Andy Warhol, LeBron James, and the necessity for mindfulness in all things

Maybe it's Andy Warhol's influence (you know, he said, "Machines have less problems. I'd like to be a machine, wouldn't you?"), and maybe I think about all that too much, and read far too many biographies on that time in modern American history, but I think it's true.  

In union with this long-standing belief about people as machines, I've been thinking about LeBron James a lot lately-- how he calls his basketball career his craft, and he treats it as such. I've been thinking a lot about how he plays, how mindful he is about the energy on the court. How he assists when the assisting is good, but when it isn't, he becomes everyman. He never succumbs to gravity, at least not on the court.

There is a lot to be learned in that. 

Tim talks about basketball as this longstanding history, this David and Goliath story, that is simultaneously constant and ever-changing. A few days ago, on the way home from the YMCA, he was explaining to me how when he gets on a court, alone, he can envision the entire game he's playing. He envisions the players, their moves, and he responds to it all.  It's like a tangible transcendental meditation, which, at least in Tim's case, makes that outlet a necessity. 

I've been thinking a lot about that too lately, and I think it applies to the machine-- the LeBrons and Andys-- that ability to know yourself so well in relation to a craft, that you can easily press through the weight of anything. So much so, that you don't even feel it. It's like everyone else is just a ghost passing through; there is no way you can succumb to negativity because you have absolute mindfulness. You know the vision to be so true, and because of that truthfulness, you know how to make it real. 

That's kind of beautiful. 

Pressing further into this idea, Dwayne Wade is currently an ABC broadcaster for the NBA finals, in which he talked about how LeBron takes care of himself better than anyone (which I think, especially for Wade, is admirable). I thought about that for a while: the kind of confidence that comes with knowing your body so well, that you can trust yourself to make your visions a reality. Knowing your body so well, that you consciously and truthfully know how to read yourself, and the adjustments you need to make to your game to have longevity (a la Tim Duncan).  

All this thinking comes down to one thing, really: why is that only admirable in sports? why, when someone does something to improve their health and mindfulness, is it seen as shaming those who don't? 

An example of this phenomenon: yesterday, my friend explained to me that she had to leave a facebook community because they said she was fat-shaming and supporting the patriarchy. Her offense: she posted a photo of her cousin and her cousin's husband. Both had been 300+ lbs and lost over 100 lbs together. In the caption, her cousin said, "losing weight together has made our marriage stronger."

The thing is, I don't understand when personal experience became the banner of the absolute. I don't understand why it seems necessary to constantly emphasize a world of absolutes when most all of us live between them. And more than that, I don't understand the necessity to control every single thing that exists outside of us. 

In this patched together mentality, it seems to me that if we were more mindful of ourselves and our own strength and character, then we would have far greater success in creating our future realities. It probably goes without saying that we'd be happier because we'd be more self-reliant. Modernity has been constantly constructed on self-reliance (thank you, Elon Musk), and mindfulness appears to be far more compatible with progress than forcing absolutes. 

Is the perception of Art for Art’s sake just fool’s gold?

This is an article I wrote for The High and Low, which explores the shifting definition of art in a world where there appears to be no difference between the artist and the hobbyist.

Warhol at the Dali: why it's such a dream, &why I am absolutely nothing like Warhol.

probably, like most everyone else in the world, sometimes, I really love to fantasize about what I would have done if when I were a kid, I would have cared a little more about where I would end up going, or at least, if I did not have a million directions I wanted to go into: if there was only one.

it would be easy for me to say that I have always wanted to be a writer because I have, pretty much, always been a writer. cut back all the way to first grade, and I wrote plays that were sequels and prequels to my favorite stories like Amelia Bedelia and Home Alone, and my friends and I would practice our lines, I would gather our props and create costumes, and we would perform my plays for the older grades. 

in third grade, we were supposed to make haunted houses in Mrs. Lippencott's class, and she told us to use cereal boxes and she handed out dittos that we were supposed to color and glue to the front of said cereal boxes. I thought this was a terrible idea; I mean, at this age, my mom was making me hammer pants and cool crop tops, and anything I dreamed of wanting to wear, she could make. So, I left the ditto at home, and I made a haunted house diorama out of a shoe box. and it was awesome, but Mrs. Lippencott did not believe that I had made it, even after my mom wrote a note, so i had to make the cereal box house to get credit.

in fourth grade, my teacher thought I could not read, but it was only because I hated the stories she selected, and I would rather read my own books, so I did that instead. when Mrs. Mc. Elroy called my mom in for a conference to tell her I could not read, my mom laughed, and told her I had been reading since I was two. after that, I was put on the morning show, K.N.O.W. as a new anchor, the weather girl, and birthday girl.

and in fifth grade, my group in art class won a contest for a play I wrote about a Native American named Toe Jam; again, with the set and things, but this time, my friends came to my house, and my mom helped everyone design the greatest puppets ever. so, of course we won. we got to perform at a few retirement homes, have lunch at Mc Donalds, and be out of school for a day. we had our own bus and everything.

