Went to an exurban art op last night mainly to speculate on how it will be much more wonderful after I and my collaborative boys (according to us, we are TEAM A) do our thing in there. That show opens on September 11th, in mere moments in art time.
After that picked up a travel companion and joined *physically, not metaphysically and certainly not scentily in the form of patchouli* the crowd at Maharishi... Mahapotato... oh whatever the fuck they're called... Orchestra.
Then onwards to the best part of the night, to bask in the vinyl luvv of DJ Spooky who was amazing though not as textural as I imagined that he'd be. It was more old school blends and starting and stopping of beats that would have your body grooving in one way and then in another completely different way. I was onstage with Spooky to get the best possible angles of him, his equipment, his laptop, his nice bottle of white wine and his floppity wool hat. I had successfully carved out an area for shooting/dancing/being in front of the stage and when an ARMY t-shirt guy wandered into the circle I looked at him shook my head and he went away. Moments later he reappeared with a candle he had found somewhere in the club, sat on a little apron jutting out from the stage, sat cross-legged and had a real moment - solo.
Spooky Moved.
and now your beloved Nancy will move herself into her darkroom to make art for the masses. Love.

Yesterday had a gig shooting the Bill T. Jones Dance Co. in rehearsal at the sprawling suburban campus of the university named for this Middling City.
In the studio I respectfully took off my shoes, in which to blend.
Was speaking with another media type when someone from the company shushed us saying Mr. Jones doesn't like it when people are talking. I looked at him, searingly.
Dancers, techies, observors, more dancers on sidelines were all talking.
Mr. Jones is one intense man and it was absolutely great to be so close to the dancers to hear them muttering things like Hands flat, open, move in closer, etc. as they interpreted their directions.
One dancer, Malcolm, was off listening to his walkman when Mr. Jones wanted him to do something and all the dancers were shouting MALCOLM until he heard.

Thursday I photographed Uber Jazz Crank Diana Krall, who sold out the 2K or so seat venue downtown. I asked the head of security if there were any good new Diana Krall stories as she's a noted crabass. He said he walked into a room to hear the singer/pianist/diva screaming I DON'T TALK TO MANAGERS .
My colleagues were photographing Krall from an odd angle, through her piano because they saw an op there. I shot from the keyboard side waiting until she turned, which I knew she would at some point. Beautiful verticals, full-length, were the result. Her, piano, her long legs, her long hair.

Tonight is a marathon night, beginning with an opulent gig at 4PM. Onwards then to art ops, DJ Spooky, more more more.
Love.

DADDIO.
I've coined yet another word. DADDIO is a condition.
Hint: It'll always happen on a Tuesday morn. And it'll always happen post-Easter.
It's Day After Dyngus Day Interior Ouch.
Minding my own business I picked up Laura. Then we proceeded to Dyngus Day party #1, a bit of a snooze but the bar owner was très excited as he'd, he felt, scored majorly by having an old time accordion star playing all night. I said to Laura Their pussy willow branches are impressive but wait until you see the next party.
A house across from DD party #1 had burnt to a crisp the night before and what I thought was a festive welcome wagon to the bar was a truck outfitted with bulbs so workers could see what the hell they were doing as they were cutting boards for all the exploded windows.
Party #2 began with Laura and I brandishing our pussy willow branches and telling the door guys that they were letting us in, pro bono-like.
Then we shimmied through the crowd to the bar where I convinced a whole lot of people that I knew and sort of knew and then knew later to do shots of Krupnik. The bartender was sad to report that the sticky, oozey-goozey Krupnik was backordered and there was only enough for one person. I made a rockstar acquaintance sip it. Laura drank the rest while we all opted for some sticky, oozey-goozey honey liqueurish thing with a little hive of holiday madness sitting atop the bottle.
Shots later, several Polish beers later, Laura was the new Dyngus Pro, squirting and swatting passersby. I photographed the polka band, convincing them to play longer as the media was in the house... a tv camera showed up... and so they launched into Roll Out the Barrel for some odd reason. Laura and I ended the evening sitting on a pooltable sipping scotch and watching a five-star Middling City rock & roll band do their impressively sweaty thing in the back room of a white trash-emulating bar. I recently hung out with these guys whilst shooting their promo shot so felt completely comfy wandering into their "stage" area and swatting the lead singer in the back of the knees with my pussy willows and he screamed lyrics into Dyngus Day night.

Basically began weekend by cohosting the cable access show again and when I walked into the "studio" there were these young pop rock-looking guys who were introduced to me as NSYNC and by golly they sort of looked like those nincompoops so I pretended it was NSYNC and we had a group hug jumping up and down. And I was wearing my beatup fuzzy bunny ears. Which I wore almost all weekend.
This band was inspired to forge a rock career after 9/11. And they call themselves State of Emergency. I kept calling them other things such as State of Confusion, etc., much to their chagrin.
At the end of the "taping" there's a customary photo shoot and this is posted on the show's website: link along here to see evidence of Your Fav Nancy as her lapindacious evil bunny alterego.
Much into the wee morning hours, when all good bunnies should be snoozing in their warrens, I was in the venerable rock and roll venue when I was approached by a boy.
Are you bringing me goodies tomorrow, Easter Bunny, he asked. I said Only if you've been a good little boy. He asked if I'd like his address. I said Sure. He shouted AHA, IF YOU WERE REALLY THE EASTER BUNNY YOU'D know MY ADDRESS. My retort: That information is all in my laptop, which I'm not carrying around at this moment. Then, traipsing along back to vehicle a big ol' station wagon slowed down... one of the Middling City's scarier-looking cabs. The cab driver unrolled his window and shouted SILLY WABBIT.
Bunny ears. What a way to meet people.