signal 1

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

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Smoking Raver Baby

Smoking Raver Baby

Motorhead at 11am and the freedom to decorate the store as we please. There are only 5 of us, including Serbian refugee-turned Thrasher pin-up girl Rada; polish hipster performance artist and 80 phenomenon Piotr; beehived and baubled minidress maven Renee; Mexico City expat and 90s goth enthusiast Aldonza; and me.

The store is dusty and the flourescent lights rattle alarmingly whenever the person upstairs dons their heels. The clientele spans the gauntlet from yuppies, hipsters, and yupsters, to the old neighborhood families, addicts, and crust kids. We do vintage by the pound; there’s a big red scale with little Kim stickers all over it, with which we can more or less set prices. We sell the same Pendletons to gallery owners and the homeless. Over-charge the rich and substantial discounts to the poor: I’ve become the Robinhood of vintage.

underemployed

underemployed

My pursuit to avoid any honest work (by which I don’t mean that I am a denizen on the wrong side of the law, but rather something more romantic like I don’t want to work a shitty job my whole life to pay for all the shitty things I’ve acquired just to feel a little bit of agency when really I’d be just a pig tied to a stick) has most recently lead me to slinging vintage for minimum wage in San Francisco’s Mission District. This is good because I have had the opportunity to meet just about every wingnut this side of Market street, and also because I have an appreciation for well-made things. Plus this will directly fund some adventures and stave off the wonderful people at Sally Mae.

Tie Yourself To Me

Tie Yourself To Me

This was part of a show I had at the Berkeley Art Studio, here’s my enlightened artist statement:

These are women who have helped inform my sense of womanhood, for better or for worse; poets, musicians and actors spanning the gauntlet between borderline psychosis, penchant for androgyny, loving fiercely if sometimes in error and most of all an indulgence of emotions so powerful and honest. Their ferocity and fearlessness coupled with unapologetic fragility speaks of a femininity that doesn’t exist simply as an interpretation of masculine strength, but burgeons forth completely outside of it.

The style of painting mimics this delicate/brutal femininity in its
simple, straight-on compositions and slightly disfiguring brush strokes,
always tending toward an androgynous aesthetic ideal.