Exquisite Corpse: Teen Goth!
by angeliska on November 30, 2011
This is Cinamon. I remember seeing her on the very same day, though I didn’t take this photograph of her.
I was probably 12 at the time, and as I passed by her on The Drag down by Sound Exchange, the trajectory
of my life changed. I was completely mesmerized. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen – a vision
in black tatters, a gorgeous alien-wraith who seemed like an apparition, drifting down a banal sidewalk in the
bright Texas sun. I stopped and told her how beautiful I thought she was, and she was so sweet to me. I’ve held
this photo dear for years, a treasured gift from a mutual friend. She was such a huge influence on not only my style,
but scores of others, (maybe even yours!) – Cinamon was the original inspiration for Neil Gaiman’s Death character
from the Sandman series. Her friend Mike Dringenberg drew her years before, and by an odd twist of chance
(or fate), this woman unwittingly helped shape the style of scads of wee gothlings. Cheers to you, Cinamon!
Dressing like a Russian vampire countess was my thing even back then – pretty hilarious,
considering that this was in Texas. I wore that fur hat and coat everywhere, despite the mild weather.
Oh, and – this was taken in a Whataburger at 3am. The cereal box was because of my friend
Christopher Daniello, who wrote songs about Raisin Bran, and liked to photograph people holding it.
I got inspired on a gray day to take “post-apocalyptic” gloomy goth photos of my best friend Pandora in my backyard.
I always really loved how this photo of her turned out – it has nice movement to it, despite (or because of)
being taken with a crappy-ass disposable camera. Oh the angst! The torment!
The rusty wreckage & glow-in-the dark rosaries! Oh, and she’s 11 years old here. Ummm…
Pandora, Renee and I being weird and bitchy at some party.
This one was taken by Pandora’s papa, at their dining room table. Note my clever accessorizing with black cat and juice boxes.
Teen goth afterschool special all the way. Also, I love how her dad insisted on having Dali’s Last Supper hanging in there.
I love that my sweet granny took these photos. All four of my grandparents were the most accepting, tolerant and loving
a grandchild could ask for. I was so blessed to have them. No matter how bizarre or dark my ensemble, they were always
able to look beyond it, and just see me. I think you can see the love in these photos. I know it’s there, caught like a lizard in
amber – the memory of my grandparent’s wonderful backyard in Los Angeles, the smell of lemons and oranges from their
trees, spicy roses, ice cream and fir needles. I asked my grandmother what she thought of my outfit, and she said that I’d
be more beautiful without the black lipstick, but that that was just her opinion. She captured me as I was. So much love.
My mom’s beautiful antique rosaries which I destroyed and then lost.
Still regret doing that, dammit! Also, a neon yellow rat, because, you know.
Aw, look – it’s baby’s first pair of Doc Martens! They were oxblood steel-toe
and I bought them on sale. I really wanted 20-hole boots, but these were all I
could afford on my three dollar a week chore-slave allowance. The rest I spent
on clove cigarettes and LSD. Sorry ma + pa! I turned out all right, though!
Dancing for New Bohemia’s first fashion show. I think I’m maybe 14 or 15 here? Jeez.
That was me watching Nick Cave and falling in love before swooning from sunstroke.
Baby vampires + outdoor summer music festivals are a bad combo. Lollapalooza 1994
was my first and last! I fainted on the ground and everyone just thought I was on
drugs and stepped over me. It was pretty rad. At least I made it into the paper, I guess.
Moving into some club kid-isms. Electrical tape bra + kiddie barrettes. Hey there 1990s.
My sweetheart Colin, pre-beard. Who would have known that 18 years later,
I’ve ended up with my perfect sulky goth-boy dreamboat? He’s a lot less sulky
(with way more facial hair!) these days, but he still insists that we have
Skinny Puppy marathons on long road trips and is prone to pensiveness!
Is he not the prettiest goth-boy, ever? Yes, yes he is. Major swoon!
11.11.11 – Eleven Eleven Eleven – A wish.
by angeliska on November 11, 2011
(Photo of us by Chip Warren)
11.11.11 – the day we intended to be our wedding day. For reasons beyond our control, we decided that it would be wisest to postpone the celebration, and hopefully be more ready to do it justice a year from today. It’s just numbers, just another day out of the year, I know – but still, I want to take the time to honor it for what it is to me, to us. A magical occurrence – my favorite number. I always wished on 11:11, always managed to catch it both morning and night, and was taught from an early age to make a wish when it happened. It wasn’t until years later, when I got a copy of my birth certificate that I realized that I had been born at exactly 11:11am. On the 10th day of the 1st month – another eleven. I’ve never been much of a numbers person – I’m not mathematically inclined, but I have always ascribed some magical and even emotional significance to them. I have always believed in the power of wishing – call it praying, positive thinking, or just creating your own reality, but it’s always worked for me. Not always in the ways I had expected, but my wishes do tend to come true in one way or another. So, with the full moon high above our little bed, far, far away from everything familiar, in the desert of West Texas, I make these wishes – for us, for him and for me. I wish with hope and love. I wish.
This one.
Owl-eyes that contract and expand when they alight upon me, making shivers run up my spine even after these six years in each other’s company. My tall drink of clear water, my true arrow. Colin, sweet and strong, the blacksmith who courted me and won my heart all in the space of one afternoon, one moment where I woke from rainbow goblin dreams to find him kneeling at the foot of my bed, my hands suddenly running through the thick bear pelt of his hair, and us locked in a kiss, a lover’s knot from which we’ve never come unbound. It was never a question, from that moment on – our lives were twined like ivy.
He is stubborn as steel, the steel he commands with his hammer and forge. He is that bull, sweet in the field, horns garlanded with wildflowers. He has taught me so much about kindness, about honesty, about generosity. He inspires me to be better, to be stronger, more fearless, more fierce. He is both mighty and gentle. Sometimes I think that he is not of this earth – that he is a tree-spirit come to life, a bird-king, long-taloned and downy-chested. He is the deep water – the purest subterranean river – elusive, mysterious, unknowable. After all these years, at times I get that sense that I’ve only glimpsed the barest tip of the iceberg of who he is. His mind is a cavern of giant crystals, constantly creating, cogitating, ruminating. When he’s thinking, his eyes go distant and I can almost hear the sound of enormous wings beating.When I lay my head on his chest, and listen to his heart, I hear an ancient song. It is in that place, our skins dissolving into one another, that I feel most at peace. His heart is the cave I want to make my home in, forever.
