Saturday, November 10, 2012

Penny Arcade as a lipgloss

This lipgloss is from the Nars/Warhol collection, it's called Penny Arcade. Think about that for a moment, commerce, commodification, cosmetics. Is this a celebration or a counter-culture cash in, or both or neither? Can we celebrate Ms Arcade through a lipgloss which presumably she will see no financial recompense? I'm trying. I think there's something magical in wearing a lip color named for an artist who uses words so powerfully, and that I will be sure to have conversations, which start with something inane like, "That's a nice lipgloss," and that maybe these chats will even lead some unconnected passer buying a ticket to see Bitch! Dyke! FagHag! Whore! at The Albany next month. I also like the idea, being a protege of Ms Arcade, of in some way becoming possessed, speaking in the voice of my mentor, the ideas she has provoked in me passing through this glossy orifice. Just some thoughts, feeling as I am bewitched by the turn of the seasons.

This is Penny Arcade, not as a lipgloss.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

"The Unexpected Guest"

Liverpool, as you may know, is my hometown, and being as I am in the North of England this week I felt that missing the UK biennial of contemporary art hosted there would equal an act of treason. Coincidentally it coincides nicely with Bette Bourne's performance of "A Right Pair" at the Homotopia festival, a piece I thought would punctuate the outing perfectly. Sadly for me, but true to form, Homotopia printed the wrong date in their brochure...which means that yes I missed the show, but also that I have the evening free to write out this shizz. Win some lose some.

I saw seven shows at six venues in five hours, possessed in equal measures by the relentless spirits of Edith Sitwell and Stevie Hanley (who is not, by the way, dead). It was indeed a ghostly day, full of startling, colliding visions, in keeping with the biennial's title, "The Unexpected Guest." The moniker put me in mind of Sarah Waters' novel "The Little Stranger" and it's magnificent predecessor, Henry James' "The Turn of The Screw". The pieces I saw were haunting (Zaatari), Romantic (Attia), spectral (Yoshiyuki) and occasionally macabre (Morrisroe), a full phantasmagoria of possessive contemporary art. It was also unbelievable fun, rediscovering recontextualized classic works by the likes of Sophie Calle and Mark Wallinger, and unearthing new favorites in Ming Wong and Akram Zaartari.

Ming Wong, Making Chinatown, 2012

At 28-32 Wood St, three works riffing off of the movie "Chinatown" fill the space with a restrained camp of identity dislocation. With video, movie memorabilia and oversize cut-outs, Ming Wong throws Hollywood a curve ball, with clever, clear wit and a meticulously executed deconstruction of ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and the glamours they encode. On multiple screens we see Wong reenact key scenes from "Chinatown", playing all of the lead roles himself. Undoubtedly funny, massively engaging, maddeningly disorientating, one cannot but feel like Wong has slipped them a psychedelic as the overlapping scenes of Wong-as-Nicholoson and Wong-as-Dunaway babble away, part soap opera, part YouTube parody, all sparkling. The hazy movie star cut-outs, again featuring Wong, only add to the fun house effect, proving not only uproarious in their pointed ridiculing (and apparent simultaneous adoration) of Hollywood, but also loaded with a definite eroticism.

Wong-as-Dunaway sports deco arched eyebrows, drawn over tape that masks his originals. They stood out for me as some wild sort of punctuation, foot-noting the experience, and referring me always back, in an endless feedback loop, to some fictionalized "real body". I suppose Wong-as-Dunaway's eyebrows are something akin to Barthes' idea of the punctum, but in motion, seizing my attentions, anchoring my understanding in those frenetic images. Constantly removing himself from and replacing himself in the work, Wong conjures up some supernatural absences, only to fill them. The work is like a very clever game of Guess Who, only we already know who, but enjoy the playing all the same.

Another marvelously playful, willfully subversive and almost panic inducing experience was to be had at Open Eye Gallery, where Kohei Yoshiyuki provided extreme eroticism. Admittedly I went to the gallery to see Mark Morrisroe's punk Dada photo collages of x-rays and other ephemera, which was disturbing and beautiful, but it was Yoshiyuki that really got me. "Love Hotel", a video screen installation of multiple grainy images from the titular establishment, was just the opening shot. Next, visitors are given a flashlight and shown into what can only be called a darkroom, both meanings of the word come into play when encountering "The Park". Fumbling a little in the dark, a little apprehensive (both of gimmicks like this and of embarrassing myself by tripping over the art), I shone my light into the deep, inky darkness. The torch picked up photographs on the wall and I moved closer, discovering each of the voyeuristic prints for myself, with an audible gasp. The images depicted the nocturnal fuckings of couples and groups in 70s Japan, at once alarming and exciting. There was something of a Pompeii to this high art wall art smut, something rich, captivating, illicit and unforgivable. At certain points it was unclear if the sex depicted was entirely consensual, and alone in that darkness, disembodied in amongst those silent fornicating bodies, I felt a definite shudder. The shadow of doubt passed fleetingly through the beam of light thrown by the torch. The work forces the viewer to acknowledge themselves as a voyeur and a participant, whilst placing one amongst the writhings and the moanings of these late night deviants. Scenes of desire and release are played out in eerie black and white, it's an intense experience, stumbling towards something great, a metaphor for life.

Kohei Yoshiyuki, Untitled from The Park , 1971

At Tate Liverpool, the group show "Thresholds" takes up an incisive dialogue with how we shape our identity and how that identity shapes the space we inhabit. Coming out of Yoshiyuki's dark room and into the Tate's cavern of family friendly, jolly-good-time curating was jarring to say the least. The show was however packed with ideas and brilliant bits of connection. Sophie Calle's "The Hotel" has lost none of it's provocative humor or it's power to investigate presence mediated through absence, and the relics left behind. Layla Curtis' "United Kingdom", was as snappy as ever, but seemed to take on a gruesome quality with it's decapitated Great Britain, England deprived of her Scottish head. The cardboard soldiers in Thomas Hirschhorn's "Drift Topography", reminding me of Ming Wong's cut-outs, malignantly obscure our view of the artwork's very centerpiece. Turning themselves inwards, and their backs to us, we are both pushed out and, horrifically fenced in by the manner in which the sticky taped, behind-the-scenes nature of the soldiers suggests we are in fact hemmed inside it, in some horrible gothic walling-up.

For me though, the highlight of the show was Kader Attia's "Oil and Sugar #2", a miniature epic on video, which glistens with savage decline for its full 4 minutes. Saturated, resplendent, a monumental stack of sugar cubes collapse with intense, jeweled beauty in a slick of blue black oil. Not since Poe's "The Fall of The House of Usher" has such a horrifying crumbling been captured so beautifully. Casually evoking 9/11, colonial destruction and condemned council blocks, Attia captures with poetic, effortless grace, the inevitable demise and destruction of all things known, in captivating, luscious simplicity, sublime as Schopenhauer meant it.

Kader Attia,"Oil and Sugar #2", 2007

I would have loved to have seen "Council House Movie Star", but I proved myself a real life unexpected guest by arriving at 16.55, and terrifying a half dressed performer, obviously ready to clock-off, who told me, with all the charm of a greengrocer owed a month's worth of credit, "Well, it's 5 o'clock, and you can't come in." What I saw of the installation (this de-wigged matriarch, a lot of white streamers and an upright coffin) made me wish most definitely that I hadn't lingered over that choc-pot in the Tate cafe, but had rather rushed to the impossible to find bur aptly named, Camp & Furnace, to witness what looked like a manic spot of something special. Ho-hum. The Gallery, Liverpool was likewise closed so I missed the Duggie Fields retrospective, which was a double whammy of annoyance.

