9/11.
I don’t believe the ‘official’ story.
I will never support the perpetual war and criminals that sprang out of the fall.
Please don’t wave your flags at me,
or tell me how God is on our side,
I don’t have a side.
I have an intellect, and a conscience.
-MLB
The usual relentless stentorian bombast of the ‘McBillion tickets served!’ aside, this year’s Edinburgh Fringe Festival left me generally underwhelmed.
A recent conversation with a bigwig producer in NYC about the dumbing down of our society, and the mediocrity of the agora gave me pause.
The thought of having to re-word & re-submit that funding application o-n-e m-o-r-e t-i-m-e gives me agida.
Other than the shrill of January, September is perhaps my least favourite time of year. If according to Rimbaud, “Spring brought the idiots’ frightful laughter,” September brings their precocious Christmas chatter. ach-em.
But then, this budding playwright wanders into Mr Barr’s London Literary Salon, and a talk with fellow expat New Yorker John Lahr – probably the only living man qualified to speak on a grand, global scale about acting, performance and theatre. He reads and discusses his new book: Joy Ride.
“Part of the theater’s big magic is its ability to exhilarate; […] to put us beside ourselves, to banish gravity, to call out our most buried feelings, to make the moment unforgettable, to kill time. That’s its joy ride.”
“If we need better plays—and we do—we also need better audiences.
Quoting Tallulah Bankhead to a would-be actress: “If you want to help the American theater don’t be an actress, dahling, be an audience.”
“Theater is an artisanal industry in a ethnological age. Everything about it goes against the grain of our distracted, fast-moving cultural moment. A play requires an audience to work […] in a film, the audience sees what the director wants it to see; with a live production, the audience must take more responsibility…”
Quoting George Bernard Shaw: “The play was good but the audience was terrible.”
Quoting Fanny Brice: “There’s no director who can direct you like an audience.”
“Terrorism makes a spectacle of absurdity, in which pain unmakes the world. Theatre, which attempts to understand our pain, makes a spectacle of meaning and coherence.
Now, more than ever, theatre is not only a demonstration of courage but an engineer of it.”
Thank you, Mr Lahr. You saved me from September. I’ve always relied upon the strangeness of kindreds.
-MLB
I never cease to be amazed at the sophistiated creativity that continues to emerge from the 80s-90s East Village New York City scene — which I enjoyed and knew at the time as merely a safe haven for a band of misfits. Never underestimate the short bus. From Rupaul to Antony Hegarty to John Cameron Mitchell and many others, Gotham has purely gone global. Mx Justin Vivian Bond’s show at Vitrine, London is informed and cohesive, with a strong personal narrative — my favorite kind of art. The diptych portraits of Mx JVB juxtaposed with model Karen Graham are soft and alluring, yet bear a compelling human-ness that lifts the figures beyond the surface, and creates a conversation between the deities and observer. Although I’m not a professional art critic, I did notice that Mx JVB’s technique is precise, and does not rely on laissez-faire watercolouring of the inattentive hand.
Taking this from ‘show’ to ‘experience’, which many attempt but few manage, is how Mx JVB steps beyond the fourth wall of the gallery space in the front window. Upon arrival, to my delight, a large crowd gathered outside — not to wait in some queue while vying for some perverted association with fame (which haunts most openings imho) — but to observe the artist transcend the barriers of ‘art’ and present an opportunity for observers, both intentional and passersby.
Dressed in a bright pink silk dress by Graham’s designer Frank Masandrea, we observed Mx JVB perform; taxis shuttling people to and from London Bridge Station slowed to watch us; and local residents on their way home summed up the invasion with piqued curiosity. The walls of the window and inside the gallery was covered with a bespoke wallpaper created from repetitive portraits, reminiscent to me in tone of the rare Warhol gold-leaf sunflower wallpaper — but this art is not ‘pop’ it’s present, a presence — complete with an intimate boudoir installation highlighting the relationship between the two characters. The atmosphere intimate, the crowd congenial, the conversation sublime. As a complete bonus, with a fortuitous announcement yesterday by the fine people at the Oxford English Dictionary, the prefix ‘Mx’ (pronounced ‘M-ix’) has been made official – a pure highlight of the event.
In the wee-early 90s, I met a Justin Bond, who in all honesty never ocurred to me as strictly male, female, or this or that. To me, Justin has always been Justin, simply a beautiful, determined being. Along the way Justin adopted, dare I say co-promoted, the gender-neutral prefix, which I first noticed on JVB’s web site. Now it’s official — a far cry from the raucous word-police vitriol of late — and to me curiously appealing, inviting, and freeing.
