I walk into the strip club. I wear red lipstick, Calvin Klein heals... all black with a blazer. I sit in the far corner of the room, sip scotch, and puff away on a cheap cigar; making sure that my body is positioned with an "accidental" relaxed elegance. I'm creating a beautiful, mysterious ensemble in juxtaposition with the reductive men with gaping mouths and beady, rat eyes surrounding the stages in front of me.
I'm an aloof, cool, poised figure. Self assured. And nothing less then glorified by the jiggling rears, vibrating breasts, and whirling female contours accented by apologetic, blue light ebbing upon the swinish fanfare.
In my vague corner with my legs crossed spine vertical and rested on the back of the chair, shoulders at ease, chin superior, eyes venomous, hands lenient and chic seducing everything they touch, I wait for my piece to finish.
The piece is an evolution of myself into a compliment of the scene. It's the process of both elements interacting as an installation. A wave of empowerment is breeding from the apogee of the composite colors and forms. I let it overwhelm me like a thick sip of punishing, mulled wine.
I'm painted with, what seem to be from a distance, clean defined lines and statuesque block forms in three colors (cream, red, black) on top of a turbulent and spasmodic background. Collectively the display suggests something that would only occur if Barnett Newman took the liberty of painting over a small portion of Jackson Pollock's Number 3, 1949.
10.26.2016
