Its a Dark Place for the Too-Often Unemployed-Mature Student-in Crisis
It’s time I told the truth about me and about my life. While I think of myself as an accomplished actor (as I cope with family, relationship, and social stresses), I think that the effort has begun to exhaust me on an untenable level.
I say this as I have just paused, midway through locking my apartment door, mascara’d and girdled and polished to the best of my ability in a July heat wave (fear of wilting threatening to distract me from my once stellar focus) about to head out to a job interview. I paused, then stopped. I felt anxious in a quiet, half deflated way, in my best dress, yet. I feel, lately, 5 months into benefitless unemployment, anxious, depressed, fatigued, angry and frustrated in a way that resists the now common labels we toss around so carelessly, leaching them of their meaning. Too slippery to pin down my feelings. Once I try to pin it down with this or that label, it changes and hides under a different rock in my psyche: am I just fighting a summer cold? Upset stomach, something I ate? Insomnia’s resulting side effects? Bored, tired? Functioning the way I do and have for so long wears the labels out. I complain as little as possible but the excuses are so repetitive that it becomes a middle-aged, annoying hum to the ears of those in my life.
I am trying to “unpack this” as they said so often in University. As they say in therapy. As intelligent, detached folks say about ideas and theories their own or that they wish to deconstruct, their fetishes or sometimes their most loathed area of specialty they have been saddled with teaching for a term. They “unpack” ideas or theories because it sounds exciting; because it’s academic slang. For me I am trying to unravel a bundle of wires that represent my emotions, my mental pain, my confusion, my lies and my survival tactics that may or may not be killing me slowly and maybe need to be shaken out, maybe even exploded, in the service of the deeper and higher needs of myself, my well-being.
A handy reference guide of go-to music to service your mood:
Mood One – In desperate need of an anthem:
Maybe you have crossed that threshold where sad music no longer gives you comfort, but makes you said. Maybe you listened to an illegal amount of Radiohead in the 90′s (and the 2000′s). When the sad songs and the news and the self-help books just cross each other out in a wall of static, it’s time to break out an anthem. If any of this rings a bell, best to keep a roster of them handy*:
Bruce Springsteen: Thunder Road
(It’s ok to be older, nostalgic and sad. In fact in the right lyrics it’s downright epic. See also, The Killers)
The Killers: When You Were Young, Smile Like You Mean It, All These Things I’ve Done, and about three quarters of this band’s catalogue has been proven to bring souls back from the brink of destruction. Without the side effects of anti-depressants.
“And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live. When You Were Young” (Cleansing musical crescendo follows…and repeat)
“Dreams aren’t what they used to be….” Smile Like You Mean It.
“I wanna hold on, I wanna let go, you know you know, no you don’t, you don’t.” All These Things I’ve Done
Manic Street Preachers: Motorcycle Emptiness : Until you read the lyrics you will never understand the precisely British musical art form of robust, anthemic, angry anthems sung with a wry smile. Literary and overstuffed goodness for the overthinker.
Mood Two – (On the opposite end of the spectrum from Anthems…) Want to chill/mellow out / meditate but don’t smoke weed? And are not good at relaxing? Add Van Morrison for instant results.
And It Stoned Me (leads to poetic levels of inspiration, a wholly original and special song about a perfectly realized childhood memory of getting caught in a freak rainstorm with his brother, musings about water.)
Into The Mystic
Sweet Thing (you will finally understand the sonic beauty potential in, of all things, the flute. You will walk in gardens all misty wet, all misty wet with rain, happily, all by yourself for once) How could I forget for a couple of decades how perfect Van Morrison is?
Mood Three – Add a Cinematic Soundtrack to Your Ordinary Apartment, or Your Subway Ride
Many, many songs can meet this standard, as you have no doubt realized in critical moments of dreary subway rides. Here are a few more:
The National: About Today: How did a devoted, obsessive National fan miss this one? Because the universe wanted it to act as an emotional sledgehammer and one in a hundred moment of sublime film connection used to perfection at the end of the film “Warrior”. (See this film). Also has a stunning rhythm, energy, and strangeness that will work without the film reference, transforming that salad you are making into actorly business worthy of seven figures.
