Marina Abramovic, the self-proclaimed Grandmother of Performance Art, has published a memoir and is doing a lot of press to promote it.
In a recent interview, she described an average day. At 7:30, after breakfast, she calls her “lover,” an unnamed artist who lives in another country. She described her daily bath, using a pound of baking soda and a pound of something I forgot (sea salt? Almond oil?) she makes some calls, cares for her cherished long hair, wraps herself in a big cashmere blanket, and prepares for another day of pampering herself and being famous.
At 69, she deserves a break.
All those years of brutalizing her body in the name of art, and torturing her patrons with silence, nudity, dramatic displays of fortitude and almost ecstatic humiliation, she has made her point about being an artist. Your art must be all-consuming, inseparable from your actual life.
At 69, it’s time to reflect, but not to put her clothes on. She will confront you with her mature, voluptuous body, the elderly Eve, Venus, and Mother Earth.
I can’t read her autobiography, unless it’s free and it comes with a mood altering leafy substance. But here’s some excerpts from a review in the New York Times:
A tolerance for a certain amount of pomposity is a prerequisite for keeping up with serious art. In “Walk Through Walls,” Ms. Abramovic pushes this tolerance to its limits.
And well beyond, it sounds like.
In one of her better-known video pieces, “The Onion” (1996), Ms. Abramovic ate a raw onion while complaining about her life in a voice-over. (“I’m tired of changing planes so often … museum and gallery openings, endless receptions.”) In this shallow and misconceived memoir, she takes that onion from her mouth and places it in ours.
Oh snap! Personally, I’ll be damned if I take her onion. I have my own onion.
It’s not hard to admire such a confident and tenacious figure, laboring away within the patriarchal confines of the international art scene. Her supreme faith in her own greatness, like Madonna’s, is surprisingly persuasive.
Even as she smugly reveals that she’s stopped buying clothes “because Ricardo [Tisci, creative designer of Givenchy] will bring me things to wear,” you have to admire her gigantic ego, and her childlike obliviousness.
You go girl, but cover up, okay?
photo: (c) Annie Liebovitz
No one warned me about the Weiner documentary.
I expected a fun, lurid, behind-the-scenes look at Anthony Weiner’s well-earned fall from grace. But it’s deeply depressing, on every level.
I had hoped to get over it, but now he’s back, and who knows for how long. What did we do to deserve Weiner? Will we ever be free of him?
The first thing that comes across in the movie is how physically unattractive he is. Believe me, even if he were a saint, you would be struck by the physical aspect.
Frail and short, he is also encumbered by an enormous nose, the type that must have brought savage teasing throughout childhood and adolescence.
The name and the nose combined make a lethally unfortunate burden. You feel his anger and resentment in all his machinations.
He is rude to his wife on nearly every occasion, and her silent misery hangs over the film like a shroud. Why is she with him, you have to wonder. By all accounts an intelligent, competent woman, she seems like she’s like the victim of an ancient curse. She married a bad-tempered frog who just keeps getting froggier instead of turning into something good.
Weiner seems gripped by a need to show the world that he has the right stuff. He appears to believe that he deserves power as well as respect, but he goes around alienating everyone around him, including his idealistic supporters. He can’t accept that people will draw the line after enough of his lies and betrayals.
Of course he is a pathological flasher and liar! He is a walking lesson in what happens if your name is Weiner and you have a gigantic nose. What the fuck does anyone expect?
Here’s what we need to know: Why did Huma marry him and stay for so long? And why didn’t Hillary offer Huma the benefit of her experience?
I’m afraid to find out.
Thanks for nothing, James Comey, you fucking cunt.
What the fucking fuck?!
This is one of those times I can’t even begin to can’t even.
Cowboys? Bondage? Turducken? What’s going on here? I want my mommy!
TOM FORD’s boots grounded the debut look on the label’s Fall ’16 runway. Made from supple leather with a stretchy sock-like upper, they have a trio of tonal-brown and black buckled straps and are set on a sleek, sculptural heel. Team yours with midi skirts and cropped tailoring.
Oh please. At $2,450, I could only team them with a lobotomy.
Who can finish this sentence?
These Tom Ford boots are designed for _________________________.
I know it’s her job as Donald Trump‘s campaign manager to defend her employer, but Kellyanne Conway‘s capacity and evident relish for lying is beyond anything I have experienced with my own eyes and ears.
At first, the lying and stonewalling seemed kind of fascinating. It was like a super-power: dispensing an endless flow of obvious lies while maintaining a cheerful smile, without blushing or laughing or a hint of discomfort.
Ask her something about Donald’s latest misdeed and she will respond,
Yes and Hillary Clinton corrupt establishment rigged rigged rigged elitist jobs jobs TPP email!
Here she is in top form:
Here, she praises Trump for restraining himself during the first debate, out-cunting Megyn Kelly:
Struggling to defend the indefensible has taken a toll on Kellyanne, but when you sell your soul to the devil, shit happens. For one thing, it ruins your hair.
At this rate, she’ll be lucky to have any hair at all by November 8th.
May Kellyanne’s career be extinct after this shameless display of moral bankruptcy.
