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.

Met Mr. Lessig last night at the 92nd St. Y, before his little talk on intellectual properties and pirates and wizards and laws and such.
Arrived with Beth and Inbal despite its sold out condition assuming that rush tix would be available. The rude little man in the ticket booth actually made my Perfect face crimson with his insolence. The Y had released more seats/tix yet were, contrary to their policy, no longer offering students the half-off price. I nearly tossed out my copyrighted and famed Do you know who I AM, little man. I walked away, thinking I'd approach one of Mr. Rude's colleagues, when I spotted Mr. Lessig in the lobby. I had my copy of his Future of Ideas and compared and contrasted the author photo with who was standing before me. Lessig was having trouble getting in, being recognized, as he looks like any ol' typical lunky lawyer. I shouted Mr. Lessig, turning to the workers I said That's Mr. Lessig, speaking in an hour, you have to let him in. I got his autograph, in the book, with a blood red Sharpie, and Beth did the same.
I said Mr. Lessig, we're impoverished grad students from Parsons who're studying your ideas and books. We can't get in for the student discount, is there anything you can do. So off wandered Mr. Lessig, over to Mr. Rude. Then all was magically changed. Three tix, half price. And there we sat in the front row soaking in his brilliance. Beth acquired an advance softcover of his new one from the ME (oh, that's managing editor to your unjournalistic self) of WIRED mag.
Our Parsons colleagues, about five more of them, joined us in the front row. Esteeemed esquires and justices, is what we harangue.
Off to digital worlds beyond, to shoot alongside the FDR and more.
WiFi Love.

Artist Michael Straub is gone. Dead. Last work. I still have one of his pieces unframed - waiting - and it has to, now, be on the walls. Amongst the other risers, fallers and dead. While he died today, at 3PM, to be exact, I was editing dv. I was sitting and thinking edgily of my own human and earthly and meaningless deadlines, and he died. Left here, said goodbye, unclung to the body and lifted away to that place I saw once when I was drowning in the lake and was ready to go. Got an email from Pam who is sad, despondent, said what life is, and that's fleeting. No sense is made of this, we forage on and do what we know how to do best.
Foraging Love.