The Hustle

N

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedand Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbedby “the about agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the Photograph Jamel Shabazz / Back in the Days next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again. eri And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious And they didWoods it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding True to the Game paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sensation. And this random madness has a very sound.

Game Anthem sound method to it: Hoopla.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this As you struggle to hustle, taking gain after loss, don’t get discouraged. remember In Hoopla, the secret inner Just workings of this who’s boss. Handle freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory areto attack. As you creep revealed for the first time.

Veteranwatch journalist Warren your business, and always your back. Don’t sleep on the stick-up boys waiting revealed forany the first Veteran journalist Berger, who hasstreets, tracked and on the CP+B through the thereported crack fiends holler. They’ve done andtime. everything just toWarren give you those dollars.

Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines Iand hope it will last.

I hope you make something of it.

Time will tell if something good can come from it. But as phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines deconstructs the methods that lie behind the you count the highs, count too, and whatever you do, forever remain true.

What and deconstructs the methods that lie behind thechoice do you have? agency’s seeming madness, whilethe thelows striking agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by theis…

It’s in you by nature.

Your only fault images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity. into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on S ubscriptions advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement Subscribe to

for $20* per year and receive: a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications Two spectacular issues | Two FREE powerHouse Books | 30% off regular books ALL the time and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of Automatic pH Charter Book Club membership | Elevation to pH VIP list: the first group to hear about upcoming events and exhibitions landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generatecall some buzz, Hoopla change the way To subscribe 212.604.9074 x100will or email subscriptions@powerHouseBooks.com andof generate some buzz, change the way you think about art will of communication. *$6 fee above listthe price be added for shipping and handling two issues and twoHoopla free pHwill books

T

Being a player.

|

issue 3

Table of contents

Inside Front Cover Inside Front Cover, 30

4, 52

7, 54

12

14

16

17

18

20

22, 25

23

24

26

28

35

36

37

38

39

40

43, 62

44

46

48

50, 69

53

56

59

63

66

70

75

78

80

83

84

86

89

90

92

96

99

102

104

107

108

120

Back in the Days by Jamel Shabazz True to the Game by Teri Woods Fat Girl by Carlos Batts Woman, Stank Be Thy Name by Maureen Valdes Marsh Dear powerHouse Magazine by Joy Yoon The Art of the Interview by Lawrence Grobel Gregg LeFevre Martha Cooper Swindle by Roger Gastman Bombshell: The Life and Crimes of Claw Money The Breaks: Stylin’ and Profilin’ 1982–1990 by Janette Beckman Dreams, Schemes, and Cream by Jake Paine Ruthless by Jerry Heller It’s All Good by Boogie, Text by Kasino Spanish Harlem by Joseph Rodriguez Linda Duggins International Lonely Guy by Harland Miller Nov York East Side Stories: Gang Life in East L.A. by Joseph Rodriguez Flesh Life: Sex in Mexico by Joseph Rodriguez, Text by Ruben Martinez Horizontal Diary: Ex-Hooker Unfolds by Tracy Quan The Electric Image by Chris Kitze Orientalia: Sex in Asia by Reagan Louie Lapdancer by Juliana Beasley, Text by John How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Jenna Jameson Hilary Knox Amanda Yates You On Top: Smart, Sexy Skills Every Woman Needs to Set the World on Fire by Kate White Ron Galella: The Godfather of American Paparazzi, Text by Tami Mnoian Ron English Iraq: The Space Between by Christoph Bangert An American Undertaking by Enid Esmond Manufacturing Home by Amy Eckert Chris Nieratko Tag: You’re It! by Rachel Loischild How to Maintain by Jules Kim New York Changing by Berenice Abbott and Douglas Levere, Text by Miss Rosen Word is Bond by Graeme Jamieson Public Access: Ricky Powell Photographs 1985–2005 Opium Relieves Pain by Eric Milon Acts of Charity by Mark Peterson FUN! The True Story of Patti Astor, Photographs by Maripol Warhol | Makos in Context, Text by Vincent Fremont Fake: Forgey, Lies, & eBay by Kenneth Walton The Invasion of the Art Fairs by Barry Neuman Michael Alan’s Draw-a-thon Roberta Bayley, Text by Stephen Blackwell We Must, We Do…But Really, Who Doesn’t? by Fubz | 1

L etter from the editor At the dawn of the new millennium (no really, it was March 2000), I joined powerHouse Books. It was only the two publishers, Daniel Power and Craig Cohen, in a tiny office on Varick Street, a dismal industrial corridor through lower Manhattan leading to the Holland Tunnel. Strangely, I had been in that building nearly a decade earlier, in my previous incarnation, on one of those nights that combine dust, drag queens, and strange men who end up in your apartment then never leave. Mind you, I was sober.

But that’s another letter for another issue. Act 2, Issue 3 opens with Miss Rosen, professional receptionist with a Master’s Degree, wondering just where her industrial carpeted office life was leading. To art books, naturally—to flossy, glossy, picture books from independent upstart powerHouse, publishers of François Nars, Francesco Clemente, Larry Fink. But the carpet did not match the drapes, so to speak.

Rather than luxuriating in plush environs befitting books of this caliber, I was up in something like in my grandmother’s attic, with an oversized planter under my desk and hot fax machine action for those sizzling publicity campaigns I knew not how to wage. I sat at a desk with the door opening into my back, forever swiveling to meet and greet though most of the time it was employees from the other company that shared the space. We had one email account—on a modem—which could not be accessed while I was entering orders/returns/payments on our warehouse system, which shone a neon green best left for traffic signals. powerHouse was home to three people, two of whom built the company and knew the industry, the other of whom was me, well dressed yet clueless, so I did whatever they asked. Customer Service?

Fabulous! Warehouse Management? Fantastic!

Mailroom Attendant? You got it! Author Tour Coordinator? Grrrrrreat! I was like Tony the Tiger gone wild.

After a couple of months, long, long months, Daniel asked me, “How about Marketing Director?” and I, a bit exhausted, answered, “Sure. What do I have to do?” He looked surprised by my reply. “No, I mean for your title.”

Of course, all I heard was “Director.” Director of no one, mind you, but an executive all the same.

Then I thought “marketing” and was stumped: “Ummm…mmmmarkets?” Honey, I studied art history.

Could I be any less equipped to go into business?

Forgive my youthful naiveté, but I had always thought of myself as a (gag) “creative type” like,

C

you know, I was a (choke) “ideas” person. Ideas like putting birds in my hair or replacing Princess Diana (well, I was blonde and on drugs, if you see where I was going). Many a fantasy did I have about my book launch party. Not my book, no. Who cares about the book? But the champagne toast? The photographers en masse? What would I wear? What sort of birds would I put in my hair?

So it was a bit of a shock to discover, at 26, that the Great Roman à Clef was not happening.

Marketing was it for me. Yes, markets, baby. Better figure out what the hell that means. Admittedly, seven years later, I’m still not sure. I cannot bring myself to pick up a business book for fear of infection. Could anything be less fascinating? Really.

Life is a lot shorter than I thought, and you will never find me reading a book to learn something I can actually use. I prefer my literature to mention Harry Cohn or gorillas—not that they’re terribly far apart on the evolutionary chart.

Instead, I came to marketing counter-intuitively.

Rather than follow formulas, prepare PowerPoint presentations, or try to unravel the demographic studies, I came to selling through buying. You see, sweetie, I love stuff. I love to shop. I understand why people buy what they buy because I believe now, in the 21st century, consumerism is a foundation for identity. You are what you own. This is neither good nor bad; it is simply the reality of living in a culture where marketing, merchandising, and purchasing are omnipresent. I can write advertising copy because I’ve watched too many commercials. Press releases pour from my fingers at 70 words per minute.

I’ve figured out the trick because I put myself in the mindset of the person getting pitched. That is to say, quite simply, I have mastered the art of etiquette.

With etiquette, we do not need to target markets; we don’t buy into the belief that niche culture is superior to mass market; hell, we dream of the day our books will be available in Target, Wal-Mart, Kmart—bring it on (and buy it non-returnable). We look for sponsors for our books. What? We run ads on the back cover! It’s all about Cash for Cache, baby.

Perhaps, once upon a time, I believed publishing to be some pristine industry unsullied by the reality of capitalism—but I have seen the bottom line and I know better. Want to brand my ass? It’ll cost ya—but I’ll cut you a deal if you pay cash.

Welcome Miss Rosen

arlos Batts Fat Girl

| 5

Issue 3 Talisman: Daniel Power Consigliere: Craig Cohen Gold Medalist, Ice Dancing: Miss Rosen Sensei: Tami Mnoian Film Director: Mine Suda Lion Tamer: Ariana Barry Lead Guitar: Daoud Tyler-Ameen

9d[h 0dVdbc ! & $ Contributing Artists: Berenice Abbott, Michael Alan, B+, Christoph Bangert, Carlos Batts, Roberta Bayley, Juliana Beasley, Janette Beckman, Boogie, Claw Money, Martha Cooper, Amy Eckert, Ron English, Enid Esmond, Fubz, Ron Galella, Jeff Jank, Chris Kitze, Hilary Knox, Rachel Loischild, Reagan Louie, Christopher Makos, Keith Major, Maripol, David McIntyre, Harland Miller, Chris Nieratko, Brooke Nipar, Nov York, Mark Peterson, Ricky Powell, Joseph Rodriguez, Ari Rothschild, Jamel Shabazz, and Frank Veronsky Contributing Writers: Michael Alan, Patti Astor, Christoph Bangert, Stephen Blackwell, Linda Duggins, Amy Eckert, Enid Esmond, Vincent Fremont, Fubz, Roger Gastman, Lawrence Grobel, Jerry Heller, Jenna Jameson, Graeme Jamieson, Kasino, Jules Kim, Douglas Levere, Gregg LeFevre, Rachel Loischild, Jake Paine, Ruben Martinez, Craig Mathis, Eric Milon, Tami Mnoian, Barry Neuman, Chris Nieratko, Tracy Quan, Miss Rosen, Joseph Rodriguez, Maureen Valdes Marsh, Danielle J. Walker, Kenneth Walton, Kate White, Teri Woods, Amanda Yates, and Joy Yoon For advertising inquiries please contact Miss Rosen tel: 212 604 9074 x105, email : sara@powerhousebooks.com For distribution inquiries please contact Wes Del Val tel: 212 604 9074 x103, email : wes@powerhousebooks.com powerHouse Magazine 37 Main Street, Brooklyn NY 11201 Tel: 212.604.9074 Fax: 212.366.5247 Email: magazine@powerhousebooks.com

<XbcaTbb 0bcaXS =Tf H^aZ (($ 5a^\ ?P]S^aP¡b 1^g Â&#x2013;BdbP] <TXbT[Pb <PV]d\ ?W^c^b 2^dacTbh 2^WT] 0\PS^a 6P[[Tah =Tf H^aZ

[

_W^c^VaP_W cWT QX \^]cW[h DB0 VdXST c^ TgWXQXcX^]b _aXePcT STP[Tab PdRcX^]b TeT]cb aTb^daRTb ]Tfb P]S \^aT 0 ^]T hTPa bdQbRaX_cX^] R^bcb "$ DB # 2P]PSP & P[[ ^cWTa X]cTa]PcX^]P[ ?Ph\T]c Qh RWTRZ X] DB Ud]Sb ^] P DB QP]Z ^a 0\TaXRP] 4g_aTbb <PbcTa2PaS EXbP _W^c^VaP_W %# FTbc '(cW BcaTTc =Tf H^aZ =Tf H^aZ !# cT[ ! ! &'& # T\PX[ X]U^/_W^c^VaP_W\PV R^\ EXbXc db ^][X]T Pc ^da fTQbXcT fff _W^c^VaP_W\PV R^\ U^a cWT [PcTbc X]U^a\PcX^] Pb fT[[ Pb Wd]SaTSb ^U [X]Zb _[db fWTaT c^ Ă&#x20AC;]S cWT f^aZb ^U \^aT cWP] $ PacXbcb

Lovely to Love, from the collection of Maureen Valdes Marsh Courtesy of the VintageGrace.com Reference Library

[

6 |

| 7

Bald Ego

c ontributors

Photographer Berenice Abbott’s accomplishments range from portraiture and modernist experimentation to documentation and scientific interpretation. She originated the photography program at the New School for Social Research and was a teacher there. She wrote several books and numerous articles including the once influential Guide to Better Photography (1941).

Amy Eckert is an artist and photographer in New York City. Her

Michael Alan’s DRAW-A-THON is an alternative to conventional figure drawing because it includes narrative, theatrical, and musical components in a public space where artists create and form community.

“My goal is to address what people are drawing today and to break away from the traditional art school pose.” www.michaelalanart.com

New York-based painter Ron English is a seminal figure of the culture jamming movement, in which artists and activists subvert existing advertisements to encourage free thought. He has replaced more than a thousand billboards with his own “subvertisements.” He is the subject of the documentary POPaganda: the Art and Crimes of Ron English.

Founder of the FUN Gallery, Patti Astor has appeared in a dozen films, including Wild Style, Rome ‘78, The Long Island Four, Snakewoman, and Underground U.S.A. FUN! The True Story of Patti Astor (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books) will be published in conjunction with the documentary film Patti Astor’s FUN Gallery and a feature film with Roberts/David Films.

Enid Esmond studied Biological Science/Pre-Med at Fordham

B+ is the author of It’s Not About a Salary: Rap, Race and Resistance in Los Angeles. He has photographed Rza, Q-Tip, Eazy-E, Jurassic 5, and DJ Shadow. He is the director of Keepintime: Talking Drums and Whispering Vinyl and Brasilintime: Batucada con Discos. www.mochilla.com In 2002, photographer Christoph Bangert drove 22,000 miles from Buenos Aires to New York in an old green Land Rover for his first book, Travel Notes (powerHouse Books, 2006). Three years later, he spent nine months in Iraq on assignment for The New York Times, which culminated in Iraq: The Space Between (powerHouse Books, 2007).

Carlos Batts is a photographer and filmmaker. Over the past 15 years he has taken the DIY mantra to heart by documenting a variety of sophisticated subcultures—music, lifestyle, and art. Batts is the author of Wild Skin, Crazy Sexy Hollywood, American Gothic, and the forthcoming Fat Girl (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books).

Photo editor of the legendary Punk Magazine, Roberta Bayley has photographed the icons that defined the era. Her work has been exhibited worldwide and published in Blondie: Images 1976-1980, Blank Generation Revisited, and Patti Smith: An Unauthorized Biography.

Juliana Beasley is the author of Lapdancer (powerHouse Books, 2003).

A divine compendium of art and literature, curated by Glenn O’Brien and Max Blagg.

Vincent Fremont began working for Andy Warhol in 1969, eventually serving as Vice President of Andy Warhol Enterprises. In the 1970s and 1980s, Fremont produced and developed Andy Warhol’s Fifteen Minutes for MTV, Fight starring Charles Rydell and Brigid Berlin, and Phoney. He was also Associate Producer of Merchant Ivory’s 1989 film adaptation of Tama Janowitz’s Slaves of New York.

Ask Fubz what he’d rather be doing on any given jam-packed day of business and he’d say, “Shooting photos.” For this New York-based urban Renaissance man, photography is a personal passion and the root that anchors all of his professional endeavors. He is the photo editor, hip-hop editor, and advertising coordinator for Beautiful/Decay magazine.

Ron Galella has been sued by Jacqueline Onassis, punched in the jaw

by Marlon Brando, and hosed down by friends of Brigitte Bardot. Galella is the author of five books including Disco Years (powerHouse Books, 2006) and has exhibited at the Andy Warhol Museum (Pittsburgh), the Paul Kasmin Gallery (New York City), and the Kunstforum (Vienna).

Roger Gastman does it all. He makes books for his own imprint, R77, as well as with Gingko and Thames & Hudson, and when we get lucky, with powerHouse. He runs Swindle magazine. He produced Infamy. Honey is a busy man. www.swindlemagazine.com Lawrence Grobel has been a freelance writer and biographer for

Janette Beckman has photographed countless album covers,

Jerry Heller rose to prominence in the 1960s as a “superagent,”

including The Police’s first three LPs. She is the author of the books RAP: Portraits and Lyrics of a Generation of Black Rockers (St. Martin’s Press, 1991), Made in the UK: The Music of Attitude 1977-1983, and The Breaks: Stylin’ and Profilin’ 1982-1990 (powerHouse Books, 2005 and 2007). www.janettebeckman.com/jb.rocks

importing Elton John and Pink Floyd for their first major American tours, and representing Marvin Gaye, Van Morrison, Journey, and Average White Band among others. In the mid-80s, he cofounded Ruthless Records with Eazy-E, and discovered, signed, or managed N.W.A., the Black Eyed Peas, and Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, among others.

Stephen Blackwell lives in the Bronx and works in Manhattan. He is

Born in Las Vegas, Nevada, Jenna Jameson is the founder of the entertainment company Club Jenna. Her autobiography, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale (Regan Books), was published in 2004.

the executive editor of Death & Taxes Magazine, a bi-monthly publication based on music and cultural musings. www.deathandtaxesmagazine.com

Boogie was born and raised in Belgrade, Serbia, and now lives in Brooklyn, NY. He is the author of It’s All Good, Boogie, and the forthcoming Belgrade Belongs to Me (powerHouse Books, 2006, 2007, and 2008). www.artcoup.com Claw Money founded graff crew PMS and the Claw Money clothing line. She is the star of Infamy, fashion director of Swindle, vintage couture collector par excellence, and the author of Bombshell: The Life and Crimes of Claw Money (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books, 2006). www.clawmoney.com

Photographs 1979-1984, Street Play, and R.I.P.: Memorial Wall Art. Her latest powerHouse effort is the recently released New York State of Mind. www.bgirlz.com

Photograph by Santé D’Orazio

University. In 2006 she received a certificate in Documentary Photography/ Photojournalism from the International Center of Photography and is currently working as freelance photographer for clients like the Dave Matthews Band and the Bonnaroo Music Festival.

Presently, she is working on a second book about a community in the Rockaways, New York City. In 2007, she was nominated for the prestigious Infinity Award in Photojournalism through the International Center of Photography. She resides in Jersey City, New Jersey. www.julianabeasley.com

Martha Cooper is author of Subway Art, We B*Girlz, Hip Hop Files:

Linda Duggins is the director of multicultural publicity at Hachette Book Group, USA and co-founder of the Harlem Book Fair.

#3 still available; #4 November 2007.

commercial clients include Life, Dwell, and The New York Times Magazine.

Other projects feature long-haul truckers, nuclear submarines, and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Being half-Kiwi, Amy travels often to New Zealand for her fix of rugby, sailing, and family gossip. www.amyeckertphoto.com

more than thirty years. He’s written for Rolling Stone, The New York Times, and Entertainment Weekly. His most recent book, The Art of the Interview, garnered a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year Award. www.lawrencegrobel.com

Graeme Jamieson is an Executive Director of Loungerati. He writes words under varying persona, including Giancarlo Gambino, Jimmy Patience, and one or two others whose MO is to drop dissonant verbal time bombs. Most comfortable underground—or at the corner table in a public house—Miss Rosen is tempting and may leaven him out yet.

Jeff Jank, American. Stones Throw. www.stonesthrow.com

Jules Kim is the founder and creative mind behind the rapidly growing hip chick jewelry line, Bijules.

Based in the San Francisco Bay Area, Chris Kitze has worked as a professional photographer in design studios, mastered Cibachrome printing, and was a pioneer in electronic media for many years. His work explores the implication of digital representation and technology on culture. His first book, The Electric Image, will be published by powerHouse Books in 2008. www.chriskitze.com

| 9

Hilary Knox’s work has been featured in exhibitions and festivals including Nooderlicht, The Netherlands; Photoespana, Madrid; Arles Photo Festival, France; Chobi Mela, Bangladesh; The Royal Scottish Academy and Collective Gallery, both Edinburgh; and OXO Bargehouse, London. ww.myspace.com/hilaryknox

Jake Paine has been professionally writing about hip hop since

Gregg LeFevre leads a double career as a street artist and

Minneapolis native Mark Peterson moved to New York in 1987 to pursue his photography career. The author of Acts of Charity (powerHouse Books, 2005), his work has been published in The New York Times Magazine, Time, Newsweek, New York, and People. Peterson is represented by Redux Pictures.

photographer. His commissioned public art projects involve bronze relief imagery set in pavement in over 175 American cities. His photography captures the dialogue between the idealized imagery of street advertisements and the graphic responses of the public—sometimes artistic, violent, and humorous.

Douglas Levere is a New York-based photographer focused on newsmakers, celebrities, and architecture, while working for advertising, corporate, and editorial clients. His images have appeared in Newsweek, People, Business Week, Life, The New York Times, Forbes, and Fortune.

