I have a theory. I actually have a lot of theories, but most are best kept secret. This one is based upon what I think is a generally accepted scientific belief, but since Science is always updating and refining these things, it’s possible I’m behind the times. But so what, this isn’t my PhD thesis.
From what I understand, the ratio of brain to body mass correlates to the general intelligence of a species. For instance, the average 150 lb. human has a 3 pound grapefruit inside it’s noggin while a 20 ton brontosaurus has had a peach pit. You with me? Okay.
I theorize that when a guy sits down behind the wheel of a car, his brain-to-body mass ratio effectively goes from 1:40 to 1:1500 putting him in line with your average hippopotamus.
In other words, as soon as someone gets in a car and starts driving, they are suddenly a whole lot dumber than they were standing in the parking lot.
Again, it’s only a theory.
Okay, so maybe “dumb” isn’t the right word. A shark has a brain-to-body ratio of about 1:2500 and nobody here is calling a shark dumb. How about primal?
Regardless, I had to rent a 6000 pound U-Haul truck the other day to do a little schlepping — moving art from one secret location to another — and I gotta say, I sure felt stupid driving it. Like a little old lady driving to church, I lumbered through Brooklyn at 10 miles an hour, inhaling and holding my breath as if it would make the whole truck thinner whenever I had to thread my way through parked and double parked cars. Holding my breath probably made me even dumber still.
By the way, I was suprised by the U-Haul rental office on Carlton Avenue, near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. There’s a beautiful waterfall fountain and koi pond outside the office door, and inside, the office looks like an Old West mailstation. There was a large brass cash register on a wooden platform against the wall and a counter with barred windows. I felt like I should be sending a telegram rather than renting a truck.
“Hey guess what? STOP The U-Haul office looks llike a telegraph office STOP There’s a koi pond outside STOP Who knew?”
Time Out Magazine used to have a regular item called “What’s Up With That?” where readers would write in with questions about things they found curious and or confusing and the staff would answer them. For instance:
Q What’s up with the black obelisk on the northeast corner of Ocean Parkway and Avenue U in Brooklyn?
I remember seeing one where someone asked: “What’s up with Staten Island?”
As I inched my way through the toll booth on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge from Brooklyn to Staten Island, I started to wonder the exact same thing. I’ve driven over the bridge countless times — usually as a shortcut through Staten Island from my apartment in Brooklyn to my parent’s house is southern New Jersey — and I was well aware of the astronomical 13 dollar toll to cross it, but when I handed the toll collector a 20 dollar bill and he barked, “Twenny six.” I was stunned.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s twenny six, pal.”
I don’t drive trucks very often (my little Ford Ranger is smaller than a lot of cars) and I had no idea the toll would be double for a U-Haul. According to the U-Haul website, the 10′ truck I was driving weighs 5790 pounds empty — or roughly one hundred pounds lighter than a Ford Escalade — and it hardly seemed fair, but I wasn’t about to argue with the guy. He was bald, muscular and stern like a made-for-TV prison guard. I had enough cash to cover it, but just barely.
There were more tolls to come so as I pulled away from the booth I asked Deborah, who was in the passenger seat with me, if she had any cash.
Deborah had been sick the previous couple of days and wasn’t keen on coming along, but I convinced her that all she had to do was keep me company. “No, I didn’t bring my wallet,” she said.
The job was straightforward. Pick up some art from one warehouse, drop it off at another, and go home. The truck was booked for six hours which gave us about twenty minutes for lunch. I handed Deborah a few bucks and waited in the truck while she ran into the rest area to get us some food. Pickins were slim. There was a Nathan’s, which was closed, a Starbucks and a Burger King. Deborah stood in line at Starbucks with two plastic-wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches. She thinks they were ham and cheese, anyway, she said they were too smushed up to be certain. As she neared the counter, the cashier warned her before ringing up the order, “those are seven-fifty each.”