Lykke Li: Possibility: Very sad, endlessly appealing and beautiful, from one of the Twilight films but who cares about that? Ambient sounds make it otherworldly.
* The Killers just announced new album and single “Runaways” is what inspired this list. I thought, God I need a new anthem today.
1980’s British gay boys
singing of unrequited love and bold
desire confused us so –
suburban girls: foolish, eager, emotional bundles
of nerves, anger and ready tears, forevermore.
They claimed us like shell shocked lovers from a
faraway war.
U.K. Imports, expensive,worth it;
vinyl treasures- something to trade
with the boys. Our pale heroes taught us that love was elusive,
tentative and underground; to be cherished
while the fates conspired against us….
“And if a double decker bus crashes into us,
to die by your side, well the pleasure, the privilege is mine”.
Tutored by Morrissey & others, I was, at once,
consoled, thrilled, compelled to dream -and ruined.
Skirmishes followed.
Running away as far as we could meant
riding the length of the subway. It ran all night in those days.
Breaking my parents’ hearts’, for good, and my
own brittle one too, I invested all
I thought I knew in an image of love
- a precise fantasy.
Vibrating with longing,
luxuriating in the outsider position,
neither subject nor object;
rather, posturing at knowing, winking, sneering,
was the only space to hide.
Knowing not that this love
was exclusive, fantastical, polished, for that matter-
mastered & locked in wax. Formed
in a repressive, stuffy time;
it had nothing to do with me and him yet we pined,
modeling desire itself upon its’ persecuted, ironic vibes.
Glamorous, it infused everyday suburban angst with romance
- the best kind: impossible.
The best thing: British-accented, the voice of authority-
whilst its owner looked
down sullenly from obscure magazines, right through me.
Primed for sublimation I hung on, I clung like a lone vine,
there was no higher thing for a good girl -no more pristine
vision; no better way to fall
than headlong.
Imagining myself into someone’s retelling of Yeats,
ignoring my studies for always for the Cemetery Gates
and ask anyone I knew,they can still tell you
garishly, proudly what they still long for:
“Somebody”
word for word, from memory.
Though my views may be wrong/ they may even be perverted/ she will hear me out, and won’t easily be converted/ to my way of thinking/in fact she’ll often disagree/but at the end of it all/she will understand me…
Placeholders were found -
the space taken up eagerly by broken boys from broken homes
who were swept away too;
a t-shirt admired was currency, was courtship -
we could, I did commit all on this basis, until it passed
for reasonable grounds for vows.
Possessing no poetry of his own, a local boy
begged, borrowed and stole beauty. He wrote to me
reams of meticulously transcribed song lyrics
-on the front side only- of ruled sheets.
His cursive shape, ever prettier than mine, I can never unsee.
Paper was cheap.
Starving, I accepted these, opening up like a flower, settling.
Spreading out a tweed coat under the same sun, in another cemetery
“forever…and always”
signed with a ridiculous flourish,
by a reckless plagiarist - I was happy, I still protest.
But what else did I know?
Just a greedy young fool pinning
lies to my heart ludicrously, as if something unique.
While learning well, too, how to counterfeit.
Until, embalmed in lyrics
and choices made, I took away the lasting lesson of the day,
of love in our time,
in our town,
and of our type:
LOVE would be an eternal, shifting compromise, shoddily framed on
something seductive and artful. Something artificially sweetened,
addictive, carcinogenic,
Love beat like this: pretentious and marbled with
dry Catholic school guilt of a dying grasp
-but I would like the Vice Principal to know, if he’s still alive, that I didn’t end up on Jarvis, as prescribed-
I was just a girl
alive, and tempted by mortal sin:
Jarvis, humiliation, drop out, and damnation for me
or worse results.
“Love” and it’s sin led to my future deferral
to brighter, prettier, unknowable minds,
while neglecting my own.
That the allure of this exquisite love, while dreamy and cerebral,
was wholly fantasized, was a fact too pedestrian to matter much to me.
That high school, that world, which I acknowledge
only to disown,
(Now don’t I sound just like him?)
was full of bastards, delinquent mimics and compulsive scribblers,
but as of this writing, has produced no poets of its own.