And speaking of morality, Kellyanne’s husband George T. Conway III is a
pig prominent lawyer who has defended tobacco company Philip Morris, secretly worked for Paula Jones, and is a frequent donor to Republican candidates like Rudy Giuliani, Rick Santorum, Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich and Ted Cruz.
Naturally, the Conways are passionate about the unborn, while the born can go fuck themselves.
Let shills be shills, but this is a
cunt bridge too far.
Salvatore Ferragamo is no stranger to maximalist footwear. These Fata sandals are constructed from an eclectic mix of tactile fabrics – note the green reptile-effect calf-leather front, suede trims, and mink-fur block heel and ankle strap. Consider them a fresh, contemporary way of offsetting a demure midi dress.
I agree they would offset a demure dress, if by “offset” you mean adding a note of pure horror. Look at the rear view:
Chloé’s ‘Liv’ boots are embellished with swirling silver, burgundy, midnight-blue and brown beads and finished with swishy fringing. Made in Italy, this black suede pair has a comfortable round toe and block heel.
Swishy fringing…the words alone are embarrassing.
I forgive them.
But not Chloe. $1,799
Did you know that the average man has more estrogen than a post-menopausal woman?
This seems to have major implications.
But before I contemplate them, let’s remember that as men age, their testosterone levels fall, just as estrogen levels fall in aging women.
Doesn’t that suggest that the two genders become more alike, hormonally? Or more genderless, perhaps?
Testosterone is what men worry about most, judging from TV and radio ads. They want more energy and they want a stronger pee stream. They want to be more impressive, down there. All kinds of fake supplements promise to make these manly dreams come true.
But you never see ads that target female insecurity about being female. There are products we’re supposed to need to be more attractive, but none that promise to make us more womanly.
Personally, I already feel much too girly. I wouldn’t mind feeling more manly if it increased my sense of direction or gave me a taste for beer, instead of white wine. I’d like the opportunity to mansplain all the time. I’d like to appreciate hard rock more, and to not panic when my computer acts funny.
When I used to lift weights at a gym for bodybuilders, you could always tell who was on testosterone: The men had bad tempers and the women had facial hair. It probably increased their sex drive, but who wants to fuck a bad-tempered man or a woman wearing aftershave? They appeared to sublimate that drive by screaming “TWO MORE REPS!” and grunting like agonized pigs.
I’m going to do some research on the function of estrogen in men, but meanwhile here’s something interesting.
Another study found that testosterone supplementation in elderly men increased spatial memory and verbal memory. This testosterone supplementation also naturally increased estrogen levels due to the enzyme aromatase. If aromatase was blocked, estrogen would not increase and spatial memory improved, but not verbal memory.
Well duh, because men are good at spatial shit and women are good with verbal shit! Our brains are different whether you like it or not.
Unless, as we get really old, our brains – starved of hormones – begin to work alike, with both genders forgetting the name of that actor and wondering where they put the scissors.
Thoughts, cisgender men and women?
photo: Jay Boogie by Campbell Addy
But somehow, I’ve ended up making a million doctor appointments, as though I’m a car getting everything checked before a long trip.
Sticking with the car analogy, I don’t even want to leave the garage but I guess I thought I should know what condition I’m in, just in case.
Today I went to the eye doctor, who revealed that I can have cataract surgery, even though I wasn’t aware I had cataracts! What are they, even? All I know is, the surgery would improve my vision so much that I wouldn’t need contact lenses.
That sounds wonderful! Except there must be a downside, like possible blindness?
Who cares! Life has become a game of dodge-ball, and I was never good at that. Cancer, blindness, fragile bones, you try to keep ducking but there they are.
Also, and this is way too much information, for the first time in years I went to a gynecologist, who loved what she saw and said my muscles were too toned! She pressed several different places and asked how each place felt. Some were “Don’t love it”, a couple were “Ow”, one was “Nothing” and others were pretty nice, although I am too classy to say “Keep going!”
Later this week I have an appointment to discuss my shitty bones, and then a regular annual physical.
I feel a weird mixture of dread and elation. Dread of finding out awful things and elation at knowing I don’t care about dying, if only it would hurry up.
If you were ever a smoker, I’ll bet you think if you had six months to live, you would smoke your head off. If you’re concerned about your weight, you probably think you’d go on a wild 6-month eating binge.
Me, I eat cookies all night long, I don’t exercise, I don’t care about my cholesterol, I don’t want anything more than a little dope to smoke and something good to watch on Netflix. I’m ready to die, like Leonard Cohen was before he recanted, but first I have to go to a million doctors.
But here’s the good news: Two different blood pressure tests today at two different offices revealed that it was 150 over 80, and also 114 over 51.
So that’s a relief.
You may not care for either artist but that just means you have no taste or you’re a millennial or something.
I realize today how much both of them mean to me, how much I was influenced and inspired by them, that they are key figures in the soundtrack of my life.
Bod Dylan’s performance of Hallelujah, from 1988, isn’t the best cover of the song, but it’s stirring nonetheless, and it’s cool to hear.
What a great couple of old Jews!
(c) Leonard Cohen by Graeme Mitchell