My guitar teacher when I was a child was called Greta and she was a beautiful woman. She followed her parents from Belgium to Canada during the sixties and soon became addicted to cocaine.
She wore flowing white dresses most of the time, and her fingernails were never painted. Her hair was blond and wavy, her lips red and her skin a pale white. I was only eight when our affair began.
Before every kiss, Greta felt compelled to reveal a secret about herself. Most of the time I was too short of both leg and arm to understand what she meant but her accent made these secrets seem vital and earth-shattering. Words like "Strap-on" and "homeless man" were blurry blurbs but fluttered from her lips to my ears like drunk butterflies.
We made love often, usually after she taught me a song written by one Stevie Nicks. My friends at school laughed upon discovering that I was no longer a virgin but I knew that one day, they too would no longer be virgins. Save for the one with horrific acne, I was right.
Greta is now an anchor at FOXNews and we no longer speak.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Love Letter
The following is a letter I uncovered in a dusty old chest. I found the chest on the beach, buried deep in sand. The sender and receiver are unknown.
Dear Sir,
It's been weeks since we've spoken and even longer since we've seen one another. I don't understand why you have chosen this course of action. To say your motives are mysterious would be a grave understatement.
I understand that these are trying times for you. You have far more to worry about than me, and although I may comprehend it, I will not accept it. I cannot accept it. I walk the streets of New York and there you are--your bold and noble image ablaze on television screens and newsreels, and clutched by boys with papers in their hands. Your name travels between the lips of an entire planet and your resolve fills the cracks of the sidewalks on which I walk.
You are there and I am here. Our night was one, and the details are beginning to dim. I remember your furious grasp and I remember the way you drank wine. Your lips were thin like paper, your eyes, filled with the fire of an army and the torture of a lonely writer. You cradled me much like a doting father cradles a child he loves. I know you love me or once did.
There are rumors here of terrible things that you've done. Some Jewish colleagues of mine have heard disconcerting reports--things of a very violent nature. They are disturbing but inconclusive. I refuse to believe that a man so astute at handling my clitoris with his tongue, could be responsible for such unspeakable crimes against humanity. You, a man who caressed my supple breasts with so much poetry in each touch, could never be responsible for the rumored extermination of an entire race.
I can't believe anything they say about you here because I love you. I cannot take being apart from you any longer. I met some soldiers last month and they offered me a voyage to France free of cost. I leave tomorrow and will arrive on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. I will be in Berlin in no time. Wait for me my love, because God only knows I have waited for you.
Love and kisses,
Me.
Dear Sir,
It's been weeks since we've spoken and even longer since we've seen one another. I don't understand why you have chosen this course of action. To say your motives are mysterious would be a grave understatement.
I understand that these are trying times for you. You have far more to worry about than me, and although I may comprehend it, I will not accept it. I cannot accept it. I walk the streets of New York and there you are--your bold and noble image ablaze on television screens and newsreels, and clutched by boys with papers in their hands. Your name travels between the lips of an entire planet and your resolve fills the cracks of the sidewalks on which I walk.
You are there and I am here. Our night was one, and the details are beginning to dim. I remember your furious grasp and I remember the way you drank wine. Your lips were thin like paper, your eyes, filled with the fire of an army and the torture of a lonely writer. You cradled me much like a doting father cradles a child he loves. I know you love me or once did.
There are rumors here of terrible things that you've done. Some Jewish colleagues of mine have heard disconcerting reports--things of a very violent nature. They are disturbing but inconclusive. I refuse to believe that a man so astute at handling my clitoris with his tongue, could be responsible for such unspeakable crimes against humanity. You, a man who caressed my supple breasts with so much poetry in each touch, could never be responsible for the rumored extermination of an entire race.
I can't believe anything they say about you here because I love you. I cannot take being apart from you any longer. I met some soldiers last month and they offered me a voyage to France free of cost. I leave tomorrow and will arrive on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th. I will be in Berlin in no time. Wait for me my love, because God only knows I have waited for you.
