Minding my own business, as is my eternal wont, I found myself in the Gallic presence of one documentary filmmaker and environmental activist (and longtime colleague of Bruce Jackson & Diane Christian) Jean Malaurié.
Yours Truly photographed him during a ceremonial gathering at the bigU where he received an honorary doctorate, and then later at a small event.
Somewhere in the workalot mix YT thinks documentary/film/sleddogs/Malaurié/Mallory/Nature and amid this formula there is some discombobulation.
Kennedy is a big fan of M, YT states to Bruce Jackson.
Ohh, he quizzically enthuses, raising his bushy eyebrows.
Oh yes, YT continued, a big fan, we've watched some of his films.
Well, much later, YT asks Kennedy for a little clarity. Or, rather, YT sauntered into a room pronouncing I MET MALAURIE.
Who, he asked.
Jean Malaurié, the filmmaker.
Never heard of him, he sputtered.
No, you KNOW, the dogsled movie, the igloo (Jackson had showed a snippet of said film at the bigU event), the little fire ...
I know Mallory, never heard of Malaurié.
Mystery solved.
Homonyms, oso tricky.
Anyhoo, this homonymic hominid is très involved with global warming issues, and the like. And double anyhoo, above is an image of Jean et moi.
And below is my image with Heady's new pup, a delightful lapdogesque two-toned working dog, Uma. A delight, as are the house's other creatures.

Time to motor south to Gowanda/North Collins to make some images of a drumming man, a drum corpsing man, to be most precise.

Love of Precision.

+ helpful reminder.
CEPA Auction tomorrow, featuring photo-based gems of all shapes and sizes (usually rectilinear), including:

So utterly back from the Perfect Shiney Apple respite, having accomplished all but one item on the ToDo list.
Saw, amongst several, exhibition of Yoko Ono work, new pieces with text, emphasis (as usual) on interactivity or small personal happenings.
One of the showfavs was one involving Polaroids - bien sur.
A gallery boy was stationed to assist lookers with documenting themselves as they stuck a portion of themselves through one of several holes in a huge piece of paper. Lookers were invited to pin one to an adjacent wall, or to keep.
Above are the flowers that Yoko had received for her reception, held the first night of my SA sojourn. Thought of attending the opening but I chose to see it Saturday instead to avoid the crush of humanity. I would have enjoyed being in her sphere but opted for a new and other day.
Art agenda included a stop at Honey Space, which has intrigued the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of me since reading about it since its inception. Honey Space is on Eleventh Avenue across from the Piers and is in one of those Chelsea car places, a former Chelsea car place.

It is just what one wants in a squatteristic arts space: reeking of industry and rot, compelling, political, and with beautiful and cheering flower painting flags atop its means of ingress and egress.
As YT left the Whitney Biennial, feeling as if I'd paid money to look at some interesting installations, as well as heaps of scrap materials (but did find a new wardrobe fav, a Kiki Smith-designed Biennial t down in the shoppe), encountered a pesky series of barricades, throngs, and police up on rooftops and on their feet.
YT could not cross 72nd Street.
The pope, who nearly threatened a timely landing, was doing his own egressing, leaving the Townhousi Vaticani at 72nd @ Madison.
Half an hour or so later YT snapped the front and rear of papa's sleek vehicle, part of a monstrously loud motorcade. Not larger, YT noted, than that that had sped W off to god only knows whilst he was in the SA.
So, in honour of my parents, I raised my Leica in one hand, my fist in the other, shouting at the top of my enthusiastic lungs HIIIIIIIII PAPA.
Pictorial evidence below.
(NB: Jetting out on Sunday was delayed and then redelayed. Pilot said due to some VIP flights. Guess who. After a long while he said in his commander voce Look out of the left side and you'll see the Alitalia plane carrying the pope. He left. We left.)
Then, finally, I could continue my wending.
Supped at Gotham (cast of characters: Heady, Dana, DK, Jason with several dozens of extras milling and guffawing and the like in background as ever-watchful Robin in nice Betsey Johnson dress did her thing) and premier plat was, bien sur, Alfred's ***** seafood salad. Then on to his ****** duck, which Heady also ate. There was much passing of food, laughing. I decided we should order our next bottle of vino by number, asking tablemates if they would prefer the 3077 or the 2811. We did decide upon the 2811, a nice crisp white.
Onwards we cabbed to karaoke, as Dana had us booked into a chambre privé at 2nd and 2nd. Highlights: Heady's Celebrity Skin, DK's Werewolves of London.







YT did a little rendition of Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and, living in proximity of Lackawanna in this Middling City, chose to bite on the wannawanna aspect of the tune, in homage to that ditty You're Gonna Wanna Come to Lackawanna.
Lots of wannas.
Then I did a hiphopbitch tune whose title escapes me, for it was a wild card, chosen for its title. Heady stated she was in the fetal position with laughter as I sang my hiphop damnedest.
Made art, GPH was lovely as always. Everyone looked beautiful, and I smiled (as is my wont) at all the dogs.
Below, one trip image fav, entitled Bees on Eleventh.

Turn it up to Eleven, Love.