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Road Trip Part 2: The Rose Lounge

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Despite knowing Stephen Sprouse for nearly twenty years, I didn’t meet his mother, Joanne, or his brother, Brad, or any of his other relatives until after he passed away. When we finally met, we all agreed that it was long overdue and regretted that it couldn’t have been under happier circumstances.

In the years since, there have been a lot of Stephen Sprouse projects and events — a book, a retrospective, the famous Louis Vuitton special collection, a museum show in Hong Kong, and so on — keeping me in regular contact with Stephen’s family. But regardless of the quasi-professional elements to our relationship, I have a lot of affection for them as friends and really enjoy getting together with them socially. Unfortunately it doesn’t happen very often and when it does, it’s always in New York.

“When are you and Deborah going to visit us in Michigan?” they always ask.

“Soon,” I always say.

Well, this year, “soon” finally came.

And so…

Carlton Check Out Time

We checked out of western Pennsylvania’s beautiful “Ritz” Carlton Motel and were on our way.

A long haul, nearly 600 miles, from Daisytown, PA to Michigan’s Leelanu Penninsula and with a windshield full of bug splatter and the late summer sun setting in our eyes to slow us down, we were later than expected.

I called Brad along the way to give him a status update and let him know when to expect us. “Okay, we’ll see you when you get here,” he said. “Big Jo has a surprise for you when you get in.” (Big Jo is what he calls his mother, Joanne.)

Over the river and through the woods, we turned onto the long, tree-lined drive of Joanne’s beautiful lakeside home. “It’s the quintessential grandma’s house, isn’t it?” I said to Deborah. “Albeit with a few additions.”

Joanne's House

Brad, Joanne, Brandon and Brandon’s girlfriend, Winnie, greeted us in the driveway. After the initial hugs and hellos, we were led inside where we sat around the kitchen table snacking on homemade pie while Joanne prepared the surprise.

Several minutes later, “Okay, follow me,” said Joanne, and she led us through the living room and down the hall. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

She pushed open the door to the spare bedroom revealing a floor-to-ceiling Day-Glo and neon rose radiating in all its luminescent glory. “Welcome to The Rose Lounge.”

“Wow,” was about all we could say.

Joanne told the story about how, when the big Stephen Sprouse/Louis Vuitton promotion ended, she contacted someone at Louis Vuitton to see about getting one of the neon roses that had been used in Louis Vuitton’s SoHo store, thinking it would be nice to hang it over the piano in her living room. But apparently she remembered the rose being much smaller than it actually was and was shocked when a delivery man came to her door ready to unload a seven foot square wooden crate. “Where would you like it?”

The crate sat in the middle of the house for a couple of weeks until finally, with a little rearranging and some help from Brandon and Brad, she managed to find a suitable place to hang it which, in the process, created the simultaneously cozy and intense “Rose Lounge” where we sat for a champagne toast and some chocolates to celebrate our arrival.

“Welcome to Michigan.”

Jamie, Joanne, Rose Lounge

Into the Groovy

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Deborah Red White and Blue

Things haven’t been going so well since I returned from Hong Kong. This is going to sound absurd, but the night I arrived home and was looking out the window at the incident on the street, trying to figure out if someone got shot or stabbed outside the club down below, I leaned hard into the edge of the window sill for a better view and bruised my ribs. A sharp pop and I keeled over in pain. It’s been killing me ever since and makes it hard to sleep — which I haven’t been able to do anyway due to residual jet lag.

I’m still trying to find the best option for commuting into Manhattan from our new apartment. I have several options, but they all suck.

Yesterday it took me two hours to get home. The A train to Brooklyn stopped at the last stop in Manhattan due to “train traffic ahead.” Train traffic ahead is a catch all for when the trains are fucked up. “Please be patient” the train operator says. He said it several times over the course of a half hour. I was standing in the middle of the car, which made it difficult to get off, but I couldn’t stand there any longer with my bruised rib, exhausted from lack of sleep.

Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me…” I eased my way through the packed car towards the door.

“Dis is when da bullshit starts,” said one woman as I squeezed past her.

“No, the bullshit started a half hour ago,” I mumbled in response.

When I got to the top of the stairs and onto the street, I realized I was in the middle of Wall Street and wasn’t anywhere near another useful subway train. I decided to head back to the A train and wait it out, but soon realized I didn’t have any money left on my Metrocard. I’ve been living on a shoestring since losing my wallet and only had thirteen dollars on me. The Metrocard vending machine would only accept my ten dollar bill. By the time I got through the turnstile and down to the platform, the train was out of service and I found myself fighting a sea of people.

Back on the street, I started walking to the nearest F train — a good twenty minutes away, including a trip through Chinatown which, after just returning from Hong Kong, felt a little surreal. I’m sure if I took time to think about it, I might’ve found another option, but at the time it’s all I could come up with. In any case, with only three dollars in my pocket, the most desirable option — a taxicab — was out of the question.

Twenty minute walk to the F, fifteen minute wait for the train, transfer to the G and another 15 minute wait, then a fifteen minute ride and a ten minute walk home from my stop, it adds up.

I made it home and collapsed on the bed.

As soon as I get my new bank card and can take some cash out of the bank, I’m going to buy a new inner tube for my bicycle and give that a whirl.

Everyone I emailed this link to yesterday emailed back to say they’d already seen it, so maybe this is old news, but yesterday’s New York Times had an article about the Hong Kong show featuring a photo of the Stephen Sprouse installation.

Nice.

Macau

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Had just enough time yesterday for a quick trip to Macau which, if you don’t know, is a Special Administrative Region like Hong Kong. First settled by the Portuguese in the 16th century, it was handed back to China in 1999 making it the both first and the last European colony in China.

The fact that it’s a Special Administrative Region meant that we had to get our passports stamped on both ends of our journey. We knew that, of course, and were prepared for it, but we weren’t prepared for the long lines which added another hour to the trip.

While on the ferry we were shown a video of how to sneeze into a tissue, and how to properly dispose of it afterwards. We were handed special health declaration forms by a woman in a mask and rubber gloves. At the ferry exits in both Macau and Hong Kong, there were two men in lab coats and face masks manning an infrared scanning device, surrounded by several armed military personnel, also wearing face masks, standing ready to escort anyone who showed up hot on the scanner to a quarantine camp. Thankfully, we waltzed right through.

Not sure what to expect at the airports when we fly home tomorrow.

The ferry terminal is walking distance to several large Las Vegas-style casinos which would’ve been fun to see at night, but since we were there in the daytime, we opted to head for the historic district, instead, which is also walking distance to the ferry terminal, but not without working up a sweat in the relentless humidity while dodging hundreds of speeding cabs and gazillions of scooter-riding kids. Scooters are definitely the way to handle the narrow and bumpy streets that wind up and down the hilly city. It made me wonder why I didn’t see more of them in Hong Kong.

I was scheduled for a special dinner back in Hong Kong so we didn’t as much time as I would’ve liked, but I’m glad we went. It’s a lot more different from Hong Kong than I expected. I read that Macau is one of the wealthiest cities in the world — and was told that despite being hardly more than a shoe box (granted a luxurious shoe box) Macau’s Louis Vuitton store is the fifth busiest in the world. But like Las Vegas or Atlantic City, Macau’s gaming cousins in the U.S., Macau’s high rolling wealth is offset by ramshackle outskirts, including entire blocks of corrugated metal shacks and dilapidated apartment buildings with birdcage balconies.