Oh well, when trucking, do as the truckers do. “Two Whoppers with cheese, please.”
With bellies full of bio-fuel, we got the rolling box back on the road and began the last leg of the trip. The Verrazano Narrows Bridge only collects tolls in one direction so I felt safe from the robber barons, but before we got that far, we had to cross the Goethals bridge across Arthur Kill — from New Jersey into Staten Island. (What’s up with Staten Island?) Normally a 12 dollar toll, I saw signs as we approached which read “Trucks 13 dollars per axle.” I didn’t need to be a math wiz to know we were driving on two and that the 13 dollars in my wallet would only cover one. I pictured being allowed halfway throughout he toll booth. But at least it would be the front half, where Deborah and I sat. Halfway through, we could ditch the truck and walk the rest of the way.
“Why didn’t you get money out of the ATM when we stopped for lunch?” said Deborah.
“Uhh…” I struggled to explain my brain-to-body mass theory.
Thankfully, the toll collector was more forgiving in his definition of a truck. He leaned his head out of the booth and looked at the U-Haul. “Twelve dollars,” he said.
And so, with one dollar to spare, we rumbled through the forgotten borough. Home again, home again jiggity jig. I stepped out of the truck in the U-Haul parking lot and allowed my brain to readjust to its puny human housing. Too bad it took so long, otherwise I might’ve been smart enough to take some pictures of the Wild West U-Haul corral. Next time.
As has become the custom in recent years, my family met at my sister’s house in scenic Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving dinner. Aside from rare quality time with my family, a highlight of any visit to my sisters house is poking around to see what my sister’s de-facto husband Dan has been up to lately.
“Folk Art” and “Outsider Art” are terms the art world attaches to work created by people who lack two things: money and ambition and although Dan lacks both, I’m not sure either term applies. He’s not eccentric enough to qualify as an “Outsider” and his work isn’t utilitarian enough to be considered true “Folk Art” so let’s just call Dan an artist, and leave it at that.
He makes things out of broken machinery, old bicycles, cloudy lenses, rusty springs and whatever else he finds while rummaging through life. When he saw me taking pictures of his various paintings and sculptures, he pulled me aside and took me to the basement. No disrespect to Dan, or what he makes out of what he finds, but his workshop is as interesting as his art. Looking around, it’s hard to tell what anything is. “Is that a tool? Is it a work in progress? Is it an unmolested turn-of-the-century widget?” Very often whatever you pick up is a carcass of something Dan made, then took apart again. “It used to be a bird, but I needed those springs for the motorcycle over there.”
He makes a lot of partially functional vehicles. That is, vehicles that often (but not always) roll and usually have something on them that if you push or pull or wind, will do something, although none are rideable in any practical sense. You’d never know it to hear — or better yet, see — Dan explain them, however. It’s easy to get caught up in his vivid descriptions and imagine these rusty jalopies puttering down the street, spitting oil and coughing smoke. If nowhere else, at least in a parade.
The backyard, too, is filled with rusty curiosities getting rustier. Jasper, my sister’s three-legged dog, followed us outside to smell a collection of sculptures I’m sure he’s smelled a thousand time before. Dan reached down and scratched Jasper behind the ear, on the side of his missing hind leg, and Jasper’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy.
“Did you take any pictures of the porch?” Dan asked.
Jasper sensed we were about to go back inside and rushed to take a quick piss. We waited for him to lift his stump and relieve himself then headed to the other side of the house.
“This is my favorite place in the world,” said Dan.
The next day we walked into town and Dan showed me a storefront in a historic stone building that he considered renting. It was a well-lit gallery space, about 500 square feet, with an equal size room in back. In the end, Dan didn’t think he could cover the rent selling his creations to tourists and he let the opportunity pass. The space was subsequently rented and now housed a smelly soap gift shop. Dan and I stood outside on the street while Deborah lingered inside the store.