2000. Originally from Pittsburgh, Paine is the features editor at AllHipHop.com and has contributed to XXL, Scratch, The Source, and Mass Appeal. Paine is presently contributing to EyeJammie’s Hip-Hop Encyclopedia and shopping around a chess-related screenplay.

Ricky Powell is the author of Public Access: Ricky Powell Photographs 1985–2005 (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books, 2005), Frozade Moments (Eyejammie Books, 2005), Oh Snap!: The Rap Photography of Ricky Powell, and The Rickford Files: Classic New York Photographs (St. Martin’s, 1998 and 1999). www.rickypowell.com Tracy Quan is writing her third Nancy Chan adventure, Diary of a

Originating from a small town in the Connecticut River Valley of Massachusetts, artist Rachel Loischild has been exhibiting since 2002. She received her MFA at Pratt Institute in New York City. www.rachelloischild.com.

Transatlantic Call Girl. Her first novel, Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl, has been optioned by producer Darren Star. Her most recent international best seller is Diary of a Married Call Girl. She blogs at www.fifthestate.co.uk and www.tracyquan.net.

Reagan Louie is the recipient of a 1989 Guggenheim Fellowship, a

Joseph Rodriguez has been awarded “Pictures of the Year” by the

1997 Fulbright Fellowship, and two grants from the National Endowment for the Arts. Louie is a professor in the Photography Department at the San Francisco Art Institute, where he has taught since 1976.

National Press Photographers Association in 1990, 1992, 1996, and 2002. His previous books include Flesh Life: Sex in Mexico, Juvenile, and East Side Stories: Gang Life in East L.A. (powerHouse Books, 2006, 2003, and 1998). www.josephrodriguez.com

Christopher Makos, a seminal figure in the 80s New York art scene, was responsible for introducing the work of both Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring to Andy Warhol. His photographs have been exhibited in numerous galleries and museums and appeared in countless magazines and newspapers. www.christophermakos.com

Maripol’s work as an art director, film producer, and jewelry designer has been influencing the music, fashion, and art worlds for decades. The author of Maripolarama (powerHouse Books, 2005), she is the founder of Maripolitan Popular Objects Ltd., which designed merchandising for Madonna’s Like a Virgin tour.

Rubén Martínez is the author of a trilogy of books on migration and globalization; The Other Side (Vintage, 1993), Crossing Over (Picador, 2002), and The New Americans (New Press, 2004). He is an associate professor of creative writing at the University of Houston.

Craig Mathis lives and works in Brooklyn, where he is a new addition to powerHouse Books. He’s also much too modest so Miss Rosen will just add he has the illest tattoos and runs parties like a pro.

Harland Miller is a writer and artist, practicing both roles over a peripatetic career in Europe and America. After living and exhibiting in New York, Berlin, and New Orleans during the 80s and 90s, Miller achieved critical acclaim with his debut novel, Slow Down Arthur, Stick to Thirty (Fourth Estate, 2000).

June, A Time Before Crack, and Seconds of My Life (powerHouse Books, 2001, 2003, 2005, and 2007). His photographs have been exhibited at the Brooklyn Museum and the Bronx Museum of the Arts, New York, as well as in galleries around the world. www.jamelshabazz.com

Maureen Valdes Marsh is an accidental author. She bumped into a writing career by sheer luck rather than hot pursuit. In 70s Fashion Fiascos, part humor, part social commentary, Marsh looks at the clothes people wore and explores why they wore what they wore. www.that70sbabe.com

Danielle J. Walker is a double major English and African-American Studies undergraduate at the University of Virginia. She has served as co-editor of the arts section for UVA’s first black publication, PRIDE, and is a published author, proud resident of Virginia Beach, and member of the class of 2008.

Tami Mnoian is a writer and former editor of Flaunt magazine. She took a breather from the publishing world to pursue a career in fashion, but soon tired of hustling clothes. Last May, she moved from Los Angeles to Brooklyn to join the powerHouse family.

Kate White is the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan. She has previously served as editor-in-chief at Child, Working Woman McCall’s, and Redbook.

A prolific author, her latest title, You on Top: Smart Sexy Skills Every Woman Needs to Set the World on Fire, was just published by Warner Books.

Barry Neuman, director of Modern Culture, is an art dealer, writer,

In 1998, Teri Woods self-published her first novel, True to the Game, and credits her overwhelming success to being a “hustler,” having moved thousands of books primarily from the trunk of her car. In 2007, she signed a seven-figure, multi-book deal with Warner Books. www.teriwoodspublishing.com

He’s the reason I don’t hate all white people no more. That’s a cool nigga, an intellectual with a sense of humor that most would find vulgar or “politically incorrect.” His attitude is usually “fuck that.” I agree. He wrote a couple of books: Nov York and Novurkistan.

10 |

Jamel Shabazz is the author of Back in the Days, The Last Sunday in

divine gentlemen to grace this beautiful planet. Miss Rosen adores him (and the lovely Miss Vanessa Menkes) madly. www.theopiumgroup.com

Nov York is the reason dreaming is possible in this detention center.

The international reference for fashion, beauty, photography, luxury, advertising, graphic design, production and events.

Rosen Editions, and executive director of The powerHouse Arena. Her production credits include We B*Girlz: A 25th Anniversary Breakin’ Event at Lincoln Center Out of Doors, and the graffiti episode of Donald Trump’s The Apprentice.

Eric Milon is king of the South Beach club scene and one of the most

Chris Nieratko’s laptop must have a mirror for a monitor because all he ever writes about is himself. Chris this and Chris that. It’s always some sex, drug, drunk, fight story about him, him, him. Yet it doesn’t get old. He even managed to fill an entire book (Skinema, Vice Books, 2007) of his self-absorbed tales. www.chrisnieratko.com

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF

Miss Rosen is publicity director of powerHouse Books, publisher of Miss

Kenneth Walton was a lawyer when he began selling art on eBay in 1999. His fraudulent online sales practices, including the $135,805 sale of a forged Richard Diebenkorn painting in May 2000, is the subject of his book, Fake: Forgeries, Lies & eBay. Walton is no longer a lawyer and now resides in Northern California. www.kennethwalton.com

lecturer, and former associate editor for Boiler magazine. He earned an M.A. in Visual Arts Administration at New York University. www.squidoo.com/artfair

Photo by Sarah Moon / Art Direction Claudio Dell’Olio

c ontributors

Amanda Yates is a Brooklyn-based writer and video artist whose work focuses on desire, mythology, obsession, and the subterranean aspects of the psyche. A California native, Amanda is a founding member of the writers collective, the Girls of Critical Studies.

Joy Yoon is a freelance writer residing in Los Angeles. yoonion@gmail.com

CONNECTIONS TOUR

LONDON OCTOBER 17-18 2007 THE ROYAL HORTICULTURAL HALLS

PARIS SPRING 2008

NEW YORK

SUMMER 2008

by invitation only

WWW.LEBOOK.COM/CONNECTIONS

A CUSTOM-MADE TRADESHOW FOR THE CREATIVE COMMUNITY

| 13

L

awrence Grobel :: The Art of the Interview: On How I Learned to Talk My Way into Strangers’ Lives

Lawrence Grobel Jericho High School, Long Island, NY, 1964

My friend Johnny had worked for Collier’s the summer before and was very successful at it. I had helped him learn the “pitch” then, but it never occurred to me that I might want to try it until he made the suggestion. The fact that he averaged nearly $200 a week, back in the mid-1960s, greatly encouraged me.

So I went to the Long Island office of Collier’s Encyclopedia and sat in a small room along with about 10 other people, when Morty walked in.

14 |

“Well, let’s get down to business,” he said. “None of you know what that is all about, except that you answered the ad in the newspaper promising you some money each week if you’re sincere and dedicated, right?”

Right? Wrong—I knew what it was about, but none of these other guys did. I had a friend in the business; they came in response to an ad. That’s why they all looked so apprehensive—they didn’t know what they were getting into. There were no women because the ad specifically asked for men.

“Our work is special—some might even say it’s not work at all. It involves learning and education, and you won’t be selling a product. This you must believe, because if you think you’re about to become a salesman, forget it, you can leave right now.”

This Morty, boy, he had his shtick down pat. He was the sales manager, and Johnny had told me he was worth $20,000 a year (remember, this was when that seemed a decent amount of money) and would probably become the district manager before the end of the summer. He had a law degree and had passed the bar, but actually found the book business more lucrative.

“What we’re dealing with is encyclopedias—but we’re not in the business of selling them. The encyclopedia we’re working for cannot be bought in any book or department store [what good encyclopedia can?] and our job here is, believe it or not, to actually give them away.” Morty paused to let this important fabrication sink in. “That’s right, you’re all going to play summer Santa Claus. It’s as simple as Simon himself.”

Morty looked at our faces. Those who weren’t smiling weren’t going to get through the next three days—Morty knew that. It was his business to know—to size up a potential salesman the way he had learned to size up prospective customers. In this business, you didn’t waste time spoon-feeding and coaxing the unsure. The training period lasted only three intense days; after that you were assigned a group and taken to an area in Queens or Long Island and put out for five hours on your own. In such work, the only way you really learn is by doing. Those who can’t do, learn that, too. Not everyone can give away encyclopedias for $365 a set.

What Morty and his field managers tried to stress was that in working for Collier’s everybody made money and no one, including the lucky recipients of the books, came out holding the short end of the proverbial stick. For every set of books we managed to place (the word sell was strictly forbidden), the commission would be $87.50 up to the first ten sets, $97.50 for the next ten, and a free set of books after placing twenty sets (which you would probably sell and keep the entire $365). The hours we worked were

between 5 and 10 P.M., because that’s when most couples were home, and you wanted to talk to both husband and wife, so they couldn’t use each other as an excuse for canceling. The field manager, who drove you to your territory each evening, received $10 for every set you placed, the sales manager, $20, the district and regional managers, God knows how much.

When you subtracted all these commissions, those free books were worth about $150 less than what the people who accepted them ended up paying.

How did free books wind up costing nearly $400? A good question. The answer, as Morty would have said, is as simple as Simon himself. And as deceiving as Morty himself.

You see, the sales pitch that we were expected to learn was prepared for the company by a wellknown university’s psychology department. It took 80 minutes from start to finish, and if you managed to make it all the way through, your chances of getting a set of signatures on the bottom of that contract were better than one in three. But if closing the deal was tricky, by far the most difficult part of the job was getting into the house itself. You couldn’t give away free books until you managed to get through the door.

During the three days of training, we were made to believe that working for Collier’s was like playing at being God. We weren’t tricking anybody into something phony and we weren’t promising anything we couldn’t deliver. Encyclopedias, after all, aren’t a bad thing. They are true books of facts and knowledge. They are an investment in education, just as college is. They are good to have around when you have a question that you can’t answer off-the-cuff (why the sky is blue, why people get depressed).

Our training didn’t stress getting through the door very much—simply because there is no sure method of getting through a door of some strange house when, for all the house owner knows, you might be harboring a submachine gun in your attaché case. Fear plays a large role in the minds of suburban homeowners, and when the doorbell rings at night and the person outside is unknown and uninvited, people think twice before they let you in.

What we did learn was how to make a pitch.

First, we had to assure the homeowners we weren’t selling encyclopedias. We did this by convincing them the books weren’t on sale in the open market.

Then we told them we were authorized to place a free set of books in a few homes in the area in return for two things: 1. A letter from the family getting the books, written six months after they had received them, saying what they thought of Collier’s. They could say anything they wanted—they weren’t expected to say they loved the encyclopedia if they didn’t, even if they

did get them for nothing. We promised that the books wouldn’t be taken back, no matter what they wrote.

(This letter was a gimmick, naturally; it wasn’t really followed up, and letters from those who remembered to write probably were read with amusement.)

2. The other thing asked was that they show good faith in accepting the encyclopedias by keeping them up to date by purchasing a yearbook and subscribing to the library service the company offered. Obviously, if they were unwilling to keep the books up to date for at least ten years, then they were not worthy of getting the free books in the first place. This part of the pitch was to make them feel guilty if they refused to update them, but it was also the part where the money came in, so the library service was added to entice those who wanted more than just “something for nothing.” With that service, we would tell them, you could get answers and information to anything under the sun—for the ridiculously low price of $36.50 a year, and that included the yearbook, too. But, we would caution, our voices lowering to a manly whisper, this service could only be guaranteed at that price for the first ten years. After that they would have to pay what everyone who went out and bought the books (once they went on sale) paid—double the price just quoted.

By the time you got around to talking about yearbooks and library services, you had already shown the lucky couple what the entire set would look like (you carried in your attaché case an accordionlike mock-up of the books), as well as a sample volume of the entire set condensed, showing them the various topics, the pretty color pages, the fine gloss of the paper, and the strength of the binding.

It all sounded so easy, I couldn’t wait to get out there. I had spent hours practicing the pitch before a mirror. During the training I got to stand before the others and sell them on the fine points of investing in their children’s future (“Sure, you can use the set today, no problem, but what about five years from now, when your son is old enough to look up things for himself—he’s not going to want a dated encyclopedia. Times change so rapidly, one day we’re on the moon, the next, on Mars—you can’t go out and buy a new encyclopedia every year, now can you? Of course not; so, the only way to keep them from becoming dated is…”). I felt confident, I knew the material, I wanted to get out there and make the money being a nice guy. At $87.50 a set, I only had to place one set a day and—bingo!—$437.50 a week. Not bad for a summer job.

| 15

G

REGG LEFEVRE

M

artha Cooper | 17

R

oger Gastman Swindle

Hustling is about survival.

I’ve never held a regular job in my life. What I do is random and all over the place. I’ve never wanted to limit myself. I started working for myself when I was 15 or 16 years old, selling what were called “dialers” at the time. It was before cell phones were popular. You’d go to RadioShack and buy this $30 thing you could fit in your pocket; it was a speed dial device and it would hold phone numbers. You’d hold it up to the phone and it would dial the number so you wouldn’t have to. I found out that if you order a chip, unscrew the back, solder out the old chip and put in the new one (a process that cost about a $1.50), it would make the sound of quarters being dropped into a pay phone. This was very cool, especially if you were traveling and making a lot of long distance calls. I would buy the dialer for $30, customize them, and resell them for upwards of $200. Eventually RadioShack caught on...

So I went from that to selling caps (the tips that go on the cans of spray paint). I was a graffiti fan, a graffiti artist, and I was tired of ordering them from graffiti magazines or supply stores and getting ripped off. There had to be a way to charge less for them and supply them to the community. I basically came in and slashed the prices in half and have since become the biggest distributor of caps in the world.

My philosophy is: The more things that I can group together the better. Shepard Fairey and I run Swindle magazine. I make books for Gingko, and Thames & Hudson, as well as my own imprint, R77. I also represent artists. The more content I can get from each person, the more photos I can archive, and the more my projects can crossover, build, and grow.

My style is do-it-yourself which stems from my early years in punk and hardcore music as well as the graffiti community. I don’t think I ever listened to a punk song or a hardcore song and said to myself: they did this themselves, this is how I’m going to go do it; I think it just soaked in. If I wanted a band’s record or T-shirt I wasn’t going to be able to go to Tower Records to get it. I had to seek out the smaller independent store that carried it, to write to the bands themselves, to research and find people that might have it, to really look around. And that exposed me to a whole other world of small indie distros, stores, and people that had successfully made a business of it, knowing they’re doing things for the right reasons.

There’s a hierarchy. When you get started you’re just trying to pay the bills—but if you’re smart you’re going to make each project a stepping-stone to the bigger payoff. I couldn’t do these projects without turning a profit but I do have passion projects

18 |

where I don’t necessarily make money. I didn’t start While You Were Sleeping with the intention of making a dollar off of it (and I really never did. I’m probably still in debt for it). But things grew out of it: a relationship with an advertising agency where I may do consulting for them. This is the crossover that opens new revenue streams to fund other work.

Would I sell a project just for financial success? No, but there’s always some kind of compromise.

Graffiti has become corporate recently. A lot of companies want graffiti. And they want things that are cheesy and they will pay a lot of money for it.

So, if we don’t do it, someone else is going to do it but they may not deserve it, they may not have the reputation or credibility but they will still get paid for it. So if we can call up an artist that has worked for 20 years painting graffiti and maybe has had a tough time but has great skills, why not? His name doesn’t go on it, my name doesn’t go on it, and someone that really needed the money got it.

Another aspect of the hustle is the hype machine.

All hype is different. With no hype, with no PR, that product may only get discovered after a long time.

The more PR you can do, the better the product is, the more successful it will be. With publicity and advertising, the streets are ahead of the industry. But the corporations need to reach the mass markets so that’s where those organic, grassroots-level artists are best able to amplify. The hustle is a two-way street.

Would-be art hustlers need to bear in mind: everything is cyclical. Street art is hot right now so kids want to be an artist, they want to make money, they come up with an icon, they go paste it in a few places, they take pictures, they build a website, they’re the new street artist, they show it to the new boutique gallery that sells sneakers, the gallery gives them a show, great. But they’re going to die out. They’re not real. They didn’t do it on the streets.

The majority of people who are successful went through the streets. They got arrested. They did their art constantly and gained respect on the street.

And at the same time they’re working in the studio where their work evolves into something that is possible to purchase.

There’s always going to be a fluke. There’s always going to be something and someone that doesn’t really deserve it. But it goes to what I was saying— are you selling out? Not necessarily. These are people who got in it quick and this is their notoriety. If you can get over with a major corporation or just major money and don’t totally believe in it, do a different style, don’t put your name on it, and take the check before someone else does. Use the check and spin it into something good. Now you just hustled them.

| 19

20 |

B

ombshell: the life and Crimes of Claw Money|

21

J

ake Paine

Dreams, Schemes, and Cream “If money makes the world go ‘round, then so be it, Been broke before, ain’t tryin’ to repeat it.”

—Lord Finesse Since Big Bank Hank rhymed about owning a “Lincoln Continental and a sunroof Cadillac” on “Rapper’s Delight,” hip hop has been consumed with wealth. It began as a fantasy for pioneering MCs and DJs who maintained modest homes in their Bronx neighborhoods, sometimes with their parents, and many held down day jobs—some still do today.

By the time Reaganomics hit, art was imitating life. While Oliver Stone’s 1987 film Wall Street was the gritty yuppie adaptation of Faust, Eric B. & Rakim’s Paid in Full was the anthem of the streets.

Both agree “greed is good” and “don’t nothin’ move but the money.” The desires of Financial District rookies were identical to the b-boys and girls riding the train cars beneath them. After years of RunDMC headlining hip hop with a dapper but downhome image, Rakim’s unmatched lyricism made his monetary aspirations admirable.

From Nice & Smooth’s “Gold” to Ice-T’s “Rhyme Pays,” hip hop made its priorities clear. But capitalism can be a peculiar thing. Just as boardroom execs will cry “mutiny” when one of their own is brought down, hip hop ruthlessly tears down those that go pop. After five years of rhyming about money it did not have, hip hop produced its first business mogul: MC Hammer. Like so many rappers in the South today, Hammer was born out of hustle. His first album, Feel My Power, was a Bay Area staple before it was repackaged by Capitol into the multi-platinum Let’s Get It Started. Hammer had the ears—then he had the wallets.

As the rapper (born Stanley Burrell) achieved stardom, corporations got a whiff of that sweet smell of success and Kentucky Fried Chicken could not disguise its intent. Hammer began slanging chicken, pizza, Saturday morning cartoons, and sneakers. With every dollar earned, hip hop’s “keep it in the street” mystique was being burned and the inevitable occurred: Hammer was dethroned.

If the 1980s projected hip hop’s champagne wishes, the late 90s saw these caviar dreams come true. Sponsorships, branding, film and television deals, apparel companies, and, of course, Master P. He took rushed recording and countless releases to new heights with No Limit Records. Open any No Limit album and you’ll see anywhere from 3 to 25 others advertised. In the place of liner notes came previews for upcoming albums, projects, dolls, films, and 900 numbers. Even after he began acquiring star emcees from other labels, Master P was the biggest act on his own label, living the dream Berry

J

anette Beckman:: The Breaks: Profilin’ 1982–1990

22 | Stylin’ and

Gordy could never fulfill. Once estimated with a 250 million-dollar net worth, No Limit Records made hip hop more decadent than ever. The Pen-n-Pixel album covers, sometimes featuring holograms and gold foil, showcased exotic cars, expensive jewels, piles of money, mansions, and even helicopters. But surface was once again trumped by substance and Master P was dethroned by the masses; his company closed their doors, leaving three dozen artists unemployed.