Love and kisses,
Me.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Great Train Robbery
The exhibit was called What I shouldn't do for love and it was Jacques Renard's first. I hadn't seen my friend since art school and was shocked to see that he now had only one leg instead of his usual two.
When we were young, he would sleep with a new woman almost daily. Contemporary dancers, polyamorous vegans, film actresses, long distance runners, sous chefs, stage actresses, poets, teaching assistants, sommeliers, somnambulists. He met a woman who had been studying at the Sorbonne and was in Montreal for a few months writing a thesis on art and humanism in Florence during the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici. They fell in love and he left with her to France.
Jacques and I were fierce competitors throughout our academic years and I was crippled with jealousy when first i learned of his vernissage. For years I have been rejected by a myriad of foundations, councils, museums and galleries, all reluctant to show my work. Apparently there isn't any room or appreciation for my post-awesome interpretation of the AIDS virus using dilapidated apple printers and ground coriander.
As I walked through the halls admiring my old friend's work, I noticed a crowd had gathered at the other end where Jacques was. He stood under his own leg which had been crudely tacked onto the wall behind him. It was a shocking, hideous piece of work but it was brilliant and captivating and brutal and so perfect. Jacques had removed his own leg, a horrific and blunt act of self-mutilation in the name of art.
He told me later that night over a cold whiskey how he lost his leg.
"Anna and I were having a picnic and were involved in a heated argument. She ran away and I foolishly chased after her. She is faster than me and I lost her. I searched and searched and had it no been for her vicious screams in the distance I might have lost her forever. She was stuck in the train tracks you see, and only I could save her. The train was coming fast and hard. I dislodged her in the nick of time and saved her life. My leg however, was removed by the train and now hangs on that gallery wall for all to see. But I saved my Anna's life."
"Was it worth it?" I asked, dumbfounded by his tale.
" No. It wasn't." he said, while sipping his drink. " I dumped her 3 weeks later. She got fat."
When we were young, he would sleep with a new woman almost daily. Contemporary dancers, polyamorous vegans, film actresses, long distance runners, sous chefs, stage actresses, poets, teaching assistants, sommeliers, somnambulists. He met a woman who had been studying at the Sorbonne and was in Montreal for a few months writing a thesis on art and humanism in Florence during the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici. They fell in love and he left with her to France.
Jacques and I were fierce competitors throughout our academic years and I was crippled with jealousy when first i learned of his vernissage. For years I have been rejected by a myriad of foundations, councils, museums and galleries, all reluctant to show my work. Apparently there isn't any room or appreciation for my post-awesome interpretation of the AIDS virus using dilapidated apple printers and ground coriander.
As I walked through the halls admiring my old friend's work, I noticed a crowd had gathered at the other end where Jacques was. He stood under his own leg which had been crudely tacked onto the wall behind him. It was a shocking, hideous piece of work but it was brilliant and captivating and brutal and so perfect. Jacques had removed his own leg, a horrific and blunt act of self-mutilation in the name of art.
He told me later that night over a cold whiskey how he lost his leg.
"Anna and I were having a picnic and were involved in a heated argument. She ran away and I foolishly chased after her. She is faster than me and I lost her. I searched and searched and had it no been for her vicious screams in the distance I might have lost her forever. She was stuck in the train tracks you see, and only I could save her. The train was coming fast and hard. I dislodged her in the nick of time and saved her life. My leg however, was removed by the train and now hangs on that gallery wall for all to see. But I saved my Anna's life."
"Was it worth it?" I asked, dumbfounded by his tale.
" No. It wasn't." he said, while sipping his drink. " I dumped her 3 weeks later. She got fat."
Monday, June 23, 2008
And I will always love Bryan
An unmarked bus took me to an unmarked warehouse to meet a man wearing a cloth bag over his head. Black holes were in place of his eyes and he had no mouth. We stared at one another silently and I waved. His arms didn't move.