Now the only question I have for Mx Bond is: what is to become the associative pronoun-nomitive? Mr = ‘him’, Miss/Mrs/Ms = ‘her’ and so forth. What is to be used with ‘Mx’ and take the incredible chore out of sentence-crafting for articles and reviews like these? But au contraire, perhaps that’s the point: get rid of them all. Look at people as humans. Struggle to redefine…
What? Art, ideas, artists, stepping forward, affecting life? Being alive? Instead of, like Quentin Crisp said, being ‘hung on a wall to die,’ or buried in the comments section of some gossip column?
I know at least two old ladies on a wealthy pension who’ll drink to that.
-mlb, London 6 May 2015
Mx Justin Vivian Bond • JustinBond.com
through 13 June 2015
Vitrine Gallery
185 Bermondsey Street, London SE1 3UW
020 7407 6496
thanks to Christopher J Barley for additional photos
I haven’t been to a major celluloid soirée since New York City, at an Edith Head Gala for charity — film & tv are not typically in my otherwise literary/professional theatre travels. But something remains wild in my mind about watching the models walk the runway in Bette Davis’ dresses & Clark Gable’s suits. A little bit of Hollywood goes a long way.
Last night, I arrived with the pretty-much-early-on-time crowd for the official BAFTA-bash. Why not? Waiting for ‘the perfect time’ to coincide with the celebrants of 2015 was, to me, precisely akin to chasing a herd of cats. At Rosewood London, me & photographer Jonathan Daniel Pryce (@garconjon) popped out of the Mercedes our gracious hosts from Grey Goose and Michael Weinstein Company sent to collect us. Outside were black ropes and red carpets — and another intimate party-of- five which included someone I very much admire, entrepreneur Kelly Hoppen (@KellyHoppenhome). I figured if Kelly can be early, we could warm ourselves by the faux fires that burned all around us without social stigma. Success runs its own time.
As things went from underway to full swing, and a milieu of celebrity (names you can get over from the boys at Hello) poured in, I began to notice how familiar yet sui generis things appeared to me, the expat New Yorker who’d lived several previous lives in rooms of fancy and faces. Perhaps it was the hour of the evening, or my 10-year old jet lag from crossing the pond, but I noticed something perhaps only Stephen Hawking might explain — a string theory in images.
Being an East Coast music and theatre-bred indigene the only sighting that excited me was Nick Cave…but the rest of the crowd certainly did not disappoint. They came, went, some joined us at our table along the route to their tables, and it was as if we were in some parallel universe far way, these happy, relaxed faces mingled. And it was as if this prime night gave everyone an excuse to just be, together. Sure there were a scant few operators, meh, but few anxious moments that tend to wrinkle the eyelid at such affairs. It was also refreshing to see some LA chickens out of their roost — perhaps London gave them permission not to perform so hard.
Yet it was within this excitement that this playwright-observer found new lament to the corporatization of this lost world. The cultural destruction of our cities came to mind — I cannot imagine the Paris soirées of La Belle Époch, the bashes at the old Algonquin NYC, or the swing of London thriving under the hammer of brand, label and spreadsheet. And it’s too bad that the world is so, very, troubled right now… humans tend to create pretty good drama when you allow them … thankfully these ‘last nights’ still exist in pockets.
Later, while awaiting our chariot, a black car pulled up and a very large man got out carrying his BAFTA Award — which he sort of carried like a notebook down by his side. We caught a brief glance and, noticing my attention to his shiny new accessory, quickly held it tastefully-halfway up for me to grab a seconds’ closer look, as if to say – “oh yeah, I got this, and it hasn’t sunk in yet.” And while Oscars are nice, I guess, in that moment I was reminded of the sophistication of Europe — (to which London shall remain a cultural and geographic part of despite the recent efforts of corporatists and political Philistines) — a sophistication that still has the potential and legacy to provoke the creative spirit.
Trophies are crafted to sit on shelves — BAFTA’s are crafted to wear, as it were. But also comes to mind, a column in Interview magazine way back when with a Studio 54 regular:
“You spend your energy getting in, and then you’ve arrived. Then you get into the VIP room, then you’ve arrived. Then you get invited to the manager’s private suite, and then you’ve arrived. Then you wonder what’s behind that secret door at the back of Rubell’s manager suite, and in a fog you go through it, and find yourself in the alley, on your way home.”
Time to keep creating…
MLB – London, 9 Feb 2015
(with thanks to Charlotte and the team at Grey Goose).
“I don’t care much about it…” grandma Ruby pondered out loud, while we sat in the din of the failing December North Carolina city sunlight. “Why not?” I asked, looking around her massive living room, with three sofas and at least three comfy wingback chairs and a goose-necked rocker, in case ‘company’ came.
