Friday, March 24, 2006

Adam Cvijanovic, lanky Shiney Apple painter, tricked out Lightwell Gallery as a giant Niagara Falls. I showed him the back of the camera so he could see some of the deft images I made of him as he talked the talk and told him that you could see clearly that he had had ballet training in the way he kept his arms all out all over the place in graceful curves. He did find this amusing. I suggested, also, that he might have named his installation something more . . . challenging than for what it is, like, for example, Beaver Island State Park. He said he had considered naming the installation for the Three Stooges bit on the Falls, Slowly I Turn (step by step). Whilst talking to him again later over the snack centre he mentioned he was desperately missing the Shiney Apple. How long have you been away, Yours Truly queried. Ten days, the reply. I said CHEEEESE and CRACKERS, I haven't been there since November. I got a pitied look, and it was accepted.
Off to the funeral for Mr. Ganey, aka Skip.
Patrick is giving the good words, sure to be cutting to the core of matters while maintaining his always-primo use of his mother tongue.

Life is for the Living, Love.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

This just in, via The 80s Desk.
So Yours Truly is wending her way down one of the famed Middling City expressways (in quotes as it has a few pesky lights, a few moments where one must careen out of the way of those who are merging meagerly from stopsigns, a lower-than-normal speed limit) and is sitting at the light at Parkside Avenue, heading toward the east which will bank off to head out to the north, to the marshy campus of Middling City U.
Being ever-vigilant, I glance over at the car in the parallel lane, an oddly-coloured (let us say it was a pinkish terra cotta, a beige) TownCar with a torn ragtop. There is a heavy bleachedblonde sitting in the back seat looking out at me. In the front seat I see two equally-heavy men. They are all in their 50s. I note that the woman is rubbing her nose non-stop, she looks fairly haggard. In the front seat then I note the driver is handing a pack of cigarettes to his front-seat passenger. But no, it is not a pack of smokes, it is a faux pack of smokes. The passenger shakes some white powder onto his crumpled hand and takes an exaggerated Sniff.
The faux pack is white, baby blue, navy blue. The trio screech away from the now-green light, heading towards the airport, to, undoubtedly, parties parties beyond.

Love them slices of the 80s.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Yesterday photog Spencer Tunick made this image in Caracas Venezuala, the taut bodies a bit different than the ones he photographed in the Middling City at the waiting-for-reassignment Central Train Terminal. The artist remarked that in the MC he was surprised at the number of older people who arrived for the image. I recall being surprised that depite a promise to his posers that media would not be present, they were.
Got this link yesterday to Alan's online, somewhat interactive novel and thanks to him and his emailed update for Flash, I was able to finally view it. Met with Paul Hogan yesterday and we discussed that we both had had freezing episodes when looking at the onscreen drama.
Reading this AM my online insider pub (as in mags, not tipplers) newsletter, I gleaned info about this girlie site. What girl doesn't need a sartorial (or related) break from time to time. Gleefully I report that I received a call last week from the Shiney Apple from beloved Dorota who was thinking of me as she was fondling shoes in a boutique. Keep up the good work, DK!
And for anyone saddled to their laptop and needing a good alternative music fix and the wi-fi is streaming about and the caffeine levels are in order go to this spot. They even played some Wishing Chair last night. How... retro, memories swirled about from those very different times.

Swirls of Love.