I made up dances in Girl Scouts, all nine years of Girl Scouts, and we would perform them at pow wows and lock ins.

I was a gymnast this whole time, and I was dead set on going to the Olympics, but then I broke my wrist and chickened out, so I went into track and cheer leading.

then art school.

then so on and what not. the point is that writing is not the thread that all of these things have in common; the only real thread is that I wanted to be a star, which is also, probably, like most people. 

the only other thing in common with the life I had then and the one I have now is that I have always been obsessed with aesthetics, which is probably an even broader idea than being a star; because even the star part wasn't so important-- it's always been the art part, which is probably why I love Andy Warhol so so much.

 I think about him when he was a kid; sick with a strange disease--Saint Vitus Dance-- that not only has anyone ever heard of, but it sounds like make believe. cut to the obsessions with childhood stars, beauty queens and holly wood starlets; laying in bed, watching television, reading magazines, and writing to the young and famous for autographs, and being a capable and talented on top of it all, there is some kind of kinship to the story, for me. but not because I probably just find it romantic: all that high seriousness, all that darkness and beauty. the main difference is that Warhol had it figured out when he was small; he knew what needed to be done and did it. 

Warhol is an arrow, and I am kind of a tumbleweed. 

if I imagine correctly, and see the fantasies the way I want them to be, I would have gone to school for design. I would have moved to New York and studied fashion; I would have been hungry, and it would've been fine. don't get me wrong, being a professor is awesome, but it's mostly awesome because I like ideas and beauty. if I could do something else that had the same desire lines, I probably would try that too, which leads to another difference:

the reason why I am also obsessed with Edie Sedgwick, Warhol's muse. and this is the difference of being the party instead of watching the party. the part about not knowing and not planning and just moving; the idea to just keep moving, which is mostly a very childlike attribute, and something I think that Warhol was incapable of doing. his sickness and strangeness made him very serious at such a young age. I think I maybe became serious a year ago, but even that may not be true. I can think of only one thing I am whole-hearted about, and it's soon to be two, other than that, my serious may not be true.

however, there is an aspect of whimsy to Warhol, which cannot be understated. after he made it as a visual artist, he decide to go into films, then porn, then back to visual art, then to made-to-order prints of society's darlings, then back to visual art, and this entire time, he believed that the art of business is the greatest art of all.

so maybe it does all go together, which is why I find Warhol so engaging. I mean, he invented the term superstar and everything else that goes along with fifteen minutes of fame, but still no one knows much of anything about him. the best place to find Warhol is in his art, and

The Dali Museum in St Petersburg will have an amazing exhibit set up from tomorrow, Saturday 18 January to Sunday 27 April. The exhibit is called Warhol: Art. Fame. Morality., and it not only showcases tons of his prints on loan from The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, but every Saturday for the duration of the exhibit, they are playing Warhol's films. 

I am so excited, I may go into labor. I have been trying to see his films for five years, and have even visited the MOMA on multiple occasions to see his exhibits, but never have they ever played one of his films.

So I am getting a year-long membership to the Dali because it is 21.00 every visit, but with a student or educator discount, it's only 40.00 for a year, and it is a tax write off. 

so maybe it does all go together.

this is the Dali's events calendar, which includes Warhol's films that are being featured at the Dali, which are free to see with the cost of admission. let's go!

on warhol’s marilyn, or why icons make icons.

having heroes like andy warhol and edie sedgewick is probably a terribly reckless thing.

but having icons like marilyn monroe, debbie harry, dee dee ramone and johnny thunders, jean harlow and clark gable and richard hell, may be all the more inviting for an end of the world mentality. at least from one point. no one living even thinks about death except for those moments when the living has halted and there is some point in space to think about the points in space that have come before.

i write everything down. i have kept endless journals since third grade, not because my hours were blowing my mind, but to work out the world, to cut up the ghosts and devils and sort them out line by line. i write to figure out the next part and mostly, at least at those moments when all that hero worship starts to fail, i listen to what i am saying. often years will go by and will i have written the same situation over and over. usually i do not realize this until much later when sentiment starts to get the best of me and i think a return to those parts is best. my journals talk me out of this. every time.