His tweed jacket hung to his ankles and his pants fit him well. His attire told me he was a man who knew business. The geometric design of his pinky ring told me he was an admirer of Etruscan jewelry. His refusal to wave back told me he was not very friendly.
My mother once told me that I was friendly and I've since taken great pride in that. My high school was filled with social invalids but I did my best at pretending to be their friend. Bryan McMullon in particular, struck me as odd. Maybe it was because he never groomed his thin mustache, or maybe it was because he concocted an intricate baseball/handball hybrid professional sporting league in his head and played out all the games alone against a wall in a courtyard, but he always just struck me as odd.
To be fair, a boy of his frail physique, crumpled facial features, and often grotesque choices of wardrobe, never really had a shot. I, along with a few of my sympathetic friends, often asked him how his league was going before putting his face through a locker. Of course the interest was feigned, but the effort was there no less.
The man in the warehouse, still refusing to wave, left me alone at which point I began to masturbate.
His tweed jacket hung to his ankles and his pants fit him well. His attire told me he was a man who knew business. The geometric design of his pinky ring told me he was an admirer of Etruscan jewelry. His refusal to wave back told me he was not very friendly.
My mother once told me that I was friendly and I've since taken great pride in that. My high school was filled with social invalids but I did my best at pretending to be their friend. Bryan McMullon in particular, struck me as odd. Maybe it was because he never groomed his thin mustache, or maybe it was because he concocted an intricate baseball/handball hybrid professional sporting league in his head and played out all the games alone against a wall in a courtyard, but he always just struck me as odd.
To be fair, a boy of his frail physique, crumpled facial features, and often grotesque choices of wardrobe, never really had a shot. I, along with a few of my sympathetic friends, often asked him how his league was going before putting his face through a locker. Of course the interest was feigned, but the effort was there no less.
The man in the warehouse, still refusing to wave, left me alone at which point I began to masturbate.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I'm afraid of Latin Americans
Rodrigo, an old friend from my days in film school called me recently and needed help. He wasn't in any kind of danger, which relieved me. After twenty minutes or so of speaking excitedly over the telephone I hung up and booked a flight to Chile.
My seat was smaller than I had hoped but the woman next to me was symmetrical and British, so I was pleased. She smelt like Pina Coladas and worked in fashion, and her cleavage made up for the soggy fish that was served for lunch. We spoke about my life and hers, and time slipped away and clouds passed us by.
She was on her way to attend the launch of Maria Cornejo's new summer line, which was to be unveiled on the steps of the Bellas Artes Museum in the heart of downtown Santiago. Cornejo's clothes have a simplicity and elegance that is undeniable, but her dresses are often meandering and lack a certain edge. My British friend disagreed and offered me a peanut. I accepted.
Rodrigo moved to Chile three years ago after landing a job as a reporter for El Mercurio. Thousands of city workers were on strike and Rodrigo required my expertise in Chilean Labor laws to help him cover the story. I was also very good at dealing with impassioned Latin Americans but Rodrigo had yet to find that out.
I was to meet Rodrigo in the evening to go over notes, which gave me a full day to drink with my British friend. We ate what was perhaps the most succulent Curanto en Hoyo that I've ever tasted and drank bottles of Cabernet franc, Pinot noir, Sangiovese, Malbec, and Petite Sirah. We were drunk and made love under the hot Chilean sun.
Rodrigo was waiting for me outside of my hotel room with an impatient look tattooed on his otherwise placating face. His hair was thick and royal and could easily be sold to the highest bidder. Chile had treated my friend well. He looked fresh and his teeth were white and his jeans were tight. He wasn't wearing any socks.