On the other side was the lucrative East Coast/ West Coast divide: Although Tupac and Biggie avoided “selling out,” both sold big. Certified by his rugged-yet-polished Ready to Die debut, Biggie adopted a hot alias, “the black Frank White” and with Junior M.A.F.I.A. launched the proto-bling anthem of our era, “Get Money.” With bottles of Moët popping, Versace’s clocking, and top brands name-checked in his raps, The Notorious B.I.G. and his brilliant backer Sean Combs schemed for the cream while his nemesis Tupac chewed up those dreams in a race to outdo his rival: “Another album out, that’s what I’m about, more!” One of the hardest lines defining his drive was one of Tupac’s last—in All Eyez on Me, a classic double-disc album recorded in 14 days. It’s since been reported that at the time of his death, Tupac Shakur had less than $10,000 in his bank account, despite a heavy chart presence.

By the new millennium, DJs and producers began making money by packaging their skills, selling consultation, instrumentals, and images to advertisers. Reebok has backed projects from 50 Cent and Jay-Z, while Nike has gained collectors’ notoriety through its extensive work with Bobbito.

Swizz Beatz owns a car dealership while Funkmaster Flex does consulting work with Ford Motor Company.

50 Cent could live off of his reported 5% interest in Glacéau’s Vitamin Water brand. Jay-Z owns two locations of the 40/40 Club, with a Las Vegas third in the works. You can buy Lil’ Jon’s Crunk Juice or Nelly’s Pimp Juice at many 7-Elevens (to wash down some Rap Snacks, if you’re lucky) and department stores in rural America carry Sean Jean, Rocawear, and maybe still Wu Wear.

Hip hop is a culture based on meritocracy—only we say, “Hustle hard and you’ll succeed.” For everyone mentioned here, they have got stories of poverty, of sacrifice, of ghettos, ’hoods, and traps. The attitudes pertaining to wealth in hip hop today have been there for 20, even 30 years in growing capacity. But hip hop has yet to find its thriving 40-year-old star; everybody knows that the earnings of youth are critical.

Compared to most entertainers, we’ve got twice as far to go, and half the time to get there.

Until we do, cash rules everything around us, cream get the money, dolla, dolla bill, y’all.

| 23

J

J

anette Beckman:: The Breaks: Stylin’ and Profilin’ 1982–1990

erry Heller

Ruthless

There were always people tugging at my sleeve.

“Hey Jerry,” Lonzo said to me in early 1987. “I got this Compton guy keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“Yeah? A rapper?”

“Nah,” Lonzo said. “He’s like a street guy, got a lot of big ideas. He says he wants to start a record store or something.”

“Hey, Lonzo, spare me, okay? I get a lot of people wanting to go into business with me. If I talked to all of them, I’d be in the business of going into business with people, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

But the dude wouldn’t quit. Every couple of weeks Lonzo would be back at it, saying this Compton guy wants to know me. A couple times I blew up at him.

“You owe this guy money or something? He your relative? Leave it alone!”

Part of my playing hard to get was a conscious business strategy. As an executive you erect a wall around yourself. You want to give yourself a little peace and quiet and cut down on distractions. But the wall serves another function, too. It weeds out the losers. It’s Darwinian. If a supplicant is strong enough and resourceful enough to get through to me, maybe, just maybe, he’s got something worthwhile to show me.

In spring of 1987 Lonzo was still hocking me.

“Hey, man, you got to see this Compton guy. He’s on me all the time about it.”

“So? That’s your problem.” I walked away from him.

He followed. “Listen, Jerry, the guy says he’ll pay me for an introduction to you.”

I stopped and turned back around. “How much?”

“Seven hundred and fifty.” Lonzo paused. “Truth, Jerry, I could use the money.”

That didn’t necessarily sway me. Lonzo was a friend, but I don’t think there was ever a time when he couldn’t use $750. For him, saying he needed money was like saying “I’m breathing.” On the other hand, it did intrigue me that someone was willing to pay cash money for an introduction to me.

“Who is this guy again?”

He had told me before, but I wasn’t really listening, so he told me again.

24 |

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be back around next week.”

“When?” Lonzo wanted to know.

“Tuesday afternoon, 3:30.”

I could tell he wanted me to bump up the date a little, advance his payday. But he didn’t push it.

So what did I think of a guy who bid $750 just to get next to me? I confess I have enough of an ego that my first knee-jerk response was “good move.” I like initiative, I like ambition, I like people who drive themselves to accomplish. Passivity makes me nuts.

The guy who drove his tricked-out Suzuki Samurai up to the curb in front of Macola on the next Tuesday afternoon (March 3, 1987, if you want to mark the start of the Ruthless era right there) didn’t go in for a lot of ceremony. A short, sprung-legged Muggsy Bogues point-guard type, but with a massive upper body, so the final effect was almost like an inverted pyramid. “Built like a tank, but hard to hit.” Oakland Raiders ball cap jammed down on Jheri-curled hair, above black wraparounds.

Another small guy, I thought. All my life, I’ve played against small guys, including people in show business like Irving Azoff and David Geffen.

It hadn’t been all that long before, a few years, that Randy Newman had a hit with “Short People,” a song which he supposedly wrote about Azoff and which I thought probably made this kid’s life hell when he was coming up.

“Hey, Jerry, this is Eric Wright,” Lonzo said, and then to Eazy he just said: “Jerry Heller.”

Show, meet business. Business, meet show.

Eric had a running buddy with him, a partner who climbed out of the passenger-side door of the Samurai. Lonzo knew him, too: “This is Lorenzo.”

“Lorenzo Patterson,” the kid said almost inaudibly, giving me a soft handshake.

Eazy didn’t say a word, just reached down and peeled back his pant leg, rolled down his striped white crew sock, and extracted a money roll. I laughed. He was going to pay Lonzo right on the spot.

That amused me. I noticed he didn’t move his lips when he counted money, like a lot of people do, and I like that, too.

| 25

N

I

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

t’s All Good

Photographs by Boogie, Text by Kasino

My life started when I was nine, ‘cause when I was nine you can say I was born into gangs. I used to steal clips of weed and little bags of coke from my father when I was nine. I used to do drugs and what I didn’t do I used to take outside and sell. So you can say that I started selling drugs around nine as well.

My life started going crazy from there.

When I was 12 years old, one of my friends was shot and killed right in front of me. We were sitting in the park smoking weed, and a guy came and blew his head off right there. Put the gun to me asked me if I saw anything. I told him no, so he let me go. That was the first time I saw a gun.

When I was around 14, I did my first shootout. The problem was bullshit; it was over a $5 bag of weed.

One person approached another person, words were said, guns came out, and everybody started shooting.

To me it seemed like forever but it probably lasted just a couple of seconds.

Then, when I was 15...that whole year was just crazy ‘cause at that point me and my friends were planning on taking over the projects we were in. We went through a lot of bang outs. A lot of my guys 26 |

went down at a young age, around 15, 16 years old. I’m surprised I’ve made it to where I’m at now.

Twenty-one. I could have been gone a long time ago.

You had to be in a gang to make the kind of money you wanted to make. If not, you were going to make penny change. Nobody wants to make penny change; everybody wants to get rich. I made the same move my friends made; people joined gangs.

The Blood situation was out of control. Some people started getting killed or cut just for wearing red. A little bullshit could get you hurt.

Every gang has a different initiation. The Bloods have the cruelest and most fucked up way of becoming a Blood. That’s why Bloods are looked at as the grimiest, the most hardcore gang in the New York City. If a person sees the color red, they shake up a little bit. For initiation, I did a five-point star and I had to eat food twice—meaning, to fight five people at the same time for 31 seconds, and I had to cut two people in the face. The day they make you a Blood is the same day you have to do this. The next day starts a seven-day bang out: seven days of robbing, stealing, shooting, cutting, stabbing—you are going

crazy. The whole point of initiation is that they want to see that you’re capable of doing this shit and not being scared of consequences. If you can’t follow through with an initiation you will be looked at as a pussy or a snitch. And nobody likes a snitch.

A whole lot of initiations happen every day. You hear about them on the news, but you don’t know it was an initiation. You hear about somebody getting shot somewhere in New York, and nobody knows why that person got shot; nine times out of ten it was a gang initiation. I am a three-star general in the Bloods, so I know what’s going on. The majority of crime in New York City is ‘cause of gangs; drugs, killings, stabbings, robberies, even the bullshit car theft, the fucking pettiest crimes and misdemeanors are all ‘cause of gangs.

There are different sets of Bloods, meaning different squads, different teams. We’re all Bloods, but we all belong to different teams. Me, I’m Home Grown Bangers. There are Nine Tray Gangsters, Gangster Killer Bloods, West Side Piru Bloods, East Side Piru Bloods, Valentine Bloods, Bounty Hunter Bloods, Black P Stone Bloods, Black Swan Bloods…

there’s a lot of Blood sets. But not every set gets along with each other. So conflict comes in. One set hates that, another set is making more money, or they just personally don’t like each other.

I became Blood around ‘96 or ‘97. I’m the first Puerto Rican Blood out here in New York, or at least in my area ‘cause I’ve never seen one. Other Puerto Rican gangs like the Latin Kings and the Nietas look at Puerto Rican Bloods as snitches. They think that Bloods, ‘cause they were black, didn’t understand what Latin Kings and Nietas were talking about. So the Bloods started putting in Spanish Bloods ‘cause we understood them. But there’s lot more to it than that. A Spanish Blood has more pride than anyone ‘cause we go through the most. We get backstabbed by our own Bloods and by our own kind. When the Puerto Rican Blood looks you in the eye, you can see the griminess within them. You can see the snake. It’s a glare that pushes fear out of you. And like I always say—it’s better to be feared than loved.

| 27

J

oseph Rodriguez

Spanish Harlem

Diary March 7, 1988 The Business.

The boss owns the block.

The manager keeps his eye on his people.

The handman arrives with the goods.

The pickup man picks up the goods.

The transfer man picks up the smaller bundles for the salesman who can sell 40-50 bundles a day.

The 28 | Bundles, 1988

| 29

T

eri Woods True to the Game

I don’t know what marketing is. They say, “How do you market your books?” I’m thinking to myself, I look for the biggest drug dealer in the neighborhood who will hold me down. Because those are what the books represent; who’s going to endorse it except people who have lived it? I have always been the biggest Tupac fan, ever. When he said, “There’s a million motherfuckers just like me,” I said to myself, Well, wow, maybe there’s a million people who might relate to my books.

Have you ever noticed that I sold like a million books independently? People lie but to be able to really have those numbers…. My company is called Teri Woods Publishing. First it was Meow Meow but people thought it was like cats and stuff so I switched over. Now I’m with Warner Books. It was the multi-million dollar deal. I’ve been doing it by myself for seven years. I can fucking sell a million books by myself, make a shitload of money. I got every fucking thing. I have two beautiful babies and all that shit.

But I’m saying to myself, If I go into Barnes & Noble and I see one more of my books in Sociology…

People come to my signings and curse at me. I don’t give a shit, I’m like: Security! They’re mad at me. They bond with the characters and what happens is that I get, “Why did you kill him? Why did you kill Quadir?” I’m like, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I have carpal tunnel. I can’t fight you back. My wrists are like, I’m tired of typing. I can’t. We’re not going to fight here today.” Oh my god, you guys make these signings so rough on me. The white girls come crying. They love me. They cry. They’re way more dramatic than hood girls. The hood girls want to fight. White chicks are crying. But we have fun.

Okay, if I use white or black or anything, don’t be mad. My mom has no black in her. She’s half Indian and half white, and my dad was black—so don’t take offense. This is what happened. I had a really nice upbringing. Probably the whitest person you’ll ever meet in your life. I listened to Steely Dan. I have a farmhouse in Delaware that I’m the most comfortable in, sitting on an acre of nothing but greenery where you can see the sun come up and the sun go down.

That’s where I’m happiest at. Seriously.

I grew up in a very country setting from five to 16.

I started getting rebellious around 13, 14. They tried to say I ran away; I’m like, I knew where the fuck I was. Other people knew where I was. I just wasn’t where you wanted me to be at your time and place and location. And then I stole. I had this fetish when I was a teenager: I liked to take trinkets. And it grew. I liked to go into stores, change clothes in the dressing rooms, and walk out with a new outfit on. I got caught taking this sparkly lip gloss out of the Dover Air Force Base (my stepfather happened to be a retired sergeant). I don’t know why I tried it. I really did not get authority at that age.

My parents felt the need to get me help so they locked me up and sent me to rehab. But when I Photograph © Keith Major

went to drug rehab, there were forces there that were fucking major. I was in there with real fucking people: heroin addicts, pill poppers, fucking crank, fucking snorters, fucking meth, the whole fucking thing. We’re talking about the early 80s when shit was just about to pop off.

They didn’t help me with the lip gloss, so I got emancipated. I learned some shit like “Double Jeopardy.” I learned. Fuck me? Emancipation. You can’t tell me what to do or lock me up for not doing what you want me to do. So at 16, I ended up living in West Philadelphia with my daughter’s father and he was a drug dealer. But he was a really nice guy.

I know they all say that, right? There was nothing violent about it. It wasn’t bad. And I was on to the next drug: freebasing cocaine. I had the whole fucking setup. I had the best fucking screens, I had the fucking big fucking pipe, that big long one that was like a fucking teardrop. Then I had the little ball crystallizer joints that said “crystallizer” on it. I had a suitcase and I had fucking keys of coke. I was that bitch.

Back then, the way I saw it, everybody was getting high. There was this program called “48 Hours on Crack Street.” I was like, Honey, what the fuck are they doing to their fucking cocaine they got on television? I’ve never seen anything like it. Oh my God, what are they saying they’re putting in it and it’s called what? Is that what we do? Maybe I should get help. I don’t know. At the end, I didn’t like it and I stopped but he still did it. He couldn’t stop. I just got tired of it. I’d come in and break the crystalizer, like, “Get these fucking people out!” They’d fucking lock me in closets. They’d push me out the goddamn door and have me sit in the fucking cold.

When I go back through that neighborhood, everybody still lives next door to that same fucking house that we occupied. Everybody that got high with us that doesn’t get high now, it’s like, wow, taboo because it’s over 20 years later and it’s still life. We were all there crawling around on the floor looking for rocks. We were fucking crawling together. I don’t want people to think that there’s anything that separates people in life; I know what it’s like to be there.

That was the beginning. After my daughter’s father went to prison, it was around 1986 and shit was popping. By ’88 everybody was a drug dealer, millionaire, had plenty of fucking paper. It was not the 70s no more. By 1988 you did not need a day job.

You really didn’t. Somebody’s going to look out for you because there was just too much money. I don’t know why no one tells the truth. In ’68, Martin Luther King died. In ’71, everybody was rioting; factories were closing down. Black people had nothing. They shut down the Panthers and the movement in the 70s; we were messed up. We was hurting. Then came the 80s, Reagan and then Bush with their bullshit.

I’m not lying. It was from ’82 to ’92, because by ’92 everybody I knew, they were all fucking in jail. They came through and took everybody in one fucking | 31

day. Thirty dudes over here, 50 dudes over here. They came out with indictments and it wasn’t just Philly; I found out later that it was every fucking city across America. So everybody’s favorite nigga from the hood, he’s gone now. And please don’t take offense to that word. I know you’re not supposed to use it; I just don’t understand.

Everybody went to jail, so I had to get a job. Fuck the white man. I’m like, “I can’t work for the man.”

My mother’s like, “Who the fuck is The Man? If you don’t get your fucking ass up, then go get on the curb but I’m not going to carry you. Teri, you got to do something with your life. What is wrong with you?

You walk around like you just don’t get it.” So I ended up going to paralegal school. Upstairs there was this black guy named Hugo Warren and he was older and very sophisticated but he mentored me and he owned a newspaper called the Philadelphia New Observer, I think. It was a family-owned black magazine and he ran his own press and did his own work. He was the first black guy that I saw that was cool as shit, that had a nice car, that had a really nice house, had a nice family but wasn’t a drug dealer. He helped mentor me and told me to stick with it.

I couldn’t get a job. I faked the fucking resume the best I could. Finally there was this chick, this white chick named Debbie. We need to find this white bitch. I love her; where is she? She looked at me and she said, “I’m going to tell you something. Don’t you come in here with that shit and fuck up. Listen, Neil Goldstein did not want a black secretary. He told me he didn’t want a black secretary. Neil Goldstein doesn’t know my boyfriend is black. I fucking hired your ass and you’re not going to fucking let me down.”

They made me climb up and down some more steps, carry them heavy-ass file folders, oh God. I was sitting there and I’m saying, Why they have to lock everybody up? Everybody’s fucking dead and I’m really going to have to do this shit for the rest of my fucking life. I’m 25 years old. I ain’t never fucking worked. This shit’s killing me and they ain’t paying me but $250 a week. I ain’t got no benefits. I’m fucked up. And everything my baby’s father built, all them fucking buildings. You see that nigga had fucking real estate. Where Rose at? Rose, where’s that bitch at? I don’t even think about her because she’s just so much negative energy. She took all that fucking real estate when they went to jail. She tripped him out of it because I was not sitting there waiting patiently for an appeal while she pretended to be. Her fucking man went down with my man. Them two niggas, they had 14 buildings. They had rents. We collected rent money. We had tenants; niggas was going to get put the fuck out if they didn’t have that fucking paper.

Don’t let a drug dealer be your landlord. But this was the 80s. Man, that bitch took all them fucking properties and went up to the mountains. Couldn’t nobody find Rose. Me and my daughter never collected any of the rent money.

So that’s why I was at the law firm. And here comes Valerie Zaslow, daughter of one of the partners. She just breezes through like wind, expensive wind. Wearing my fucking wardrobe. Her wardrobe is like my salary—not a paycheck—she’s wearing my salary from head to toe. She came over to

32 |

me and she said, “Teri, I really need you to go outside and put a quarter in the meter for me. My BMW is parked in front of the building. I’m sorry, Traci. Traci, can you go put this quarter in the meter for me?” I’m like: this white woman is serious, too. White people just have too much freedom in America. Teri, Traci, just say it: black bitch, whoever the fuck you are, just go outside and put this quarter in the meter.

And that’s when I said to myself, There has got to be a drug dealer out there who will come and fucking rescue me. Isn’t that terrible? There has to be one left out there. It’s 1992. I know everybody’s in jail right now but there has to be someone left out there, maybe another town, another city, perhaps. Where the fuck they at? Fuck. That’s where you got True to the Game.

There’s no inspiration. I didn’t go to school. I always liked poetry if that helps. True to the Game was: Can somebody come and fucking rescue me!

And then there was Maureen Kelly, the Irish lady who said she was black in another life; she helped me edit it. That bitch was no joke. She was fucking tough as nails. She got the quarter in the meter shit, too, I guess. She talked to me. She found out that I liked writing and it was her dream to be a writer. So she read my book and she said, “If you take me to your neighborhood so I can sit outside and play cards on the sidewalk, I’ll help you with your book.”

I ended up working two jobs while trying to get True to the Game published. Everybody turned me down. I tried to get it published in ’93, ’94. I have rejection letters and everything. Handwritten letters saying: You need an education. Go to school or something. Try taking a writing course.

By ‘95, I met this psychopath who really didn’t let me know he was a psychopath. But that motherfucker was crazy. He was jealous of my book, he was jealous of the characters. He would be like, “Bitch, if you wasn’t over here playing with them imaginary, bullshit characters, we might have something to eat in this motherfucker, OK?” So the book ended up in the closet and I couldn’t really focus. It sat there from about ’94 to ’98. It took that long.

I ended up going to this stationary shop and this lady, oh God, she was a fucking nutcase. She had this stationary shop in South Philly and she charged me $9 a book. She didn’t actually charge me. She charged this guy named Brian that I met at a red light with my girlfriend. OK, true story, I swear to God, I met this guy at his red light and he was in a black Lexus. So I always urge people, If a black Lexus ever tries to pick you up, just look twice, you never know. Very good karma. Brian read my book and in less than a week he wanted to give her the money. But for nothing. He didn’t want anything—and I had 500 books. They were white with a gold gun, typed on the typewriter, crazy-glued together. When you open it up, it falls apart so I urged people not to try to crack the spine. Don’t really open it. There are people that have that book in a plastic bag.

I went around to everybody that I knew. I went to the basketball courts because the bookstores all said you had to have an account with them and I didn’t have a bar code. So I just started selling them and got really good feedback. I decided to make a book

that doesn’t fall apart because that was all people said I needed to do. Another lady named Patricia, she’s this anointed chick, very into God, and she told me everything I needed to do to self publish; she laid it out in layman’s terms for me. I got my bar code. I got all my codings. I found a printing company and printed True to the Game around October of ’99.

December 18, 1999, was a Friday. I came up here to New York and started hustling out of the trunk of the car. I’d be in Harlem with my friends that I knew from the 80s. I used to come up here and party and hang out primarily on 125th Street. I let Pop, he had a video store, and Blue from Blackman’s Jewelers hold my books; I’d fill up this lucky bag, go outside, and I’d start following people around until they’d give me $10 for my book.