today is andy warhol’s birthday. if anyone knows me, they know my absolute obsession with warhol and early punk like the ramones the heartbreakers television blondie suicide patty smith the velvet underground the new york dolls etc. i rarely listen to anything else or have really liked anything else since i was fifteen years old. mostly that means i dislike modern culture for the most part. mostly that means i dislike modern music. i really do.

i like anything that came before. i like phil spector’s pop sound, i like little richard and the righteous brothers. i like creole / zydeco. i love soul. i like iggy pop and the stooges. the mc5.

i like the harlem shuffle.

the beach boys, gary numan, david bowie, i went through my joy division phase a cure phase i went through a few phases and 

there are other bands, like esg, that i cannot remember with such immediacy, that i really truly love, but for the most part i was a damn terrible band mates girlfriend because i have not liked most music post 80s.

it’s true. i didn’t. i despise bands like animal collective. the only sonic youth song i like is their cover of the carpenter's "superstar". modern music is damn boring, which is an overdone mentality, i know, and i should not be so harsh in black and white, i know, but it is no matter. i try. it's true. i can't. ride in a car with me with the satellite radio on . i'm terrible. i don't even have a radio in my car because i would annoy myself with agitation.

i can space out listening to this revamped surf music and redone joy division (though i seriously despise these terrible covers coming out where the tunes are tremendously slowed down and some boring girl with a boring voice is attempting to croon in order to pretend to feel and totally ruins a song that was awesome)

why the hell aren’t bands covering songs that used to suck? why are bands (and directors for that matter) reproducing art that decimated everyone the first time? why not be like jay z and redo something lame like shirley temple and make it damn cool? why not make the world to where the original is an absurd and half-formed distraction?

anyway, here is the point: yesterday was the 50^th anniversary of marilyn monroe’s suicide. today is andy warhol’s birthday. that means that marilyn monroe, one of warhol’s imfamous idols, committed suicide the day before warhol’s birthday. monroe was 36 when she died and warhol was turning 34. warhol got a tremendous bit of backlash for producing his marilyn prints right after her death. people still consider it an ultimate exploitation of her death. but think about it. you don’t even have to know anything in the world about warhol to think about it.

it must be a strange feeling for an icon to commit suicide the day before your birthday.

all the backlash, but no one beats up the blondes that became their own reproductions of monroe. what about all the physical manifestations (jayne mansfield, mamie van doren, lindsay lohan, anna nicole smith, etc)? it is all the same sleepy cat eyes, blonde halo of curls and slightly parted lips. all that well-known sex and symbolism. we all know the formula. it is the same iconic face. the same constant components that warhol pulled out of the world immediately after monroe’s death. he pointed at these parts to distraction. and here we are still pointing at those same parts and making them parts of ourselves over and over and over still beating up the dude that started the march. and we are all marching.

happy birthday andy warhol!

THIS IS AWESOME. AWESOME STYLE. AWESOME INTERVIEW.

beauty no. 2

I love Warhol's screen tests. I just found the catalogue raisonne at the library and I am listening to the velvet underground.


I had a friend that looked like John Cale. He doesn't anymore.

dream machine.

when i was nineteen or so, i used to see a dream therapist. he was this very old very tall man with a very long beard and he taught psychology or anthropology or something like this at the university. he had this tiny office off campus and my boyfriend and i would see him when it was very dark out. we would sit in his very dark office on this little orange couch, and this very old man would take us through dream meditations. i appreciated this form of thought mostly because there was no pressure to say anything or feel anything; i was just wandering around my skull with some guide, which made my brain a nice enough place to be.

silver warhol dress / 200.

formally just a new year's dress, it went mid-thigh until i hacked the skirt into a tutu length mini and made a tiny tulle tutu that poofed to the max and makes the bottom of the dress look like a shiny black flower. i fell in love with the silver fabric. it reminds me of photos of the walls of warhol's factory

being that late 60s early 70s new york is among one of my worst obsessions (one that makes me constantly go back to new york and wonder where it all went and being ridiculously disappointed being that time truly ruins it all) and andy warhol being one of my top five favorite people of all time. but like all beautiful things, the fabric was weak-willed and liked to shred so i had to reinforce it a million times over and line it so it would not scratch when i dance wild.

and i made the lace along the bust out of the tulle that was left over from the big pouf under the tutu. so i got this pretty outrageous dress that doesn't go anywhere. often i dress totally over the top just because. just because i love the clothes in my closet and who cares. and you know, like warhol said, "an artist is someone who produces things that people don't need to have." and needs keep terribly tight company.

kristen and the love machine.