The rent was 500 bucks. After looking at storefronts in New York with Deborah when she was thinking of opening a jewelry store, 500 dollars sounded like a bargain. “You don’t think you could cover that nut?” I asked Dan.
“Not without cranking out a bunch of cheap little knick-knacks to sell. Nobody spends a couple of hundred bucks on sculptures around here.”
“I see your point.” I said. “But, I don’t know, the stores here are nice enough, but there’s nothing here you would’t find in any other tourist town. I think you could create a really unique vibe.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure I could make an interesting space, and that people would definitely poke in to have a look, but I’m not convinced they’d buy what I’m selling.”
“Maybe you could paint little local landscapes. Those sell, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“I’m always bewildered by how gift shops like this one thrive. It seems that no matter what else there is to see or do in any given artsy fartsy tourist town, women will always buy smelly stuff.”
Just then, Deborah stepped out of the store carrying a paper bag. She stopped on the sidewalk, unrolled the bag, put it up to her nose and sniffed. “I bought a soap,” she said.
Recently, I attended the New York premier for a movie called Cargo, written, produced and directed by some friends of mine. I was an extra in a club scene, but I don’t think I made the final cut beyond perhaps a few frames of the back of my head. Actually, I’m not even sure the head I saw was mine since I don’t really know what the back of my head looks like. (And honestly, the older I get the less I want to know.)
My truck, on the other hand was impossible to miss. It had a featured role and even got to do an action scene. (The movie was shot over a year ago, but I’m still finding small pieces of the rear window caked in fake blood.)
I was so late to the premier that I nearly didn’t make it. When I arrived the ushers were seating a group of Russians that had been waiting on stand-by. I literally got the last available seat. When I sat down, my phone buzzed, but I didn’t notice it. My friend Paul was texting me from the other side of the aisle.
Although knowing my truck was featured made me especially excited to see the finished product, I worried it would make it difficult to enjoy the movie purely as a movie. Thankfully it was a compelling film and I got caught up in the suspense without even trying.
It wasn’t until everyone began filing out of the theater that Paul finally got my attention. “Hey, Jamie, what are you doing here? Did you work on this movie or something.”
“A peripheral player, as usual,” I said. “Although my truck had a principal role.”
“Was that your pickup?”
“Yeah.”
“They bought you a new window, I hope.”
“Hell yeah. How about you? What are you doing here? Do you know these guys?”
“I know the publicist.”
The lobby was crowded with people discussing the film and standing in line for the chance to congratulate to the filmmakers who were standing against the wall being photographed. Paul and I made small talk while the crowd slowly carry us past the cameras, through the front doors and onto the street. Standing under the marquee, I realized I should probably go back inside to offer congratulations, too, however, I was afraid that if I went in, it would take me an hour to get out again.
“What are you doing now? Are you heading back to Brooklyn?” I said, hoping we could split the cost of a cab, although in retrospect it was a silly notion. For one thing, Paul was unlikely to splurge a few extra bucks on a cab but also, it wasn’t even 10:00 yet. A mover and shaker like Paul was just getting warmed up.
“A friend invited me to a burlesque art party,” he said. “Are you up for it?”
“A burlesque art party? Sure, yeah, why not?”
It was a nice night, and as we walked from 13th Street to SoHo, I called Deborah to let her know I’d be late. At the same time, Paul called his friend to see about getting me on the guest list.
“Victor?” Paul’s said. “Vector?” The street noise on Paul’s end and the music on the other end made it difficult for Paul to hear. “Text it to me.”
The text came through. I was to pretend my name was Hector Alvarez while Paul was given a Jewish-sounding name. “I don’t think I can pull that off,” I said, and we debated over the names. It turned out not to matter because, when we finally arrived, Paul’s friend simply met us outside and led us past the doorman. “They’re with me.”
“Todd, this is my friend Jamie,” said Paul, and then it dawned on him. “Wait, you guys know each other, don’t you?”
It turned out we did. All three of us had worked together on the Stephen Sprouse exhibit at Deitch Projects.