The strike was being referred to as a lost cause by the Chilean intelligentsia. Rodrigo and I agreed. Workers masked their desire to increase their influence within the ruling centre-left coalition with basic monetary demands. It was bush-league and inconsequential and I preferred drinking wine and making love than concerning myself with the politics of a country best known for its Curanto en Hoyo.
I returned to Thornhill the following day to watch Family Guy with my dad.
My seat was smaller than I had hoped but the woman next to me was symmetrical and British, so I was pleased. She smelt like Pina Coladas and worked in fashion, and her cleavage made up for the soggy fish that was served for lunch. We spoke about my life and hers, and time slipped away and clouds passed us by.
She was on her way to attend the launch of Maria Cornejo's new summer line, which was to be unveiled on the steps of the Bellas Artes Museum in the heart of downtown Santiago. Cornejo's clothes have a simplicity and elegance that is undeniable, but her dresses are often meandering and lack a certain edge. My British friend disagreed and offered me a peanut. I accepted.
Rodrigo moved to Chile three years ago after landing a job as a reporter for El Mercurio. Thousands of city workers were on strike and Rodrigo required my expertise in Chilean Labor laws to help him cover the story. I was also very good at dealing with impassioned Latin Americans but Rodrigo had yet to find that out.
I was to meet Rodrigo in the evening to go over notes, which gave me a full day to drink with my British friend. We ate what was perhaps the most succulent Curanto en Hoyo that I've ever tasted and drank bottles of Cabernet franc, Pinot noir, Sangiovese, Malbec, and Petite Sirah. We were drunk and made love under the hot Chilean sun.
Rodrigo was waiting for me outside of my hotel room with an impatient look tattooed on his otherwise placating face. His hair was thick and royal and could easily be sold to the highest bidder. Chile had treated my friend well. He looked fresh and his teeth were white and his jeans were tight. He wasn't wearing any socks.
The strike was being referred to as a lost cause by the Chilean intelligentsia. Rodrigo and I agreed. Workers masked their desire to increase their influence within the ruling centre-left coalition with basic monetary demands. It was bush-league and inconsequential and I preferred drinking wine and making love than concerning myself with the politics of a country best known for its Curanto en Hoyo.
I returned to Thornhill the following day to watch Family Guy with my dad.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
In Memorium: Linnny G.
I went to the park with my friend Linny today. It was the day after her birthday so naturally I brought her an almond croissant and a latte. She hated them both.
Linny wore white tights that made her bum look smooth and proud. Her purple top, which had the words "Deport me" emblazoned in large pink letters across her chest, sat loosely on her fair, clean skin. She looked good enough to eat.
Our plans for the day were fleeting--set in anything but stone. She brought a book of Sudoku puzzles and an anthology of poetry written by Venezuelan orphans. I called her and her little books silly and she threw grass in my face.
We sat underneath a giant oak tree a few feet from one another. The sounds of rackets and bats hitting balls and sloppy men drinking beer echoed in the distance. My eyes were closed and my heavy head rested on my knapsack. Linny's pen scratched dutifully away at her Japanese puzzles and her frequent exhales of annoyance told me that she wasn't very good.
Linny and I met a few years ago at a party thrown by my publicist. She was vibrant and alive and different than the cocaine-addled models that had made a habit of throwing themselves at me. Linny's eyes were big and bright and full of secrets. I asked her to dance and she told me to fuck off and die. I called her a hatchet-face. We kissed. Our teeth bumped and she bit my upper lip. It was awkward and unpleasant. We spent the rest of the night alone in the courtyard of Jerome's (my publicist) home. Linny was passionate about Venezuelan politics and we discussed fervently the policies of Hugo Chavez--in particular the cronyism, political patronage, and corruption that we both agreed plagued his regime.
I realized then that Linny was too intelligent to sleep with. I had too much respect for her and therefor could not degrade her sexually, as I was accustomed to doing to women of her age (18) and her body type (pretty perfect). Instead, she would become my adviser, my closest confidante, and above all--a dear, dear friend.