He proposed to me on my birthday, in our kitchen, surrounded by our dearest friends. The happiness I felt in that moment was as if all the birthday candles I’ve ever wished on were simultaneously ablaze inside my chest. I want to find that joy again, here, in the middle of nowhere with my love. This is the year that the lesson of completely letting go of my attachments to the outcome, or to “the plan” has come up and smacked me in the face again and again. I’ve had the rug well and truly pulled out from under me so many times, that you’d think I’d have absorbed the lesson by now, but it takes time – and a lot of work – to really live in the moment as much as possible. That’s my only goal for the moment – just to do that thing, to BE HERE NOW. To sit across from this man I’ve built a life with and not worry about the past, or the future, but just to enjoy being present with him, to enjoy each other’s company. This is the letting go, and it hasn’t been easy – no, in fact, I’ve fought it nearly every step of the way. Letting go for me, is the hardest thing. I’m learning, though. I’m trying. We came out here, to the wilds of West Texas by train in the dead of night, leaving behind all our friends and family, our animals, our home, our plans. We took a different track instead, and will find ourselves, as dawn breaks over the mountains and the moon sets, embarking on a wholly different journey than the one we had put so much thought into planning. I hope that path still waits for us. That beautiful cave, that majestic valley. I hope that we can stand strong in a circle of all our loved ones one day, with no fear in our hearts. The terrain we cover now is unknown – it is rocky, and full of dangerous crags and pitfalls. At times this landscape looks bleak, but I know I just have to wait for the sun to rise and bathe those unforgiving edges in peachy light to remember how beautiful it can be.
I know that this is the right thing, the right work.
I put myself into it with my whole heart, my whole soul:
loving unconditionally, loving without expectation, without judgement.
That’s the true love.
McDonald Observatory by Michael Cummings
I am excited to explore this new territory, to wish on stars, on the moon.
The Marfa Lights by Jeremy Zilar
The Marfa Mystery Lights are unexplained lights (known as “ghost lights”)
usually seen near U.S. Route 67 on Mitchell Flat east of Marfa, Texas.
If I see the Marfa lights, then I’ll wish on those too.
Given over to lesser men by Trey Hill from Everything’s Bigger in Texas – Pictory
“There’s a vastness here and I believe that the people who are born here breathe that vastness into their soul.
They dream big dreams and think big thoughts, because there is nothing to hem them in.” Sitting on top of Enchanted
Rock at sunrise, these words by Conrad Hilton (about the state my family has called home for nine generations)
ring incredibly true. They give a voice to the pride I have long had difficulty putting into words.”
– Trey Hill is a commercial photographer and a story teller living in Dallas.
Sunset over Davis Range by Michael Cummings
There’s a rough beauty here in these hills that I treasure.
I know I breathed that vastness into my soul when I was born.
No matter where I go, I’ll always be from Texas.
Prada Marfa by Noel Kerns
Early morning railroad by lomokev
Let this be a new dawn. Here is my wish on this most magical day:
that we celebrate each other, revel in each other,
that our paths will always run parallel,
for our tracks to join and intersect,
and carry us onward into the wild blue yonder and beyond.
Happy 11.11.11 and many bright blessings to us, and to you and yours.
Queens of Halloween
by angeliska on November 10, 2011
This Halloween Season was a flurry of fancy parties, fabulous shows, and numerous costumes –
a few of which I will attempt to recount in the following snaps from a week of spooky fun.
Coco Coquette’s astounding Beautiful Monsters show provided an excellent opportunity
to don my beloved Nadia wig (also from Coco Coquette, of course!) and bloody tears.
If you were unfortunate enough to miss actually seeing this amazing spectacle, I recommend
you check out more images from the show from Leon Alesi.
A gun moll look I tossed on for the Goodwill Ghoul Ball that I attended with the beautiful ladies of Maison D’Etoile. Always with the tears!
Aoud whispers at Zola Jesus.
I was a goat priestess – or as a friend cleverly dubbed me “Goatfra Haza”!
I was Vali Myers for Halloween – I’ll post more photos from Halloween proper soonly…
Cruella de Garro! Miss Allyson of Coco Coquette workin’ that wig at the Ghoul Ball – there were a bevy of other Cruellas
at the ball that night, but they scurried away in shame and awe when faced with the undeniable glory of that powerful coif!
Miss Shari Ella Gerstenberger of Charm School Vintage getting excited about mashed potatoes in a martini glass. Heaven!
Oh, Sharilyn!
Alanna of Lovecraft Vintage rockin’ her rusalka waterwitch magic.
Who you gonna call? If only this could be my daily chariot!
Quadruple Satan!
Don’t forget the reason for the season!
There was an incredible array of vintage Halloween goodies at Uncommon Objects this year –
lots of devils, witches, ghosts and pumpkins! German die-cuts and tchotchkes galore…
I’m not exactly sure how I managed to restrain myself from snatching it all up!
Demonic name tages from the Flametrick Subs/Satan’s Cheerleaders Reunion show.
I love it when you can recognize a dear friend’s handwriting right off the bat…
Jeepers, creepers – A tin of eyeballs, soon to be made into jewelry…
Oh, and bonus – I didn’t manage to go to any haunted houses this year (alas!),
bu looking at photos from Nightmare Fear Factory photostream almost made up for that…
Trust me, they’re hysterical. Hope you all had a magical Halloween holiday – what did you dress up as this year?
