abstract every conversation to non-connotative sounds.
(this is part two of a multi-part series, part one can be found here.
the whole series will be edited, published and released in ebook form summer '12 by NEOfreakPRESS.)
"[He] told us about his camera safari in Kenya. He and his wife, Kitty, had spent a month there in the autumn. He said that we all have to come to his apartment and look at the slides some time." delillo, americana.
people dress differently down here, south of canal on the west side. as if each has a tailor in their closet.
when i first met him, i was frightened. you know me, i'm full of fear.
he's large and hunched, an imposing pubescence.
his platinum hair is unnerving: a boy's blonde on the head of an ogre.
his speech is always in a hurry with everywhere to be.
we are walking from a galley that is exhibiting his work. he has been sitting in their bookstore on his cellphone for the past 90 minutes-
"that was great, man- i was riffin' for an hour- that went well, buddy.
riff on anything, you know. i can riff on anything. it's gonna be a blank white cup. right?
starbucks is gonna do these big, in-store, blank white cups. i'm gonna curate the whole thing.
its gunna be huge- the white cup. like. its a circle, its the wheel, you know, round and round, its coffee man, its gasoline, its the 21st century.
we'll get shepard fairey to do one, its gonna be huge."
he works like a fever in fits and convulsions, a rotation of 20 prints in various degrees of completion at any given moment. each one "wild, ya, i kinda really dig that. it's just like an abstract, crazy fuckin thing." each one given the five minutes of time with the artist to fit the five grand price tag.
he is sending me out for supplies.
"how long have you been here?" he asks.
"almost 7 years."
"you know your way around?"
"the villages and above. i live uptown."
"but you don't know down here?"
"no."
he laughs.
his grin leaves you feeling conned.
we are eating take out, his staff surrounds him with two clients. he's hungry for a sale. he's telling stories of africa i am trying to remember. something about "bush magic" and watching some far-out shit, man. someone's life was saved by a chanted incantation. one of his clients chimes in, a stunning thirties-something "art collector," she recently saved a guy in her acting class from getting hit by a car by shouting "watch out." no one was hurt. "art collector" is a phrase i have not yet come to know the full meaning of. she looks up from her food. "i didn't know cipriani's delivers... "
"they do for me," he grins.
he started as a used car salesman, the roots scream through.
when i was in high school, i had an acting teacher who told me i would be a good used car salesman.
at her prime, she sold jewelry on QVC and the home shopping network.
i'm glad i got outta that racket.
hey,
listen. i got a '96 honda in the backlot.
drives like a dream.
i'll even lip-sync it.
special for you.
"The most intimate reactions of human beings have been so thoroughly reified that the idea of anything specific to themselves now persists only as an utterly abstract notion: personality scarcely signifies anything more than shining white teeth and freedom from body odour and emotions. The triumph of advertising in the culture industry is that consumers feel compelled to buy and use its products even though they see through them." adorno and hurkheimer, the culture industry
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