“Todd actually lived near you for a while,” said Paul.
“Where do you live?” said Todd.
“In Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard.”
“Ah, okay yeah, I used to park my RV over there. I lived in an RV for a couple of years. It was a good deal. Just me and my dog.”
“Yeah, you and that fucking dog,” said Paul. “I still have teeth marks from that fucking thing. I visited Todd at the RV one night, Since I’d never met the dog before, Todd decided he better put a muzzle on him. A pit bull. He’s ferocious. A soon as I walked in, the thing came flying at me and tore into my leg.”
“He couldn’t get the muzzle on in time?”
“No, I mean he bit me through the muzzle. Right through the fucking muzzle.”
The gallery was filled with elaborately costumed performers, some danced on pedestals, some acted out abstract scenes on the floor and a few others mingled with the crowd. Essentially, the whole gallery space was a stage and we had to keep moving to avoid being absorbed into the show.
Todd introduced us to a short Asian girl dressed in some sort of Thai ceremonial garb. “Ah yeah, the married girl,” said Paul. They had met at a bowling party a few months earlier where Paul spent the whole night working his moves only to hear her say at the end of the night, “Okay, time to go home to my husband.”
The girl giggled as Paul told the story.
We were introduced to a couple of more dancers and given inside information on a few others. “That one is a thirty-year-old virgin. Don’t tell her I told you that.”
When a guy in a blindfold took to a nearby pedestal and began to strip down to a saggy pair of underwear in slow motion, we decided it was time to snake our way to the rear of the gallery where a makeshift bar was set up to sell cups of wine for 5 dollars each. Paul’s friend got us each a free cup.
“Five bucks?” said Paul. “That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fundraiser,” said Todd. “They’re trying to raise money for the gallery.”
I felt a little guilty, but I took the free wine anyway. Cups in hand, we slipped into a back room were it was quiet enough to talk. A grainy black and white video of a dozen dancers frolicking in a park was projected on the wall. “If you see a naked guy in this video,” said Todd, “That’s me.” He broke into an unsteady dance routine.
A good looking couple sat on a couch under the screen, making out. “Are they part of the show?” I asked.
Todd shrugged.
A drunk guy stumbled into our little group and pointed into the other room where one of the female dancers was in line for a drink. “I’m gay,” he said, “but look at that ass! It’s so perfect, I want to bite it!”
“Is it making you question your sexuality?” said Todd.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, look at it!”
Although I was fairly certain he wasn’t one of the performers, he began to twirl and totter around the room, mumbling about that ass until he collapsed on the couch where the couple was kissing. “Did you see that ass?” he asked them, sounding half asleep. “Perfect.”
Halfway through a second free cup of wine I called it quits. “YOu want this?” I said, holding the cup out to Paul.”
“It’s really bad, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take it.”
I said my goodnights, made vague plans to hang out again, and went outside to flag down a cab. No luck, so I walked.
There’s a silver statue of Andy Warhol in Union Square. It’s temporary as far as I can tell, but if you ask me, they should install it there permanently.
I moved to New York in 1986 with my now ex-girlfriend, an aspiring fashion designer, whose first job was with a designer named Isaia.
Not many people remember Isaia anymore, but at the time he was very well known and quite influential, featured in all the magazines and carried in the best stores. Part of my ex-girlfriend’s job with Isaia was working part time at the infamous Fiorucci store on East 59th Street which had an in-store Isaia boutique. She would report back to Isaia about what was selling and what wasn’t, how the customers were responding to various designs, and so on. A lot of celebrities shopped there and my ex would often come home with stories about having seen or helped this one or that one. Once a month or so, Andy Warhol would come to Fiorucci, Polaroid slung around his neck, to hand deliver a stack of Interview magazines, and if you were at the right place at the right time, you could get yourself an autographed copy. My ex was in the right place at the right time, but being too shy to approach one of her idols, she let the opportunity pass. “Next time,” she promised herself. But, of course, there never was a next time because a couple of months later, Andy Warhol was dead.