Thank God for Sister Souljah. She had this book called The Coldest Winter Ever and it opened the door for me because people were thirsty for another story like that. But True to the Game, this bitch got old grandmas cooking cocaine in mayonnaise jars. I was able to tell everybody in New York, Did you like that Coldest Winter Ever book? Well, this is better. Not that I knew that if it was and not that I would even believe at that point in my life that it could be better but that’s just what I said. You know, If you liked that, you’ll love this. Not to take anything from her.

There’s this energy on 125th Street. People would see me out there this weekend and they see me out there the next weekend; they walk by me and be like, “Fucking great book, girl! That shit was crazy. Just stay out here, you’ll be okay.” Dudes out there got me looking like Eddie Murphy in Coming to America, all warm and shit. Got the New York thing going, got my parka. I’m running up to niggas at the light, Don’t stop, I’m on your ass! Swizz Beatz at the red light.

Swizz seen me out there busting my fucking ass.

Goddamn Black Rob told me to keep the change. Say what you want, nigga in jail now, but guess what? I don’t forget that shit. He gave me a $20 bill and told me to keep the change. I’m like, Are you sure, it’s only $10. He’s like, “Bitch, I respect the hustle.”

Those black folks are something else, ain’t they.

Because what happened was, they started going to Barnes & Noble. Somebody asked, “You got this book called True to the Game?” And the white girl behind the counter said, “Let me look for you. Do you know who the author is?” “Teri Woods.” “Um, no we don’t carry that but we can order it for you.” “Well, why you ain’t got it in here? Damn I already been to like four fucking bookstores.” “Well, let me get the manager for you.” Then you got niggas coming up in there talking about, “Y’all got this book called True to the Game?” And they’re like, “Um, no.” “Well, damn, what a nigga got to do? I can’t find this shit nowhere.

They telling me this some real gangsta shit going on.”

I started getting calls from distributors because people were going into these bookstores looking for this book. And the bookstores must have been like, Hold the fuck up. They coming in here looking for this bullshit that we ain’t got. Maybe we need to get this shit in here. I guess they started calling corporate.

Somebody called somebody because I have an account with Ingram, Baker & Taylor. Everybody was waiting for me.

The other thing that helped me early on back then was down in Brooklyn, they had two African distributors called A and B Culture Plus and they fed all of the vendors on the streets of New York. They carried the book way before Ingram, Baker & Taylor.

It was probably because of them that I got more accounts because they put it on the streets. Plus that street vendor on 125th, his name was Russell. He saw what I was doing. When I would leave New York and go back to Philly, I would ask him if he would take some of the books and sell them on his stand. I’d come back and all those books would be sold and he’d want more.

It really was a movement. It really was the power of the people. It really was taking it to an audience that could relate to what I had written about. My goal was never to take it to working women. I thought they were more for the Terry McMillan and Eric Jerome Dickey. I didn’t think they would buy it at all.

I thought it was for the guys so I would target them because they were an easier sell. I would hustle anybody who looked like he knew street shit. If that nigga had rims or something, there’s a certain swagger that them dudes got about them. You have to pick your market. You don’t have a lot of time when you’re independent.

At that time, like I said, it was rough. Some nights I couldn’t make it back to Philly. I would sleep in my car. I’d wake up and niggas would be sitting around me saying, “Yo, we got you. We’ve been reading this shit and it’s really good. Popping off in here T, popping off.” They be sitting outside the car and this is Sugarhill Harlem. We uptown now. It was a lot of love. I made friends in the rapper world. Method Man and Redman bought my book. Method Man introduced me to his manager, who helped me get my first movie deal with Cash Money. God, they gave me so much money I didn’t know what to do with it.

My mother was in the background, “If they offer you 50 cents, take it.” But don’t get it twisted. She was the one who gave me the credit card so I could get my books done. That’s how I was able to get the book started.

I met a lot of people in the hip hop world. One of them was Amil from Roc-A-Fella. She let me stay at her apartment. She gave me her car. Let me hold her clothes. That was fly. She helped me a lot. We still talk. She sends me pictures of the boys and I’m the godmother of one of her children. Queen Pen took me down to Brooklyn. She’s definitely street-oriented. She introduced me to Brooklyn. She let me stay with her.

There was this one lady but she was at the YMCA in Harlem. She read my book, asked me if I wanted to stay with her and her daughter, and let me sleep on her couch. The response in New York was different.

It was over the top. Here, it was like you might be Picasso. We’re not going to fuck with you. You might have some kind of sixth sense. You’re honored here.

They told me, “Bitch, you hustle better than a nigga on the corner. Your hustle is crazy, T.” Following people home to get $10. I’m not going inside but if you told me that was where the money was and asked me to follow you around the corner and you lived three blocks away, I would. Because I know if you make me go through that, you’re really going to read my book. I just wanted people to read my book. | 33

L

INDA DUGGINS In taking on the role as head of multicultural publicity at Hachette Book Group USA, Linda Duggins found herself involved in one of the fastest growing markets in the book industry: the urban fiction genre. Through the record sales of books in this genre, Duggins shows us her ability to lighten just as many pockets as the worries of insatiable readers. Here, Duggins takes a cue from urban fiction lit—and we see that maybe there is a moral to every story.

—Danielle J. Walker Chester Himes, Donald Goines, and Robert “Iceberg Slim” Beck set the bar in the 30s and 70s with reallife tales of brothers and sisters trying to get out from under the thumb of the man and the system. All human beings want love, food, shelter and a place to claim in this mad crazy world. As an avid reader, I know we all can learn from others’ experiences.

I connect with that core audience who is always looking for more to read, while reaching out to others to introduce them to other cultural experiences. The characters that live in this realm want the same thing.

There are a couple of things that set the urban fiction genre apart from other black titles. The first thing that comes to mind is the number of copies that sell in the first few months after the book hits the street—some can sell upwards of 20,000 copies! The vast number of literary and commercial fiction titles— black, multicultural or otherwise—won’t realize those numbers the entire time the book is in print.

The rise of incarceration rates for black men and women in this country, primarily from drug offenses in the 80s, is directly related to the increase in sales of this genre as well. The voices on the page speak directly to those who know the street game intimately.

It is the voice, in those stories, written by those who are or have been in prison as well as the multitudes that can relate to the authenticity of the stories that sets this genre apart.

The Hachette Book Group USA is interested in great writing, great stories, and selling books.

I stepped into this newly created role in October 2006. I’m navigating my way through and working in conjunction with the various departments within the company and the industry. The world is changing rapidly and it’s prudent for us to be at the helm of this shift. I have been in love with the written word for as long as I can remember. This opportunity enhances my belief that we are all agents of change and the cultural anxiety that people feel and experience is a good thing. Change is good, and eternal.

J

34oseph |

Rodríguez

| 35

H

arland Miller: International Lonely Guy

36 |

| 37

Nov York

R

uben Martinez Flesh Life: Sex in Mexico Let’s begin, safely, with an idea. About a cataclysmic fuck—Mexico’s big bang. More than half a century ago, Octavio Paz wrote of the “masks” Mexicans have crafted over time, mythic identities whose function is to hide the trauma of la chingada (from the verb chingar, to fuck, both literally and figuratively), that is, the Conquest—the rape of native by conquistador—from which modern Mexico’s mestizo identity was born. Not surprisingly, the most common, and powerful, of Mexican masks are sexual in nature. One can interpret the mask of the macho (hard-working, hard-drinking, hard-fucking) as necessary for Mexican men to regain some sense of manhood after la chingada. Likewise, the obsession with virginity imposed upon and internalized by Mexican women has perhaps been a way to purge the memory of the original violation. The Catholic Church, true to its nature as a patriarchal institution, played an important role in the foundation of both these constructs. But in the end, a mask is just a mask—it does not necessarily alter what lies behind it, although it can create a tension that results in comic, tragic, and downright surreal performances….

Mexico loves to fuck, in its Catholic way. It suffers its fucking so much (¡pecado mortal!), that its pain becomes an inverted pleasure. We pick forbidden fruit, we cum, we realize a sin, we confess and are

given absolution…we pick it again. Psychologists, feminists, and the French can complain all they want, but it is precisely because Mexico contradicts its desire that makes it so…sexy.

Mexicans have not only become experts at the furtive fulfillment of desire, they have also perfected public sex of various forms, some of them quite innocent. Dancehalls host all-night orgies where tropical rhythms drive groins to rub against each other unto stained jeans. For centuries, Mexico City, as well as every provincial town and cowtown, has greeted the sun hungover and satiated—with most everyone still fully clothed. But not all sex is so safe. Central to the Mexican experience of sex are two masks: the puta and the puto, the whore and the fag, the most desired of all sexual personae. It is on the street, in the hotel room, or at the burdel that the fiercest manifestation of Mexico’s sexual contradictions takes place. These are the most desperate, the loneliest of fucks, sometimes accompanied by the violence that is the ultimate, terrible denial of an existential void become physical, in which the tortured spirit seeks its salvation through burning flesh. (This is not the kind of transubstantiation that Catholic theologians preach about, but then again, I’ve always thought that communion was suspiciously similar to oral sex.)

Photograph © Joseph Rodriguez

J

oseph Rodriguez East Side Stories: Gang Life in East L.A.

January 1998 My interest in going to L.A. began in early 1992. I was strongly influenced by the music coming out of Los Angeles and other inner cities across the country. I felt these kids had something very important to say in their music. It was good research. Coming out of the streets of New York myself, I felt connected in some sense. I wanted to speak about things in my work I was familiar with. I was not going into L.A. as a journalist, but as photographer needing to make connections, and taking the time to get to know people. I was tired of seeing the news covering gangs as animals. I discussed this with the editors I worked with at the time: if you want to break down prejudice in people’s minds, it is important to show these kids with some respect, even if they have done grievous crimes.

People always ask me to explain in one or two words why kids join gangs. They want quick answers to explain any image they see. They don’t know what the life of a gang member is like; one picture alone can be misleading.

I wanted LIFE magazine to do a photo essay that would show the life of people in East L.A. The photo editor got the story accepted, but in the end they offered to run only a single picture—Chivo showing his daughter how to hold a gun. I had to decide whether I could accept that. I stayed up nights over this picture. I worried that the image, alone and totally out of context (Chivo, a member of Barrio Evergreen, had been targeted the night before by a rival gang and had stayed up all night to defend his home and his family), would feed into the stereotypes people had about gangs. I asked a lot of journalist friends what they thought. The Brady Bill on handgun control was also being debated at the time in Congress. I decided that maybe it would speak to that issue, and in some way would do more good than harm.

July 4, ‘92 The photo agency asked for more violence in my pictures. Violence sells magazines. One picture ran today in The New York Times: the two-and-a-half-year-old in the coffin at the funeral. I was really depressed. I can’t understand why one must always show violence or famine to be recognized as an accomplished photojournalist.

You’re always questioning yourself. One of the things you realize is that you are always missing something; you can’t photograph everything. Who am I talking to? It gets hard to gain perspective.

Weeks go by and I get these contact sheets (of the previous weeks’ work), and they look like shit to me. I know now that I must go back and continue with the families. Have to get closer.

38 |

| 39

T

racy Quan

Horizontal Diary: Ex-Hooker Unfolds ~~ Day 6

~ ~ Day 1 I’m in bed, sipping black coffee, contemplating my latest acquisition: a green leather Filofax. How 80s is that. You might love your up-to-the-minute Treo, but I’m uniquely attached to the portable three-hole punch of my organizer. It weighs less than a nail file.

I’m going to carry it everywhere.

My new Filofax also has room for a 2008 Year Planner. Of course, I want it, but the one-page Planner comes two ways. Horizontal or vertical?

To amuse my Reagan-era customers, I used to call myself a supply-side nymphomaniac. Now I just write about it. So, maybe—in honor of my rehabilitation, to signify that I’m now an upright sort of girl—I should spring for the Vertical Year Planner.

To be on the safe side, I’ll order both.

Tracy Quan contemplates a year of vertical planning.

Photograph © Hamilton

~~ Day 2 Today, I was interviewed by one of those “family newspapers.” The reporter told me that her boyfriend—her very respectable boyfriend—thinks she has the makings of a call girl. Everybody’s man has a pimp fantasy these days!

“What’s the difference between selling your body and selling a book?” she asked.

The three Rs, of course: royalties, reprints, and foreign rights. You can sell one book over and over again, in many countries and languages, to thousands simultaneously.

When I first discovered this, I was amazed.

40 |

to reinvent herself, she proposes a 50-50 split. Their partnership—strictly professional, no sex—is intimate yet businesslike. He’s as frightened of failure and poverty as she is; both must rely on a combination of street smarts and bookish wit to reestablish themselves in Venice.

Bucino is frank about his physique. As a dwarf, he turns disadvantage into a talent, which becomes a valuable resource for Fiammetta, as well. If this novel becomes a movie, I nominate “Shorty the Pimp,” an obscure 70s favorite by The Larks, as Bucino’s anthem. (It was originally part of a never-released soundtrack for a blaxploitation movie.)

Bucino’s take on city life is edifying. Venice in the 1530s—full of opportunity, outwardly conservative, with lots of well-connecteds dressed in black—reminds me of Manhattan. If you can make it here, well, you get the idea. But there’s no place like Rome.

And he hates the weather.

~~ Day 7 It would be like collecting a royalty each time a customer reminisced about our sessions. (A great idea, but it’s never going to happen in my lifetime.)

You can sell your body many times over to many different guys. But that’s like selling one book at a time, and waiting for someone to finish reading it before you sell to the next person.

In other words, prostitution was more like a lending library than a bookstore, because I couldn’t, as a call girl, sell six different editions of myself to six different men at the same time.

~~ Day 3 The other night, a 20-something sex worker was holding forth at a bookstore on Allen Street. “I’m not selling my body,” she said. “I’m selling my time.”

I used to make this distinction, too, but now I like to brag that I once sold my body.

Tonight, I had dinner with a food writer who fantasizes about selling his body.

“People think it’s easy,” I warned him, “but it takes five years to really get good at it. Even if you have a natural talent. It took me five years to become proficient. I’ve heard that from lots of girls.”

“That’s how long it takes to establish a restaurant!” he said. “If a new restaurant can stay in business for five years straight, it stays in business forever.”

This reminds me of the Hot Restaurant Theory of Hooking: Once you’re past the start-up phase, the

I haven’t been able to sleep for two days, and it’s all Sarah Dunant’s fault. Ralph sent me her latest novel, In the Company of the Courtesan, and I’m almost finished. He says I remind him of Fiammetta Bianchini, Dunant’s 16th-century courtesan, because we both got started in our teens.

Ralph must be joking! Next to industrious Fiammetta, I’m a hopeless underachiever—berating myself for not becoming the owner of two homes (and a collection of power baubles) before the age of 20. Working girls grew up faster in the 1500s. At 20, I was still trying to establish myself.

(That five-year thing!) Fiammetta’s already the hottest restaurant in Rome, with top bishops and other Vatican types coming to her table—until the sack of Rome destroys her infrastructure. Her Venice abode proves handy, as do the rubies, when the house in Rome is pillaged by Lutherans.

The narrator, Bucino, a blatantly anti-Protestant dwarf, is Fiammetta’s pimp. In Rome, he’s more like her salaried butler or maître d’. When Fiammetta needs

Today’s courtesan is a creature of the Internet. Some courtesans blog, and I know of one who provides a link to her Amazon Wish List. (Even if you can’t afford to meet her, you can send a token of admiration: a house-warming gift, a lace bra, the latest big novel.)

But I was never tempted to call myself a courtesan. Too Masterpiece Theatre for my taste.

Pretentious, I once thought. Bucino, the 16th-century pimp-narrator, has forced me to reconsider. The

way he tells it, Fiammetta’s situation is very much like that of a 21st century call girl. She’s workmanlike, methodical, and has to advertise.

How does a pre-Internet, 15th-century courtesan hustle for new business? In Venice, Sunday mass is the perfect venue for displaying your wares to a captive audience. Fiammetta leaves them wanting more, and Bucino’s careful to stay in the background when she makes her first appearance.

~ ~ Day 8 trick is to think of your body as a very hot restaurant.

You might have to get over some preconceptions.

Maybe you see yourself as a very profitable potato field? Or a busy ice cream cart? That’s how some beginners feel about their bodies.

When you outgrow the agricultural phase, you’ll want to avoid being perceived as fast food. Instead, you’re the latest hot restaurant. Some people can’t even get a reservation. Those who can should feel privileged to be allowed in the door. They’re special because you are. You have to believe your own hype.

My friend wants to talk about giving regulars a special dessert on the house.

“You’re getting carried away,” I told him. “If you start thinking that way before you have regulars, your restaurant will go bankrupt within five months.”

The Horizontal and Vertical Planners have arrived. Who was I kidding? The Vertical Year is unrecognizable. It’s wrong, unnatural, and strangely disjointed. Only the Horizontal Year, unfolding smoothly, like a reassuring, familiar menu, will do.

| 41

ISSUE 03 BA A8JFFG4A7F A4G<BAJ<78

42 |

CineX, Paris

| 43 C hris Kitze: The Electric Image

N

R eagan Louie: Orientalia: Sex in Asia

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way you think about the art of communication.

44 |

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound method to it: Hoopla.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way

R

eagan Louie :: Orientalia: Sex in Asia

L

Lapdancers spoof the custom of having their portrait taken as a momento with willing customers in exchange for cash. Here, instead of signing just their names they reveal what they are truly feeling.

apdancer Photographs by Juliana Beasley, Text by John I started out working as a bouncer at a place called Erotique back in the early 80s. It was the first big club to come into the area, a big strip club. And it was not nude. It was just topless, and there was no alcohol and no lap dancing. Then I went to another club called T&A. Again, no alcohol, no lap dancing.

I came here in the early 90s, and it was totally nude.

And so the girls were up on the bar getting their money and stuff, and then one girl came up to me and said, “A guy wants a lap dance.” I had never heard of it. So I went back to my boss, and he knew less than I did. And so what we did is, we put about six chairs towards the back of the club and said, “These are chairs so you can lap dance in.” And at that time we told the girls to charge ten bucks per song, and we would get three bucks out of it.

And it got so popular, it was like a madhouse, the line to get in and sit on these chairs. And the funny things was, they did it in front of everybody else. Nobody got shy, nobody was embarrassed. Me, I would have been embarrassed with an erection with a pretty girl sitting on me and everybody else gawking. Because at that time you did have people leaning against the posts or whatever, just looking at the customers with the girls. And the girls didn’t seem to mind—and they were pretty girls.

Eventually my boss, he got this idea. We took out part of the kitchen and we turned that into a lap dance room. We put like little cubicles up, with no doors because we wanted to see what was going on, and made like eight or nine stools. And then the girls were charging 25 bucks, and we would charge

46 |

the customers $5 just to get into the room. It just took off. People were coming here not to see the girls on stage, but to do the lap dances. And I always said lap dancing is going to put prostitution out of business. And what I meant by that is that if a guy comes and gets a lap dance and puts on a condom and if he does spill a little bit, it’s not going to get on his clothes. Now there’s a plus; you can call that safe sex. I think that’s what a lot of men look at it as.

They’re not going to take any disease home. They’re going to come to a place like this and if it happens, it happens—you know, if they have an orgasm. Then they go home to their wives.

I’d never heard if it until we started doing it about nine years ago. I’m sure it happened before.

But I think since we started doing it, word-of-mouth got around and now all the other clubs around here are doing it. And we advertise: “The best lap dance around.” And that’s what really works for us. We’re known as the club with the lap dance. We used to be called “Up Close and Personal”—the way the girls got on stage and got up in front of the guy. Believe it or not, some of these guys spend thousands of dollars a day getting lap dances—a day.

Now we’ve even got VIP rooms in the back, where the guy can go in a little private room. There’s cameras in there. And these guys are paying around a buck and a quarter [$125] for a half hour, so they can get a private lap dance with a girl. It’s amazing.

It really is.

They don’t know I have cameras back there. I have two different cameras, one an infrared—they

think if they turn off the lights I can’t see them.

Because let’s face it, I got to support my wife and kids. And knock on wood, I’ve never been shut down or raided. And a lot of clubs that have total nudity and the lap dances and the private rooms and whatever, they’ve been shut down several times. And we haven’t because of that security system.

Several times I’ve caught a guy taking out his penis. And I have a buzzer back there. I hit the buzzer, and send the bouncer back there; he tells the guy the dance is over and he has to leave. I tell the guy he can come back another day. But if I catch him again—which has never happened—he’s out for life.

Don’t forget, I used to bounce before I became a manager. I was a bouncer for about three years. And what that means is, I was right next to the costumers.

So I had relationships with costumers coming in and talking about sports, about wives, kids, work, etc. And a lot of guys who came in, I got to be close with, to talk to like once or twice a week. Some guys even came in three of four times a week. A lot of guys just like to come here to get away. I’ve been married seventeen years myself and I can understand…well I can’t understand spending that kind of money on these girls, but I understand when they say they want to get away for a while.

I get to see and hear why they really come here.