It was Linny who told me to leave Montreal and move back to the suburbs with my parents. It was Linny who told me to buy that pair of skinny jeans, regardless of my thick and chunky thighs. It was Linny who told me to fire Jerome, walk away from my six picture deal at universal, and take a job serving burgers at Wayne Gretzky's instead. Without her sagacious and knowing counsel, I wouldn't be where I am today and for that, I am eternally grateful.
* * *
Linny passed away three days after that day in the park. She was 21.
Linny wore white tights that made her bum look smooth and proud. Her purple top, which had the words "Deport me" emblazoned in large pink letters across her chest, sat loosely on her fair, clean skin. She looked good enough to eat.
Our plans for the day were fleeting--set in anything but stone. She brought a book of Sudoku puzzles and an anthology of poetry written by Venezuelan orphans. I called her and her little books silly and she threw grass in my face.
We sat underneath a giant oak tree a few feet from one another. The sounds of rackets and bats hitting balls and sloppy men drinking beer echoed in the distance. My eyes were closed and my heavy head rested on my knapsack. Linny's pen scratched dutifully away at her Japanese puzzles and her frequent exhales of annoyance told me that she wasn't very good.
Linny and I met a few years ago at a party thrown by my publicist. She was vibrant and alive and different than the cocaine-addled models that had made a habit of throwing themselves at me. Linny's eyes were big and bright and full of secrets. I asked her to dance and she told me to fuck off and die. I called her a hatchet-face. We kissed. Our teeth bumped and she bit my upper lip. It was awkward and unpleasant. We spent the rest of the night alone in the courtyard of Jerome's (my publicist) home. Linny was passionate about Venezuelan politics and we discussed fervently the policies of Hugo Chavez--in particular the cronyism, political patronage, and corruption that we both agreed plagued his regime.
I realized then that Linny was too intelligent to sleep with. I had too much respect for her and therefor could not degrade her sexually, as I was accustomed to doing to women of her age (18) and her body type (pretty perfect). Instead, she would become my adviser, my closest confidante, and above all--a dear, dear friend.
It was Linny who told me to leave Montreal and move back to the suburbs with my parents. It was Linny who told me to buy that pair of skinny jeans, regardless of my thick and chunky thighs. It was Linny who told me to fire Jerome, walk away from my six picture deal at universal, and take a job serving burgers at Wayne Gretzky's instead. Without her sagacious and knowing counsel, I wouldn't be where I am today and for that, I am eternally grateful.
* * *
Linny passed away three days after that day in the park. She was 21.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Robert and I
I had a meeting today, and the goosebumps elicited by said meeting have yet to leave my skin. I answered an ad on craigslist, posted by a documentary filmmaker looking for an intern to help him on an upcoming project.
After months of combing through craigslist for an opportunity such as this, only to be met by wet-footed students and salacious older men, I was relieved to have finally been in the presence of someone who clearly knew what he was doing.
His name is Robert and by god he is a lion of a man. We sat for hours on the patio of the Drake Hotel--a stream of coffee slowly leading to an ocean of beer. Robert is a striking man, his face looking as though it was drawn by Jack Kirby himself. His hair is a dusty gold and his teeth a blinding ivory white. He has to be at least sixty years old but the pretty, hipper-than-thou twenty-somethings that peppered the sun-stroked patio couldn't look away.
For hours in the shade, then sun, and in shade again we discussed (passionately, at times) a cornucopia of subjects. He has made an enemy of Dubya and was deeply affected by the recent passing of Sydney Pollack, almost as if he had lost a close friend. Robert spoke intelligently and carefully about the arts, and in particular the theater. He nostalgically reminisced about the golden years of Miller and Williams, reveries freely leaving his lips and planting themselves firmly onto my conscience. I was in the company of a man well-read, something that's always made me a little nervous.
