October 2004 Archives

For the past week, I've been playing the part of Andy Warhol, which is ironic, since Andy Warhol played the part of himself as his artwork. His lasting contribution to Art History was not his Campbell Soup cans or his Cow Wallpaper, rather, it was the enigma of himself.

Not to over-conceptualize everything, but I realized that last year, I was David Bowie for Halloween - whom played Andy Warhol in the movie, Basquiat - and David Bowie's character, Ziggy Stardust was based briskly off of the character of, Alex from the novella/movie, A Clockwork Orange - which, of course, was exactly whom I was the year before dressing as Ziggy. I have no idea what I could become next year to keep this trend going. Perhaps I'll just be myself.

What is it about costumes and Halloween that brings out the decadence of people? Is it just the large amounts of alcohol consumed? Is it the fetish of hiding behind the protection of a mask and because of this, you feel protected to whatever you please? Is it that people just want to be slutty, or evil, or both - but feel somewhat repressed?

I usually need at least two reasons to do something - one reason is basically an excuse to do the main thing. For example, I'll go to the post office if I can get food on the way; I'll start going out with someone if I notice that their record collection is enough to borrow.

So, to dress like Andy Warhol, I decided to not only dress like him, but to act like him, to act like he acted like himself. Somewhat shy, awkward, dirty in thought -but a voyeur in most cases. I acted not that I wanted things to happen to me, but to have things happen around me. To do this, I thought I would have a deeper understand on this particular person I am at the moment obsessing about. In other words, I wouldn't just dress like him, I would be him - to the amazement and annoyance of everyone around me. And, this week, it seemed to work.

Models came into my studio during the gallery's massive Halloween party - The Monster Bash. One model which I had recently finished a portrait of, but I hadn't told her that I even did the painting - because, well, I didn't know her. She came into my studio unexpectedly and saw the huge painting, unexpectantly. She came to the conclusion that she very much liked the painting. I breathed a sigh of relief. Other models liked it as well and before I knew it, was getting names and numbers to schedule photo shoots of them for similar work.

I let at least twenty people into the party that didn't have paid tickets. Not because I liked these people - most of whom I didn't even know, but I wanted to know what would happen if they all came and ran amok. I thought it would cause a little more trouble. The party's theme was one of a haunted carnival, with rides inside that required tickets. I setup my studio as a separate ride itself: Vampire Sex Room. The cost was 200 tickets.

Above all, I took pictures of everyone around me - as long as they were doing naughty things. People - instead of being shy, seemed to be very forthcoming. I don't know if it was the turtleneck, the grey wig or just acting like I was completely ambiguous to the situation and seemed to like Everything, but below are some of the pictures I took with my Polaroid camera.

Above all, if you have a carnival-themed party, make sure to have a kissing booth. Leave gum and mouthwash nearby and let it run itself.

I had to pick up a painting from Core New Art Space. The problem is that the painting is very large - 6' x 6' and my car is very small. My car -

My car got broken into again last Friday. 35th and Brighton is not the safest neighborhood to be in, no matter what the locals at the Whacky Shack will tell you.

They broke my passenger window, took my stereo (of course), but they also took my skateboard. Of all the things to take. My skateboard? My highly customized-with-spraypaint skateboard. Well enough paint on it to pick out a 100 yards away. Pray that I never see that board again. Pray if I do that the person riding it is much smaller, and weaker and considerably well padded -

My skateboard they took, and also my skateboard pads. My skateboard pads? Who steals sweaty, old pads? Who wants to even smell my pads, let alone touch them? These pads, these pads haven't been washed in years - stolen. You get what you pay for. With my stinky pads. You will suffer.

The pads were in a beat up backpack Dhalia had given me once - a beautiful jesture by her. I once thought someone had stolen the bag - years ago. Back then, they held, well, my skateboard pads - and my favorite pair of pants: Doc Marten brand soft cotton canvas pants. They're covered with a layer of orange and blue paint now to be unwearable, but I still have them. Somewhere.

I love looking around to what these people didn't steal. I had recently saw the Alarmists at Monkey Mania. I bought a CD. And a tape. And a copy of the tape on CD. All packaged up. All new. Brand new. Wrapped up. Not taken.

I had my entire collection of spray paint in the back of the car. Right next to my backpack. Surely someone would want spraypaint. Perhaps the same kind of people who break windows of cheap cars. Nope. They stayed.

I love knowing that someone breaks my passenger window; as my driver's side window doesn't need to be broken to gain entrance. It, literally, bends enough for you to stick your hand in and unloock the door. I know. Because, I break into my car all the time.

It's not that I feel that my personal space has been violated. I. Don't. It's. That I didn't want to put more money into this car. Winter is coming. I'll need a window. I need a car that's less of a money pit and sell the one I have now to someone that's 16 for $300.

I had to pick up a painting from Core New Art Space. The problem is that the painting is very large - 6' x 6'! My idea was to drive to Core, pick up the painting, and walk it two houses to my buddy, Buddy's place and put it on his wall.

I rang the doorbell. I knocked on the door. No answer. He wasn't home.

So, I decided. I had all this negative energy to get rid of. So, I walked the painting from 9th and Santa Fe, right through downtown to 21st and Market.

It's not that the painting is heavy, it's just - well it's sort of like the sail of a boat and Sunday was windy and there was chance of rain. But what can ye dae?

What a beautiful thing to do. Walk a very large - huge painting across downtown.

I passed the last of the Santa Fe arts district.

I skirted the Auraria Campus.

I kissed the Denver Convention Center.

I walked across the 16th Street Mall - the heart of downtown.

I made people look at my painting and I. Cars slowed down, people, when passing, would always pass on the side the painting was faced. Bums made silly jokes. More people saw my painting the 45 minutes it took me to walk it home than the did the entire month it was hanging in the gallery. Different people, too.

It made me happier.

I walked the painting past the Museum of Contemporary Art. I walked it a few more blocks home and hung it back on the wall I finished the painting on a month ago.

I rested.

And then I walked back the same way and picked up my car.

Zing Magazine

(from a Bukowski poem)

I go outside and pick an orange and peel back the bright skin;
things are still living: the grass is growing quite well,
the sun sends down its rays circled by a Russian satellite,
a dog barks senselessly somewhere, the neighbors peek behind the blinds.
I am a stranger here, and have been (I suppose) somewhat the rogue,
and I have no doubt he painted me quite well (the old boy and I
fought like mountain lions) and they say he left it all to some woman
in Duarte but I don't give a damn - she can have it: he was my old man

and he died.

(me, three years ago, today.)