I did however manage a few more shows, the most remarkable of which (maybe even the most remarkable of the whole day) was Akram Zaatari's immersive exploration of images, image makers and image making at FACT. Centered around an extended interview with an elderly maestro of photography (Van Leo) in Cairo, Zaatari weaves a slightly sardonic web of reconsiderings. Sparked by the discovery of some racy pictures of his grandmother in her 50s heyday (lovingly bringing us back to Barthes' "Camera Lucida") the interview is in fact with the photographer of said granny himself. He talks of his 300-500 self-portraits, his disgust towards photographers who don't create artworks for their studio clients, and the struggle to make good work in the face of commercial pressures. Slide shows of Van Leo's glamour girl photos swipe across the screen, showcasing his technical excellence and his old school glamour, in stark contrast to the out dated studio, with it's peeling walls, in which the interview takes place. Van Leo himself takes on the quality of a set of prints made from degraded negatives (are also on display), at once tangible and yet disintergrating before our eyes. It is a heartfelt portrait of a portraitist as he and his techniques disappear, and those pin-up snaps of grandma disrobing (also on display) shine with a whole new brilliance once the fragility and transience of it all is underlined, when we are confronted with the sheer cliff face fact that all we can hope to leave behind are souvenirs, and even they are only temporary.

Zataari also reworks a series of goofy found pictures of children, using adults to reenact their accidentally suggestive poses, which take on an idiotic sexuality of their of their own when transferred to grown bodies. Zaatari works and reworks his images, dislocating and reassigning meanings, in a complex but exciting way, which climaxes in four huge video screens which show Arab men in internet uploads, flexing their muscles, racing their cars, creating themselves as the want to be created, for an unknown, unexpected audience. It is cacophonously erotic, a great big glistening, discordant surround sound, wide screen appropriation of male iconographies and identities, stalked by the spectre of desire. Questions of authorship, spectatorship, self-reflexivity abound, as the bodies drive home their quest for self-determination, unaware that they have now become part of a matrix of other contexts. The men are not expecting guests, they are not expecting to be hosts, and yet he were are in a balletic back and forth creating each other with our gazes which can never meet.

Akram Zaatari, Bodybuilders, 2011

I was that unexpected guest, wandering alone like the prodigal child, around the city where I grew up, and hardly recognizing it. I found the experience exhilarating, engaging, erotically charged and prophetic. It was a dense day of visions and realizations, transcendent, disturbing, challenging, accessible even, but never for a moment lacking content or gusto. I feel like I have taken a roller coaster through a hallucinatory landscape of dissipating figures, other worldy and yet defiantly visceral. It is as though, I stumbled upon fragments from the future left to a past that hasn't yet happened.

The biennial runs until November 25th 2012:

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Back in a dress

Pic: Jordan Hunt being an absolute tart in MY dress!


"Boy in a Dress" returns for two nights, Nov 16 & 17 at the Bush Theatre, London as part of the RADAR festival of new writing. I prefer old writing myself, the Dead Sea scrolls, Gore Vidal's memoirs, hieroglyphics, Edith Sitwell poems, etc, but we do what we can, don't we?

In case you missed out, here's what the members of the press said, last time.

"A non-stop sensory explosion of individual personality" - The List

"Surely the artistic love child of William Blake and Penny Arcade....what is very clear is that this is a star in the making and he knows it." - The Stage

"Incisive, witty, moving (a) high-heeled, low-living clusterfuck of sex, class, religion, gender, identity and ideology." - Time Out

And to ice the cake, love of my lunch, Jordan Hunt is back from his European Tour with Baby Dee and Little Annie, to MD the show!

More about the show here:

Friday, October 19, 2012

She, the star

“I wrote this yesterday,” she was confused.

She had a vague understanding that the words on the page were her own, only they didn’t, in truth, resonate. She was late, but in no way hurried. “Let them wait,” she shrugged, hinting at malice as sunlight streamed in from the balcony windows. Athens was definitely beautiful, as was she, disappearing into the elevator all marble skin and endless limbs, a revered exile.

When the doors opened and she found her way onto the street it was noon, the traffic was ceaseless, the heat relentless, the journey, hopeless. She could have taken a taxi, but she didn’t believe in cars, too stuffy, too sinister in such sunlight, they made her feel claustrophobic and awash with an LA smog panic. The Mediterranean and California are so much closer than she had ever thought, their pollutions and vegetations made it easy for her to forget where was sometimes. So no, no taxi, and no train either, the simplest journey in this city required multiple changes, and patience is not her virtue, plus all of that transferring would save her no time. Not that she cares to save time, not that she is in a rush.

So, she walks, through the plaka, skimming the foot of the Acropolis, strolling deliberately through history’s great shadow, admiring without irony the great glut of souvenir t-shirts, travel ready food stuffs and factory glazed ceramics; culture, antiquity, adventure, so glibly compacted, self-replicating without guilt. Then come the museums and the packs of stray dogs, very civilized, waiting for the traffic lights to change before crossing the street, the ubiquitous semi-automatic police, the graffiti, McDonalds and overgrown town houses, the riot of time that leads her around the base of the Parthenon’s rocky foothold.

Though it seems a little early in the day, she stops for blue ice cream, and it is chewy with mastic gum, a texture she has come to find comforting in the last few months. From somewhere, any one of these ice cream stands, any number of parked cabs, comes Cher’s Walking in Memphis, it makes her smirk, she lingers longer with the ice cream, thoroughly invested in it.

Coming up to the Piraeus Road, weaving between the empty cafes and restaurants that represent her last few moments of freedom, she notices herself, or rather the absence of herself. Posters are up around the city, advertising the play she has the lead in, only the imagery has proved perhaps too illustrative of the show’s polymorphous themes, and posters are often defaced. Frequently she sees but half of a poster, remaining tacked to a wall, she has been torn out and discarded, an affront aborted. The letters above the head of her surviving co-star read, “An Ill…(second line) His…. (third line) Lon”, like the prayers applied above the heads of Byzantine saints in ancient mosaics, deconstructed by time and her invasions. The destruction doesn’t make her shudder anymore, she knew what she was getting into, “This is a very conservative country,” they had told her. “So am I,” she replied, with a dreamy, divisive opacity.

She was hungover, she could admit that now, in truth she was forced to admit it most mornings, for most evenings she devoured a full liter of anonymous white wine, not that she had ever enjoyed drinking, not that she could remember ever enjoying anything anymore. Taking one last gasp of air she broke the surface of the theatre, strode into the foyer, making no eye contact, and descended down into the auditorium. The place was still, full of frantic energies with no outlet, the cast, the crew shuffled about, looking bored and tense, staring into space, smoking illicitly.

You,” began the director, “Are two hours late! We have been waiting for you, for two hours!”

“Well, I’m here now,” she replied without any attempt to feign a fake apologetic tone, and disappeared into the dressing room.

Commands were issued, lights came up, positions were taken, the place came to life, obligingly in time for another rehearsal, the previous evening had been a disaster, technically that is. The sound cues had been unfailingly hashed and the lighting desk had seemingly adopted her hopeless mood, and simply expired. In the erratic darkness, afloat in muddled sound, the actors had barely made it through the performance, not that the audience seemed to care, so baffled were they by the entire nature of the work. Even she, she who had apparently co-authored the script, and sat in on every dance rehearsal, signed off the costume sketches, could not give a proper account of what it was they were all supposed to be doing down there – besides wasting money and embarrassing themselves.

Some clueless Genet, Homer, Fosse mélange, immersive and experimental (by which she understood rambling and full of wholes) and at the center of it, she the star, was supposed to sit like a jewel and confer comprehensibility. At best it was a show within a show, at worst a garbled tangle of clichés and bad scholarship, underscored with a profuse and supercilious lack of humor regarding itself. One night a dog walked onstage, inexplicably, and nobody cracked a smile, neither in the audience or onstage. That was the death knell for her.

In between her scenes, she would stand just off-stage, forever unable to remember what would come next. It was like bobbing in a recurring nightmare, never quite able to wake up. The stage manager, standing by, would gently respond to her obvious panic, saying softly, “You’re going onto sing ‘Tell All Your Troubles To Me’”, which she would do, onstage confidence betraying none of the confusion which flickered just off in the shadows. The scenes would roll smoothly, smoother than reality, indeed their rhythm down there in the darkness, illuminated by those artificial spotlights, had become more real than real life. Onstage the relationships were defined, the conversations well mapped, the interactions accountable, reliable, known. Offstage it was not so, and as much as she hated to step out onto the boards each night, she hated more for the final curtain to fall, to be hurled back out into the disinterested night.

She would scramble backstage between costumes, dancing a silent, comic, precarious ballet with her co-stars who undressed and redressed around her within a minute or so. It was hard not to trip, difficult not to collide, almost impossible in that cramped space to assemble the next ensemble without disaster. If ever the actors onstage rushed their scene she would curse them, saboteurs that they were! If they took their time, langoured with their lines, an impatient mania would seize her, expanding her desire to be back in the spotlight.

In one scene she appeared onstage, seducing her desirable leading man and smoking a cigarette. She did not, however, at that time in her life, smoke, and so dutifully each evening the stage manager would smoke for her. Overseeing the smooth rising and fallings of the stage curtain, the stage manager with a menthol (as per request) hanging from his lip attended to a hundred different things. Dragging deep on the cigarette, observing flashes of naked skin between costume changes, exhaling blue curls of fog when he had time, and expelling puffs of white mist from his nose when he did not, the stage manager waved her over with his free left hand.

“Here’s your smoke,” he whispered, “The next number is ‘Time To Go Home’, break a leg.”

So she strides on once again, indiscriminate self-inflicted glory, the lit hits her and the dancers break into movement. The band strikes up, she sings efficiently if not effortlessly, but soon loses herself into the moment, which is really all we ever have, the terror and thrill of knowing that. The seconds count onstage, words have meaning and gestures are measured, there is no, “Excuse me, what I meant to say was,” only the inescapable rolling forwards towards the finish line. If you drop the ball, it will be noted, the net cast around it all is taut and if it breaks the beads will spring forth and spill across the floor.

From a fragmented, unbearable existence is formed, on paper, a fictitious platform of being, in which she must believe or be lost. As the scene unfolds, she finds herself ghostwalking stage right, mimicking herself, becoming each evening a greater exaggeration of herself, following in her own dance steps. Like clockwork she cries, “Je voudrais une boir!” and automatically, he turns on his heel from the bar, in her direction, whiskey glass in hand (ill suited to the role she always thinks). He brings it to her, the look on his face like a mock tudor mansion, spelling out “lust” in revivalist lettering, hands it to her. She sips, she swigs, knocks it back, and acknowledges that it is real whisky tonight, poured perhaps to placate her.

Then he kisses her, hard like he means it, and she returns the passion allowing her hands to slide down his body as their tongues clash and their sticky brows bump each other. Her lipstick is smeared around his mouth, his eyes are radiant, he looks deranged, but yes, very handsome, and as he pulls her back towards him, whispers in his offstage voice, with a snigger, “Wow, that was hot!” Embracing him, theatrically, with her face buried in the sweat of his shoulder, in a low voice she replies, “Calm down, it’s only a play.”

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


I have just descended a deeply steep path to Martha’s Bay on the island of Burgaz, a pathway which gave me a start, not just with the precarious nature of its incline, but with a joyous false memory, a terrific thrill of worlds colliding as I stumbled to the sea and realized, “Ah! I have been here before.” But I hadn’t, nor was it déjà vu. The path, full of broken glass and prowled by stray dogs, is the very path described in the opening of my novel, “Everything Must Go.” It has been well observed that literature offers a hand out to the reader, an invitation to concur, “Yes, I felt so too,” which is a remarkable experience always. The realization that someone separated from oneself by centuries, continents and languages could have also reverberated with something so apparently private, is always a beautiful thrill, undoubtedly, but when you find yourself unexpectedly both the writer and the reader of the scene, it borders on psychedelic. When one’s own life reaches backwards (or forwards, who can say in this case?), when one actually staggers into a physical place one had imagined for themselves on the other side of the world, then what is there to do but to surrender to serendipity, the tidal wave of everything?

The sun is travelling overhead, as always, we are following it. Around the island runs a concrete sidewalk, like a gastric bypass, though no cars travel it only visiting idlers, strenuous horses and local dogs. Below, on the rocky beaches, sunbathers lie profoundly still, sprawled out on their stomachs, like corpses washed up in swimwear. Two motley hounds have adopted us, one black, one dirty blonde, they have followed us down the ruinous runway, onto the beach and are engaged in chasing and fetching the plastic bottles the boys throw into the water for them. The boys are, of course, on ecstacy, they have set up base in a bay of sunlight allowed by a gentle recede in the profusion and diversity of rocks and greens rolling down the cliff face behind us. The weather is benign, but not hot, I am reading Gore Vidal’s memoirs, a present from my Mother.

Across the bay sits Istanbul, cynosure, misty, vague but insistent, like the future. The waves chorus as they roll up on the rocky coast, bringing in abandoned, mateless shoes, a treasure trove of single sandals and lonely sneakers dashed on a shore studded with endless, priceless, coca-cola caps, bejeweling the nacreous carpet of sea shells, pine cones and vivid green moss. The dogs, like much-loved monarchs oversee their domain, serene sole proprieters of magnificent piles of trash, fabulous, untold riches which they regard as a playground to preserve for future generations, noble and historically minded as they are. A diamond mine of plastic bottles, gallon drums and five liter flasks washed in from the city at high tide, or perhaps thrown over the cliffs above by nihilistic picnickers in a mirroring of humankind’s own waterless fall towards apocalypse. A mountain of contorted, sun bleached bottles, abandoned as the tide retreats, added to daily as it advances again, clean and strangely beautiful garbage, piled upon itself. A wonderous stash of heroic waste, heaps of tragic beauties stranded on land, successors to the fishes, the true riches of today’s seas.

The broken shells under the feet of the boys (really, they are men) tinkle too, like shattering icicles or breaking glass in amongst balletic flowerings of plastic wrap and dessert pots tangled in the stones around their toes. One lonely vodka bottle floats out, ten meters from us, thrown too far for even the zealous dogs, who have escorted us here, to fetch. It catches the light and its form blurs with the vitreous water, glints, attracts the brief attentions of the Imperial Guard, those ever vigilant seagulls. The boys, warmed as much by serotonin as sunlight, find an easy familiarity with the regal dogs, wading out into the water together, finding submerged outcroppings of rock and posing like 50s pin-ups, unselfconsciously good natured.