“Forever”. As facsimiles go,
love was vibrant-
it felt like mine-
it tasted sweet-
its tears seemed purposeful. I insist- we were inspired at times,
euphoric, we took risks. The best kind, fearlessly
and with hearts and desire uncloseted, outrunning shame
for a while.
I can’t let it go. There was no more vivid dream.
It would take a long time to see the utter
forfeiture of my narratives, the burial of my voice in harmonies
in my own key that I can’t sing.
Yet these are imprinted upon my brain
and other broken things.
Learning too late the truth in the cliche: we girls are our own worst enemies.
Side B
Half a lifetime later, a heart gone awry,
an official transcript or two
abandoned halfway through -
An obsolete word: rewind.
I am resigned,
just another
bitter old queen at times.
I visually devour those
youthful frightening girls with real nerve,
owners of flawless complexions they won’t ever be able to see.
Too soon they will squint at old pictures, trying to love themselves
retroactively, like me.
Are they better actors, this lot, or are they are just,
this time, made of tougher stuff, steely, incorruptible?
Pretend peers- I ask you: where is the fire inside my belly
I was supposed to be born with? What of the compass I threw away
for a fantasy that could only betray me?
Yet I sit in twisted envy
of the marvelous girl, me, who knew no better in that heady time
who sat on curbs
utterly blind to her fleeting shine
quietly detonating. And what is the value of this memory of mine?
All I know is that once, real life beat
to jangly guitars,
once.
Was utopia, an anomaly.
The old lyrics clutter me. Are me. Romantic. Debased. Aspirational. Masochistic.
It’s exhausting, the lie. This keepsake box where I reside I allege
I lied
my true love
my
remains
entombed:
A new coterie of artists have a razor wit, an eye for popular culture (historical, current, and a thread between eras) and a point of view that is both sophisticated and strangely democratic. The following artists communicate through technology as well as, or in spite of, the rarified world of the stark white gallery spaces of the elite.
Troy Gua: Le Petit Prince
The “Le Petit Prince” project is based on one original doll and his “adventures” through originally hand crafted costumes, props, and settings photographed by the artist. It was a deeply personal project, as Gua explains “Le Petit Prince was made late in 2011 in an attempt to cleanse myself from what I had been making and felt was becoming cynical work. I wanted to make something that made me happy. “
The full motion capture of Prince in his iconic purple glory spinning atop wax suggests the potential of a short film as well as being enjoyed as an animated gif, one that has been widely shared across social media such as tumblr. One second of this image creates an instant cultural reference: it links our shared memories of Purple Rain with the puppetry trend that appeals to nostalgic impulses and a pre CGI memory of “real effects” and artistry that has attained a special status in a technological era where realness is fleeting. This doll making speaks to an authentic badge of fandom as well as a casual appreciation of cuteness and satire that entered the modern social vocabulary through the films Team America: World Police, Being John Malkovich and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Furthermore, the hair alone is monumentally perfect.
Sally Edelstein uses collage “as a means of examining social fictions”. This artist applies a great curatorial eye to reference “banal images appropriated from vintage ads, periodicals, children’s school books, comic books, pulp fiction and all sorts of ephemera, dissociating the images from their original use to better re-evaluate its’ original message.”
The art form of collage and the ability to critique the mass media messages of the latter part of the 20th century make a perfect marriage. These works can be appreciated both viscerally and are aided through at least a few decades of women and gender studies/ media criticism courses in University curricula. As long as marketers and fashion tastemakers have been recycling trends, and as these cycles get shorter and more fragmented through culture, these old images and the artists who give them new life maintain an important place in pop culture. The appeal of this imagery is not only critical, humorous and ironic, but also straightforward: we wonder where all these old piles of magazines have gone and are interested to see them. The time wasting task of looking through piles of stuff is a lost art form for most of us. We miss it dearly.
