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:
Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading, and thanks for all the support during the good times and the bad. (This year had a lot of both.) Raymi often suggests I do a “best of” post, but don’t be confused, that’s not what this is.
I kept telling Deborah I was too busy to even think about moving, but with the design and installation of the Sprouse show finally over, I’m out of excuses: Apartment hunting begins.
No much happening in December with a broken arm other than getting flashed on the subway.
And that’s that. Tonight is going to be low-key. The plan is to stay home, drink champagne, and watch the entire Season 2 of Californication. Hope you all have a great holiday. See you next year.
When I mention to people that my friend has an alpaca farm, they usually imagine a couple of animals on a couple of acres, but Great Lakes Ranch has nearly 50 animals on nearly 150 acres of land and is one of the country’s premier alpaca breeders. I didn’t even realize it myself until, last year, while honeymooning in Utah, Deborah and I ran into a couple at the welcome center to National Bridges National Monument. I noticed they had an alpaca sticker on their car, so I said, “I know this is a long shot, but I have a friend who raises alpacas, I wonder if you know him, Brad Sprouse.”
Not only did they know him, but they had just bought an alpaca from him and raved on and on about his knowledge and expertise.
“Huh,” I remember saying to Deborah, “I guess Brad and Jandy really have something going in the alpaca world.”
And they really do. Despite it’s size, it’s still a small family business. Brad and Jandy have two teenage kids at home who help when they aren’t in school, but for the most part it’s just Brad and Jandy taking care of it all. To see the impeccably maintained farmhouse, assorted barns, small garden, and pristine fields, it’s hard to believe. And seeing a photo album of what it all looked like before they bought the property didn’t make it any easier.
As we sat having cocktails in The Rose Lounge the night of our arrival, the Sprouse’s asked us to make a loose list of things to see and do while we were visiting. Top on Deborah’s list was alpacas. Ever since learning that Brad and his wife, Jandy, lived on an alpaca farm, and seeing the pictures on their website, Deborah has been obsessed with seeing them in person.
Winnie told Deborah that she has a picture of herself with the alpacas on her Facebook profile and Deborah decided she needed one too.
Brad couldn’t care less about “Facespace of Mybook or whatever the hell any of it is called” but he got a kick out of Deborah’s excitement.
“We can make that happen,” he said.
He explained that it would be best for us to get there before 9 a.m., before he let the alpacas out into the field. Arriving in Michigan as late as we did and being exhausted from the drive, we knew we weren’t likely to get there in time the next morning.
“No rush,” said Brad. “We have a few days. We’ll get it done.”
And a few days later, we did.
Once we were a little more in-sync with farming time, we made it to the ranch for a photo shoot. The animals had been fed and were waiting at the gate to be let out. The alpacas are very curious and will walk right up to you, but they don’t like to be touched and will turn away as soon as you lift an arm to pet them. But they’re used to Brad and he can work with them easily. “Pick out a baby for your photo shoot,” he said, “and I’ll round her up for you.”
Babies were dropping out of their mothers like ripe apples in October and every day there was a new one so there were more than a dozen to choose from.
Deborah pointed to a little tan one with smokey eyes. “How about that one?”
“Oh man,” said Brad. “Her mom is a bitch. I can try to get her, but unless you want to get spit on, I think maybe you should pick another one.”
“Um, yeah, no to the spit. How about the little white one over there?”
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…
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.”
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.
I’m still wearing this fucking cast on my foot so I doubt I’ll ride there, but it doesn’t mean I can’t hobble to the annual vintage bike show at Works Engineering this Sunday.
Every year is bigger than the last, so I expect this one to be monster. In addition to the show and the usual beer, bands and performance art (yes, performance art — It’s Brooklyn, after all) they’re raffling off a vintage Triumph Bonneville. Proceeds will help offset the medical bills of Matchless bar tender Juliet Dostalek’s who suffered a motorcycle accident in May that makes mine sound like I’ve been whining about a splinter.
Next weekend is my second favorite annual event, the Kustom Kills and Hot Rod Thrills car show under the BQE. Unfortunately, I’m going to miss it. That’s okay, Deborah and I are going to have our own hot rod thrills when we load the Triumph 500 in the back of the truck and hit the road for a couple of weeks.
First stop Pennslytucky for a visit with Deborah’s family to discuss the whole Paula Abdul/American Idol hullabaloo with Deborah’s mom, and to check in with her dad to make sure our names are still written in his dogeared book of life.
Next stop, the upper reaches of northern Michigan to visit the Sprouse family, spend a little time down on the farm, and cruise curving roads in wide open country on “the little bike that could.”
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.
