Yorker has a shot. And we reach our greatest heights when we all rise together.” A sweet talker.

His record would indicate someone not prone to running city government with a board room mentality, which is hopeful (though Bloomberg’s resistance to cronyism had its benefits). So I’m hopeful. As I’ve already said, I think NYC may have a rocky adjustment period, if not initially, but it will depend on who de Blasio appoints, and whether he really takes in Wall Street/taxes the rich. Anyway, here’s to a little old New York becoming new again in the future!

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ANYWAY (speaking of cat ladies), I was told there would be a new one in the midst today, a gray and white cat, and there s/he was, a nervous nelly if ever I saw one. Darting under the construction fence every second s/he heard a noise (Greenpoint, as I’ve mentioned, is in one gentrifying k-hole of hell). Poor thing:(( Trying desperately to stay alive and get a bit to eat. I think someone booted it. DON’T GET ME STARTED…its so sad. But if you wanna donate, your time or money would do:)) There’s a pic too of Moo and this other newcomer, “orange baby” I call him, duh!:), who the colony lady doesn’t like so far because he’s aggressive (he’s nothing like Jocelyn was who she liked so kind of interesting). I don’t think he’s so bad but she’s definitely been yelling at him as she said because he seemed very hissy defensive when I know he’s just trying to live too, and hasn’t settled down enough to trust the food will keep coming. I guess I can relate, haha!

The other pic is of a house that decks itself out (well, the ground floor) every year for all the holidays, which I love (anyone who knows me personally knows I’m big on glittery holiday cheer whether in goblin form or bunny rabbits)! Its interesting to note that its a Dominican extended family that lives in there and its sweet because they all eat together, at least on wknds when I pass by at dinner time, and play outside on the street. And they’ve probably been there longer than I have, at least 20 years. A nice counterpart to the yippies. Not that they all suck because a lot of them are nice enough. Oh and the last pic is of some dude in a white sequined jacket playing some kind of electronic music on his bike who happened to stop right where I was feeding and I took this on the sly (hence its a bit blurry).

Ok, I need to empty my mind in a movie. I gotta tell you not having TV is like kicking crack for me. I don’t know what to do to calm myself even though I’m simultaneously opening up into the space/silence. Its been a long long time since I gave it up. I don’t think I could’ve if I’d not known I could watch online (which I have already, but not nearly as much). Something I observed summer before last while on a residency.

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The craze of all things vampiric feels like another Romantic revival of the supernatural anti-hero, but what does it really say about this cultural moment? I did a quick Google School report to try and find out.

Here’s a good introductory overview of the trend though the author never answers that particular question. Or explains what it signified in the past. History does repeat itself, afterall.

Is it a sign of a decadent society (in the depraved sense)? This article does a better job describing the narrative import of the vampire, suggesting it represents whatever we want to shun but secretly demand. Like some masochistic embrace of a bleak future?

When I google the masochistic angle, btw, I get this feminist spin framed by the success of the Twilight series, which I’ve only watched very sporadically, kind of interesting…

I do know vampire movies were popular in the 1930s, alongside monster flicks and – notably – the rise of film noir, a period of similar malcontent (the Great Depression, rampant corruption, etc.). So perhaps its as simple as a desire for outre thrills as dark as the times? An existential fetish for the powerlessness we feel.

“Every age embraces the vampire it needs.”
–Nina Auerbach
Our Vampires, Ourselves

“Horror is . . . the state of mind induced by one’s confrontation with a violation of cultural categories.”
— Philip L. Simpson
Psycho Paths

The above quotes were included in this smart much more in-depth examination of the vampire as it evolved in literature from the Victorian age on. Though as the citations indicate, it was written pre-Twilight, in 2000. I’d like to read an updated version of it, a new edition. Anyway, that’s it for tonite. Happy pre-Halloween! (Its better than me telling you what a wretched day I had, and the sinus headache still plaguing me, right? That would certainly be more trick than treat.)

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My shrink keeps using this term “projective identification” lately so tonight I tried to remember where my attention unconsciously strayed during the day for these three vignettes presented below, though what that reveals exactly I don’t know.