Turkish floats above my head like the smoke from the joint, which I like a true Californian, smoke too greedily. The meticulously polite, offensively charming boys are somewhat outraged that I drag three times before passing it on. “In Turkey,” says one of the boys in his round about English, “We smoke once.” At the Southern tip of the crest Martha’s Bay forms, swims another boy, alone boy in blue board shorts, his face is indiscernable, featureless like a nightmare or a Julian Opie. How an unescorted traveller finds his way to such an unacknowledged destination is not to my mind known, but the emotional red globe has moved on again, behind the trees, he has the sunlight now, it is lost to me and the boys and the dogs.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Lady Grinning Soul

I am in Istanbul, for the first time, with no fixed agenda. As so, I am using this as an opportunity to get back to business, and write everyday, something which the success and excesses of the previous year have prevented me from doing almost entirely. Behold! My Istanbul diary, presented as a series of immediate sketches, written up each day, an important exercise for me, hopefully vaguely diverting for you.

Leyla Gediz

Since I have arrived in Istanbul (since September in fact, when I was gifted with an iPod touch) I have being taking constant snapshots of detritus, tabloid puns and beautiful architectural fragments. I don’t consider myself a photographer, but I like to keep scrapbooks – I think of this blog as a scrapbook in fact, albeit a semi-public one. Being in such a madly photographed city as I am, a place whose vistas, monuments and marketplaces were known to me long before I deplaned (albeit, not its beauty), I feel conflicted about taking pictures here. Local people walk nonchalantly past the most outrageous Ottoman palaces and staggering Byzantine mosques, whilst visitors grin inanely in front of every photographable nook at every one of their predetermined visiting spots. The endless clicking of cameras, and the unenviable reams of holiday snaps shot in the most badly lit corners of indescribably beautiful locations, produced by the kilometer everyday, is something I am not desperate to be a part of.

I mean, does anyone ever see a picture of an amazing panorama on facebook, or an incredible skyscape on a friend’s phone, and say “Wow! I simply must go there!” – I doubt it. Rather one thinks, “Very nice dear, good for you,” and checks it off the list of things to see and do, feeling that the experience has been had by proxy, that “seeing” it via the personal reproduction of a pal is enough.

I suppose this is what dear old Susan Sontag was prophesizing, when she warned against the dangers of experiencing beautiful moments via the camera, when she told us we were in fact missing out on the experience of being there by cataloguing the experience of being there. And with such constant visual stimulation, as we are all (qualify this as necessary) now afflicted with, we have managed to not only eviscerate the experience for ourselves but for those who encounter the Amazon, London Bridge, Ho Chi Minh City or Dietrich’s grave through our photographic records.

Thomas Ruff said something which really resonates, “Photography can only reproduce the surface of things. What people see, eventually, is what is already inside of them.” We are perhaps guided to see what we already know, to use what we encounter to affirm that things are how we believe them to be, we are viewing selfishly, we don’t want to go to those places we see in photos because if we are drawn to them it is because we feel we already know them. Those vistas across the Golden Horn I had googled, and those photographs of the Hagia Sophia I had seen back in school, stayed with me until I arrived in Istanbul because they represented a narrative I had invested in, that’s why I sought them out. Only now do they reveal themselves as fraudulent.

Likewise, when I take pictures, and disseminate them, I am working within that same narrative and weaving my life (or how I wish it to be perceived) into it. I become a denizen of Istanbul and Istanbul becomes a part of my life story, we confer onto each other a mutual contextualization for our audience; Istanbul makes me worldly, glamorous and adventurous, I make Istanbul accommodating, lustrous and contemporary. My presence here rescues Istanbul from its reputation as repressive, badly dressed and decrepit, Istanbul rescues me from my reputation of being Eurocentric, uptight, and uncultured. (I am talking here of a process which happens for myself, not to say I or my emerging relationship with Istanbul is any kind of symbolic act for a generation). But, when I am taking photographs here, or indeed being photographed here, I have to wonder what it is I am destroying by presenting these images.

In Werner Herzog’s film “White Diamonds” (disappointingly not a documentary about Elizabeth Taylor’s perfume line) there is a scene in which a former tribal leader in Guyana talks about what his people believe to be behind a particularly impenetrable waterfall, something nobody has ever actually seen, so impossible is it to enter the falls. Herzog tells him that a camera man on his team has actually lowered himself down the rockface and filmed inside of the cave, prompting the leader to state his belief quite firmly that that footage should never be shown. It would he said, destroy his people’s entire culture. This is an extreme example perhaps, but I am beginning to think that anybody’s dorky holiday snaps have such a power (though at a lower voltage) of reducing rather than increasing the viewer's desire to be there themselves. By spelling out myths, compounding them and simultaneously devaluing them, the desire to seek out is degraded – our work is apparently done for us.

And so I restrict myself to taking pictures of obscure corners and cats in doorways, and mosaics seen peeping over misplaced balconies, shots taken out of windows, images of rooftops; in short enigmatic details which are loaded for me with significance and seize a moment, without attempting to capture the magnificence of the horizon or the immensity of a monument. I can look back on them, humorously maybe, and they will be a secret pictorial history, without discouraging anyone I might share them with from seeking out the sights for themselves. I have always taken pictures like this, of my little sisters in the soft drink aisle at Tesco (which caused us to be thrown out, thank you very much), of garbage trucks with misspelt environmental slogans, of my shoes casting shadows. Each image has the power to remind me of some precise happening, without being strictly representational of that happening. Those random fragments, become some Proustian memory joggers, that jolt me into remembering how beautiful it was to be in Vienna in by looking over a photo of the light diffracting through glasses on a table top, or to reflect on what a weird time I had in Gran Canaria by looking at the image of a disembodied, slightly out of focus neon octopus looming somewhere in the darkness.

I am put in mind of the work of Leyla Gediz, some of which I saw this week at Istanbul Modern. The gallery text spoke of how she created the strange spaces in her work, recognizable yes, but most definitely off, in which to house her psychic experiences. The text referred to her work as not being an expression of her feelings or emotions, but rather a way to get rid of them, to offload them. I think this is a helpful structure for the tourist photographer in me too, that in taking these innocuous pictures I am freeing myself from the urge to take the sightseer’s pictures, but resisting the urge to catalogue the experience in a “useful” way. I love Gediz’s work because I want to go to the places she paints, although I have no idea where they are, and to be honest a lot of their charm lies in the fact that the idea of going there frightens me. They are witty too of course, not ruthless, but the challenge of accepting the invitation to step into these impossible spaces, implies getting entirely lost in them, or rather in what I am projecting them to be. Looking at the paintings I am aware of my own precarious mental state, Gediz just throws the door open.

Coincidentally, I am reading “Bodies” by Susie Orbach, in which she talks about the psychotherapeautic side effect of countertransference, in which the therapist themselves can experience strong changes in how they feel towards themselves in the presence of certain patients. Orbach talks about her clients downloading their feelings about their bodies (for better of for worse) onto her body, that she can become an ersatz second body for them, perhaps something closer to the real body they have lost contact with. It is interesting to consider Gediz’s downloading in the context of Orbach’s, in the context of holiday snaps. That uncomfortable desire to catalogue oneself to prove that one exists, to take the picture and throw it at the viewer as evidence. Many people find being photographed terribly uncomfortable, but will put themselves through the discomfort to say, "I was there then," to insist they inhabited a specific, unique physicality, in a specific, unique moment.