Magic from Halloweens of yore:
✪ New Orleans Hallowe’en
✪ Spookhouse Honey
✪ The Witches’ New Year
✪ Ha-ha-halloweenie
Las Catrinas
by angeliska on November 3, 2011
Alas, this year’s flurry of activity and happenings left me entirely wrung out, and in a state of disrepair,
having been bogged down with whatever malaise has got everyone around me likewise gripped in its
throes. Thus, I find myself abed and click-clacking, rather than painting my face skullwise and taking a
krewe of deathly maidens and men out into this windy night to make the Día de los Muertos procession
I have long dreamed of. My cohorts in New Orleans have by now wended their way through the Vieux Carré,
and are now strewn along the riverside, keening low and long for our lost loves – for Flee, for Ray, for
them all. My death-work is undone, just begun. Much altar-building, preparing, writing and processing
remains for tomorrow, and into this dark season we’ve tiptoed into. For now, let these portraits of La
Catrina in her various incarnations serve as inspiration for All Souls’ Nights to come. Some of these
ladies are more sugary than others, some more bleak. All are sacred – death’s daughters, calaveras lindas.
Beautiful Catrina portrait by Mary Kuzmenkova
La Catrina by Sylvia Ji
Ruby Joule photographed by Jeremiah Newton for the recent Beautiful Monsters show from Coco Coquette.
by Gustave Adolphe Mossa
From “Giving up the ghost” in issue #3 of Sokozine. The photographer is Emir Eralp.
Amelia Foxtrot, also by Jeremiah.
My friend Erin Free-man in her exquisite Catrina ensemble, eating cotton candy at this year’s Ghoul Ball.
She did such a fantastic job on both her and her beau’s maquillage! Love the autumnal hues.
This, and the next two photographs are all by John Rees.
by Fumie Sasabuchi
I love this makeup my friend Liz did a few years back.
Brilliant!
Death – Alexander McQueen
From Metropolis
Further reading from November 2nds of yore:
✂ Day of the Dead in New Orleans
✂ Cempasúchil por los Muertos
✂ Día de los Muertos – R.I.P. Studs Terkel
✂ Santissima Muerte!
Tintinnabulation Station
by angeliska on October 21, 2011
Inspired by both elaborate historic costume and animal architecture, Tintinnabulation Station’s shape
is reminiscent of a beehive or igloo. The piece is a tipi-canopy created to resemble a meticulously
constructed bird’s nest or spider’s web. Once inside, any movement made will make a musician
(intentional or otherwise) from any temporary inhabitant, as the walls are webbed and hung with bells,
chimes, and found objects – when bumped against, these create a joyous tintinnabulation. Found objects
represent the spider-bird’s collection – an assortment of household treasures, lost tokens, and bits of metal
(silverware, clock parts, odd baubles) which all contribute to sound-making, and to the sense of entering into
a strange creature’s lair. The hoop-skirt shape is the hollow body of the bride, who keeps all her secrets and
treasures hidden. Is it a wedding dress, or a wedding cake? Encased in a glass gazebo like the sleeping body
of Snow White, Tintinnabulation Station is elegant and inviolable. Enter in, and tell stories, share secrets, sing
songs, ring the bells with your hand, or just rest a while and dream of lost brides and storm-torn gardens.
I am so excited and honored to have been able to collaborate with Colin
(he created the metal and strapping frame structure) on this piece,
part of a larger collaboration with Swoon and many other amazing
artists called The Music Box. Eventually, all these elements will be combined to create Dithyrambalina!
Micah Learned and Elizabeth Shannon built the most beautiful shanty to house Tintinnabulation Station.
It’s all old windows, silvery antique ceiling tin, candles and magic. A Tibetan sigil is burnt into the floor.
All the amazing shanty and sound artists that have collaborated to create this village have just totally blown me away
with their creativity and inventiveness. You really have to see it with your own eyes to truly understand, but I will do my
best to capture it in photos over the weekend, and share some of the magic here. It is quite a marvelous accomplishment.
I spent many months spray painting hundreds and hundreds of little bells and metal objects to be incorporated into the piece.
Possibly many brain cells were lost during this process, despite eventually acquiring a respirator. A sacrifice for art!
bellshadows.
milkybells.
Within the first layers of Tintinnabulation Station.
It’s like being inside a Cocteau Twins album cover!
In the final days of installation, many changes and adjustments were made,
and layers of more objects and fairy lights were added. Magical.
I worked through the night to complete it before needing to hit the road at 6am.
It was crazy – a vicious cold-front and wind-storm blew in, and the entire town
was creaking and shaking. My glass shanty doors kept blowing open, and I
feared I might end up in Oz before the night was done. Hot tea & good music
got me through! I know I’ll probably keep adding and tweaking it continually,
but it felt great to step away from it happy with what I’d created. Deep sigh.
Proto-Dithy!
The village fence, with art by Swoon.
Quintron playing the Kalalophone
Some great stories about the project from the NOLA Defender:
Sound Town – A Sneak Peek at ‘The Music Box,’ Where Sculptures Form a Symphony
Bywater ‘Music Box’ to Wind Up for the First Time This Weekend
Borscht break on the stoop. Myrtle thought it was a daiquiri! Ah, New Orleans.
The most beautiful door in New Orleans – on one of my favorite houses,
where some of my favorite people live. Aren’t they the luckiest ever,
to live next door to a musical village? Yes, they are indeed.
Magic Windows #25
by angeliska on September 21, 2011
All dolled up in mermaiden pearls for Enchantment Under the Sea, Dances of Vice’s 4th Anniversary Celebration.
It was my very first time to attend Dances of Vice, though I’d been wanting to go for years!
Shien (the mastermind behind the magic) is such a perfect hostess, and puts so much thought
and love into creating these incredible events. If you live in New York, you had better go!
I love this sketch Adriano Moraes did of Jeff Wengrofsky and I that night.
I remember feeling so perfectly and completely happy while standing there near the doorway, being sketched.
I could see all the guests coming down the grand stairway at Morningside Castle, all in their finest frocks and
sharpest suits. Something about people-watching with permission to be silent and still in the mad throng of that
beautiful party, all while being watched and taken in so intently by an artist making the magical transference
between eye and hand, hand and pencil, pencil and paper. The moment was captured in more ways than one.