The hours sailed by as my missed calls and unanswered texts piled up. Robert's Blackberry lay inconspicuously on the table and was never a distraction. We spoke briefly about his upcoming project, a historical surveillance of Jackie Robinson's road to the majors. He could have told me he was shooting a documentary on the health hazards of decapitation and was in need of a guinea pig, and I still would have gladly volunteered. Thankfully, I would only be traveling with him to Cooperstown and to Cairo, Georgia as an assistant researcher and occasional boom operator. However, something tells me I will still manage to lose my head.
I look forward to working with this man. He is an authoritative figure but remains approachable. He looks like a movie star as much as he does a retired mountaineer. There is a weight to Robert that is unmistakable and a charm that is presidential.
At one point our waitress--with a Monroe piercing and a tattoo of a raging bull covering the left side of her neck--nervously asked Robert for his autograph. "Sure sweetheart, no problem." he replied graciously as he autographed a crumpled cocktail napkin. "Does that happen often?" I asked, surprised that an independent documentary filmmaker with a social bent had, um, groupies. "You'd be surprised." he said, licking the stout from his upper lip.
Needless to say I am very excited about the heaps and mounds and piles of potential that have been suddenly thrown my way. I am excited to begin work on this film with Robert, but I am utterly grateful that I get to spend more time with the man. He is sensitive to the needs of young artists and has a soft spot for independent filmmaking. He didn't go into much detail, but at one point Robert mentioned a film festival that he founded many years ago in Park City, Utah. Apparently it has become a haven for those on the outskirts of Hollywood--men and women with cameras but no real outlets for their work. Sundance I believe he called it. Interesting name.
From our conversations today, I know in my heart that this "Sundance" of his will succeed. Robert is a man of true ambition and conviction and for him, failure does not seem to be an option. I'm just hoping some of his stuff will eventually rub off on me.
Here is a picture of my new friend Robert and I walking along Queen Street West.
After months of combing through craigslist for an opportunity such as this, only to be met by wet-footed students and salacious older men, I was relieved to have finally been in the presence of someone who clearly knew what he was doing.
His name is Robert and by god he is a lion of a man. We sat for hours on the patio of the Drake Hotel--a stream of coffee slowly leading to an ocean of beer. Robert is a striking man, his face looking as though it was drawn by Jack Kirby himself. His hair is a dusty gold and his teeth a blinding ivory white. He has to be at least sixty years old but the pretty, hipper-than-thou twenty-somethings that peppered the sun-stroked patio couldn't look away.
For hours in the shade, then sun, and in shade again we discussed (passionately, at times) a cornucopia of subjects. He has made an enemy of Dubya and was deeply affected by the recent passing of Sydney Pollack, almost as if he had lost a close friend. Robert spoke intelligently and carefully about the arts, and in particular the theater. He nostalgically reminisced about the golden years of Miller and Williams, reveries freely leaving his lips and planting themselves firmly onto my conscience. I was in the company of a man well-read, something that's always made me a little nervous.
The hours sailed by as my missed calls and unanswered texts piled up. Robert's Blackberry lay inconspicuously on the table and was never a distraction. We spoke briefly about his upcoming project, a historical surveillance of Jackie Robinson's road to the majors. He could have told me he was shooting a documentary on the health hazards of decapitation and was in need of a guinea pig, and I still would have gladly volunteered. Thankfully, I would only be traveling with him to Cooperstown and to Cairo, Georgia as an assistant researcher and occasional boom operator. However, something tells me I will still manage to lose my head.
I look forward to working with this man. He is an authoritative figure but remains approachable. He looks like a movie star as much as he does a retired mountaineer. There is a weight to Robert that is unmistakable and a charm that is presidential.
At one point our waitress--with a Monroe piercing and a tattoo of a raging bull covering the left side of her neck--nervously asked Robert for his autograph. "Sure sweetheart, no problem." he replied graciously as he autographed a crumpled cocktail napkin. "Does that happen often?" I asked, surprised that an independent documentary filmmaker with a social bent had, um, groupies. "You'd be surprised." he said, licking the stout from his upper lip.