There is even something aggressive, violent about this deliberate offloading, inflicting the experience on other people once we have failed to really experience it ourselves. And for whom are we posing when we stand with the Eiffel Tower bisected above our heads? Whom are we smiling at with Niagara Falls out of focus in the background? Our parents, perhaps? Is it an attempt to say, “Look! I amounted to something!” to live their dreams for them? Our friends maybe? Is it an attempt to signpost how sophisticated we are, to keep up with well-traveled pals or even show off a little? Is it for posterity? Are we trying to keep a historical record of how cute and suntanned we were, how we were such romantic travelers? Perhaps, it is a chore. That the pictures are an obligation, a necessity to prove we got up out of our sedentary lives, that we pulled ourselves away from gayromeo, stepped out of our virtual, flatscreen worlds, that we are still capable of experiencing the world without the interface of a laptop. Perhaps there is even something resentful then in taking these pictures, something which says, “There! ME! Acropolis! Happy now?” Thomas Ruff's thinking posits that photography itself points out the stark fact that we can never experience the world through photography. Maybe a more abstract, personal, less staged, more obscure photography can prompt a more engaged and exciting audience response. Here’s hoping that it can provide inspiration enough for us to power down and take a walk.

Thomas Ruff

Monday, October 8, 2012

History is on the phone

I am in Istanbul, for the first time, with no fixed agenda. As so, I am using this as an opportunity to get back to business, and write everyday, something which the success and excesses of the previous year have prevented me from doing almost entirely. Behold! My Istanbul diary, presented as a series of immediate sketches, written up each day, an important exercise for me, hopefully vaguely diverting for you.

When I spent time in Athens I felt as though I were witnessing time in riot, degraded splendid townhouses on top of ancient ruins, jammed up against McDonalds and Adidas, tangled up in endless 70s apartment complexes stacked with satellite dishes. When I went to Rome I experienced such masses of people, an Imperial volume of bodies in motion, at work on the city’s bidding, never ceasing to surge from one side of the city to the other, migrants, tourists, pilgrims, refugees. Those cities are the two closest experiences to what I am currently discovering in the magnitude of Istanbul’s teeming streets and relentless scale. Straddling two continents, this is the seat of four Empires, the site of constant conquest and vacillating vanquishments, it is a treasure trove of history (human, cultural, religious) which has yet to be buried. Though of course many have tried.

Wave after wave of invaders sought to capture the city, convert its people and absorb its wealth. The Catholics destroyed the city of their fellow Christians, the Byzantines, to instate a new Latin Empire, the victorious Sultan Mehmed II took the city as stronghold of Islam, twentieth century revolutionaries declared a secular republic, and on it goes.

The ruins of the Byzantine city wall run parallel to a motorway which runs alongside them along the unreasonably beautiful coastline. Under these ancient fortifications you can find children’s playgrounds, opposite enormous petrol stations, and endless miniature plantations where Istanbul’s canny populace grow produce. It is a miraculous sight to see allotments full of green vegetables springing up in the shadow of what were considered the medieval world’s most impenetrable walls, and a total trip to watch all of this from gridlocked traffic, with the Maramaras sea to the right, brilliant and azure, crammed full of boats. Everyday citizens hang their linens to dry from the walls, their leopard print towels and their polo t-shirts, and in the arches of the stone gates where once Roman Emperors exclusively entered the city, homeless people now set up camp, their filthy meager belongings stacked around them.

The building which arguably holds the most powerful record of the city’s ever changing official status is the Hagia Sophia. From 360 their stood a church there, built in Roman times. Rebuilt by Emperor Julian in 537, in just five years after a fire, the basilica became the largest building in the world, and served its Christian congregation until 1453 when Istanbul was conquered by Mehumet II and the by-then dilapidated church became a mosque. After the conquest Hagia Sophia was given one of antiquities most famous interior redesigns. The Crusaders had vandalized the Cathedral, removing many mosaics to Western churches and palaces, doors were missing and the dome was on the verge of collapse. The victorious Sultan chose to renovate the basilica in a more fitting Islamic style, the building was restored to glory but the reamining golden Byzantine Biblical mosaics, were whitewashed and plastered over, in keeping with Muslim teachings prohibiting representational art.

As incredible as it is that given the previous conduct of conquerors (namely destroying everything and stealing the rest) the Hagia Sophia was left to stand, the truly amazing turn of the page came in 1935, when President Ataturk declared the building a museum as part of his new secular republic. As restoration work was carried out the discovery was made that the Byzantine mosaics were in fact still there. For 500 years, the Virgin had been seated above the altar and the mihrab in silence, for five centuries The Last Judgement had waited. The holy place is now an unconsecrated heritage site, dedicated to both faiths, which is a fitting, gracious, worthy tribute to its history as well as a timely pledge to better relations between the two religions.

What most fascinated me today on my first visit, amongst this cat and mouse game of history, were the unexpected additions to the basilica. On the exterior, the minarets stand out obviously as later Islamic additions, and inside the huge golden Arabic characters hanging over the visitors attest to evolution, but elsewhere there are more subtle updates. In a huge mosaic Empress Zoe added different heads to the unchanging body of her consort, as one was replaced by another in her long life. Zoe and her third husband Constantine (her third husband) appear either side of Christ, venerated before Him. Though Imperial egos were not historically averse to adding themselves into depictions of the Divine, the idea of the royal couple photo bombing Christ enthroned does seem, to my eyes at least, ever so slightly hilarious.

Of course we understand that this was a political move, as well as a religious tribute, but ultimately it is a vainglorious attempt at immortality. Upstairs in the gallery, carved into the balcony are a few lines of Viking graffiti from the ninth century. Less of a religious tribute, and seemingly more of an “I was here”, these historic desecrations have the same function as the Imperial photoshopping, they are attempts to carve a place in time out for their executors. In fact, the Viking graffiti is now actually signposted for visitors, and housed under protective plastic, it has itself become a significant relic, a souvenir of the cultural interactions of world wanderers. Success is at its basest, tenacity, all one has to do is stick around long enough. Survive enough sacking, looting, pillaging, deconsecration and museum foot traffic, and you too can become a bona fide artifact of genuine interest.

Of course, the survival of these haphazard scribblings point out, just as the massive holes in the mosaics do, the absence of so much more. If this is what has survived, what has disappeared? What mind-blowing successes, what heart-breaking failures, have been lost, that we might be left with the face of Christ hovering above where we presume his shoulders once sat, the tunnels half tiled in Moorish blue, and the antagonistic knife work of a Scandinavian sailor? It’s all speculation now, whatever was said, whatever grand statements were declared in construction and reconstruction can never really come to us, because we are not living on an Emperor’s whim, on the good graces of the Sultan, cowering daily in fear of the inevitable retribution of an all decimating God. We have rational technology, our own frustrated stabs at comprehension, and even to the expert eyes of archaeologists the graffiti is now illegible.

Saturday, October 6, 2012


I am in Istanbul, for the first time, with no fixed agenda. As so, I am using this as an opportunity to get back to business, and write everyday, something which the success and excesses of the previous year have prevented me from doing almost entirely. Behold! My Istanbul diary, presented as a series of immediate sketches, written up each day, an important exercise for me, hopefully vaguely diverting for you.

