This is a press shot for The Book of Everything, a play showing at the Belvoir St Theatre from December 23 to January 31. One of theatre's publicists sent it to me and i realised, "Holy camel toe! That's the wall i've been shooting at Esther Lane!" In a flurry of excitement i kicked the air and a bright yellow POW! bubble popped from my shoe.
Note the chunk of render missing, as my earlier post depicts. This must've been snapped a little while back, as there is nothing stuck on the wall behind the model. Funny how the wall is now a beacon for hipster artists to metaphorically piss on the lawn.
After this i had to see the wall. I went down there and lazily puffed a Dunhill while studying this new poster that was stuck to it. It depicts a nude man sprawled face-down on a timber floor. He appears to be in a state of pleasurable submission.
How the image relates to the text isn't clear. It reads: "A thirst for the extreme? Adpot one of our kittens now." The artist supplied tabs with a mobile number and web address to the new magazine Sink.
I don't know about you, but fuck the kittens. Tie me up and take me to a land where all i need to worry about is splinters in my chest and the moments between orgasms.
Then i went to a poetry reading at the Brett Whiteley Studio. It was a magic potion of overcast melancholy outside, contrasted with the smooth, sparse whiteness of the gallery. Inside were the shy smiles of polite writers that probably grew up reading books instead of doing drugs and screwing.
That explains why i was at the gallery and not undressing hipsters.
After the reading - dare i say "headlined" by Les Wicks - i explored the gallery. Upstairs was a collection of Whiteley's paintings and sculptures, personal photographs, wall scribbles and a ruffled mattress he would've got high and fucked on. The clocks, pictured above, ('Heroin' is written between them) were part of this collection of oddities. I now love Whiteley in a very depressed way.
Great pre-20th century writers were like rockstars. Look at Goethe, Nietzsche and Shakespeare. These motherfuckers' reputations were preceded only by their splashings of syphillis. But as popular culture changed, in technology's shadow, what could once be called a sex symbol has become reduced to mute markings on isolated walls.
Imagine the Dalai Lama as the face of Calvin Klein underwear. That'd show Chinese hipsters.