yesterday i woke up terribly early and spanned the day in my sewing room listening to surf rock and working on three dresses and a bathing suit design that is so super killer-- like if there was a cool mermaid cast on Dynasty-- like mermaids being bigger than Texas in Texas. or something. that kind of sex appeal. like when Jerry Hall went over to Paris and annihilated all their french beauties and took it all up as only a girl from Texas can. that kind of Texas. the other day i read this awesome article on contemporary art. it was about how Dallas is becoming this nutso enormous art community; how all the people with all the money (including this old dude that only wears purple and george michael's husband) all pooled their money together to build the most outrageous art museum and opera house and art collection (they actually buy art and split the cost and time of which each has it) and how even the Cowboy's stadium has an insane contemporary art collection. and that's sort of like watching television. it's like comparing the same photo when one of these things is not like the other. my mind wanders too much. i finished all three dresses and the bikini.

last night i went out until 4a and hell was that like watching television. andy warhol said, "Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there - I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television."

and hell, if i have ever been shot it was the first six months of this year at high caliber with a slow revolver one or two or three big bangs each month that left me with the lights off and if i have ever felt like i was watching television it has been this week with way too much going on in my skull, not in a rotten way or a sad way or anything like that more in an against gravity, correlated kind of way. so here is the thing. here is what i have been thinking about:

the construction of fantasy in relation to the frenetic construction of reality and its relation to love. or the fantasy of love and how the effects of memory alter love. last night smith and i went out and talked for ages and he is the only person that has known me in a day to day way since the beginning of the last end stop (the really bad one, the really mean reds). about four years ago i started to become obsessed with the construction of hyper reality and its effects on the actual. how we see something somewhere in space and how in reality we have a direct response (breaking up with boyfriends, taking lovers, these kinds) in reality. how everything is becoming even more subjective. and how those of us who know how to navigate the psyche of the hyperreal (or truly the universal subconsciousness) will ultimately be ahead of the game (it is like the difference between those who smoke weed and those who don't. those who do smoke function right as rain but they don't realize, and probably don't much care, that they don't realize everything that is going on).

and this extends to the constructions of love. say i meet a boy in real time. said boy talks and walks and winks and only knows me for my face and my body. boy knows i have blonde hair and i laugh alot and i am generally a happy, fun person. in real time anything else that comes up is like falling into quicksand. the world is an impatient place and often i date dudes in real time that really develop no interest in me beyond this point because this is enough. me being a remarkably secretive person, i do not readily tell things about myself in the slightest, so more often than not i tend to know people more than they know me, and at that point i get bored because no one just likes to be a shadow and i disappear.

now construct the hyper real. make a projection that is a decent construction of the living self and this becomes an easy reference point. the small, dispersed parts of real time correlated to the projection, can really provoke that falling feeling. make you feel like you really know someone. not just a ghost. (it is a ghost) and it allows the object not only a body and face, but the fantasy is filled into the blanks. warhol also said, "Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is very exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet." the fantasy builds the girl into a real doll. and on to the after:


at the end of real time (after pulling the houdini) there is still the hyper real construction. the projection is still on the screen and the fantasy is still intact. only it become worse because you only had that fleeting real time-- the dark room the clothes the smile that one time-- and they become the fantasy inter played into the projection. the object is now just a shade and the response can only go so far. the body has walked and the ghost remains. sometimes the body comes back. you go out with her, have coffee, get into another argument about something. and that reason why the two of you dont get along in real time to begin with is the monster again. and then the body falls back into the screen and becomes the ghost. warhol said, "Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?" yesyesyes and people are circles too.

unfortunately, i don't get to caught up in the hyper real beyond the point of interest and the dramatic discourse of it all (you know, knowing people are lying cheating stealing sucking it in, etc) and Smith thinks it is because i am just one of those people that is far too haunted by memories. which is true. i have enough emotional sentiment in real time to find me at my grave. i am a terribly sensory person and i can construct the rooms in my mind where the world has cut me the deepest. those parts are hard to get away from, especially if, like me, you are so remote from your emotions (i locked mine in a room five year ago and i find it scary to try to reach around in the dark for them) that the world is just like watching television. which isnt logical or romantic but more like living in a vault. i am definitely living in a vault but i have a ball in the glass rooms with all my ghosts and good friends that love me for who i am.

Smith said some super nice things to me but mostly he says i should make movies. he says he thinks its the way i'm going to get out. i think it is more than apparent to everyone that i am constantly looking for a way to escape from something. and that everything i do: school photography study film clothes is just a major plot on the grand scale. it is all a way to find my island to pack my suitcase deadbolt the door and fall into the absolute reality of the world with someone that i am completely out of my skull over in real time, without the projection or the ghosts, but with all of the fantasy that only a true moment can bring.