Exiting Ataturk International, heading headlong into the hungry belly of the city, in the back of a taxi-cab the city’s mantle broke open all around me. Miles of concrete, neon lights, freeways, overpasses, strip malls, billboards flaunting Kate Moss’ exquisite corpse; in short I could be anywhere in the world, from New York to Athens, and I wouldn’t know a discernable difference. It’s late, 2.30am, the constant stream of street lights bleed orange into the aubergine sky, a nether light colors the night sky as we pull into the city proper, which throbs with life and a pleasant warming breeze. We pull up outside an embassy, we step out, a solo soldier regards us with little interest from behind his machine gun, paces back and forth a little to relieve his boredom. A few stray cats leap around behind us, distractedly.

Our apartment is down a steep set of stairs, with the luggage and the after effects of the valium, the descent is hard, the neighborhood gets quieter as we move lower. Inside, the bright white fluorescents dazzle me into a complete exhaustion, barely capable of undressing I crawl into bed. There is no air in the room, all the windows have to be locked for security, I am thirsty but have been warned against the tap water. Dehydrated and strangely overcome with sexual longings I pass out. Waking up this morning, I did not recognize the thin floral sheet I was wrapped up in, or the cheap blanket acting as a curtain. Construction work was going on close at hand, people passing by the window spoke almost exclusively Turkish, with the exception of an American twenty-something, expostulating the national mantra, “Like, I don’t even know.” Amnon was still asleep, I don’t remember him sliding into bed alongside me, and for once he seems to have slept without shouting in his sleep. Often, he will yell out a single word in Hebrew or German, and I, sleep encrusted and bemused, will repeat the word with a quizzical intonation, prompting him to wake himself up by replying to me out loud. These blind conversations usually keep us engaged for large parts of the night, but not last night. Last night we both slept silently and woke up late. When I did come to, I felt adrift, being without a project to work on, for the first time in who can say how long. Work has become my way of understanding the world.

As usual, upon unpacking it became clear that many necessities had been packed by neither of us. We brushed our teeth with a shared toothbrush and an abandoned tube of fresh mint dino paste (for ages 2 and up), we squeezed the last handful from a travel-sized bottle of shower gel I bought in Edinburgh. (Heaven, only knows why but I am psychotically fixated on travel miniatures). Breakfast was the camembert sandwich I insisted on taking with me from the flight, even though it looked dismally unappetizing.

Outside the world seems like a party we are late too, the hustle is well underway. The traffic is like nothing I have seen, not in LA, where the cars sit behind each other for hours, and not in Rome where the sheer volume of vehicles annihilate any sense of protocol. I want to cross, but car after bus after taxi-cab hurtles by, and motorbikes invade the sidewalk. The noise is immense, a personality in its own right, endless, all encompassing, a mass of sounds all at odds with each other; traditional music, pop music, police cars, street musicians, commuters and construction workers, duking it out under the crisp, pastel blue sky. That strange, calm winter sun, so unusual to a Northern European, warm yes, hot no, a comfort, but a gentle one, as though sunlight had been muffled like the shrill cry of a trombone, muted for a more intimate environment.

I am disappointed, approaching Taxim Square, by the familiar sights of an Italian restaurant, a mall under construction, bus stops, billboards and broken payphones. Above the square itself flutters a huge Turkish flag, luxurious hotels overlook the street food vendors, the photo mad tourists, and the locals on their way to and from. Istiklal opens up before us, and I stare down its throat, the entire length of the strip is packed with a density of people, that from this perspective resemble nothing so much as an enormous shoal of fish, packed tightly together in sun spangled waters. Buskers play, chestnuts are hawked, this could be Oxford St at Christmas, even the lights being erected overhead have a snowy, festive feeling. Topman, Nine West, United Colors of Benetton, press up against Miss Poem, Republik, The House, and other such X christened local corporate entities. The thronging of people, once I am amongst them, can barely be described. I am in a mass of bodies moving with a frenetic energy that can only be acquired in an ancient city. All around me the swirling goes on, in every direction, pouring down side streets, flowing into and out of doorways, spilling onto trams, and rising like a tide, so as my eyes follow I see the balconies above my head, and indeed the rooftops above those, are packed with people. I feel like I am splashing my feet in the fountain of life, there is a spring from which humankind gushes forth and I am drenching myself in it. We stop at a café, a gay café no less, where they are obviously playing Madonna’s latest hit album. I enjoy a coffee with raspberry syrup, and a lyric along the lines of “Better call the babysitter, I’m tweetin’ in the elevator.” A friend tells us he worries that the war has already started on the Syria border. The barista tells me I look like Patrick Wolf, I dream briefly of suicide, we leave.

Strolling further away now, from the pulsating hordes of Istiklal, down half-stoned streets drizzled with graffiti and smothered with posters for forthcoming concerts, I feel a world away from the world. These winding lanes, crammed between soot covered nineteenth century wrecks crumbling under the weight of brownish pigeons, are chock-full of greengrocers and butchers, barely a trinket shop or a waffle stand peeps out. Here, with hearts hanging on hooks in the windows, and old men squatting on upturned coca-cola crates, with evil eyes peering up from the cement, runs a riot of original color. Great walls of pomegranates, rows of fish on ice, pumpkins the size of television sets, the true riches of the world laid out as though for inspection at auction. Everything looks delicious, from the swollen peaches, to the sun faded window decals, the stray cats and the mountains of nuts. No fashion week ever compared to the colors of these fruit stalls, no movie premiere would dare to compete with the glamour of these mounds of produce. And all around, magnificent buildings which would house a hundred people, fall down, boarded up, decay suspended whimsically above life at its most ripe.

Walking down towards the river, the city drops steeply beneath my feet, we are passing back to more tourist familiar territory and the streets bustle with offers of fresh juice, rose soap, shwarma, glassware and traditional clothes. The opportunities to buy are endless, if not in the streets, then in markets, if not markets then in underground passageways, crammed full of hysterical toy birds swooping in circles forever just overhead, electronics, cheap clothes and smoking paraphernalia. On the river bank itself, restaurant boats bop manically, and little boys with palettes of soda approach you with hydration deals, old ladies silently beg a few coins, waiters practically drag you into dinner, and above it all the sun is setting and turns the sky a remarkable ochre.

Suddenly it is dark, the night falls just like the curtain at the end of act one, heavy, smooth, precise. The long rows of men on the bridge go on fishing, casting their guppies into the water below, in amongst them vendors sell iphones and packets of tissues alike, the foot traffic teams on. At my feet are countless cats fucking, the shopping continues, car horns blare loudly and then comes the call to prayer. From three different points in close proximity I hear the ancient amplified Arabic, it wails high above my head in triplicate, and I am forced to stand still to receive it, to locate myself within it, as it echoes like a hallucination about me. To my left the bank tumbles into the restless river, to my right the great city booms up, the mosques picked out in orange light which illuminates them from below. I feel the ground breathe, the whole city swells with each inhalation, vibrates with each exhalation, here is timelessness. The hubbub, rambling, cacophonous nature of this place, the endless stacking of life on top of life, the ceaseless, sprawling expansion, speaks in a voice which can only come from an eternal, holy city, from ground trampled by millions and for centuries, from earth soaked in the blood of martyrs, trading on unknowable riches, from a nexus through which civilizations have been sieved since before history was accountable. New York is too new, London is too knowing, Paris has been asleep for half a century, and Berlin is a backwater. Istanbul is imperial, Istanbul straddles continents, Istanbul always was. And still the shopping continues.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Ask a stupid question

I wrote this outstandingly profound piece, on festival fashion, for Edinburgh's much loved fringe magazine, Three Weeks. I was a little, erm, altered whilst I wrote it.