Portrait within a portrait.
I had an amazing meeting of the minds with Gerald Busby, a brilliant composer and truly wonderful man
who lives in the Chelsea Hotel. You’ll be hearing more about him from me soon – he’s amazing.
Gerald instructed me to go up to the top floor and walk down the stairs. So glad I did.
It was such a gift to be able to wander the halls of this grand old dame who gave
shelter and succor to so many artists and heroes of mine. I could feel their shades
dancing in the halls, their footsteps echoing. I made a wish that the Chelsea will
continue, will not be robbed of her spirit – though she is being mercilessly robbed
of her art and her tenants. What spirits will be left when they are all gone?
“TO THE PURE, ALL THINGS ARE PURE”
I took a wrong turn looking for Gerald’s apartment
(I should’ve just followed the music!), but I’m glad I
did, because I happened upon room #528 and its
perfect message. It reminds me of being in Rome
with my Grandfather. We were in Madrid, on one
of the last days of what would be our last trip together.
We had gone to the Ermita San Antonio de la Florida
to see Goya’s Sistine Chapel and final resting place,
and I remember both of us were so, so happy that day.
We gazed up at the gorgeous domed cupola depicting
the miracle of Saint Anthony, and all the angels and fat
cherubim gamboling below and just drank in all that beauty,
that light. I asked him then, “How did we get to be so lucky?”
and he replied, “Because our hearts are pure.”
A detail of some as of yet unstolen art from the Chelsea Hotel.
Not sure who the artist is. Fill me in if you know…
From a mural at Petite Abeille, where I had a delightful
post-earthquake brunch with some of my favorite fancies.
Goat girl phone doodle.
I loved this gargoyle/green man who ornaments an apartment on the prettiest street in Crown Heights.
Subway serenader. He also played erhu.
This is Lola. She is one of my favorite people.
This is one of her toys, which she let me play with.
This is ostensibly the pleasant goat. But where is the big big wolf?
I finally found the intersection of Waverly Place and Waverly Place,
stumbling up it alone, by chance, late on my way to dinner one muggy
night. It would have been better if it had been snowing, and silent – like
in Veronica, but at least it exists. People had told me that it didn’t. It does!
The nothing is coming – unicorns unite!
Morning, glories.
Double Rainbow Honey
by angeliska on September 14, 2011
♥ Lisa Bettany shot this amazing photo of a Double Rainbow Over Manhattan after a recent storm in NYC.
In order to counter some of the disaster-fraught gloom looming ’round these parts of late,
I’ve ordered up a double helping of moonbeams and rainbows, liberally sprinkled with
some of my favorite faces to help dispel the lingering funk. Plus, I haven’t even had a
moment to warble with joy about how wondrous my recent NY visit was – unlike my
last visit there (which was not the rosiest or easiest excursion ever, alas) it seemed that
this journey was blessed from the start by some lucky star. Despite a few really insane
travel misadventures, everything came together swimmingly, and I got to spend time
with so many dear friends who I had not seen in far too long! Speaking of…
I got to visit with Gala, whose sweet face I had missed so much!
It was so, so good to spend some time with her – I wish I could
be back in NY celebrating her birthday RIGHT NOW! It’s today!
(Well, yesterday probably, by the time I get this posted…)
Many happy returns of the day, sugarbomb!
We made an eye-dazzling superhero duo in our retina-scalding get-ups.
I covet that delicious neon coral lace skirt from ASOS, fervently!
♥ Also, muchas felicidades to her and her bridegroom: MK + GD Forever!
– this makes me soooo happy! I can’t wait to meet the lucky fellow!
We lunched with Miss Mer at Veselka on fuschia borscht & pierogies,
followed by crack pie from Momofuku, which sent us all into diabetic
comas immediately. That stuff is hardcore, y’all! There’s a reason it’s called CRACK PIE!
Me + Mer = giant ♥
I had an incident with the gorgeous almost-Yves-Klein-blue dress Tamera sent me,
getting into a taxi. My abundantly callipygous posterior split the dang thing from
here to Saskatchewan! Luckily, the ladies accompanied me to Trash + Vaudeville
for some emergency superhero underpants in metallic teal to protect my uh, modesty.
Another marvelous woman born on September 13th – Miss Molly Crabapple,
who never ceases to amaze me with her work. She just completed her Week In
Hell, during which she locked herself in a hotel room with white papered walls
that she managed to completely cover in her drawings. My motto lately has been
“Where your comfort zone ends, life begins”, and Molly really put that to the test
with this project, testing her endurance beyond its limits, beyond reason – just to see
what could happen, what could be created. The lady’s a huge inspiration to me,
and to so many artists out there. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone with
such intense FOCUS. She’s admirable, formidable, wonderful, and incredibly lovable.
♥ Here Is Everything I Learned in New York City
by Sarah Hepola
Cabbies Are the Greatest People on Earth, at Least for Fifteen Minutes
Thank you to Gala Darling for pointing me towards this article!
Rainbow saris, source unknown (let me know if you know the provenance for this
and the other mystery images here – I had no luck looking on Tin Eye, alas.)
Please, please, please take a moment to watch this incredible interview with my friend Altercation.
She just blows me away, y’all – and always has. We both moved to New Orleans the same year,
and I remember seeing her singing mournful murder ballads in a chiffon robe with her breasts exposed
and a beehive wig, from a tiny wrought-iron balcony on the side of the old Winter Palace. I remember
the first time I saw her shake her ass, and stood there, jaw dropped – hypnotized by that rolling motion.
I didn’t know an ass could move like that! I was there with her and Rusty and Freedia and Nobby for that
first bounce show in New York in 2009. Who knew then where all this would go? I’m so glad that she teaches
this dance to people, and that she asks people to think about it, to talk about it. She’s fucking brilliant. I love her so much.