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Anyway, my latest theory is that one can only be who they are and explore that more deeply as focusing on who you aren’t is never productive. I prefer time over money: “They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold; and I deem them mad because they think my days have a price.” (Kahlil Gibran)

Now, for a good price, you could have some of my days, I’ll be honest:) I need to make more money, and who am I to judge someone who does what they love and gets handsomely rewarded for it? Of course, how often does that happen, and for how many? The higher up the ladder, the more compulsory it is to rationalize excess (and not just monetary), I’d venture. Its the nature of power when not in balance (if thats even possible). Maybe the ladder analogy is the problem…Who knows? Lets leave it there (especially as I’m no exemplary model)!

Here’s what I intended to share:))

MY HERO FOR THE SEASON:
Chelsea Manning for telling the truth about our government at whatever cost! AND – if that wasn’t enough! – for doing it again! Coming out as a woman, and saying she wanted surgery to become herself, telling the military essentially, PAY FOR IT BITCHES! Causing a media frenzy over what pronoun to use for her (clearly you see where I stand) . So for sticking it to the man (pun intended!), not once but twice, before going heroically off to jail – and she’s only 25!! – Chelsea Manning is my inspiration for bravery (we all need at least one).

TRANSGENDER CULTURE EVOLVING:
Speaking of the spread of transgender awareness, which I find exciting and uplifting because all attempts to override repressive normative binaries excite me, and because tolerance and compassion come from a sense of openness that is heartening, I love these two photographers I just came across: Jill Peters, and Christer Strömholm! Both documentarians, the latter having worked and lived with transwomen (what would’ve been deemed drag queens even just a few years ago) in 1950s-era Paris, the former shooting the last remnants of Albanian “burneshas,” women sanctioned to live as men for her book/project, “Sworn Virgins of Albania”. A lot of commentary in the link to Peters’ work, FYI).

SHOULD I GET A SMART PHONE (which means an iPhone for me)?:
My relationship to technology is like many things, based on the examples I had growing up. In my house less was more when it came to the latest gadjets, and if something still worked it didn’t matter if it was the latest model. Technology was meant to serve a function not a status (along with this it was understood that one paid for quality). That was probably my mother’s postwar German point of view, although my dad was often easily confounded and angered by technology, never good at fixing things or learning how they worked. At 86, may the god(dess) bless him, he can barely work a computer (his MS doesn’t exactly help as his body is very stiff), so it these attitudes remain. He called the fridge the ice-box, the couch the davenport, the TV the idiot box, etc. speaking in an 1940s-50s idiom when Frank Sinatra was the man.

Naturally, we had a black and white TV because neither were big TV fans. All the way through high school when everyone else i knew of course had color ones, I had to endure this embarrassment. I remember having sleep-overs and being so nervous that someone would suggest watching TV. I had no idea that the Wizard of Oz, my favorite story/movie/book (I still have my pop-up) as a child, went from black-and-white to color, this pivotal narrative symbol, until i was in my early teens! Oddly, i loved it no more for this astonishingly magical colored world of Oz, whatever that says about me. Ultimately, my brother was the only tech-smart and tech-obsessed person in our family. He used to garbage pick electronic stuff to rework and fix like portable tvs, radios, etc. and once got me a easybake oven (if my memory serves me, which it often doesn’t)that worked but had none of the tiny cakeware to bake in it. Sigh. He did a lot of sweet things for me, my brother Billy.

Anyway, people pressure me to get a smart phone (my brother in his reaction against the luddite nature of our upbringing continues to have the latest, fastest), and at times I really get the vibe that I am ridiculous for not having one. When does technology become essential to being considered adept and capable as a together/professional being? Am i losing out or positioning myself at a disadvantage for not having one?

When I consider the continued rise in crime in NYC, which I suspect will steepen when Bloomberg relinquishes his stolen term, I begin to think its to my advantage as no one wants my MetroPCS piece of crap, which I hardly use in public (I don’t listen to music on street/subways either). I guess it just seems like it disservices others more than it does me and this is exactly how I felt when I didn’t have a cell phone long after most friends did. Eventually I got one to survive a trip and have texting access to friends while away. So maybe I just have to wait for the unplanned/random to decide for me again.

BACK TO SCHOOL LOOKS:
I don’t have time to do another fashion want list though I’d wear EVERYTHING on that list again this Fall, and the few photos I’m attaching here certainly attest to a consistency in taste. I didn’t go far afield here, but you can’t go wrong with Marni (the first 2 images), and I loved this look by Jill Stewart (I scored a second-hand sweater by her recently as a b-gift, and looked up what she was up to (the last image). All couture.

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