"Now everybody knows that whilst the dull eye of television will be sizing up London’s Olympic demise this summer, the world’s real arbiters of taste and decency will be tripping down Edinburgh’s hallowed hallways. Everybody who is anyone will be there, tarting their wares, and serving themselves at the buffet table of culture, so you’d better be looking your best.

I wouldn’t advise a ‘fashionable’ approach when it comes to making your mark on the glitterati, that’s far too obvious. Everyone at the Festival will have read that same copy of Grazia on the pendolino to Edinburgh, so you will gain no advantage by displaying your savvy choice of bubble skirt. Nobody will care, good taste is old hat.

And don’t try some ker-azy fancy dress either as 50% of the city will be dressed in polyester reproductions of comedy animals, so they’ll entirely steal your thunder.

Everyone is trying to stand out, so really the only way to stamp your sartorial supremeness all over town is to dress yourself entirely as though you have no interest in theatre, the arts, culture, or humanity in general. If you dress like an out and out misanthropic loser, people will undoubtedly flock to you! For performers and promoters alike will be so sick of the manic grins of the shamelessly self-promotional that they will fall over themselves to find a human vent for their pent up frustrations and repressed fury. If people think you cannot possibly gain any pleasure or advantage from conversation, they will lavish it on you.

Now, what would this inconspicuous miser look like? This sepulchre of a person? Try to tap into all of your deepest insecurities for a moment, and then heap all of that horror into a shopping list and run immediately to TK Maxx. Will that a-line skirt make your arse look really ungainly? Buy it! Does wearing a shirt with a mandarin collar make you look like a half spent tube of toothpaste? Grab one! If you walk the streets in a God Hates Fags t-shirt will people refuse to make eye contact with you? Find out!

You want to look like you are suffering a prolonged (and probably fatal) round of depression, and to cultivate an air of bitterness around yourself, to make it clear that you lack empathy entirely. Try dusting yourself lightly in talcum powder, wearing your shoes on the wrong feet, listening to the soundtrack to Xanadu on a walkman, and whispering to yourself intermittently, that should be a good start. You must find the rock bottom within yourself and then, imagine how she would dress.

At first you might be a little uncomfortable with looking so dreadful, but you’ll get used to it, trust me (and some of you sooner than others). It might be a little embarrassing (and you’ll probably want to avoid meeting anyone you would ever like to see again) but after a few days the benefits will make themselves known. You will be a beacon of hopelessness in a sea of manufactured optimism, and so by the basic rules of attraction people will flock to you.

Your novelty value is simply that since there is no apparent reason anybody should want to talk to you, everybody will want to. Nobody will take you, in your mismatched supermarket brand sportswear and your free-with-Cosmo tropical beach bag, for a stage school brat or a wannabe starlet, oh no! It will simply be assumed that you are a mysterious outsider, onto which the exhausted and delusional denizens of the city will inevitably project endless romantic fantasies.

They will come to you in waves as thick as crème anglais, dying to rattle off their sorrows to an indifferent, unconnected outsider. To you they can complain about the garbage they have to sit through, and admit freely that they never liked theatre to begin with, and only got into this game to spite their parents. To you they will decline to censor themselves, figuring you as being too ignorant to comprehend, let alone cash in on, the indecipherable information. They will confess dutifully, they will heave up their tragedies like a drunken secretary on a hen night, and they will be raised up with relief.

Then, right at the moment of absolution, when they are almost grateful to you for listening to their tedious privileged whinings, just as they reach out the hand of approaching friendship towards you, you can knowingly slip into that clammy palm, a flier for your show. Surely they will be so embarrassed to realize what a fool they have made of themselves that they will come running to your show and give it rave reviews, if only to save face? Really that’s the kind of audience you want to generate isn’t it? Ashamed, deluded and indentured to your good will.

And if that doesn’t work, you can always spend all of that glorious free time you find yourself in possession of (after your venue goes bankrupt mid-run and you find yourself stranded with an non-transferable train ticket booked for Sept 1st ) cruising Oxfam for cheap sex, and even cheaper knitted goods. Chin up Marge, it’s not the winning, it’s the being humiliated publicly and worn into the ground financially that really counts! Which is just as well; because that’s really what you’re good at".

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I am delighted to say that I am blogging the process of presenting "Boy in a Dress" at the Edinburgh festival for The Huffington Post. I'll be updating it once a week, you can dig it up here.

The great thing about the Edinburgh Festival is that it lays out a great glorious buffet table of theatrical work for the edible delectation of the general public. It's the all-you-can-eat of performance, a seemingly boundless cornucopia of goodies to sample. But did you ever wonder how these steaming morsels actually make their way to your salivating palate? Were you ever curious as to whether the procedure is more haute cuisine or microwavable meal for one? Well, hopefully this blog will bring you into the kitchen, and allow you a little peak into the bubbling saucepans and overflowing metaphorical bain maries of the dramatic process. I will be inviting you into my thespian bakehouse once a week for the next six weeks, and you don't even have to wear a hair net, or those ghastly check chef pants.

This week was the first week of rehearsals on Boy in a Dress, the autobiographical transgenre play I am taking to the festival. It is the first time I have shown my own work in Edinburgh and so feels like an enormous undertaking. Upon recognising that this is indeed my deflowering, most of the seasoned pros in my aquaintance have given me a look of concerned symptathy so deep as to be positively funerial. Tales of alcoholism, fortunes lost, reputations made and ruined abound in the mythology of the festival, giving my projections for the month ahead the inescapable gothic drama of an Bronte novel. I hope I am not disappointed.

So far the histrionics and heartaches have been kept to a reasonable level, I have only thrown my bag across the rehearsal room once, and that was prompted by London's ever incompetent public transport, rather than any shortcomings on behalf of my collaborators. Interpersonal relations remain chipper, even edging more towards familial than professional, which is always pleasant (at least for a while). We bond over an improvised cafetiere fashioned out of a milk carton and a tea strainer, with which we make something related by marriage (if not taste) to coffee, we share stories of how we entertained ourselves the previous evening, and we comisserate with each other on our shared experience as nomads.

By some wicked coincidence, myself, my co-star Erin, our long suffering stage manager Stephen, our director Sarah, and my assistant Emily, have all found ourselves in transit. Between now and the end of the festival, all five of us will have left our apartments and entered into the unenviable process of house hunting on a come down. Edinburgh then is functioning as some sort of unexpected respite, at least conceptually.

For now there is an endless amount of work at hand. The set is in various states of construction, so when we are building scenes Erin and I are in fog of imaginings. That filthy old chair draped with a trash bag is actually a stack of hat boxes, the plastic cups are cans of spray paint, the geometric tape markings on the floor spell out the limits of our world. We barely know each other, being brought together by this process, and we are learning about each other whilst dressed as the Virgin Mary and a teen drag queen respectively. We catch a few minutes together in between scenes or on the way home, we share diet tips since we are both conscious of the fact we will be spending a large part of August nude in front of strangers. (I'm really not averse to being naked with people I don't know, it's just that when they're paying I feel I ought to give them something charming to look at).

The script, which I wrote, is still mutating like a swamp thing from a 50s b-movie and threatens to overwhelms us entirely, several times a day. It is meandering, poetic, punchy text set with a selection of songs from a diverse suite of writers, and neither Erin nor myself has a moment of pause in the entire hour. Plus there are 24 costume changes in 65 minutes, a feat even Cher would have to admit is bordering on miraculous especially since said garb comes not from Bob Mackie but rather for the main part, from my Auntie Marjorie's stash of 70s cast offs.