We arrived back in Hong Kong with just enough time for me to shower and change for a special VIP dinner at a private residence located at the top of Hong Kong’s famous peak. Tried as I could to finagle an invitation for Deborah, too, I just don’t have that kind of pull. The party doesn’t know what it was missing. Deborah was jealous of course — being picked up by a limo, served a bottomless glass of champagne and a delicious meal in a beautiful house with a beautiful view among famous artists, designers, VIPs, CEOs, and Hong Kong socialites — but I was equally jealous of her, with time to herself to luxuriate in the hotel without feeling like a fish out of water the way I did — trying to explain who I am or why I’m here.

To simply say, “I designed the Stephen Sprouse room,” was enough for some — “Oh congratulations, the room looks great” — but for one Chinese writer from Shanghai in particular, I needed to provide a full length resume and she still didn’t seem to understand why the hell I was there. Understandable, I suppose, in a room full of people where just a name should suffice.

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Another Rooftop Ghost

If all goes according to plan, the next time you hear from me, I’ll be in Hong Kong — assuming I have time to write while I’m there, that is. I’ll be busy working, overseeing the installation of a Stephen Sprouse exhibit at the Hong Kong Museum of Art — part of a larger exhibit called Louis Vuitton: A Passion for Creation.

I’ve been so focused on the design and details of the Stephen Sprouse aspect of the exhibition (not to mention my other job and our recent move) that it wasn’t until this morning that I looked at the museum’s website to get a handle on the rest of the show. It’s hard not to feel a little intimidated by the roster of world-class artists that are listed and I almost wish I hadn’t looked, but the Sprouse part is essentially an adaptation of the design I did for the Stephen Sprouse retrospective at Deitch Projects in New York so, hopefully, there won’t be too many surprises. I know better than to expect no surprises — in fact there have already been a few — but at the moment I’m more stressed out about traveling than anything else. I hate flying to begin with and a fifteen hour flight is a long haul. Not to mention it involves a trip through some sort of time tunnel which lands me one day into the future.

Deborah plans to travel to the future, too, later in the week. I’ll be busy, but hopefully I can carve out a little time for us to spend together to see the sights of Hong Kong — not to mention celebrate our one year anniversary. If not, she has a surprisingly long list of friends of friends for her to look up once she gets there.

Okay, off to run last minute errands.
Catch you on the flip side.

Deborah, Door 7

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Fashion magazines have been fawning over Marc Jacobs’ Stephen Sprouse collection for Louis Vuitton for months now, and The Stephen Sprouse book has been getting nearly equal hype in various magazines and assorted blogs. (And now that you can actually buy the Louis Vuitton collection, and purchase the book, early sales indicate that both are wildly successful.) In the midst of all the hype, however, the retrospective Sprouse exhibit at Deitch has been more or less a backdrop for the excitement. A supporting element for those interested in “further reading” so to speak. Even Artforum writes more about the parties than the show. But now Charlie Finch, the Mr. Blackwell of the art world, comes through with this cleverly titled review of the exhibition itself: The Sprouse House.

(Get it? “Sprouse” and “House”? It rhymes.)

Whatever. You aren’t somebody until Charlie Finch says you’re nobody.

Stephen Sprouse Opening

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Sprouse Opening at Deitch

The colossal Stephen Sprouse tribute last night consisted of three major parties, beginning at Louis Vuitton’s SoHo store, followed by the opening of the retrospective at Deitch, and ending with an after party at the Bowery Ballroom. Any one of the parties alone would’ve been something to talk about, but the combination of the three grew the excitement exponentially. Unfortunately, Deborah and I only managed to make it to two out of three, but two out of three ain’t bad.

Deborah, Day-Glo at Deitch

I didn’t take many photos. I’m not sure why, other than the fact that my head was spinning with all the people to meet, see and talk to — some of whom I hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. But as soon as I get a chance, I’ll post the few photos I did take and try to describe the crazy night. Right now I’m late for a meeting about the show and it’s future travels. I’m not sure who’s idea it was to schedule a meeting for 10 a.m. the morning after the blow-out event(s) but c’est la vie.

Deborah and me at Deitch