Rainbow clouds, source unknown
Lio – Banana Split
“Ça me déplairait pas que tu m’embrasses
NA NA NA – Mais faut saisir ta chance avant qu’elle passe
NA NA NA – Si tu cherches un truc pour briser la glace
BANANA BANANA BANANA
C’est le dessert
Que sert
L’abominable homme des neiges
A l’abominable enfant teenage
Un amour de dessert
BANANA NA NA NA NA BANANA SPLIT
Les cerises confites sont des lipsticks
NA NA NA – Qui laissent des marques rouges sur l’antarctique
NA NA NA – Et pour le faire fondre une tactique
BANANA BANANA BANANA
Baisers givrés sur les montagnes blanches
NA NA NA – On dirait que les choses se déclenchent
NA NA NA – La chantilly s’écroule en avalanche
BANANA BANANA BANANA”
Photo by Clayton Cubitt
Photo by Clayton Cubitt – In-camera Dichromat Homage, Dorotheenstadt Cemetery, Berlin, 2007
♥ My friend Jennymarie Jemison has been working on this web series about life in the offices of a sex toy factory:
The Flesh Life – You Know You Want to See This
♥ Sex on the brain: What turns women on, mapped out
♥ I’m feeling this article by Susannah Breslin on Unemployment/Self-employment.
As terrifying as it can be to step on the limb of only doing what you love, and trying to sustain yourself
on what you make doing that, I have to say I don’t know if I could ever see myself going back to a “job-job”.
I’m pretty determined to make this work – go big or go broke, man. Just hopefully not both!
I prefer Hunter S. Thompson’s maxim: “When the going gets weird, the weird go pro.”
♥ Austin’s Planned Parenthood Loses State Funding – What fucking dark age are we living in, y’all?
One of Alphonse Mucha’s exquisite stained glass windows in Prague’s St. Vitus Cathedral.
♥ Spellcaster and Earth Angel…Angeliska Polacheck a sweet interview with me from the lovely Celeste Quesada
♥ A beautiful article from The Paris Review about Frida’s Corsets by Leslie Jamison
“Sadness is green as well. Also leaves and the nation of Germany. She has an entire vocabulary of color. Brown is mole and leaves becoming earth. Bright yellow is for the undergarments of ghosts.”
♥ I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Katelan Foisy during my visit to New York – I’ve been watching her hand-painted
tarot deck blossom card by card, and was so excited to see her latest work, featuring Baby Dee as The High Priestess
Babies can’t eat kimchee! That’s the look on my face when I smell kimchee!
Hate the stuff. Korean food is my favorite, though! Just not that part…
Handmade Portraits: YOKOO
♥ I love her. Thank you to JL Schnabel for sharing this.
“There is only the slightest chance that you might cross Yokoo’s path in the streets of Atlanta, Georgia.
Holed up with the quiet company of old movies, she knits about 15 hours a day. Running a one-woman knitwear enterprise from home,
Yokoo is an artist, a perfectionist and a “total control” worker. She enjoys being a part of the entire process: thinking, designing, sketching,
picking up the material, creating, photographing, promoting, trading and sending. She still gets butterflies every time she packages up a new order.
Kalash women. One of my favorite photographs. Still not sure who took it.
♥ 5 Views of East Side Show Room from the delightful Miss Tolly
One of my Austin favorite restaurants, written about lovingly by one of my favorite Austin blogger ladies.
She also came to Vintage Vivant recently, and wrote this sweet piece about her hijinks:
Meet me at the speakeasy, buy me some giggle water
♥ Why Lying Broken in a Pile on Your Bedroom Floor is a Good Idea – Akhilandeshvari, The Goddess of never not broken – by Julie (JC) Peters
There’s No Place Like Here: Brazenhead Books from Etsy on Vimeo.
♥ I meant to make a pilgrimage here, but there was no time! The Secret Bookstore – Brazenhead Books
♥ I want to visit all of these one day, too:
10 Unconventional Bookstores For Your Browsing Pleasure
Dreams of Fire
by angeliska on September 6, 2011
More than 60 fires have erupted all around my city. Over 500 homes have been consumed by flames.
Recently, I dreamt of fires erupting in my ancestral home, the home that my great-grandmother,
and my grandparents lived in. My mother died there. My aunt and uncle live there now. I watched
in horror and shock as the fire erupted, the rafters, the walls all draped in sheets of flame. I put them
out with my hands & a rug. I had never dreamt of fire like that – always water. Floods, tidal waves.
I noticed the second fire burning behind me while looking at myself in the mirror of my grandfather’s
armoire. I put out both fires. Calling 911 was ineffective, I couldn’t manage to dial it correctly for some
reason. I was forced to deal with it on my own, and somehow managed to stave off total destruction.
The rafters afterwards were blackened, but the house was more or less intact. Still standing.
I was searching for the symbolism in this, thinking the fire represented repressed passion.
Maybe so, but now it’s hard not to see it so much more literally. That little stone house in
Lone Grove houses all my memories, all my most beloved ghosts. Llano County has been
dry as a bone for a long time now. I’m praying the fires will stay away from there. From here.
I know people who’ve been evacuated now, and some who’ve lost their houses, lost everything they had.
I’m trying to help organize to get them what they need, so if anyone is interested in making donations, let
me know. The volunteer line isn’t accepting any more help fighting the fires (which makes no sense, because
none of the blazes seem anywhere close to being contained.) However, there’s still lots to be done. If you live
in Texas, and have the ability to foster or adopt a cat or dog, I can tell you that the shelters are stuffed full,
and desperately need help. If you are able to donate to the Red Cross of Central Texas, please do.
How You Can Help Fire Victims: Donation Locations & What To Donate
+ more: Help for fire victims
(Photo by Lizzie Chen for KUT News.)
As the Bastrop wildfire continues to spread, hundreds of families are seeking help from Red Cross
and other shelters in the region. This family from Bastrop was at a local shelter around 1 a.m.
I had a moment about an hour ago, where the thing I had been trying to block out all week
was suddenly staring me down with a gaze as black and pitiless as a shark’s or a dog who’s
had all the love beaten out of it. I’ve found myself kneeling on the edge of that abyss not a few
times in my life, but usually I have more preparation when finding myself faced with that long,
dark tunnel, the double barreled shotgun that is utter loss. The total, final, irrevocable taking
away of all that you love, loved. Usually there’s time, usually I’ve known it was on the way – my
face having time to adjust into that ugly silent scream, that endless echoing rictus of NO.
