stillife, photo Katya GrokhovskyCiao NYC: things that go rapidly through my mind and pass by, eventually landing strategically in front of me, watching me sadly, as I listen to random music selection on I-tunes. Chinatown, bean curd and hot and sour soup. Extreme fatigue and daily desire for solitude increase steadily, as the hot streets of New York burn my feet. The Strand and hours of books. Uncontrollable urge to read absolutely all. Overstimulation and under-production are merging and piling up , slowly growing into a monstrous fluctuating mountain of ideas. DIA Beacon, The New Yorker and freshly squeezed fruit morning juice "eye-opener": carrot, celery, orange, ginger...
Eyes. Richard Serra and sudden vertigo, dominated and squashed. Rescued by Bourgeois, smothered by her "Maman", the spider, caught, layered and drawn in. I will never leave.
Minimalism does not agree with me on most days. Joseph Beuys, felt-ed and caressed.
DIA bookshop:
Joseph Beuys, The reader
Books bought at The Strand:
Childsplay the art of Allan Kaprow, Jeff Kelley
No one here belongs more than you, Stories by Miranda July
What I talk about, when I talk about running, a memoir, Haruki Murakami
Susan Sontag, Regarding the pain of others
Shocking life, The Autobiography of Elsa Schiaparelli
The post human DADA guide, Tzara and Lenin play chess, Andrei Codrescu
Marina Abramovic, The Artist is present
New Museum's bookshop:
Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia
Pavement pounding daily, miles of art looked at, attention spanning faster and harder, thoughts of open waters and ships, disappearing into long distance travel. Third week , New York presses harder against me, I am awash with guilty pleasures of reading in. I am sorry, I cannot see anymore. Seeing, as wanting, I can no longer want, I am full, no longer ready to run , I consume blueberries by the cold hand full and enjoy the current sudden alonness of the dorm room. Just for now.
Karaoke in Chinatown at winnies and not-so-cheap gin and tonic, I sing along with others, too shy to karaoke myself, yes, shy. Fun! shrimp in sweet tropical sauce (what is that?), caramelized wallnuts and too much broccolli, prolonged train ride to Mary Heilmann's studio and The Hamptons, one of Madonna's houses is around the corner, is it?, Earl, the overweight beautiful dog and spicy chicken, peacufull mental pause and no sound of police sirens, American flags and churches, wealthy looking, over-priced and overvalued antique and outdoor furniture stores, fake salon tans and shiny people, their large groomed dogs: rotten teeth salute us at the front desk of Dan Flavin Institute situated in an old baptist church, the front-desk guy smiles widely and greets us with genuine enjoyment, he must have been here a while, neon cross: really? PS1, Chelsea, Whitney independent study studio program opening at Art in General: and finally: last day of class ends with SAIC alumni night at Cue Foundation. Good food, wine and familiar faces fill the room. Sense of history and belonging suddenly hit me and I am teary. Drunk buzzy happiness, sense of achievement and hopefull greatness ahead.
We start our class with saying goodbye to Louise Bourgeois and end with the death of Sigmar Polke. RIP and Bon Voyage.
Broken: favourite shoes, left standing on the pavement in New York. Thank you Returning soon.taxi and flights to California.
Somewhere is my sleepy flip-paradise. Books, mangoes, sea and cold white sheets, hammocks, fresh love and open spaces, raw conversations, dance on sand, silk dresses and espresso martinis, fire-barbecued sea food, Russian songs......I am not romantic, I protest at dinner, I am not, I am not....sitting in front of an open window, as I am writing this, Chelsea outside, I retreat, ok, I am a fully blown decadent Romantic. Lay me down onto a decaying dishevelled brocade covered bed, in frayed burnt silks, blood and thirst, sweat and tears, ice and fire, lay me down with knives and foxes, wolves and dingoes, feathers and mink coats, black pearls and rough cut diamonds, shower me with rose petals, thorns and french champagne, scratch my skin and crawl...black and gold caviar, cowebs and millions of cherries, lace covered legs: drown me in murky bloody waters of Ophelia, cry over my young curves in my diamond encrusted coffin, read Pushkin and Nabokov to me in soft whisper, sing loudly, play a crying violin, dance like it is the last time you will ever dance on this planet, turn me into a crying tragic suffering being and beg, scream and unveil, die ....
Romance and bad.