A lot of guys get into an argument with their wives; they walk out, and they go to a bar and drink. The next thing you know, they get drunk, they go home, now they are getting violent about it or whatever.

Here, it’s a juice bar. So when some guys get into

arguments with their wives you know, somebody a girl wouldn’t take a second look at. But if he came in here and he spent a couple of dollars on a soda and paid the admission to get in the door and tipped the girl a couple of dollars, the guy would be treated like he was Brad Pitt.

It’s just to get away where nobody else knows you—not your boss, not your wife, not anybody. And you come here and because you have a couple of dollars in your pocket, you get treated like you’re the boss…Every girl comes around to you asking your name. You know, they’ll listen to your story about what’s going on. And even if it sounds you’re completely wrong, the girl’s going to tell you you’re completely right. And that’s what you really want to hear. It’s sort of a therapy.

There is a whole bunch of really good reasons why clubs like this should be allowed to operate and offer lap dances. Because some guys…let’s face it, there’s some ugly guys out there. And these guys can come here and get a beautiful woman who would never give them a second look, who give them a lap dance, wrap their arms around their neck and whisper in their ear. It’s almost like a date.

I sit back here with my two bosses and sometimes we’ll see a girl in the lap room with a guy, and he’ll put like $1200 on his credit card. And our question will be, “Well, Jesus, he’s back there for all this while, why the hell doesn’t he just go down to Atlantic City and get an escort?” I don’t have the answer to that. I really don’t. That’s the milliondollar question.

| 47

J

enna Jameson How to Make Love Like a Porn Star

The following is a sample adult film contract, with all identifying information removed. It is presented here in its final form, after negotiation. However, like most contracts, it is still biased heavily in favor of the production company. If you take the time to read it carefully, you will notice the many ways in which a female performer can get shafted—both literally and metaphorically. When signing a contract, most girls don’t add in their own demands. But any good lawyer will tell them: contracts aren’t just for the benefit and protection of one party—they’re for two parties.

THIIS DOCUMENT HEREBY SERVES AS AN AGREEMENT BY: ____________________________________________ [Production Company] Herein referred to as “the Company” Between: ___________________________________________ [Porn Star] Herein referred to as “the Talent” 1. Term: The duration of this contract shall be twelve (12) months beginning on January 1, 2004 and expiring on midnight of December 31, 2004. There are four (4) options of one (1) year, which the Company may exercise with sixty (60) days prior notice in writing that it intends to pick up the option.

2. Production: The Talent will be required to act, play, perform and take part in rehearsals, acts, roles, and scenes of a sexual hardcore nature over the duration of the contract mutually agreed to by both parties as needed to promote the career of the Talent. The scenes may be in the form of any of the following combination (at the discretion of the company): Girl/Girl, Girl/Girl/Girl, Boy/Girl, and Multiples. Involvement in any scenes involving Anal, Interracial, and DP [Double Penetration] is at the sole discretion of the Talent. The Company will feature the Talent in at least six (6) features each year and may increase this number based on marketing. The Company will use the Talent in other productions during the course of the year and will have the Talent on a minimum of six (6) box covers each year.

3. Exclusivity: The performance of the Talent in video and film of a hardcore nature for the duration of the agreement shall be exclusive to the Company unless otherwise agreed to in writing by the Company. The Company shall have the exclusive right to photograph and/or otherwise reproduce any and all of the Talent’s acts, poses, scenes, and appearances of any and all kinds and to reproduce and transmit the same in any media. The Talent grants to the Company solely, exclusively, and perpetually all rights of every kind and character whatsoever in and to all such photographs, reproductions, and recordings and all other results and proceeds of her services hereunder. All other

48 |

outside work including but not limited to still photography, film and video work, dancing (feature or otherwise), “bachelor parties,” and any and all other services in the entertainment industry must be approved in writing in advance by the Company, not to be unreasonably withheld.

4. Advertising and Promotion: The Company will promote and advertise on an active basis the films and videos of the Talent, as well as promotions in any other area that will assist in making the public more aware of the Talent. The Talent will attend all such promotional events, including signings and parties, that are necessary to help promote herself and the sale of the videos, DVDs, and films produced by the Company. The Talent shall cooperate with the Company in connection with any licensing arrangements (“Licensing Agreement”) entered into by the Company to license, manufacture, and/ or distribute adult novelty products or any other products using Talent’s name, image, or likeness. The Company will assist in promoting the Talent through the Internet and the Talent may have her own website linking to the Company website. The Talent’s website and all income earned from her website is her sole property.

5. Compensation: The Talent will receive monthly compensation of $3000 paid on the first day of each month. If the Talent fails, for any reason, to perform at least four (4) scenes in a given month, compensation for that month shall be reduced for each scene on which she fails to perform, by the greater of a) $800; or b) the cost to replace the Talent for such scenes. The Talent will receive five (5) percent of the net profit on videos or DVDs in which she is featured on the box cover, after the Company recoups its cost. Costs are defined as any money spent on the production and postproduction of each video in addition to advertising, marketing, and overhead costs allocable to the Production.

Notwithstanding the foregoing, residuals are split among all the Company talent appearing on a box cover for a production so, for example, if Talent and a second Company performer appear on a box cover for a Production, the Talent will receive 2.5 percent of the net profit for a production. Additional compensation based on Schedule “A” attached hereto and incorporated herein for reference.

6. Physical Appearance: The Talent agrees that she will, during the entire Term of this Agreement, take diligent care of her health, weight, and appearance. The Company may declare a Default under this Agreement at any time after the Talent fails to maintain her appearance, as determined by the Company in its sole discretion.

7. Law and Morality: The Talent agrees to comply at all times with all laws, rules, and regulations and shall refrain from drug or alcohol abuse and prostitution (including legal prostitution). The Talent agrees to conduct herself with the appropriate recognition of the fact that the success and best interests of the Company depend largely on the audience approval and interest in the Talent as a performer. The Talent therefore agrees to conduct

herself at all times with due regard to social conventions and public morals and decency, as the same may apply to an adult entertainment performer.

The Talent shall not commit any act or become involved in any situation or occurrence that would be detrimental to the best interests of the Company; or that would bring it into public disrepute, contempt, scandal or ridicule; or that shocks, insults, or offends the community; or that may reflect unfavorably upon the Company, whether or not such information becomes public. The Talent agrees that the Company may, at its sole discretion, suspend Residuals upon the Company’s finding that the Talent has engaged in acts or conduct detrimental to the Company.

8. The Company shall have the right to cancel this agreement at any time if any portion of this agreement and terms are not met.

In witness whereof, the parties hereto have duly agreed to this agreement: ____________________________________ [Production Company] ___________________________________ [Porn Star] Schedule “A” Additional Compensation: Same Sex Anal Intercourse (excluding DP and Air Tight): $125.00 per scene Opposite Sex Anal Intercourse (excluding DP and Air Tight): $250.00 per scene Opposite Sex Double Penetration (excluding Air Tight): $400.00 per scene Air Tight (three males with three simultaneous penetrations): $650.00 per scene Multiple Partners: $250.00 per partner over three

Photograph courtesy of Jenna Jameson

| 49

H

ilary Knox Wigs, Knoxville, Tennessee, 2002

There’s a reason why fairy tale princesses weren’t named Snow Ashy and Sleeping Fugly— it would have taken a lot of Pabst before a prince would cross a crowded bar, much less slay a dragon, to talk to an ugly girl. Anything less than gorgeous, and you’re only cast as a witch, stepsister, or villainous queen; in the storybook world, ugly equals evil. Scratch the surface of beauty in almost any fable, and you will find an ideological value system lurking beneath.

Beauty in fairy tales is not just about selling the way something looks, it’s about selling the belief that the way it looks is equivalent to its worth.

C

In our society, beauty equals virtue. Fat is an eye-catching example; obesity signifies laziness, avarice, and even—gasp—lowerclass standards. Twinkies and truck driving are symbols of a blue-collar lifestyle. Public personalities battling with their weight have a whiff of the bowling alley about them: Roseanne, Lindsay Lohan, and Anna Nicole Smith. Unlike Kate Moss, who comes from the dingiest part of London, and seems to be elegant largely because she’s small.

Thin says you can afford a gym or an eight ball; nothing screams success like size 2. In America, where you can never be too rich or too thin, bling is beautiful.

Our obsession with appearance is everywhere the eye can see: models stare haughtily from billboards as grand icons of worship. The magical elixir of beauty seems

to make all problems disappear as fast as last season’s sex scandal. But the thing is, we know it ain’t true—or at least, I do. When I was young and beautiful, I was mostly miserable. The older I get, the happier I become. And yet I still buy into the beauty industry’s hard sell. Thirty percent of my income goes toward beauty products in some form. Even though I know better, any new wrinkle, breakout, or pound gained causes me serious psychological trauma. Yet if we know beauty does not equal happiness, that we love and are loved by people despite such imperfections, then why do we still cry in frustration and disbelief when our poor bodies don’t conform to mythical standards? Why are we willing to toss aside our reason, forget our lived experience, and believe that being beautiful will make us happy?

All forms of beauty, sunsets, spring blooms, youth, are fleeting. Beauty signifies change, but beauty products offer the illusion of permanence. Fix. Firm. Hold. Mold. Slim.

Trim. Thin. Win. But even if we manage to get our skin lightened or our hairline adjusted, beauty just ain’t gonna last. It can’t. And so we can succumb to our fears of aging, ugliness, or unworthiness by trying to stop it. But that’s a fight we’ll never win. In reality, the perfect 10 is a total 0. Billionaires like Oprah battle their appearance on a daily—and very public— basis. No one escapes.

—Amanda Yates

arlos Batts Fat Girl

| 53 B uilder Levy

N

M

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn aureen Valdes Marsh

by Boogie Woman, Stank Be Thy Name

Let’s just cut to the chase right here and now. People stink. It’s a plain and simple fact of life and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. We were born stinking.

Think a newborn fresh out of the oven and covered in all sorts of ectoplasm smells like Johnson’s Baby Powder? Why do you think they’re so quick to hose that baby down after it’s born? I’ll tell you why: If they handed a smelly little creature to its mother in the ripe condition it was born in, she’d run screaming from the delivery room and probably sue you for dumping primordial ooze all over her perfect angel.

And so it begins, our lifelong pursuit of olfactory perfection. In general, smells are offensive, especially if they are emanating from a human—and that applies doubly if that human is a female. Now, I’m sure a caveman didn’t think his woman stank. In fact, he probably thought the riper the better and couldn’t They’ve been called by bothbouquet.

Newsweek wait to get him some“visionary” of that pervasive But and as “the world’ssense most of talkedevenTime, if shehailed did offend hisad delicate smell, about agency”

by USA Today, and “thevery what was he going to do about it? dubbed He couldn’t next thing” 2.0. They thewith well big have goneby to Business CVS and loaded uplaunched his basket Mini car craze America, took on Big Tobacco in Summer’s Eve in Feminine Deodorant Spray, Neutresse the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin & Vitamin E Island Splash, or Secret Platinum AntiAirlines, and made Burger KingSolid sizzleOcean once again.

Perspirant/Deodorant Invisible Breeze, or And did Dion’s it withBelong bold publicity stunts, eventhey Celine For Women Eauinfectious de Toilette viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding Spray, now could he? paper, Internet hoaxes, and ainsecurities weird, So,outrageous I ask you: Which came first—the garter belt–wearingWhen chicken who became a cultural or the advertisers? was it that women began sensation.

And this random very sound. to lose their dignity?

Whenmadness did manhas turnahis back on Hoopla, the secret inner of this his In babe and refuse to get it onworkings unless she smelled freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are fresh as a daisy?

It’s an indisputable fact: Before the revealed first time. journalist Warren inventionfor of the deodorant weVeteran all stank.

Then two things Berger, whonearly has tracked and reported on the CP+B happened simultaneously: (1) Magazines phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines started running advertisements in the year 1887; and and deconstructs methods behind the (2) Deodorant wasthe invented in that 1888.lie Suddenly you agency’s seemingcombination madness, while thethe striking had the winning to fuel fetid and images throughout thewas bookborn (captioned byand the stink. overnight an industry of stench CP+B creative team) provide the logic, Now, it’s probably a giveninsights that notinto everyone ran intuition, mischief, passion that leads to the out to procure a jarand of the miracle cream and if you’ve creation of Hoopla. result is a you fascinating journey ever ridden a train The across Europe know, 119 years into realmpeople of unbridled creativity. later,a some still haven’t caught on to the idea.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step Since not everyone immediately jumped on the antiadvice on how to find and promote ideas stink bandwagon, advertisers had big to do what(even theyon do abest: shoestring andIfhow generate prey onbudget), your fears. youto didn’t have excitement any of those, and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications they’d do the next best thing—they’d inspire them. landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way you think about the art of communication.

54 |

Sensitive Young Wife, Courtesy of theVintageGrace.com Reference Library

In the early years, advertisers played it cool. Their angle was that of a caring friend or compassionate mother.been Magazine played out like a They’ve calledadvertisements “visionary” by both Newsweek three-penny opera: and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedWhy Betty,Today, what are doing“the home aboutMother: agency”

by USA andyou dubbed from the dance so soon? next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Oh in mother! (sob)took It was simply awful!

Mini Betty: car craze America, on Big Tobacco in(sob, sob) Harold only danced with me once and then the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virginhe danced and withmade that pretty Peggy foronce the rest of the Airlines, Burger King Sue sizzle again. evening! (sob, sob, sob) everstunts, did I do wrong?

And they did it with bold What publicity infectious There, there, my little masks, smelly one.

Come sit viral Mother: marketing strategies, funny folding down outrageous next to Mother and let’s have a talk, shall we? paper, Internet hoaxes, and a weird, Mother, why did youwho just call me theasmelly one? garterBetty: belt–wearing chicken became cultural Mother: Because my angel, no smart woman sensation. And this random madness has a very risks offending a man smelling like a skank ho, dear. sound method to it:by Hoopla.

It’sIn about time I shared littleworkings secret with you. If Hoopla, the secret a inner of this you want a man to catch, you better clean your little freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are snatch. It’s youtime. get rid of thatjournalist malodorous cooch revealed for time the first Veteran Warren and regain your feminine daintiness.

Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B Betty: Butover Mother (sob),decade, I don’t know how! phenomenon the past fully examines Mother: There, foul-smelling fruit ofthe my and deconstructs thethere, methods that lie behind loins.

It’s really quite easy.

All you need to do is start agency’s seeming madness, while the striking douching with Lysol, like I do! Andby start images throughout thejust book (captioned theusing Mumcreative deodorant justprovide like I do!

And please Betty, don’t CP+B team) insights into the logic, forget the Norforms, and the Listerine too! intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the Betty: Mother, but you’re swell! creation of Oh Hoopla.

Thedarling! result isGosh, a fascinating journey And so it goes, day after day, year after year. into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Woman, stank be thypractical, name. step-by-step Hoopla also includes Dollar be their gain. advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on Amen. budget), and how to generate excitement a shoestring and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the Wretched Betty, Courtesy of the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking VintageGrace.com Reference Library images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way The Other You, Courtesy of the VintageGrace.com you thinkReference about the art of communication.

Library

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound method to it: Hoopla.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way | 55

K

ate White :: You On Top:

Photograph © Frank Veronsky

56 |

Smart, Sexy Skills Every Woman Needs to Set the World on Fire

I went to the Matrix Awards. There were 14 young women who won this scholarship for communications and they were dynamite. You realize they’re going to rule the world one day. They were asked what they wanted to be. One girl said, “I want to be the PR director of the Yankees.” And, of the other 13, one said she wanted to be editor of Cosmo, another said she wanted to be Helen Gurley Brown, and one said she wanted to be Kate White! It was pretty amazing.

Helen had said, “I want to do a magazine.” Well first she had said, “I want to do a book [Sex and the Single Girl].” And Cosmopolitan sprang from her book. She wanted to acknowledge two things: that women can have sex without being married and that they can be happy without a husband. Cosmo gave them permission and, at the same time, tapped into this yearning that wasn’t even formulated yet in their own minds in an authentic voice that women related to. And even though feminists scoffed at Cosmo, when we had our 40th anniversary a few years ago, a lot of people said the magazine played a role in the women’s movement for all the women who were uncomfortable about feminism because it seemed a little militant and a little scary. It seemed to be saying, You can’t be a cute sexy girlfriend and be a feminist at the same time. I remember being in college, and this woman from Skidmore, a professor, came to speak. She was a bombshell. She wore a black cocktail dress and I was so relieved because my idea of feminism was girls in jean jackets. I could relate to the ideology but not to the clothes. Those were the things Helen said and women related to them. Helen basically said that you can have your cake and eat it too.

Today we try to talk in an authentic voice. We’re still giving permission to think and feel comfortable.

We know why the reader comes to Cosmo. Some guy made a pitch, trying to convince me why our reader would like this short story on some topic, and I said that we don’t publish short stories. It’s not that our reader doesn’t care about politics or what he was talking about but they don’t come to us for it.

That said, when I got here, we didn’t cover women’s health. And under Helen, we did not cover any of the Big Issues. My instinct was, Our readers are going to love that because if we’re about what she feels, it’s the most pertinent stuff in her life. The pieces we do—on rape, women’s safety, sexually transmitted diseases, gynecological matters—have been so unbelievably successful. Those are the things that we feel make us the Bible.

We had this confessions column in Cosmo; I started guy confessions and it rated even higher so I said, “Why don’t we do guys uncensored where we really let them talk?” It was raw—it was the stuff they did to trick you into sex or the way they thought.

But it’s really good to know. The pieces that give you an inside into the male mind sometimes rate even higher than the sex pieces. That is what women want. There was once a period of time where women almost felt, “If I give him enough chardonnay, he’ll be like me.” That we could make guys understand our

point of view so that they would want to chat more and be interested in our shoes. Now we accept it: “No, he’s really different. But I still don’t get him.” And it goes both ways: guys read Cosmo to get some insight into the female mind.

We try to get people to do a sexy cover because that’s Cosmo. That’s the brand: big hair, cleavage.

Though for me, it doesn’t have to be big cleavage.

We do nothing in Cosmo on plastic surgery. We’ve done a number of anti-breast implant stories. I wish I could get every girl in the country not to do that. It’s the most absurd, ridiculous thing. We don’t do dieting stories in the magazine. For us, it’s about being sexy and that for us isn’t about having big breasts but it is about showing a little skin. In picking the cover, what we found works best for us are women that our readers would love to get in the car and drive crosscountry with. No boyfriend stealers. Our reader would probably feel Paris Hilton would steal her boyfriend, whereas somebody like Jessica Alba, Katie Heigl, or Carmen Electra would be perfect. They love spunky, gushy girls. Our mantra is “Fun, Fearless Female.”

Boy, that’s one hell of a great ad campaign. A lot of ad campaigns don’t necessarily perfectly reflect the product. I discovered the reader really sees herself that way. I think in Helen’s day it was more of an aspiration. Now that’s really where she is. There’s that line from Shakespeare: “There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” We did Julia Stiles, J.Lo, Brittany Murphy, Mandy Moore before other magazines. Fergie—we were the first major cover for her and it sold great. Our readers are a little cutting-edge; even though she’s mainstream, she’s probably a little bit more of an early adopter than some. For us, it’s about the women hitting that first watershed moment in their careers.

Hearst is a fabulous company to work for. It’s the most un-psycho place to work. You never feel that you’re dealing with people who are Machiavellian or I’ve got to be careful because he’s a nutcase or he is real super-political. It just feels like the most sane place to work. We are a huge part of the profitability of the magazine division. We’re the most successful monthly magazine in the country. We are the, I guess what you could call, cash cow, and that brings a huge sense of responsibility. I would have been terrified if I knew how much that was the case when I first got the job. Fifty-seven international editions! And as we reinvented the magazine here and modernized it, they have thrived too. The number one women’s magazine in Europe is Russian Cosmo.

All the magazines use a big chunk of what we do.

They model their covers after us. If we had taken it in the wrong direction, what would happen to them? It’s scary but I really feel that the people who work best here are accepting of the fact that it’s a little bit like whitewater rafting: you can’t think about it too much because if you think about it, you get nervous and overthink it. You have to go along; you just ride it. We have Cosmo Radio now and Cosmo Books, so you just don’t think about it too much. You just do it.

| 57

R

on Galella: The Godfather of American Paparazzi Text by Tami Mnoian

“My idea of a good picture is one that’s in focus and of a famous person doing something unfamous. It’s being in the right place at the wrong time. That’s why my favorite photographer is Ron Galella.”

—Andy Warhol Ron Galella didn’t invent the word paparazzo— Italian for a buzzing mosquito—but he certainly personalized it by redefining the relationship between the movie star and the photographer. Before Galella, a celebrity’s image was the province of the Hollywood studio system. When behind the camera, Galella undermined this control. He pulled back the

curtains, stepped beyond the velvet rope, and made mortals of the silver screen gods and goddesses. He cast them from their Hollywood perches and set them in everyday life. Instantly, they became accessible.