(Only two years later, at the young age of 35, Isaiah was dead, too, but that’s another story for another time.)
Less than a year after Andy Warhol died, I landed a job with the Stephen Sprouse. Not only was Stephen a friend of Andy Warhol’s, but his studio was in one of Andy’s former “Factories” on the third floor of 860 Broadway, overlooking the spot where the Andy Warhol statue now stands. This is where I worked, in a small corner of a large room, separated from Stephen Sprouse’s desk by a metal locker. Somewhere I have a Polaroid of my desk, but if I start hunting through all the shoeboxes of Polaroids I have, I’ll get get lost for days.
Whiffs of Andy Warhol could still be found in the space. The vestibule just outside the elevator was still painted silver, a column next to my desk had a hand graffitied crown drawn by Jean-Michel Basquiat. An area in the back, by the service elevator mainly being used to store bolts of fabric, had previously housed a makeshift private gym and penciled on the walls were measurements tracking Andy’s progress.
While cleaning up the studio one day, I found a loose paint splatter on the floor. I might’ve thrown it away, except I thought it was kind of neat. Several colors of paint dripped on top of one another and peeled cleanly from the wooden floor, forming something like a vinyl sticker, only entirely too dusty to stick to anything. A few days later, Stephen asked if I had come across a paint drip, describing in detail the one that I had found. There were plenty of paint drips on the floor, and it would’ve been easy enough to peel up another one, but something about this one was special to Stephen and thankfully I saved it.
When Stephen’s business closed — that particular incarnation of it, anyway — I continued to work there for about six months, helping to tie up loose ends and to pack up the last of Stephen’s things, bringing some of it to his apartment, and sending some of it to storage. The paint drip wound up being put in an manilla envelope labeled “AW drip”, and filed away in a box that was ultimately stored along with a host of other things in a Pennsylvania barn. On my final day at the studio, I went to the corner of the room and peeled a paint drip from the floor for my own souvenir.
I was unemployed for a while after that. I picked up a couple of jobs here and there — mostly things I was completely unsuited for — but devoted most of my time to starting a rock and roll band and making art. At some point, I painted a picture of a fish. It was fairly large, about 45 inches square, and right in the middle of the fish’s eye, I glued the Andy Warhol paint drip. It worked perfectly. A girl I knew fell in love with the painting and offered to buy it. Being sentimentally attached to the drip, I tried ungluing it before selling it, but the painting just didn’t look as good without it. Oh what the hell, $200 bucks and it was hers. Less than a year later, the girl got kicked out of her apartment and she left the painting behind. She was still in contact with her former roommates, however, and was determined to get the painting back. She never did. A year or two later she killed herself. Hopefully there’s still some magic left in that fish’s eye and the painting still exists somewhere.
Kind of.
For the past two days I’ve been buried in a corner of the largest warehouse I’ve ever seen, organizing the Stephen Sprouse archives for the umpteenth time.
It’s big news in the art world, but in case you haven’t heard, Jeffery Deitch, (owner of Deitch Projects where the Stephen Sprouse retrospective exhibit was held in January of last year) has been named director of The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. On condition of this new job, he must cease all commercial operations by June 1st of this year (see this article in The Los Angeles Times ) which means that the Sprouse archives — under the custodianship of Deitch Projects since before the exhibition — must now, like all the other art flying under the Deitch umbrella, find a new home. Without going into the details, it means that I’m once again diving neck-deep into decades worth of paintings, sketches, clothing, accessories, photographs, press clippings, assorted ephemera and, above all, memories.
Stephen’s pile of things is a lot of stuff to go through, and I always feel a little overwhelmed whenever I do, but at least it’s interesting stuff. Unlike the colossal towers of paper that surround it — various documents put into storage by the Great State of New Jersey. At least I’m not being asked to deal with any of this:
