Gadzooks and pass the holy guacamole.
A lawyer type called me yesterday to inquire about my Perfect Foto Services and, after talking official imagistic this-n-that, said Oh, I, in searching for you on the Internet System saw your blog.
That's usually then the prompt for some slightly discovered, well-placed Heh-heh-heh's.
Today I jet from the east side of the state back to the Middling City and am pondering how best to not squander these next seven or so hours. Another visit to the Whitney. A foray into Chelsea. Another caffe con leche at Habana.
Hung off the FDR a few (sunny) days ago to re-shoot the pop of colour and light through the iron square that keeps the garden watchers off of the FDR itself. Out of harm's inevitable and invisible way. JR said Nice work to the ten new pieces that I PowerBooked into his consciousness. And then Ronnie joined in on the fun. They are about anticipation, passage of time, my breath (homage to the fundamental idea of Sam), that'll do.
At the Whitney every video star has a distinct way of showing their work - on plasma screens on pedestals, as double-hung heroic pieces, in a darkened room on three walls, more.
I see my pieces looped and composited on walls, each in its own moment, overlapping in their idea, a collage to wander in and out of. I'll be experiementing next time with projecting the images onto mylar, onto different textures.
Now is the time to think of one's big-ass thesis presentation. Now. Now. Now. Not then. Then. Then.
JR kept insisting These are all about you. You are the weed. You are the tree.
What the hell is NOT about me in this Perfect World, I ask You.
Beth and I met up with LA pal Jodi yesterday, at the MAC clubhouse where we had missed the FinalCut time and were regaled with somewhat related iDVD info. Then we went next door to Jerry's red diner to compare lifeal notes.
Today is the day of art, shuttling off a jpeg to CEPA Gallery for inclusion in the catalogue for the Auction. The Biennial Auction. So whatever I've got here will be there, via technology.
The merging of art, technology, high-test espresso and rushes of adrenalized chutzpah = the spice of Friday.
Freya Love.