They were fat, they had flaws, they were human— and the public just couldn’t get enough. He fathered celebrity journalism as we know it today. Every subsequent paparazzo has, in some way, taken a cue from Galella’s intrusive yet innovative tactics.

Imagine you’re Doris Day. You’re sunbathing in your Beverly Hills backyard while, unbeknownst to you, someone is camped out in the neighbor’s driveway happily snapping pictures of you in a

Ron shooting Jackie, Madison Avenue, New York City, October 7, 1971, photo © Joy Smith

-6$*& "8"3% )0/03&&4 &MMJPUU &SXJUU 3BMQI (JCTPO 1IJMJQ +POFT (SJGGJUIT ,FOSP *[V )FJO[ ,MVFUNFJFS &VHFOF 3JDIBSET -PSE 4OPXEPO %FCPSBI 5VSCFWJMMF )PXBSE ;JFGG

58 |

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way you think about the art of communication.

They’ve been called “visionary” by both Newsweek and Time, hailed as “the ad world’s most talkedabout agency” by USA Today, and dubbed “the next big thing” by Business 2.0. They launched the Mini car craze in America, took on Big Tobacco in the controversial truth campaign, sexed up Virgin Airlines, and made Burger King sizzle once again.

And they did it with bold publicity stunts, infectious viral marketing strategies, funny masks, folding paper, outrageous Internet hoaxes, and a weird, garter belt–wearing chicken who became a cultural sensation. And this random madness has a very sound method to it: Hoopla.

In Hoopla, the secret inner workings of this freewheeling, break-the-mold idea factory are revealed for the first time. Veteran journalist Warren Berger, who has tracked and reported on the CP+B phenomenon over the past decade, fully examines and deconstructs the methods that lie behind the agency’s seeming madness, while the striking images throughout the book (captioned by the CP+B creative team) provide insights into the logic, intuition, mischief, and passion that leads to the creation of Hoopla. The result is a fascinating journey into a realm of unbridled creativity.

Hoopla also includes practical, step-by-step advice on how to find and promote big ideas (even on a shoestring budget), and how to generate excitement and hype in today’s cluttered, noisy communications landscape. If you’re a marketer, a communicator of any type, or anyone who needs to get out a message and generate some buzz, Hoopla will change the way | 59

bikini swimming with your 14 dogs. It appears as a “Bikini Party” photo spread in a magazine and suddenly a moment of your private life is now in multiple full-color spreads for sale at a newsstand.

Getting the exclusive shot isn’t easy, proving Galella needed to be cunning in his approach, like a hunter. He was infamous for his hawkish methods and memorable altercations. Marlon Brando broke his jaw. Liz Taylor and Richard Burton’s bodyguards gave him a once-over in Cuernavaca, Mexico; and, most famously, Jacqueline Onassis brought him to court, twice, and secured a restraining order against the man, whose images of her are among the most iconic.

“She was my ideal subject,” Galella confesses, “because she did not pose and this offered me candid action shots of life.”

Born and raised in the Bronx some 76 years ago, Galella was one of five children, which is why, he explains, “You had to be, in a way, a loudmouth. You had to be loud to be heard.”

His Italian immigrant father worked as a carpenter making Steinway pianos and, later, caskets. It was a small paycheck for a family of seven. “Poverty is good,” he says. “It motivates. I always had incentive to better myself. Work, work, work. My father was like an animal. He gave us the animalistic protection of a roof and food. But in the end, it was the US Air Force that gave me a reward: a career in photography and later the G.I. Bill.”

As a member of the U.S. Air Force, Galella first took up photography during the Korean War as an aerial and ground photographer. Afterward, he attended the Art Center College of Design in Los Angeles to study photojournalism on the G.I. Bill. In 1957, he recalls, “I crashed the Guys & Dolls premiere in Hollywood and that’s when I got hooked. I went just to experience the joy of seeing celebrities—to find out how the stars really measure up. Are they really as glamorous as we see them on the screen?

That’s the motivation, curiosity.”

After graduating, Galella returned to New York and set up a studio in his father’s basement in the North Bronx to freelance photograph film premieres and Broadway openings. Celebrities became his calling. “I want to put them on a pedestal, but I also want to take them off the pedestal,” he explains.

“I don’t like posed pictures. I prefer action shots of people doing things. I call that the paparazzi approach. Even my letterhead says, ‘Photography with a paparazzi approach.’ Paparazzi try to get an exclusive, spontaneous, off-guard picture. I call it the only game.”

Galella’s work could be considered celebrity photojournalism. He explains, “In those days you had freedom, freedom to move. You want action. You want

people doing things because it’s more interesting.

Celebrities become themselves. Individuality is there. If you have everybody looking at the camera with a phony smile, it’s not themselves.”

His images have always maintained an elegance that helped define what has since become a booming industry. “I always looked for the glamour,” he reveals. “And to me, the most glamorous thing is the face, the eyes, number one. The eyes bring out sexiness, second the lips.”

Recalling this quest, he discussed his most famous image, Windblown Jackie: “I had an appointment with a girl to take portfolio pictures.

She lived on 88th Street, so I said, ‘That’s near Jackie.

Meet me in the park, on 85th Street, where Jackie lives and we’ll take pictures there. I figured, I’m not making any money with this girl, but I might be lucky to get Jackie jogging. We were coming out of the park after I shot pictures of—Joy Smith was her name. We were leaving the park when Jackie came out of the building, the side entrance, and started walking on 85th toward Madison. Jackie turned the corner and went north on Madison. So I got to the corner and I did a smart thing. I hopped a cab (because if I ran after her she would have seen me), and put on the glasses. I caught up with her. The window was down.

The weather was nice. It was October 1971. I shot the first frame of her walking, second, and third frame on the corner. She turned, I think, because the driver of the taxi blew his horn. I got the picture but she didn’t know it was me.

“That’s what I call the only game—to be sneaky, to get the candid, archive picture. I got out of the cab after that, Joy was with me, and I did another smart thing. I gave Joy one of my cameras to shoot me shooting her and as Jackie was walking away, she turned to me and asked, ‘Are you pleased with yourself?’ I said, ‘Yes, thank you, and goodbye.’ It’s Jackie, no appointments, no hairdo, wind blowing, natural, no makeup.”

For over 30 years, Galella has been amassing photographic wealth. “I’ve got gold in my files,” he jokes. Files and boxes occupy a large part of his sprawling New Jersey house, which he shares with his wife Betty and their pet rabbits. There are black and white prints everywhere—on the walls and life-size mounted images on easels. Each image is a familiar face that creates a visual pop culture timeline. After scanning the walls and hallways of his home, just don’t confuse Galella with the paparazzi of today. He is of a different generation. He did it for the love of the game, the love of celebrity, but mostly, because he was curious and in search of a celebrity’s authenticity. Take a look at any one of his photographs. That authenticity is his trademark.

Windblown Jackie, Madison Avenue, New York City, October 7, 1971, photo © Ron Galella

| 61

R

on English With a solid history of pirating billboards and subverting American icons as his art, Ron English continues to tweak the nose of corporations and their multimillion-dollar marketing campaigns.

English’s work forces viewers to reexamine our ideas of consumerism, politics, and personal choice.

Here, English offers insight into his mission to open people’s minds through their eyes. —Craig Mathis The view of me as the anti-hustler can be tied to the fact that capitalism and consumerism have become so pervasive in our culture that almost every niche has become relatively marketable. I suppose the methods I employ to deliver my messages could be seen in some respects as a hustle, especially the hijacking of billboards. I consider myself an anti-hustler because what I really see myself doing is working to expose a larger hustle—the larger hustle being the capitalist system we all exist within and the overwhelming idea that by accumulating more things it will make the world a better place.

With advertising being one of the focal points of promoting capitalism, it has compelled me to work in different arenas to get my point across.

When possible I try to work within the system.

When the system becomes too oppressive, I tend to use more unconventional approaches. Working unconventionally allows me to break through a rigorous system of controls and censorship and enjoy a little “free speech.” The domination of the dialogue by the powerful few has to be countered with acts of resistance by the many. Co-opting billboards, while risky, has a great shock value and sometimes people need that shock to get them to wake up.

And as critics of the system continue to alter their methods to expose the status quo, advertisers and corporations have tried to become savvier to the same methods that street artists and culture-jammers have employed against them. Why? Because street

art has a level of credibility and perceived sincerity that advertising lacks.

There is already some backlash with street art being used in mainstream advertising. The demographic that street art appeals to can oftentimes be critical when, say, a much-loved and respected medium like graffiti is used to hawk a particular project. Or when postering or stenciling is employed to create some “underground” buzz, the intended audience typically can see through those attempts and the campaign can backfire.

As far as the art world’s relationship to street art goes, it’s like street art is the unattended garden and the art world is the climate-controlled greenhouse.

If something spectacular sprouts in the unattended garden it can be brought into the greenhouse, where it might wow the art world or it might suffocate and die in the controlled environment.

Sometimes companies have seen my work and have used it to differentiate themselves from their competitors. Apple, for instance, put my Charles Manson “Think Different” billboard on their website, probably because it was funny and criticized their advertising methodology—but not their product.

Criticism of a product doesn’t sell the product.

Companies that contact me and that I ultimately do work with are the ones with a progressive agenda. I don’t expect anyone to ask me to do an ad for McDonald’s nor would I ever agree to do one, although I might do my own version.

As far as crossing lines or dealing with subject matter that some may consider taboo, I try not to fence myself in. I’ve pulled some punches in the past.

I probably regret that more than anything I have done. The ideal never changes or compromises, but the methodology is always in flux. In the long run having ideals and not compromising those works out better than compromising ideals for short-term gain or operating without ideals at all.

hris Kitze C The Electric Image 62 NIGHT, |

Times Square, New York

| 63

64 |

R

on English | 65

N

C

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

hristoph Bangert Iraq: The Space Between

Invisible in Baghdad I’m walking up and down in my room. Like a tiger in a cage.

I stop at the window and my eyes wander past the blast walls and barbwire to the muddy Tigris River that is flowing slowly towards the oddly shaped water tower next to one of Saddam’s former palaces. The tower sticks out of the horizon remarkably and I feel I have spent the better part of the last two years looking at it: after a day’s work, watching the sun go down with a can of soda in my hands, or in between assignments. The tower has

66 |

always been there, like a friend and accomplice.

I get a call from one of the drivers: the planned meeting will finally happen. Relieved, I get my camera bag and after a brief discussion with driver, fixer, and security people, we are on our way—past the gates and concrete blast walls of the compound I live in, and out into the busy streets of Baghdad.

We are stuck in traffic after only a couple of hundred meters. People in the other cars stare at me and I slide deep down into my seat.

The meeting lasts only for about 20 minutes. The neighborhood is considered dangerous.

Assam Mofak Jassem, 33, was kidnapped in broad daylight on February 28, while he was leaving his workplace at the Iraqi Ministry of Health. After he had been held for about five days, friends and family members managed to raise $20,000 to secure his release. During captivity he had to sit on the floor of an empty room. One day his captors took him outside and made him kneel on the ground in a line with other hostages. Then they started shooting their victims in the head at close range. Just after the man next to Assam was executed one of his captors intervened. He had been confused with another hostage and was replaced with somebody else who was shot in the head instead.

I photograph Assam in the empty living room of his house. It feels like photographing a dead man. A ghost.

Back in the compound I edit and color-correct my pictures before sending them to New York. I look up from my computer and my mind starts to wander.

After a while I find myself looking at the oddly shaped water tower in the distance.

It’s been about two weeks that I have been back in Baghdad. I started coming to Iraq in the beginning of 2005 and after this trip, I will have spent a total of nine months here.

I missed the invasion. I missed 2003 and 2004, a time often described by photographers with nostalgia in their voices as “the good times, when working was still possible.”

Iraq was tricky when I arrived, months after the first foreign hostages were put in orange jumpsuits and beheaded in front of video cameras.

There are maybe eight or nine foreign photographers still trying to cover this conflict from the civilian side; I am one of them. Most of the pictures coming out of this country are taken by Iraqi photographers working for foreign wire services.

I used to be the only blond guy in Baghdad. Now I am the only blond guy in Baghdad that dyed his hair black. I look like a fool and maybe I am one.

Maybe it’s foolish to be here and tell oneself that it is important to do so.

But I like it here. It’s a great challenge. Nothing comes easy. Everything is hard work. You’re trying and trying and a lot of times you come back home with no pictures. Literally. But this is the war of my generation. Even as worldwide interest is decreasing, there will come a time when people will see this war as we see the Vietnam War today. Even in places like my homeland, Germany, people will realize that it was wrong to see this conflict as an entirely American problem that had no worldwide implications.

Working in Iraq is less heroic than one might think. And it’s not great fun either. The guys with the fancy scarves and khaki pants left a long time ago.

No parties, no girls, no drinking. You just try to get out of the house every day and get some pictures into the camera. That’s quite a challenge in a place where you cannot walk the streets freely as a Westerner and have to travel with Iraqi guards wherever you go. Kidnapping is the biggest concern. Most of my trips are precisely planned and quickly executed. It’s a little like playing hide-and-seek. You keep moving and try to be invisible at the same time.

I came to Iraq to learn and that’s what I’m doing.

I’m still at the very beginning of my career. This is my first assignment for an American publication (The New York Times) and my first big breakthrough

| 67

in photojournalism.

War is a business, as is journalism. I sell pictures of the war in Iraq. That’s how I earn money. What makes me different from Halliburton, KBR, and all the other contractors that are earning money from the war in Iraq is my motivation. As a journalist I provide a public service. I inform my fellow humans about the war. The reason why I am doing what I am doing is not money and it can’t be. People who do it for the cash usually don’t last very long in my profession.

To say it bluntly: it is hard to think about a paycheck if there are bullets flying around your head.

There are much easier ways to make money than war journalism and even if you work incredibly hard, are very talented, or even famous, in the end most photojournalists are struggling to make ends meet.

The hardest part for me personally is dealing with the guilt. Often I feel guilty and angry for not being able to produce more and better pictures to tell the story in a deeper, more meaningful way. I feel like I owe it to the Iraqis, the Americans, to the publication that pays me, and most importantly to myself to do better and try harder.

A photo editor in New York once asked me why the pictures coming out of Iraq are not more iconic.

The obvious reason is that it is hard to produce great work without unfettered access. It is unlikely that a

photographer will be present when fighting happens, or when soldiers get hurt or killed. The country is huge and so is the number of troops. By contrast, the number of photographers covering the conflict is incredibly small. Everybody involved in this war— the American government and military, the Sunni insurgency, Shiite militias, the Iraqi government and its security force—is skilled at keeping the press under tight control. And there also is more selfcensorship practiced by American publications than the American public realizes.

I see a certain irony in the fact that as a foreigner based in Brooklyn, I am making a living by selling pictures of the disastrous American enterprise in Iraq to the American people. Ironic also, that there seem to be few Americans that can imagine pursuing a career as dangerous and troublesome as mine without the prospect of adequate material compensation. I have never experienced a culture where material success is so highly valued as it is in America. I believe that part of the huge cultural gap between the Americans and Middle Easterners is caused by the America’s blind trust in capitalism.

The other part of the gap is obviously caused by an arrogant and ignorant American foreign policy, but that’s another story.

H

ilary Knox

68 |

“Buy a Gun,” from “The Worlds Largest Machine Gun Shoot, Knob Creek,” Kentucky, 2002

| 69

E

nid Esmond An American Undertaking

Photographs © Enid Esmond

I remember my first visit to a funeral home like it was yesterday. I was four or five years old when Phyllis, my neighbor from across the hall, passed away. Her family and friends were gathered in a room loud with emotion, smelling of bad perfume and expensive flowers. Clutching my mother’s hand tightly, I was brought to the front of the room where Phyllis lay in a fancy wooden box. I was instructed to kneel by my mother’s side and pray for Phyllis. I prayed that Phyllis would wake up—not because I missed her, but because when she was alive she told me that on my wedding day she would throw bricks at me from heaven. Since then, funerary rites have held me spellbound.

At the turn of the 20th century, the traditional service shifted from home funeral to funeral home. What materialized was a booming business that has since become a billiondollar market. It is said that today there is not one person in the continental United States more than two hours from a licensed funeral director. According to the AARP, the average cost of for their services is $6000, which includes the basics: handling fees, embalming and preparation of the decedent, plain casket, and the use of the funeral home’s facilities for two days. This price, however, does not include the extras: cemetery fees, burial vault, limousines, and floral arrangements. All things considered, a standard funeral runs upwards of $10,000. For many, aside from a home and a car, a funeral is the largest financial expenditure of their lives.

According to the National Funeral Directors Association, 89 percent of funeral homes in the United States are family-owned and the other 11 percent are owned by one of the five publicly traded stock corporations, where the competition to generate the largest return for shareholders makes a grieving a lesson in P&L. Family-owned businesses, which cannot take advantage of corporate largesse and have to charge more to remain competitive, are increasingly going the way of the mom-andpop shops that have been swallowed up daily by the chains.

Once inside the funeral home, the objective eye cannot help but notice the stage that is set for a comforting experience.

No detail is left to chance, from the lighting and décor to the placement of floral arrangements that envelop the entryway, the chapel—even the bathroom. Throughout the home, lighting is typically soft and ambient, without the glare of fluorescence. Seating is conducive to conversation and peppered with tissue boxes. Artwork is usually landscapes in muted tones with a soothing feel, while artificial flowers are strategically placed to maintain the feeling of being inside a surreal, timeless cocoon of comfort.

It is here that the funeral director takes center stage, selling eternal peace—not to the decedent but to those they left behind. With a mix of grief and guilt, family members use coffin finishes and extravagant floral arrangements to reflect the amount of love they had for their beloved. As facilitator of this experience, the director is in a precarious position of acting as a salesperson to a consumer in an extremely vulnerable state, whose goal is often to prove their love through material accoutrements.

What the grieving family is delicately protected from during their two days of service, aside from the initial meeting, is the selection room, otherwise known as the sales floor. Not unlike a car dealership, the caskets featured here are polished to a brilliant shine with the priciest models front and center. Also beyond view of the grieving family is the preparation room, often in the basement and bathed in the harsh glare and fluorescent lighting so cleverly avoided on the stage of the chapels and other customer-facing areas.

At some time in our lives, we will all meet death in the form of the funeral home experience. It is so deeply ingrained in our cultural psyche that we often don’t know or understand the alternatives. And so, the industry, built upon our desire for somber grandeur and artificial intimacy, thrives wildly.

| 73

A

my Eckert Manufacturing Home

Singlewides for sale, Whitney Point, NY, 1998 74 |

| 75

N

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

Ray and Claudia, Baton Rouge, LA, 2006

Another Dream Come True, Gonzales, LA, 2006

The mobile home is an oxymoron offering the illusion of freedom, while providing the permanence of a residential establishment. They’re inexpensive to produce and cheap to procure, allowing some 22 million Americans to fulfill their dream of owning their own home. Growing up, my family lived in mobile homes from time to time. We towed one nearly 2,000 miles—from upstate New York to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and back. Despite moving repeatedly, I understand how owning a trailer brings

76 |

dignity and a sense of stability.

The manufactured homes I have documented are display models—brand new, straight off the assembly line, and shipped to sales lots complete with curtains and wall-to-wall carpeting. Designed to appeal to our aspirations, these models are infused with a palpable sense of potential: the flowers are forever fresh, the ice cream never melts, and in some cases, it’s Christmas all year long. The poster fireplace is always roaring.

The houses are earnest; they want you to like them. They are given names like Cascade Villa, Laurel Manor, Cedar Lodge, Nantucket, Winchester, Avondale, Essex, Yorkshire, Amberwood, and my favorite, Chateau Elan. Likewise, the décor tries to appear upwardly mobile and if you squint slightly, you might not notice the formaldehyde warning.

Furniture is always overstuffed, while footprints trailing across vast yards of synthetic carpet bear witness to hopeful homeowners shuffling through

like memories arriving ahead of schedule. Theater sets waiting for the cast to arrive, these models are auditioning for the role of your home.

I think people everywhere regardless of their income ask themselves “What is a home? What is my home?” When I am photographing in these models, the design snob in me says, “Ugh, hideous!” But a larger part of me is asking, “Which room is mine?”

| 77

C

hris Nieratko

I don’t know that I’m so much of a hustler as I am a George Costanza. In my time I have had almost any job a person can imagine: I’ve lied my way into copyediting gay men’s porn magazines; fed elephants at the zoo; delivered potato chips; worked as a lifeguard, bartender, carpenter, auto mechanic, drug dealer, line cook, deli clerk, and a shitload of

78 |

other things I can’t remember. Any boss I’ve ever had will attest to the fact that I am a hard worker (it’s the Portuguese in me), but they will also tell you I get bored easily and will do anything to make a job more exciting by quitting or getting fired trying.