“When I was a young girl, my Daddy’d come in from work on Christmas Eve, we’d go to church and then go cut a tree. Decorate it with popcorn. Next day we’d eat, get a few things, then clean it all up and out the door it went.”
She never mentioned my great-grandma Huntley. And it wasn’t because she was half American Indian on account of her mother, my great-great called Polly Cason in English. No, the shame and the pain came from losing her mother at a young age. But I imagine she was with them when they had their Christmas-in-a-day: cooking, baking or making nice things. Much like Grandma Ruby did for me throughout the year.
All of my grandparents knew the value of making things. Creating life, as opposed to buying it. I’m glad they were spared the spectacle of “Black Friday” with the gift of death.
Grandma Ruby never attempted to thwart my Christmas. As a young teen my Dad’s part of Christmas would come to her house in a big box, delivered by the brown man. It would contain all manner of packages wrapped for my sister and me. Grandma Ruby would get as excited as I did, and let me open everything right away.
The things Daddy sent were foreign — he worked for big time clothiers, and I’d get nice things — shirts, sweaters, socks and jackets — to big for my body, but not for my imagination. Daddy gave me license to dream.
Other than delivery day, usually on the 20th or so, the only sign of Christmas at Grandma Ruby’s was a foot-high miniature tree my aunt Susan managed to sneak in and place on the dining room buffet, amid calls of “I don’t want too much — it’s all a big build up for a big let down.”
Indeed, although each year, joining the miniature tree on the buffet was grandma Ruby’s famous coconut cake. Five layers — more if she could fit it on — of the most delicate, home-baked angel food cake, suspended in an ensemble of her secret freshest spritzy hand-grated coconut, heavenly whipped cream cheese, fresh cream, sour cream and sweet white sugar icing brought together with a blissful vanilla reserved for special occasions. To have a slice was to taste time — made right Ruby’s coconut cakes cannot be eaten quickly. We’d have a slice, sometimes two, while she’d tell me stories of things she and my granddaddy RB used to do at this time of year.
• • •
On either Christmas Eve or morning, Mama packed me and my sister Adrienne and some combination of pets of the time up in her Toyota hatch back and took us up to my other grandparents home in the Blue Ridge foothills. I loved the contrast to the small city celebrations — something about the open land and small gestures of festivity in the form of some lights, or bright red bows on mailboxes made the journey almost excruciating with excitement for me.
This was a more active, louder affair, and very church oriented. Grandmother Katie took us to the outdoor “Living Christmas” with the Baptists, and my aunts and uncles would take us to singing and so forth with the Lutherans and somehow, even the non-denomenationals agreed to come together on the 25th for a meal and gifts and the mayhem of getting around 30 people all into a house built for a small family of five.
Inside, my grandmother Katie directed things from the kitchen, while the others clumped in small groups throughout the house and on teh front porch. She liked to decorate her house — with a tree in the living room and greeting cards she’d received all around the archway leading to the dining table. She’d make turkeys and hams, a monster potato salad and her pièce de résistance: oyster stuffing with fresh gravy. A lot of the things we had, pickles, jams, jellies and green beans had been grown by her and my grandpa William the preceding summer, and during August visits I’d watched her can them all in preparation for the long winter.
My great-grandmother, Blanche Gertrude Gunn Montgomery, was the cheeriest elf in the house. Although confined to a wheelchair from which she held court since around her 97th birthday, she glowed with excitement with the approach of every cousin, child and new grandbaby. She’d dress in a bright red blouse and white shawl she’d knitted herself, and grandma Katie would make her a little pendant out of some holly or somesuch from outside. At times, before or after the crowds, she’d ask me to sit on her lap — and did so up until I was 16 — and would get a fresh apple or turnip and sit with her knife and shave little pieces for me while she told me about what life had been like for her since 1883.
Later, when the conversations would begin to lull and great-uncle somebody would nod off into a snore, I’d tag along with my grandpa William out to his barn, to help him feed his cows. The cows seemed to like me, as I could get them all to come straight away with a bull horn I’d been given one year, and they’d allow me to mingle in between them as they ate the hay and grain grandpa’d grown and stored. Even the massive, 2-ton bull would leave me be, so long as i didn’t try to pet him like I did the heifers.
“Do they know it’s Christmas Papa?”
“Well, I don’t know son, they might.”
Today, 25 December 2014, and a world away in the centre of Paris, I now recognise and understand the times, during those times, when any one of these people would take a brief minute out from their chatty grandson, and look off in the distance for a memory.