An hour ago, it came upon me in a different way – sidling up along side of me, a dark shape,
a phantom creeping at my peripheral vision. My mind’s been batting it away gamely, all through
this beautiful, strangely cool singing afternoon. The most gorgeous, perfect day we’ve had in
weeks, months. Every minute, I’ve been trying to keep thoughts of the fires at bay, going through
my to-do list systematically, attacking it with a fervor. Keeping myself from thinking about the possibility
of doing that one thing I want least to do. And then, without warning, here it is – standing in front
of me, that beast who says in a voice closing down on you like an iron gate,
“I’ve come to take it all away from you. There’s nothing you can do.”
The idea of packing that bag, of seeking out the most important objects, the things that you would
save from the fire, from the storm – makes me shut down. I think I actually passed out when I started
even going there, like Tony Soprano having a panic attack. In fact, maybe that’s what’s happening
to me now, in slow motion. My joints feel like they’re full of rust. Locked up, confused between fight
or flight. Sand for blood, rabbit heart. Every nerve is shrieking, “Run, run, RUN!” and instead I curl
up into a ball and go somewhere else for a while. At this moment, it isn’t any better, but if I keep
writing, I can keep the buzzing of anxiety down slightly. It’s like I’ve been living suspended in amber
for eons, and now time is speeding up, moving backwards, becoming sludge from stone. I’m wiggling
one leg free at a time. This is what happens when you’ve already been through this. This is what I’ve
been fighting for the last six years, but it can sneak up on you. I’ve noticed for awhile that I get anxiety
for about half an hour, almost every time I leave the house. The series of questions flood my brain: Did
I lock all the doors? Put the dog in her crate? Turn the stove off? Blow out the candles? Shut the window?
The threat of imminent disaster short circuits my brain. It activates the damaged part that knows forever now
that no house is safe, that the idea of home as a fortress protecting you from the evils of the world is nothing
but a cherished illusion. I’ve lived in a half-gutted house for years now. Most of the rooms don’t have walls,
or ceilings – just bare framing strewn with fabric, fairy-lights, tree branches. This, for a person who loves the
idea of home, who falls in love with houses, who loves entertaining, and who works from home – well, let’s
just say it’s less than ideal. I’ve seen my homes now burst open, ripped apart, deconstructed down into their
base parts. I understand now how fragile an idea home is – how fallible our buildings are. Every time I hose
down an anthill and watch as the fire-ants scramble in the ruins of their earthen compound, I feel a pang.
I know what it feels like. It’s just been too much this week, really. I’ve been directly affected by a slurry of
last month’s natural disasters, and those combined the two catastrophic anniversaries has gotten me into
a state of end-times fear-fever. The media, of course, is not helping. I’m tired of thinking about it, I’m tired of
writing about it, I’m fucking tired of it always being so close to home. Is anywhere safe? Is there anywhere
in this whole goddamn world where I could go and not worry about having my life destroyed by a storm
or a fire or an earthquake? Maybe not. This planet is trying to tell us something, and our ears are still plugged.
I’m trying fervently not to indulge too much in scenarios where I run off naked to go live mud-covered in a cave,
but it ain’t easy these days. Could I find home cradled in a curve of rock, a bare ridge where there’s shade and
water? Maybe if everything were stripped back again I could walk off into the hills, forget my name, start again
like a newborn animal, a feral child who forgot her mother tongue. I’d really rather not, though. Just let it rain.
Let me say that at this moment, we’re not in any immediate danger. The fires are still miles and miles away
from us, and the air isn’t hazy here, though my throat is burning like I’ve been sleeping in a smoky club.
But it’s close enough, and it’s moving – jumping highways and rivers and nothing seems to be stopping
it. If the winds calm, and no one flicks any cigarette butts, I think we’ll be fine. I have to keep reminding
myself to let go of the fear that tracks me, to learn to evade it stealthily – lest it sniff and my heels and
catch me unawares again. I’m working on it. To just sit here breathing slowly. To let that be enough.
“The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal stretching upwards
Everything washed in a thin orange haze
I said, “Kiss me, you’re beautiful –
These are truly the last days”
You grabbed my hand
And we fell into it
Like a daydream
Or a fever
We woke up one morning and fell a little further down
For sure it’s the valley of death
I open up my wallet
And it’s full of blood “
Exquisite Corpse – Pharaonic Photobooth
by angeliska on September 1, 2011
I’m just back in from my travels, and getting ready for Exquisite Corpse tonight,
but thought I’d take a minute to post some photos from last month to amaze + inspire…
Also – holy shit, look at this:
If I ever do another Egyptian themed Exquisite Corpse again, I know what I’m wearing!
From 2004 Christian Dior Haute-Couture – thank you to Gala Darling for this one!
I cannot even handle Amelia’s next level googly eye game. She blows my mind so hard. Dang, girl! She don’t even mess around!
Iana + David
Norah
Katie
Stephana
Sassy + John
Devaki made incredible photo magic once again! This is definitely my favorite
Exquisite Corpse photo set yet! Brilliance. Plus, everyone turned it OUT!
David
So amazing. Can’t handle.
Dustin
Colin
Royal family portrait!
I want to put them in my pocket, please.
Why are all my friends so amazing? But, really!
Fiona + Jonny – copper moon children
Frannie
Charlie’s Angels got nothin’ on us…
Jen + Melissa
Chad
Antony + Cleopatra
DJ Pasht Moon
Pasht + Devi
Jen + Summer
Blue, Ashley and Matt
Lau + Justin
Jackie + Norah – this is how the night always ends…
Hot bitches rollin’ around on the floor!
6 Years On – Fragments + Wet Feathers
by angeliska on September 1, 2011
This year there’s just too much, too much to write, to say, to show –
it’s all disjointed fragments that don’t quite fit together, scrabbled here
and there over the last few days of travel. It ain’t much, but it’s what I got.