When I was 22 I had what some would call a healthy addiction to a drug the French call cocaine.

Personally, I think I was just allergic to sleep and did whatever I could to avoid it, like working around the clock. My schedule during the summer of 1997 was to wake up at 5 am, load trucks from 6 to 11, work at a skateshop from noon until 4, then wait tables at IHOP from 5 to 9:30, before restocking pallets with a forklift at Sam’s Club from 10 until 3 in the morning. Sam’s Club threw a wrench in my schedule because we were locked in the building and not permitted to smoke. I overcame that obstacle. I climbed on top of the toilet’s septic tank, punched out the screen in the ceiling vent, and stuck my head inside the vent shaft. I wanted to quit on a nightly basis but never did.

For a time, IHOP was the most fun of any of the jobs. I was the only handsome waiter on staff (far too handsome to be working at IHOP), so the waitresses were constantly lifting their unflattering blue uniforms to show me their panties or girly parts. Women customers regularly left large tips and sexual propositions on napkins.

Except soda, ice cream, and coffee, food was ordered through a computer. We had direct access to that stuff, so when people would order any of those items I’d tell them it was on me, like I owned the joint.

That always helped me get a bigger tip. After a while I made friends with the Mexican cooks and began bringing them six-packs. In exchange, they would cook me food, without putting it in the computer, which I would then give to customers “on me” for larger tips or the phone numbers of pretty girls.

My best pals were the recovering alkies from AA. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, 20 of them would come in like clockwork and post up in the smoking section to chain smoke and shoot the shit.

Occasionally someone would get a club sandwich, but generally they’d just drink coffee, which was “on me,” so they never had a bill. Needless to say, they loved me, and it came as no surprise that they all had my back on my last night as an IHOP waiter, when I had to beat the shit out of two drunk patrons in the middle of the smoking section.

Everyone knew these redneck pricks in flannel were loaded the minute they stumbled in. You could smell the cheap beer and whiskey on them from halfway across the room. I didn’t give a shit. Drunks make me laugh and their money is as green as the next guy’s. The waitress, who was supposed to take care of them, was scared and asked if I would help them instead. I agreed, brought them one of my “complimentary” pots of coffee, and told them I’d be right back to take their order. Two minutes later they were screaming for the manager, telling him they had been waiting for a half hour, no one had helped them, and all they wanted was coffee. The manager called me over and asked why I hadn’t helped them.

I said, in plain English, “You’re fucking kidding, right? These guys just got here five minutes ago and I already brought them a fucking pot of fucking coffee.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s no coffee on the table so apologize and go get them another pot. And watch your mouth.”

I told him I’d get them more coffee but that I had nothing to apologize for. As I walked toward the kitchen, they continued to argue with the manager, demanding free this and free that. When I approached their table, I spotted the first coffee pot under the table, dumped all over the floor. I set down the second pot down and said, “See, there’s the first coffee pot. They—” Before I could finish my sentence, one of the drunks had poured a scalding cup of coffee and threw it all over my chest. I’ll tell you what, I’m not a fighter. I’ve been in my share of fights and never really got the shitty end of the stick, but I wouldn’t call myself a fighter. But for that instant, I was motherfucking Bill Bixby; and they didn’t like me when I got angry, because I didn’t change into Lou Ferrigno, I turned into Iron Mike. Without giving it a thought, I punched his buddy square in the jaw then lunged across the table and began pummeling the guy who burned me. With every shot I landed, I felt the second guy tagging me in the back of my skull. I made it a point to elbow his eye every time I pulled back to hit his pal.

So there I was, on a table in a corner booth of IHOP, fighting two patrons while the manager looked on slack-jawed, the pussy. Luckily my AA buddies were there to lend a helping hand: one called the cops while the others grabbed the second guy and pulled him away from me so that I could finish up the first guy. As I climbed off of him and the police rushed in, I opened the fresh pot of coffee and dumped it all over the prick’s bloody head.

After the police took my statement and carted the two away in cuffs, my manager had the nerve to tell me that I acted inappropriately. I asked if he was firing me and he said that he had to think it over. I chose to make his decision a little easier by saying, “Are you a fucking retard? Fire me so that I don’t ever have to look at your pathetic face again. A man threw hot coffee on me and I acted inappropriately? Do you even have a set of balls?

You stood there as I got hit in the back of the head.

How about this? Go fuck yourself. I quit. I like Denny’s better anyway.”

Like in all Westerns, the music started playing as I walked out into the desert sun, credits rolled, a rattlesnake rattled, and a young child looked on and asked, “Who was that coked-out stranger?” His father shrugged his shoulders and answered, “Son, shut up and eat your food.”

| 79

R

achel Loischild Tag: You’re It!

Who: The sellers are mostly middle-class, middle-aged people cleaning out their houses and trying to make a little money in the process. The shoppers are people of all ages looking for a bargain or perhaps that thing, that special object, that will complete their collection of God knows what.

What: Everything and anything, objects from every part of people’s lives. Kitchenware: spoons, forks, knives.

Tupperware from the 50s. Pots, pans, choppers, shredders, salad spinners, dish racks. Coffeemakers, coffee percolators, coffee pots, coffee cups. Plates, bowls, platters, blenders. Furniture: beds and chairs of all kinds, recliners, high chairs, kitchen chairs, step chairs, rocking chairs, wood chairs, vinylcovered chairs, upholstered armchairs. Dining tables, kitchen tables, side tables, end tables, coffee tables, wood tables, Formica tables, contemporary tables, classic tables from the 40s. Personal collections: ceramic and glass bunnies, big bunnies, small bunnies, boxes full of bunnies. Lions: one tag sale had a complete collection of lions, including a velvet painting and a three-foot-tall ceramic figurine.

Music collections, record collections, record players.

Children’s: lots of children’s toys and clothes. These seem to be the most frequent items besides kitchen supplies.

Where: These photos were taken in the Connecticut River Valley area of western Massachusetts, specifically in the Northampton/Amherst area, during the summers of 2005 and 2006. The photos were taken in driveways, front yards, and garages.

When: Every Saturday and Sunday when it is warm and dry enough outside, beginning with the “early birds,” at 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning, hoping for the best pick of everything, to late afternoon arrivals when the tag sale has long been picked over. This is when the proprietors generally start to give away their items.

Why: Sometimes tag sales are the estate sales for people who have died and whose children sell the collections that hold no interest to them. Buying things at tag sales can be one of the most economical ways to acquire household items and the other objects that we think of as necessities. Additionally, it is an excellent way to get what you need without supporting giant corporate box stores and the labor policies that go along with them. It is also a weekly activity, a treasure hunt, the search for something wonderful that you did not even know you were looking for.

80 |

How (Much): The prices at tag sales are generally “reasonable” for used items. I have seen whole tag sales where no item was much more than a dollar and most things were a quarter. But some people have high aspirations of how much they think they can get for their junk: $40, $50, even $100. These people seem to be the most inflexible because they value their objects so much. Most of the time dishes are between 25 cents to a few dollars for a complete set. Furniture is usually $10 or less, sometimes a couch will be as much as $50, but if priced any higher then no one will buy it. Clothes are generally from 25 cents an item to a few bucks for a vintage or “designer” piece.

Prices, however, are not set in stone. Haggling is very popular, and the price on a tag is usually just a starting price. Also, if one is buying multiple items from a tag sale, he or she can make an offer for all of the items, using the marked price of only one item as the cost for the whole set. Usually the offer is rebuffed and given a counter offer.

How (To Shop): Wake up very early on Saturday morning, get a newspaper, and find five or six tag sales listed in the classifieds. Plot the best route between the tag sales and also watch out during the journey for tag sale signs on street corners and on front lawns. Be prepared to follow any signs with arrows that will lead to unadvertised or impromptu tag sales. Make room in the car for potential finds and bring only small denominations of cash, especially $1s and small change. Keep some cash in a pocket, and all the rest in your wallet for backup. This way you can claim to “only have a five” or “a couple ones,” which will help greatly in the haggling process. And this is tag sale-ing!

PS: I have furnished my entire apartment with tag sale items. This includes my dining table and chairs, my couch, coffee table, living room chairs, ottoman, pots and pans, silverware, carpets, televisions, side tables, and a full set of gold-rimmed dishes. I also acquired my microwave, drinking glasses, hamper, and record player through tag sales. For me, it was both out of economic necessity to buy used items for my apartment and the fun of seeing what new, old, and different things I could find at tag sales that I could not find anywhere else, except now perhaps on eBay (but I can’t fully evaluate an object on eBay to see how well it works or if it is strong or sturdy).

Going to tag sales has been a part of my life since I can remember.

| 81

J

ules Kim of Bijules

How to Maintain

When the sun shines and every step feels like the right one, a nonchalant confidence overtakes me. As I walk down Bedford Avenue towards Fabiane’s, the local video store calls out to me: “Jules, come in here.

That copy of Le Mépris by Godard is in now…”

Shrouded in a cloud of shiny sangfroid, I step inside. The clerk barely smiles because he is being hustled by someone. That someone, surprisingly enough, is Stay High 149. Ha. Perfect. I know he doesn’t remember me but I don’t care; homie is about to get coffee with me at Fabiane’s to meet Zuek, the photographer, only he doesn’t know it yet. I ask Stay High what he’s hustling. He pulls a customized Chocolate Bar out of his plastic bodega bag (aka briefcase). Ahhhh, the schoolyard days of selling Kit Kats for CD players rushes over me. I tell him I’ll take one for my man who happens to be next door with a coffee. I mention to Stay High that he had posed for Zuek and the photo was published in Frank151. It’s all about key words; they unlock doors.

Stay High is feeling the coffee I am about to buy him and the $10 I’m about to drop. He walks with me to Fabiane’s. We don’t look like we’d be buddies but for the moment we are. Waltzing into the café, I see Zuek’s eyes widen. He stands to greet Stay High.

I’m happy Stay High got paid. I’m happy Zuek got to introduce himself again. I’m happy there is a signed Chocolate Bar in Zuek’s hands. I’m happy I forgot all about that damn DVD. A day in the life of Bijules, the jeweler, is what it is and I am obligated to sustain my own lifestyle by giving to others. The gift of providing opportunity is priceless. There is no budget or shattered piggy bank when life affords these occasions. One must prepare to be prepared all the time. And that is my hustle.

Photograph © Brooke Nipar | 83

N

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

Photograph © Berenice Abbott

N

Photograph © Douglas Levere

ew York Changing Revisiting Berenice Abbott’s New York

Let’s begin, then, with a cliché: the more things change the more they stay the same. Undoubtedly human nature is as it always was: a duel between the ego and the id, a battle neither side ever wins.

Nurture can’t trump (though it sometimes blunts) nature, so society aspires to refine and redefine the human animal. We call this movement “progress,” that is, the cumulative development and effect of civilization on our evolution as sentient—and contented—beings.

But I hate it. No, that’s too strong a word. I resent the implication that progress is positive, that capacity is synonymous with advantage. Because, somewhere in our convoluted effort to make the world quicker, bigger, better, hipper, hotter, simpler, smarter, we have been sold a bridge by a couple of guys sizing us up for cement shoes.

I often wonder how much we, as physical beings, can process what we, as inventive minds, have created for our world. Technology explodes exponentially and we applaud the Digital Revolution. But I, being an old lady to the bone, have banned plastic from my home, and would gladly take a wood panel stereo circa 1973, were I able to find one outfitted for my CDs since they ain’t pressing much on wax no mo’.

I tossed the television a couple years back after discovering I was inadvertently wrinkling my brow while watching Law & Order; since then the freefloating anxiety caused by exposure to things outside of my control has markedly decreased, to say nothing of the untold freedom from the mass ranting that passes as reporting, thereby becoming commonly held as an accurate depiction of the world we live in.

Call me ignorant of world affairs, undoubtedly.

But as a publicist, it is impossible for me to read anything objectively, knowing all too well how the system works. And consider if you will, perhaps it was only a century ago that few knew of anything happening in the outside world. Wasn’t no Internet, no FedEx—hell, they didn’t even have electricity. Imagine that: in the course of human history, mankind lived in blackout conditions until, pretty much, yesterday.

And while I am suspicious, albeit dependent, on this thing we call progress, I am not against it. I ain’t no upstart. I’m not here to change the world. But I find it a bit disturbing that those who claim to better our lives do so with the shortest of sights. Whether serving fast food or fast cars, what they really want is fast money. And, honey, the total cost is always far greater than what you see on the price tag.

—Miss Rosen

Photograph © Berenice Abbott

Photograph © Douglas Levere 84 |

| 85

Photograph © David McIntyre

G

raeme Jamieson Word is Bond

86 |

In the fall of 2002, my then-girlfriend, Holly, started working as a showgirl in some nightspot called Vegas. I hadn’t checked it out, but as far as I could gather, it was the hottest club in town. Gingerly, she’d explained how her role entailed dancing onstage wearing not much more than a corset, which I had no issue with, inasmuch I was a flyer too and didn’t like clipping her wings.

And then came an invitation; not to the club, but to a newspaper party in Glasgow. Her DJ boss, Ewan, had four tickets, and he’d asked if she’d like to accompany him and his wife, Lee-Anne. If I wanted, I could come too. Maybe I saw it as an opportunity to get a measure of the guy who stood behind my girl while she got into his groove.

It was that coming Monday, and this is how it went down.

Mr. and Mrs. McNaught caught the eight o’clock train in the center of Edinburgh, while my girl and I boarded one stop later. As it pulled in, there was a wave from the window; we got on that carriage, took a seat at their table. I sat down opposite him. He was 15 years older than me and he wore this black leather jacket with an intense air of responsibility.

Altogether, it was a rugged look he was working, but he had a definite vehemence, this aura of burning heat. He was a turn with Holly though, and his lady wife seemed rather sweet.

It’s an hour from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and for the most part, our girls gossiped over hemlines and hairstyles, as mine was a fashion designer and his a colorist. Ewan and I were more self-contained.

That suited me fine as small talk was not something I encouraged. But once we’d reached that party, our turnover changed.

We found ourselves in a bijou basement bar.

Ewan sat to my immediate left. The girls were over thataway, but it was too loud, and so even if I tried, I could only hear his voice. Still, I had to listen closely to follow what he was saying. He asked me straightout what I did and what I wanted to do. I believe my reply was, “You mean when I grow up? I want to write, is what I’m trying to do.”

For a moment, he didn’t acknowledge this.

Then he made to take off his jacket, and as he did, I studied the party invitation for a minute. It had this stand-out line on the back of it; some rap about “Rockin’ High Rollers, Romancers and Rat Packers, Lounge Lizards, Lap Dancers and Linebackers, Good Fellas and Bad Mama Jamas, Guys and Dolls, Gangsters and their Molls, Pimps, Players and Private Eyes, Sirens, Vamps and Superfly Guys, B-Movie Actors and Drag Queens, Disco Divas in Limousines,” which I pointed out as I flipped it to him. Then a waitress arrived to hand over our drinks.

At the same time as I lifted and sipped mine, I felt this wind.

“That’s weird. I wrote that. It was a throwaway thing, designed for another context.”

Not quite knowing what he meant, I asked him

to explain. Turns out he’d posted that text on the Vegas website. He claimed the party organizer lifted it: “It’s happening more and more,” he coolly insisted. “I write things for one milieu only for them to materialize in another.”

“Uncredited?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“But that’s plagiarism!”

“In a sense, but I don’t want to give myself too much credit. Language is a shared resource and very few people are capable of original thought.

It’s fascinating how words and ideas oscillate, replicate, and mutate during their journey through the corrupting corridors of cyberspace and the mainstream media. Words are powerful, Graeme, and the most potent, self-replicating memes dissociate themselves from their authors. Attribution is becoming irrelevant in our postmodern culture of assimilation and appropriation. With this invite, someone has simply plucked my ideas out of the ether. In a sense, yes, it’s plagiarism, but it’s a tribute too, adopting and consolidating a verbal meme into the broader culture—in however minimal and marginal a way. Like I said, it’s happening more often and that’s really very intriguing.”

The first thing I did was smile. It was maybe understated elation. This certainly made a difference from the chat from most plus-ones—or from any men for that matter, whose default topic always seemed to be fucking football. I waited for him to continue.

“If you look at language and ideas in evolutionary terms then every advance is really just an incremental improvement on what’s gone before. Language evolves organically. All we do is create a cocktail, mixing up the same basic ingredients and influences as everyone else. Hopefully, we can conjoin them in an interesting and deceptively novel way and maybe garnish the concoction with an idiosyncratic little twist of our own. What do you drink?”

“This is a Fernet Branca Negroni.”

“Okay, I don’t know what’s in that, though my point is that we use a magician’s misdirection to create the illusion of originality, but we’re little more than bartenders at the business end of the creative process. We synthesize the raw materials but the consumer filters the product through his own perception before passing on his interpretation of the experience to the next person in line.”

“So you mean writers are just filters?”

“Not quite, we’re not only custodians of the verbal tradition, we also have a duty to synthesize existing elements in new and surprising ways. We have to harness the true power of words and subvert the stiflingly narrow parameters and prevailing paradigms perpetuated by pop culture.”

An ice cube slipped into my mouth, but, rather than spit it out, I followed, “An example?”

“Sure. There’s this football website that I contribute to. The general discourse couldn’t be more lowbrow or predictable, so I approach it from a

| 87

different perspective, penning a defiantly highbrow column. I’m trying to shock people out of their comfort zone, to disrupt their preconceptions. I’ve done about six articles now, and the reception has been hostile, but I don’t much care about the initial feedback. I’m interested in the life cycle of these words and ideas, whether they’ll simply wither and die in such an inhospitable environment or if they’re capable of relocating themselves to more receptive locales.”

“Why, to amuse yourself?”

“Pardon?”

I crunched the cube: “To amuse yourself?”

“Yes. It’s just a bit of fun. I like to make it as high-minded as possible, so it’s provocative and inflammatory, but, more importantly, wholly inappropriate within that context. My modus operandi is to bemuse, confuse and, hopefully, amuse. So for the vast majority, it goes over their head—as if I’m teaching Euclidean geometry to preschool students—but there are always a few who ‘get it.’ They are the ‘thieves’ who smuggle the content into another context, like this invite.”

“Do you know who that was?”

“No!” “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I suppose, but I don’t use words as a vehicle for self-promotion. My adoption of an inauthentic virtual persona is, in its own small way, an ironic comment on the ersatz cult of personality. Have you seen the Oliver Stone movie, Talk Radio?”

I pushed out my bottom lip and shook my head.

“It’s based on a true story about a ‘shock jock’ American radio host who gets murdered for something he said on the radio. There’s this one quote in it—something you should remember—and it goes: ‘Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words cause permanent damage!’”

“I like it!”

“What I’m saying is that if you want to write, write, but do it for yourself and as an end in itself.

Don’t emasculate your prose for commerce and don’t worry about the consequences. Don’t be afraid to challenge people’s preconceptions and, most importantly of all, avoid perpetuating the empty catechisms, shallow ‘insights’ and lazy conjunctions of ideas and words that pass for contemporary discourse within our corroded culture. Bad memes are metastasizing exponentially, so take your words seriously. Making people think is tantamount to a subversive act these days.”

I wanted to ask where I could do this, but he was off on one now, and I wasn’t about to stop him.

“Imagine you’re Patient Zero, all right, and your words are contagious. So you’re the original host and you infect those around you who, in turn, infect others. It’s possible that your words and ideas might go on to become so ubiquitous that they can no longer be attributed to you.”

88 |

I bowed my head, considering the nuance.

“Don’t worry, amigo, you were born too late to be Patient Zero. You’re just passing on the latest mutation. Maybe, for us, writing is an effusive detox.

Like bloodletting. Disassociation increases virulence and expedites transmission. That’s why I write under an alter-ego.”

“Like pushing a paper boat out onto the water?”

“Sort of.”

“So why don’t you put your name on that boat?”

“You’re back to that proprietary mindset. I have several alter egos; Frankie Sumatra is one I inhabit for Vegas, but I often use the pseudonym ‘eugene ionesco,’ a dead Romanian dramatist, a tribute of sorts to his legacy, a surrealist gesture, and an admission of complicity in the process of appropriation because I’ve stolen his name, blatantly.”

I was thirsty for this shtick, thinking, My God, this is it! I’d never heard anything like it before. “So the stuff you put on that football website was under his name, and it turned up elsewhere?”

“Yes, I wrote an esoteric deconstruction of the strange subculture of Hi-IQ societies and placed it, inappropriately, on a football website. It was a prank and the fun was in watching it gravitate incrementally towards its ‘proper’ milieu. After causing some localized consternation in its initial location, the mainstream media replicated, and, needless to say, corrupted it. In due course this unexpectedly resilient verbal meme proved as capable of garnering kudos from Wall Street traders and Ivy League professors as it was of provoking the indignation of football fans.”