Needless to say I am very excited about the heaps and mounds and piles of potential that have been suddenly thrown my way. I am excited to begin work on this film with Robert, but I am utterly grateful that I get to spend more time with the man. He is sensitive to the needs of young artists and has a soft spot for independent filmmaking. He didn't go into much detail, but at one point Robert mentioned a film festival that he founded many years ago in Park City, Utah. Apparently it has become a haven for those on the outskirts of Hollywood--men and women with cameras but no real outlets for their work. Sundance I believe he called it. Interesting name.
From our conversations today, I know in my heart that this "Sundance" of his will succeed. Robert is a man of true ambition and conviction and for him, failure does not seem to be an option. I'm just hoping some of his stuff will eventually rub off on me.
Here is a picture of my new friend Robert and I walking along Queen Street West.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Some Literature.
I somehow must prove to myself that I am creative. I have been creative in the past, and hopefully I will one day be creative again. The problem is I'm not exactly sure how to go about doing so. A mere poem won't cut it. Neither will a half-baked short story. I can't draw so a drawing of some sort is out the window. I can't play an instrument or carry a tune so a song is completely out of the question. Interpretive dance is an interesting idea but I am as limber as I am graceful.
Boy these doors sure do shut quickly don't they.
Clothing design is intriguing as it usually leads to a glamorous lifestyle where plastic women and exclusive parties are run-of-the-mill. But alas, my ability to express myself through fashion is average at best. Photography is an obvious choice, but it has become too common and accessible. Take a digital camera to Rio De Janeiro and you have yourself a coffee table book.
Filmmaking, which is by far the most visible of all current art forms is way too daunting. If I were to make a movie I would have to write, photograph, dance, sing and sew. I'll leave that one to whiskey-swilling cowboys and confused kids from the Bronx.
I guess I'm left with only a handful of options, most of which will get me little if no publicity. Papier mache could be fun but from what i understand it gets quite messy and I live with my parents; best to avoid unnecessary conflict. I could maybe delee into the world of installation art, perhaps by tacking a lock of my mother's hair onto a wall painted in cow's blood, but I risk crossing that thin line of pretentiousness that art school so vehemently told me to avoid.
Crocheting is for grannies and finger painting is for babies. Graffiti is for hustlers, and hairdressing is for gays. Jewelry-making is for Peruvians and silkscreening is for hipsters.
I am a lacklustre suburbanite with mediocre social skills, a penchant for drinking too much, and pining after things I can't have.
I got it!
I'll start a blog.
Boy these doors sure do shut quickly don't they.
Clothing design is intriguing as it usually leads to a glamorous lifestyle where plastic women and exclusive parties are run-of-the-mill. But alas, my ability to express myself through fashion is average at best. Photography is an obvious choice, but it has become too common and accessible. Take a digital camera to Rio De Janeiro and you have yourself a coffee table book.
Filmmaking, which is by far the most visible of all current art forms is way too daunting. If I were to make a movie I would have to write, photograph, dance, sing and sew. I'll leave that one to whiskey-swilling cowboys and confused kids from the Bronx.
I guess I'm left with only a handful of options, most of which will get me little if no publicity. Papier mache could be fun but from what i understand it gets quite messy and I live with my parents; best to avoid unnecessary conflict. I could maybe delee into the world of installation art, perhaps by tacking a lock of my mother's hair onto a wall painted in cow's blood, but I risk crossing that thin line of pretentiousness that art school so vehemently told me to avoid.
Crocheting is for grannies and finger painting is for babies. Graffiti is for hustlers, and hairdressing is for gays. Jewelry-making is for Peruvians and silkscreening is for hipsters.
I am a lacklustre suburbanite with mediocre social skills, a penchant for drinking too much, and pining after things I can't have.
I got it!
I'll start a blog.
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