Sally Edelstein - Homemade Goodness
Edelstein’s work doesn’t rely on obvious tropes about the experiences of women and families in exploring post war (50′s) America (and later eras). Rather, the artist digs deep and gives great thought to a spectrum of experiences. Think of the hours of work of clipping,cataloguing and organizing clips thematically, and the ensuing brainstorming and research that emerges. The subjects embrace and give pointed commentary about pressures (dieting /”containment”, the various ways women were expected to homemake (both “homemade” or “heat and serve” options were things marketed and sold, separating women from the core simplicity of accepted ideas of cooking that existed before the dominance of the wartime tin can) and the various complexities as well as freedoms of the working woman (birth control, the liberated women, and the nearly uncontrollable dirt that awaited the woman who dared to leave for the day). These loud and conflicting messages are layered with social and political movements of the day, a true collage of ideas and statements.
The immediate thought: “why didn’t I think of that?!” is the hallmark of radical post-modern art. This might be the thought accompanying this piece, for example.
Deceptively simple. Who hasn’t defaced a fashion magazine, or wanted to, in a similar way? But the message becomes richer, deeper, and more original with every piece.
The subject being photographed is funny, common, seemingly accidental. The photography is exquisite, artful. The deconstruction/destruction/reconstruction of fashion magazine covers is wholly original, exciting, and evocative. A whole new form of reappropriation that constantly links back to the original production, to fashion and its messages. This art project must be viewed in its entirely to be appreciated as it goes deeper and to very unexpected places beneath the surfaces it touches.
Has anything ever been more Super than the Supermodels of the 90′s? Whatever they were, they seemed absolutely fearless.
Steven Meisel
Salvaging the early 90′s memory: here are some favorite parts of the best of it:
Giving Face! Photo by Peter Lindburgh
Blur elevates a grungy/baggy era with their dedicated stab at Laddish Mod Suiting (Fred Perry Shirts, Clarkes Desert Boots, Docs)…
Sassy, of course. This cover gives an example of the first and best (redux) versions of Witchy poo/ 60′s rock and roll (tights, short skirts, chunky boots)…
Sassyscans.Tumblr.com
Drew Barrymore looking every inch the movie star face. Forever young.
2011 revisits the 90′s. In the constant cultural recycler, even the much derided black choker is back. For the right price. (Dolce & Gabbana)
There is nothing new under the sun. This is so painfully late 80′s/early 90′s, or SPRING 2012 they tell us! But we never really did get over it, did we?
“on you my tattoo will be bleeding and the name will stain”
1993 ~ Forever
This song and its video are the inspiration for this post/mood board/editorial theme. Play it.
“the history of this fucking band is ridiculous. it’s like machiavelli rewriting fear and loathing in las vegas… it’s like a pram that’s just been pushed down a hill. it’s always been fiery and tempestuous and really on the edge and it never stops. i don’t think it ever will.”
Suede is one of the most important and beautiful bands to come out of England. They were massive in the years 1993-1999 (and have recently reformed for some gigs). Brett Anderson was (is) their impossibly glamorous front man and lyricist. Their sound is haunting and unique, layered and equal parts glam & shoegaze, postpunk and post Smiths kitchen sinkbut got lumped in with “Brit Pop” (a term they loathe, although they rose in that are and covered some of the same musical themes, including explorations of the drug culture of the time and class issues in Britain as well as universal themes of love, longing, and the fantasy of escape to a better world.
Join the ranks and find out why Suede and Brett fans use terms such as God, angel, and various applications of the word beautiful unironically. Brett’s impossibly slim and elegant looks are what a rock star should be, making him an eternal style icon as well as musical icon.
Detail at Alexander McQueen, spring 2011 via salveo.tumblr.com
McQueen via style.com
Christy Turlington, British Vogue 1993
Bruno Dayan
“But oh if you stay we’ll ride from disguised suburban graves We’ll go from the bungalows where the debts still grow every day”
UK Vogue March 1993 via rag-pony.com
Much of the fashion imagery found online from the early 90′s is limited and cliche/retro. It was a weird time of rave wear and grunge. I am will include scans on this blog like this one above wherever I can for good examples of true 90′s looks. There was some beautiful fashion photography we just have a void of it on the internet. So get out your scanners and your old magazines and share the wealth of your attics! I still think those dark or brown-y matte MAC lipstick looks of the time are beautiful (and are in the midst of a comeback!)