“The Water Is Rising” by Amy Earles
Amy sent this to me after the storm, because it made such a huge impression on me.
It was such an amazing thing to receive in the mail, especially from a total stranger –
and it marked the beginning of our friendship. It captured so much of what I felt then,
the ominous feeling of leaving, knowing the water would rise, and that so many would
stay behind, and be trapped in their houses. I don’t dream of tidal waves anymore –
now I dream of floods, inexorable, consuming water that just gets higher and higher.
Glory At Sea! from Court 13 on Vimeo.
A group of mourners and a man spat from the depths of Hades build a boat from
the debris of New Orleans to rescue their lost loved ones trapped beneath the sea.
Just in case you never saw this, or even if you did – it’s so beautiful, it bears
watching again. I cry and cry every time I see it. Keep an eye out for their
new film, set in the swamps: Beasts of the Southern Wild
My Katrinanniversary was spent in the following ways:
I escaped New York and the Hurricane Irene fear-fever by the skin on my teeth, at 4am
in a hail of bullets & falling corpses, our valiantly diving through the swiftly closing doors of the last
train out of Armageddon (in a rubber jumpsuit, natch.) Okay, not really – but it was pretty crazy.
I just barely made my train out of the city because of a shooting at the stop before mine & a suicide at
the one after. End times were preemptively in the air, making everyone extra crazy. The air was a sodden
fug of unease – dead still & flat, so heavy and too quiet for that big city. Having evacuation flashbacks in NYC
was surreal and unpleasant – packing hurriedly to steal away in the wee hours, remembering to breathe and
hoping that everything would be okay for all the people who were sticking around to see what the storm brought.
Every grocery store that day was crammed with people buying provisions, the check-out line vibrating with tension
and talk of taping windows. It was kind of like waiting in line for a super-scary haunted house with a bunch of first
graders rather than the juvies you’re used to. No offense meant by that at all, mind you – it’s just a matter of experience.
The day before I evacuated for Katrina, I went to the Matassa’s, the bank and out to Mona’s for Lebanese. Not one person
even mentioned it – and I had chatted with people everywhere I went. I had no idea that a massive storm was headed our
way until I went in to work the next day, and found my employers packing up the shop and getting everything low off the floor.
Usually, the storm warnings I got in New Orleans were one of the old-timer stoop-sitters in my neighborhood reminding me
to take my potted plants in off the balcony. I remember sometimes wishing that people would freak out a little more,
especially when the minor tropical storms and depressions got nasty and knocked out my power. I guess you just
got used to it after awhile – six months of hurricane season every year, constantly punctuated by threats and fizzles.
As tense and weird as Irene’s approach was making everyone around me, I also continuously stunned by the kindness
and helpfulness so many of the New Yorkers I encountered – especially the cabbie who picked me and all my bags
up and took me to the next stop so I wouldn’t miss my train, and the sweet felon who helped me haul my crap through
the turnstiles. He told me he worked in “telecommunications & debt collections”, and complimented my “Italian-girl ass”.
It was hard to leave New York this time – I felt we’d resumed our love affair that seemed so sour last time I had visited.
This time I found her brilliant and silvery, a beautiful and mercurial beast with a sharp, serendipitous kiss. Her back is
ridged with spikes of glass and metal and thronging with people like shining like stars. I can feel her grit lodged into
my tongue, and I let it stay, knowing it will one day become a pearl. I fell in love with the city again, and hope to find
myself rambling around her golden grid again sooner than later. We’ve got big things to do, she and I. Soon, soon.
(A deer wades through floodwaters in the aftermath of Hurricane Irene on August 28, 2011, in Lincoln Park, N.J. Photo by Julio Cortez/AP)
I ended up riding Irene out in Philadelphia, in the company of two very inspiring ladies, Tabatha and Nyx
of < • le MONDe Primitif •>, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. We spent two days doing nothing but eating,
sleeping, talking and cutting up old Soviet Life and Art in America magazines for collage. I needed that
sweet respite so much after a week of running and hustling non-stop. Just to sit and watch the wind and
rain out the window and breathe. I lay in bed and watched the maples thrash and prayed to Oya to be kind.
– Photo by Ted Jackson / THE TIMES-PICAYUNE
August 29th this year found me in an aisle seat on a Greyhound bus for six hours, struggling to write something about
Katrina for the Austin Chronicle, and getting frantic texts from my friends in New Orleans asking if they could come evacuate
to my house because the poisonous gasses emanating from marsh-fires were making them sick. So bizarre to be living in
the post-apocalyptic nightmare of terrible droughts, storms, fires, oh, and – earthquakes! I was riding the train to brunch
and honestly didn’t think too much about it when the subway car jolted and shook us all for a minute or two. I remember
wondering if that sort of turbulence was common, and then thinking nothing more of it until I got out onto the street.
Everyone had come out of their offices and were crowded on the sidewalk smoking and looking pensive and freaked out.
Apparently, there’s a fault line right under 14th St., which was my stop. People don’t like to talk about it being there, but
it’s there all the same. Earthquakes terrify me more than hurricanes. A hurricane you can prepare for, run away from.
A year or so before Katrina, I was given the amazing gift of a taxidermied peacock from my dear friend Ilya.
It was one of the things that I was most pained to lose after my roof blew off. That whole side of the parlor
had been destroyed – the walls had crumbled, and blackly viscous curls of moldy fiberglass insulation had
peeled down over chunks of plaster and debris. I pretty much left everything on that side of the room alone –
the kitchen table and everything on it, the dvd player and all our movies, and the poor sodden peacock,
who had fallen on the wall and was pinned by a large part of the ceiling. I was so allergic to the mold, that
I feared to take most of my taxidermy collection from the rubble, and once the trailer was totally packed with
whatever else I could salvage, sticking a wet, gross, dead bird on top of it all seemed like a bad plan.
It was the one thing that I mourned above all others – above my records and tapes, all my shoes and boots,
clothes and costumes, photos and other treasures. I couldn’t imagine ever being gifted another peacock in
my life, and had never come across one for sale that I could even begin to afford. About a year after the storm,
I heard that for a short time, my peacock had resurfaced in the briefly reincarnated ramshackle version of Z’otz
Coffeeshop that happened at the old Siam. I was told that the mighty bird had been spray-painted black, and
decorated with broken mirrors. After that, I lost track of it again – until recently. My friend Miss Angie texted me
the photos below from her phone, asking “Is this your peacock?”. There was no doubt that it was. I called up the
dealer who had brought it in, and luckily, he was willing to let me have it back, provided I paid him the $30 bucks
he had paid for it. So, things come full circle. Sometimes. I have my fucked-up, moldy-ass peacock back from the
rubble, delivered to my door by my friends who were escaping from marsh fire sickness. That fire is the size of
City Park right now, and NO ONE is even talking about it. All my friends who haven’t gotten out are sick in bed,
and the whole thing is getting whitewashed by the media. No one is talking about why a marsh would catch fire
and keep burning for days. No one is talking about BP’s oil, or how completely fucked Louisiana’s ecosystem is.
Friends who own houses there, businesses there, who’ve stuck it out all this time are finally talking about leaving,
because they’re afraid the city will kill them, one way or another. Heartbreak on top of heartbreak. Oh, New Orleans…
The other night, I got into a discussion about New Orleans in a bar in Pittsburgh.
The bartender asked me, “If I had to choose between Austin and New Orleans,
which one would I choose?” I explained to him that it didn’t really work like that,
but that my aversion for natural disasters had grown to a point where I’m no longer
willing to knowingly put up with or prepare for them. A strange drunk man at the bar
interjected to ask me if at some point I had been into natural disasters but only decided
I didn’t like them only after I had been “divested of my belongings.” I told him that seven years
of constant evacuations and fear culminating in the eventual destruction and loss of my
city, home, belongings, lover, job, community and friends, and just my whole life as I knew
it was enough to do the trick. I had to go into how I felt about all people who patted my hand
to make themselves feel better by telling me it was “just stuff”. I’m afraid I ranted a little bit in
a sazerac-induced way about people who buy everything they own at Ikea, and have no
emotional attachment to objects. I went off for a bit about how most of the things I treasure
most were passed down to me by loved ones who have died, and how those objects represent
the only tangible, physical artifacts left of them for me. I apologized, explaining that the day before
had been the six year anniversary of the storm, and that I was feeling pretty raw, as I tend to when
the end of August rolls around. He responded by saying “Happy anniversary?” and that was it.
No, dude. Not happy. Wrong answer! He tried to back pedal, but I had to shut him down, saying
that I had just taken the time to speak to him from my heart about experiences that are still very
painful for me, and that he had just taken an opportunity to connect with another human being
and instead thrown it away being drunk and dunderheaded and letting callous bullshit fall out
of his mouth. It was weird. Weird and fucked up to still be getting into it about Katrina in bars with
people who find it more comfortable to stand on the outside of a tragedy and look in on it coldly,
thinking they’re being objective, when really they’re just afraid or incapable of empathy.
Or maybe they’re just assholes. Right after the storm I ended up getting in a few near-brawls
in bars with that sort of guy. I was so, so, so fucking angry and anyone who said the wrong thing,
or just wasn’t getting it needed to be educated as far as I was concerned, and often my version of
doing at the time only ended up getting me nearly kicked out of a few watering holes. PTSD and
whiskey are a bad, bad combination. I try to stay calmer about it these days, but it’s still hard when
people don’t want to get it, don’t really want to try to understand what it was like to go through that.
I remember getting booted from the Longbranch Inn one night for giving a homeless lady money
and then freaking out on the owner when he told me I couldn’t do that. I stood on the sidewalk,
weaving with drink and trying not to cry when the old man who worked at the bar came up to me.
He wore a big cowboy hat, and was a good dancer. He had been showing me moves all night.
His face was the color of dark oiled wood, and his eyes were misty with blue cataracts.
He told me he was The Man With No Name (I found out after he died that he was known as
“Fast Black”, but his name was Carl Miller.) He took my hand, and looked deep into my eyes,
and he said, “Forgive those who do not know.” It was the one piece of wisdom that
helped me through that time – the only thing that helped soothe the rage that kept threatening
to bubble over in barrooms and kept me pacing the floors of my tiny house every night.
Forgive those who do not know. It’s a hard thing to do, but I still try. I try and keep dancing, too.
✸ Susannah Breslin nails it once again – I never really believed in or understood what PTSD was before it happened to me.
Reading about her experience with it really helped me. After Hurricane Katrina, Years of Post-Traumatic Stress
Everyone Forever Now – “Stoop Sitting” from Everynone on Vimeo.
EFN 03 – “Stoop Sitting”
By Will Hoffman & Daniel Mercadante
EVERYONE FOREVER NOW is an episodic motion-based media project.
It is an examination of the collective wisdom and expression of human actions.
✸ A LOVE LETTER TO NEW ORLEANS – written by Sarah Jaffe, illustrated by Molly Crabapple.
✸ What I’m going home to: 3 heartbreaking photos of desert-like Lake Travis during the Texas drought
✸ As Texas Withers, Gas Industry Guzzles
Drought restrictions are forcing homeowners to quit watering their gardens,
even as thirsty fracking operations help themselves to the agua.
IRMA THOMAS – “It’s Raining” – maybe if I play this over and over,
it will bring rain to where it’s needed and away from where it’s not.
If you’ve still got it in you, here’s some collected writings
about my experiences with Hurricane Katrina,
in reverse chronological order. Dig in:
✸ Storms – 5 Years
✸ Hurricane Katrina: Four Years Later
✸ New Orleans in August
✸ One Year
✸ Lower Ninth Aftermath
✸ MARDI GRAS APRÈS L’ORAGE
✸ AFTERMATH: REVELATIONS
✸ JUST WHEN YOU THINK IT CAN’T GET ANY WORSE
✸ Calamity
✸ The Triumph of Death
✸ What can you do?
✸ Katrina