Likewise, our rehearsal space is an abandoned unit on a condemned industrial estate in Ladbroke Grove (inexplicably furnished with a dove cote but lacking an internet connection) and our entire budget is probably less than Kenneth Brannagh spends on smoothies each day. People more in touch with reality might potentially be concerned by these facts, but not us! As long as we have a corner of a room to tart around in and the threat of an audience to entertain, we are happy. As such we are facing the obstacles with the maniacal enthusiasm of a soon to be matyred saint, complete with the unmistakable medieval scent of sweat and singed hair. Next week we will witness the transubstantiation, at the hand of set designer and part time enchantress Myriddin, of several crates of discarded bric-a-brac into a oversized staging of my formative years. We will see Marjorie's old rags become chacubles and cloth recollections, transformed by Lily our costume assistant. We will see our producer Leo, through sheer force of personality, alchemically translate her abstract spread sheets and schedules into a living, breathing experience. We are witnessing miracles here lover.

We maybe working 12 hours a day, with only one day off scheduled in the next six weeks, and we may be earning pennies an hour, but we have somehow managed to spin a collective hysteria around ourselves which has convinced us that what we are doing is what we must do, or else who knows what will become of us? A project like this brings the people who work on it into a deep complicity, it becomes the receptacle for our hopes, our insecurities and our very will to live. If we are lucky, we may transfer this passion to our audience, and then truly we will be able to say that we succeeded, that it was worth it.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Read it.

Edinburgh is coming up, I don't have time to even write a suicide note, so instead I give you this interview with The New Current

Friday, June 22, 2012

Dance Theatre Journal

My career as a professional schizophrenic continues with this cover feature for Dance Theatre Journal in which I interview Anna Mosity of Dresser and Alexander Geist. The pictures are by fellow ginger andrgyne expat, Goodyn Green - swell, no?

Anna: "I'd like to seek total obscurity, I'd like to survive. I don't need to be Nico."

Alexander: "People always imagine she died of an overdose, but she died in a bicycle accident, did you know that?"

Anna: "I did know that, but I don't ride a bike, so I'm safe. For now."


Thursday, May 31, 2012

A Poem

It was nice to love you for a little while,
completely by chance,
like a hamburger wrapper blown across your path catching the front of your shoe.
It was nice to feel like I wasn't,
to not be,
but rather that i had succeeded in being,
and being something you desired,
I also desired to be.
How often does that happen?
Not defined by my lack,
not summoned into being by what I was without,
not commodified,
not mauled and pandered to,
not something sacred or wicked or needing to be dealt with,
Just organic matter that twitched in its very own manner.
And loved for it,
completely by chance.

Monday, May 28, 2012

"Bad Language"

Alexander Geist's new video went up today Spex called it, "an erotic performance and a political rebuke," which is nice. Directed by Sean Moxie, the video is an anti-Jubilee flick book of images which define contemporary Britain; complete with its class warfare, sham government, arms trade and unjustifiable monarchy. And here it is:

Boy (back) in a Dress

Well, here we are again. After the wonderful run of "Boy in a Dress" in February at Oval House, and the incredible feedback we got from press and audiences alike, I'm very happy to say that we will mount a revised version of the show for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August. Everyday at 4.20pm at Strand 3 from August 2nd - 26th I will be onstage delivering that mix of monologue, music, mischief and misanthropy that has served me so well.

In order to make it happen we are running a crowdfunding campaign here: through which we have already raised over £700, ie almost 25% So, lover, why not chuck a fiver in my virtual direction? Furthermore today is Pentecost, so let us celebrate both endeavors with this backstage picture by psychic love guru, and sometime paparazzo, Anna Lewenhaupt.

Monday, May 7, 2012

Gilbert and George's baby boy

This popped up on Artstars this wknd, the charming claim that my dear friend Alexander Geist is the spawn of the art world's very own Addams Family, Gilbert and George. Schön.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Alexander Geist

Here is the 7" release of "Bad Language" the debut single from my morose-disco soul singing twin brother, Alexander Geist. It comes out on May 18th - ie TWO WEEKS today on Haute Areal Records. EXCITEMENT! In other news, the Berlin daily newspaper, Berliner Zeitung, wrote this week: "der für seine erotische Schlechtgelauntheit bereits jetzt vielgeliebte Disco-Soul-Debütant Alexander Geist" which translates roughly as "Disco-soul debutant, Alexander Geist, is already famous for his erotic bad moods." I don't fully understand the sentiment, but I enjoy the implications.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Alexander Geist 7" release


Alexander Geist is bringing out a 7" purple vinyl on Haute Areal Records on May 18th. The record is called "Bad Language" it is produced by Joey Hansom and will feature "What I Mean To You" as the b-side. A release concert will be held on May 18th at HBC in Berlin with support from Dievondavon and DJs Joey Hansom and Dario.

The tracks can be previewed below, and will stream in full from May. The first review is from Spex and is here:

In addition to the 7" there will be a digital download (including a "clean" mix) of course.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Reviews for "Boy in a Dress"

Production Photo by Ami Nouvel

Reviews are surfacing for "Boy in a Dress" and proving to be overwhelmingly positive!

Time Out love it for its "wry charisma and intellectually robust sensibility"

A Younger Theatre
describe the show as, "brimming with poetic wit, charm and beauty"

The Publlic say "La Johnjoseph’s performance is a tour de force"

Whats on The Fringe have this superlative rant:
"This show was the first in a very long while which made me feel a virginal wonderment that theatre is supposed to offer was what theatre has aimed to be for thousands of years."

The show runs until March 3rd, and you can book tickets here:

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Boy in the Press

As preparations gear up for "Boy in a Dress" which opens on Feb 14th, we have been blessed with a veritable snow storm of press clippings ahead of the big night.

Time Out has this lovely interview.
Attitude have a preview
QX have a little q&a
I had a chit-chat with Gutter Candy too
Plus Out in the City have this double page featurette!

Next week I get thrown to the lions.

Monday, January 16, 2012


My new hit show "Boy in a Dress" opens in just over a month, we have raised £12,000 towards the production so far, but still we are just over £500 short of our financial targets. And so I have put together this fundraising page in the hope that we can bet the clock and pay the bills!  

Visit and please contribute if you can, and circulate if you can't.

Here's some info on the show itself;
Autobiographical, raucously political, and accidentally profound, Boy in a Dress follows the life story thus far of La JohnJoseph, a third-gendered, fallen Catholic, ex-fashion model from the wrong side of the tracks as she moves from the council estates of Bootle to the strip clubs of San Francisco.

Catholicism and drag, public sexuality and body dysmorphia. La JohnJoseph brings together an outrageous but heartfelt slew of true-life tales studded with her own reworkings of iconic songs from wide ranging artists such as Leonard Cohen, Justin Vivian Bond and Cole Porter.

Boy in a Dress is a frank and almost charming triptych uniting all three of La JohnJoseph’s solo memoir shows: I Happen To Like New York, Underclass Hero  and Notorious Beauty, in a ’retrospectacle’ exploring the intersection of class, gender, religion and identity formation from a somewhat unique cultural perspective.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


Alexander took a shopping trip with photographer Iwajla Klinke, and Israeli newspaper Maariv made it into an article. I don't read Hebrew but the pictures are cute.

And here's what the Pet Shop Boys have to say.