I drained my glass, leaned forward, and placed it on the table.

“Amusingly, when the article eventually turned up in ‘High-IQ-Land,’ and I stepped out from behind my veil of anonymity to claim it as my own, I was accused of plagiarizing my own work (some ‘genius’ Googled it and noticed that the article was ‘properly’ attributed to a certain ‘eugene ionesco,’ who, though deceased, was still contributing to ‘his’ blog). A pleasingly ironic denouement.”

“Huge; you’re talking about denouements and all I can think of is Dee Dee Ramone screaming ‘One, Two, Three, Four!’ Listen, I’m going to go ask for another drink. Would you like one too?”

“No, I’m all right, but look, before you go, let me give you a prediction. We’re moving into a postlexic world, our rich repository of language and culture is being eroded and replaced with a pale facsimile of the original. Future generations will access ‘authentic’ cultural residue only through the pernicious, corrupting prism of pop culture. As a fellow enthusiast of the written word and custodian of the verbal tradition, your burden will be heavy.”

I got to my feet, picked up my glass, ignored my girl, and made for the man who made my Negroni.

P

ublic Access: Ricky Rowell Photographs 1985–2005

| 89

N

E

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

RIC MILON

OPIUM RELIEVES PAIN

There’s something extremely naughty about Miami.

It’s all the tanned, greased-up, hard bodies, frolicking on the beach in bikinis, leaning up against their sports cars in rumpled pastel suits à la Don Johnson.

All that sun and skin in the midst of Cuban culture swirling between the perfumed limbs of the celeb glitterati creates the perfect natural environment for a vigorous nightlife. In the 1990s, brothers Eric and Francis Milon, along with Roman Jones, came together to create one of the hottest nightclub conglomerates the A-list has ever seen—The Opium Group. Curious about the recipe for revelry, we spoke with Eric Milon, a former model, about the exact ingredients for a debauchery cocktail.

—Amanda Yates In the early 1990s I created The Opium Group with decadence in mind: Orientalism, Romantic poets languishing in seaport brothels, the amber glow of iron lanterns, and an “eat, drink and be merry—for tomorrow we die” mentality. In a world where the evening news tends to paint a rather somber picture, it isn’t difficult to sell what we do. Our venues (Set, Privé, Opium Garden, and Mansion) are designed to send our guests to another place and time, allowing them to truly let their imaginations go. Nightlife is 100% fantasy. The feel is joyful, luxurious, and happy.

We use theatrical touches like Pucci sofas, crystal 90 |

chandeliers, and futuristic fireplaces. Like opium the drug, our venues become an addiction, transporting people into a world of exoticism and romance—if only for an evening. However, unlike the narcotic, an evening with us invokes energy and spirit into the lives of our clients. Inspired by the environment, our guests arrive with their own pageantry, made up, glammed up, swathed in the silks of their best attire.

Our crew of international DJs keeps them dancing like bacchantes deep into the night.

Music and dance have always been a means of release for human beings; it goes back to biblical times, to tribal rituals and ceremonies. Music and dance are essential to existence and create balance. Every generational crisis has spurred some form of music or dance as an escape—be it the Jazz Movement, the Freedom Movement, the Disco Years—and all of these were motivated by people’s need to forget their troubles for a night. So the need for music and dance and nightlife doesn’t change with the times, but the times do affect the flavor of the nightlife. Fashion, art, and travel are constant influences on décor and atmosphere. Trends change with the spirit of the times.

Miami, for example, was put on the map in great part during the days of the Rat Pack crooning at the Eden Roc, Sinatra’s shows at the Fontainebleau, the Beatles at the Deauville, and of course the Latin

influences at the famous Tropicana shows. Miami has become Hollywood’s playground for celebrities, as well as the traveling elite, so South Beach is a hybrid for the worlds of music, fashion, art, and film, and our venues pay homage to that.

We were at the birth of South Beach nightlife, opening one of the first lounges on South Beach in 1991, the Strand, followed by the Living Room in 1996. We have tremendous nostalgia for the early years of South Beach in the late 80s and early 90s— the popping champagne corks, the joy in the air, the bohemian vibe of our artist and fashion world friends mixed with the international jet set just beginning to discover South Beach—so we wanted to honor those early days when creating our latest venue, Set, which opened just this year, by putting a modern twist on those decadent times. There is indeed a vital mythology around those days, and many of our friends and longtime guests asked us to recreate that theme for today, which played a big role in our inspiration.

But in truth I don’t try and design my venues for anyone else’s tastes—I don’t wonder if my guests will appreciate the elephant tusks on Set’s bar or the chandelier in Mansion’s foyer—I just design what I like, and luckily, it seems that others appreciate my ideas as well! I’m happy to say my clubs are generally well received. The decadence of the environments is part of the fascination we

create, and also one of the main reasons so many celebrities are drawn to our clubs. All of our venues are VIP-driven with guest lists, velvet ropes, and privileged areas. Needless to say, it’s human nature to want what you don’t have, thus we play the game, creating the allure behind the velvet ropes for our guests. But there is also a practicality behind the need for sections, doormen and the like—our venues have limited capacities and we simply can’t accommodate everyone. Our new projects often get an overwhelming draw of people because of how attuned we are to the feeling of the moment.

Naturally, over the years my tastes have changed and evolved, always giving me new inspiration for the next project. I am acutely attuned to my environment, which is where I draw my inspiration.

I read a lot of magazines, I travel, I socialize, and I have a real fascination with beauty and its surroundings. Our next project is the opening of a new venue in New York City in a prime space. We are really excited to bring our signature joie de vivre to the greatest city. The trend in NYC as of late has been lounges, so we expect some challenges opening a large space catering to VIPs with exclusivity and the sexy vibe our guests love. Everything takes work, and we never take any opportunities for granted.

| 91

M

ark Peterson Acts of Charity

llan Tannenbaum :: New York City in the 1970s A 92 |

| 93

N

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

Boogie

Average amount Americans spend on fast food each year: $500 Average amount Americans spend on charitable donations: $900 “People in our world are swimming in money, but in order to get the city’s rich to give a lousy thousand dollars to the poor who are drowning in front of their eyes you have to parade little black kids in front of them and give them party favors. I’ve read all of Dickens and most of Edith Wharton, but I can’t recall coming across anything quite so monstrous. Perhaps I should read more Trollope.”

—Felix Rohatyn, from Manhattan, Inc., April 1986 Percentage of all charitable donations that come from the top 3% of the population: 50 “The dynamics of it is that you say to yourself, okay, we’ve got to raise X money. Let’s just let the ticket price rise to a thousand-dollar fee. Okay, if you’re going to do that, my gosh, we have to give them a really good dinner, we have to have some really good music, we have to have a spectacular person for the entertainment, we have to have magnificent flowers, we have to give each woman a present to take home to remember that she came to this wonderful thing.

That’s where I think it gets out of line. I mean, wait a minute, isn’t this to take in money and not give out 94 |

money? You know, let’s not have party favors. I think that’s defeating the purpose.”

—Elizabeth Rohatyn, from Manhattan, Inc., April 1986 Estimated amount Americans gave to charity in 2002: $240 billion Percentage of which comes from individual Americans: 75 Percentage of which comes from corporate philanthropy: 12 “If you go to a board meeting, 80 percent of the discussion is about fund-raising. Programs—What are we supposed to be doing? How are we doing?— get about 20 percent of the time. Board and staff members alike sit around saying, ‘Who can we honor? Who will look right for dinner?’ It’s turned into a racket. They’ll put almost anybody up there, no matter how dissonant the choice seems, to get the money. They wheel out the victims of human rights abuses and give them a couple of minutes, but the main event is to rub shoulders with the celebrity. It’s a real sign of the degradation of our civic culture.”

—Anonymous media executive involved with several nonprofit human rights organizations, from the New York Times Magazine, November 19, 1995 Percentage of Americans living below the poverty line who believe that “poor people today have it easy”: 31 | 95

Patti Astor, photo © Maripol

F

UN! The True Story of Patti Astor

“Patti simply didn’t care about making money.”

—Gary Indiana, New York magazine Jean-Michel Basquiat and I began to plan his November 1982 show and I was thrilled by the number of paintings he planned to bring in. We decided to do a raw Sheetrock and primer paint installation with mysterious partitions to increase the wall space.

Somehow this grim interior expressed Jean-Michel’s tragic hero persona. Picture the gloomy shadows of the Shakespearean kingdom of Richard III right before they take the little princes to the tower.

96 |

Jean-Michel and his minions loaded all the artwork in and Jean-Michel began an around-the-clock vigil fueled by huge lines of coke and giant spliffs of premium Hawaiian weed. Still dressed in his Armani suit, he wandered around the gallery barefoot with a paintbrush and a jar of black acrylic paint doing touch-ups until dawn. One night he decided around 3 am he absolutely had to have a certain painting from his studio, 14 blocks to the south.

Naturally Bill Stelling and I, troopers if nothing else, took a cab downtown and then walked this huge four-by-eight-foot painting all the way back

to the FUN. Bill says he will never forget that latenight walk as we were tossed around by the sharp November winds, the painting a huge sail carrying us along Second Avenue.

Not surprisingly, after three straight days of this, Jean-Michel exhibited all the classic signs of cocaineinduced paranoia, no matter how well-founded some of his accusations against the art world might be. This culminated in his refusal to give me any prices for the paintings on the day of the opening. Disaster! Once lost, the momentum for sales might not be regained.

At this point Jean-Michel was by no means a sure shot as his work in SoHo (at Anina Nosei and Mary Boone) had been uneven. I knew that the paintings we had were great, and in the end I think most critics agree that his show at the FUN was his best in his sadly short career. René Ricard would remember it as “the most beautiful art exhibit I ever saw” in his essay on Jean-Michel’s posthumous show at the Whitney. I am very proud of that.

However at this point we had made a major investment to show our faith in him with a full-page ad in Artforum and the bills were piling up. It led to this exchange between us: “Look, Jean-Michel, all this artistic bullshit is great but I’ve got to worry about keeping the lights on for your show! How do you expect me to pay the Con Ed bill if I can’t sell any paintings?”“I couldn’t care less about your Con Ed bill!”“You have turned into a spoiled brat! What do you think is going on here?”

Not, I suppose, the treatment he got from Mary Boone, and he left without giving me the prices.

Eventually he returned and we agreed on a list but sales were lost and the show was not the moneymaker we had hoped. We did sell a beautiful painting, “Leonardo Da Vinci,” to the Schorrs for $10,000, a record price for him at the time.

The opening was the usual mayhem, enlivened by the presence of rock star Paul Simon. I was embarrassed to find out was he was being followed around the gallery by the local homeboys humming the line from “Scarborough Fair”— “parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.” I grabbed their scrawny little arms and told them to cool it.

Paul Simon’s interest was caught by another great painting in the show, “St. Joe Louis Surrounded By Snakes.” We were all ready to sell it to him for the thrilling price of $8000 when René Ricard burst out in a hysterical screaming fit, claiming Jean-Michel had promised him that painting! If we sold it we would be traitors after everything he (René!) had done (for us!) and he would throw himself out in the street (right away!) and be run over by a car (!!!) which he then proceeded to demonstrate. This kind of put a damper on that particular transaction and Paul Simon left without buying anything.

Even La Boone showed up for JeanMichel’s show, sailing into the gallery in

a floor length Fendi fur for which many little creatures had given their lives. Good thing for her too, as during the three years we had the gallery there, we never had any heat, only a pitiful kerosene heater, and in November it was freezing. Right on her heels was Leo Castelli, who although by this time a friend, had never made it to an opening. All the homeboys were very impressed when he kissed my hand, and he in turn was honored by their impromptu breakdancing exhibition.

In the end though, we only sold three paintings. A black artist had never been admitted to the premiere ranks of fine art and I had difficulty convincing patrons of his genius. I remember begging Don and Mera Rubell (Steve’s brother, a more-trouble-thanthey-were-worth husband-and-wife collector duo) to buy a $3000 painting but no dice. (The painting, “Meat,” is now worth millions of course.)

In desperation I had to sell a painting to Anina Nosei who had been circling around the gallery like the crocodile after Captain Hook in Walt Disney’s Peter Pan. Anina would crow falsely in Phoebe Hoban’s Basquiat, “I bought a painting for $7500 and sold it for $150,000. He got nothing!”

Sorry Anina, but I knew Jean-Michel would hit the ceiling when he found out I had had to sell to you. I just had no choice. I had a check waiting for him for his full non-discounted half of $5000 when he returned to the gallery. I’m glad Anina got so much pleasure out of making the big bucks off his death.

It was one of the only times I wished I had an investor in the gallery—I would have bought the whole show. The paintings were so beautiful. I was happy to hear that the whole collection was found intact in a warehouse after Jean-Michel’s death. I knew it had meant a lot to him and I was happy to give him that show.

Jean-Michel Basquiat, photo © Maripol

M

emories of makos Vincent Fremont

On December 24, 1976, Andy Warhol recounts in his diaries going to a Christmas dinner party at his close friend and business manager Fred Hughes’ house.

Accompanying Andy was his boyfriend, Jed Johnson.

Among the guests mingling over drinks before dinner were Mick Jagger, Paloma Picasso, and Carroll Baker, who had just starred in the latest Factory film, Andy Warhol’s BAD. Andy mentions a cute photographer; Chris Makos was at this dinner. Even with all the strong personalities present, there is no doubt that Andy would have noticed this young man: Makos with a raggedy pageboy haircut, with seemingly unlimited energy and enthusiasm embellished with an infectious laugh that demanded and got people’s attention. This was the beginning of a long friendship between Andy and Christopher, one that would launch Makos into the world of stars of film and stage, lords of rock, art world heavies, fashion royalty, and drag queens.

It did not take long for Christopher to become part of Andy Warhol’s inner circle and a ubiquitous presence at his studio at 860 Broadway. Makos’ boyfriend, the witty and charming Robert Hayes, was the assistant editor of Andy’s magazine Interview.

Christopher’s talent as a photographer and his seductive and persuasive personality enabled him to convince Bob Colacello (editor of Interview) and Andy to agree to use his photographs in the magazine. By the mid-1970s Andy had become interested in taking his own black-and-white 35mm photos with the new breed of point-and-shoot cameras that had just become available. Andy appreciated Chris’ spontaneous and quick style of photography and they would go to events together and take pictures. Eventually Christopher became Andy’s informal social secretary and travel agent.

This gave Makos the opportunity to fly to Europe and other destinations (free) with Warhol and be thrust in the middle of the celebrity glare that followed Andy on these trips. Wherever Andy was, there was Christopher snapping his own pictures nearby.

Having Christopher along on these business trips did allow Fred Hughes and Bob Colacello to have more personal time and the opportunity to concentrate on hustling portrait commissions and other businesses for Andy. The social itinerary for these trips was grueling and exhausting.

During the time that Makos was becoming a world traveler and master of the free junket, I was the vice president of Andy Warhol Enterprises, Inc. and the executive manager of Andy’s studio. We became

good friends and saw a lot of each other—especially after I married my girlfriend Shelly. By this time Christopher had broken up with Robert Hayes and he had found a new boyfriend, artist Peter Wise.

The four of us would routinely go out to parties, have drinks and dinner. After a while it became quite evident that not only was Christopher able to wrangle free travel and hotels but restaurant and bar tabs were easily avoided by him. One night, the three of us had an epiphany—sitting across from us was the new Jack Benny! Christopher didn’t seem to mind his new name—in fact I think he enjoyed it. It would make it even easier for him to avoid paying a bill.

We all had a lot of fun with Jack Benny. There was a bon voyage party in a Union Square parking lot, in an RV the Loud Family had rented. Once we were driving in an open jeep from Andy Warhol’s Montauk estate to Sag Harbor. We were all laughing (a joint had been passed around) when all of a sudden a bird dropping landed on Shelly’s shoulder.

Amazingly Christopher with his camera was able to capture Shelly’s shocked expression the moment it hit. Christopher’s contact sheets are evidence that he has always been good at capturing the people, times, and places he has visited. Chris was at our wedding when Shelly and I eloped and got married by the justice of the peace in East Hampton, NY. After the brief ceremony under a tree outside the courthouse we greeted friends, including Andy, who had arrived just in time, with Jed, in his Rolls Royce. When it was time to leave, Shelly and I walked over to the parking lot. We were not normally dressed up for a hot August day in the Hamptons. I was wearing a tie, white shirt, blue blazer, with tan slacks. Shelly was wearing an off-white blouse and skirt. We were happy, in love, and young. Christopher saw an opportunity for a good photo and ran over and asked us to pose next to Andy’s Rolls. We did what Christopher commanded.

Later we found out Christopher had this photograph reproduced in an underground magazine with the caption “Young and rich.” This caption was only half right, since our rented Avis car was just out of the frame of the picture.

Over the years Christopher has created a wonderful body of photographic work. He has remained the same energized, crazy, talented photographer as when I first met him. He still rides his bicycle around the streets of Manhattan day or night. I always wonder—does he do this to keep in shape, or is it his other persona, Jack Benny, making him do it?

| 99

C

100 |

hristopher Makos Warhol | Makos in Context

| 101

K

enneth Walton

Fake: Forgery, Lies & Ebay

When I eventually became an art forger, I carried on a long tradition. Artists have always learned their craft by copying the masters, and for centuries prior to the Renaissance, making a precise copy of a master’s work was considered a tribute.

Only with the rise of the merchant class in the 16th century, when art became a commodity, could painters begin to make money by creating paintings that appeared to be by other more famous artists. Forgery thus became fraud.

Until the late 19th century, fraudulent art forgery was relatively rare for several reasons. First of all, there were few artists whose work was valuable enough to forge. The art market was tiny, as there were fewer wealthy collectors competing for the best pieces. Second, it was more difficult to copy paintings. Art in the pre-modern era was meticulously representational, and each painting took considerable time and effort. A forgery required great skill and patience.

Finally, because there were fewer artists considered to be truly accomplished, there were numerous experts dedicated to each of them. These scholars truly understood the style, brushwork, and color palette used by the artists they studied and were not easily fooled by imitators. Despite these obstacles, forgers nevertheless plied their craft, and plenty of faked paintings made it into museums and private collections.

In the late 19th century, and increasingly through the twentieth century, things became easier for forgers.

As styles of painting became looser and

102 |

less representational, paintings became easier to copy. A faux impressionist landscape could be turned out in a day.

A simple drawing by Matisse or Picasso could be replicated in minutes. As artists began to shift styles, experiment with different media, and produce works of varying quality, it became more difficult to tell whether a piece was truly done by a particular painter. At the same time, the number of artists considered to be noteworthy increased greatly, and there was less scholarly expertise to go around. As this was happening, prices in the art market increased at rates that far outpaced inflation, which was all the more encouraging to forgers.

Because of these factors, history’s most notorious art forgers worked during the 20th century. Perhaps the most prolific was Elmyr de Hory, a Hungarian-born painter who created more than a thousand faked paintings during his 20-year career in the 1950s and 60s. He was a highly skilled copyist who imitated the work of nearly every important Postimpressionist painter, including Picasso, Modigliani, Matisse, Vlaminck, Derain, and Dufy. He traveled around Europe and the United States selling these fakes to galleries and private collectors. During the height of his career, a seven-year span from 1960 to 1967, he claimed to have sold more than $60 million worth of art. According to de Hory’s biographer, Clifford Irving, 90 percent of his fakes were never detected.

De Hory’s career inspired a book and movie, and he became so infamous that

even his known forgeries had significant value. Some sold for as much as $20,000.

David Stein, a French-born painter who was active in the 1960s, was very adept at turning out works that appeared to be by Chagall, Picasso, Dufy, and other Postimpressionists. His work was so realistic that one of his imitation Picassos was authenticated by Pablo Picasso himself. Eventually he was caught and spent time in prison in New York before being extradited to France to face charges there. While in prison in Paris, he was allowed to continue painting skillful copies as long as he signed them with his own name. In 1970 the New York attorney general sued to stop these works from being imported into the United States, claiming that they were so good that unscrupulous buyers might be temped to remove Stein’s signature and convert them into forgeries.

The most notorious 20th-century art forger was Han van Meegeren of the Netherlands. Unlike many contemporary forgers, van Meegeren chose to copy the work of an artist who lived several centuries ago, the great Dutch painter Jan Vermeer. After his own lackluster career as an artist sputtered, van Meegeren proved to be remarkably adept at the ambitious task of re-creating the work of an old master. Not only was his style convincing, he made the paintings look genuinely aged by mixing his pigments with Bakelite and cooking them in an oven, which added centuries of hardening and cracking in a matter of hours. Van Meegeren made a good living in the 1930s selling dozens of these “Vermeers,” which were so good they fooled the experts. One of his creations hung in the Boymans Museum in Rotterdam for many years. His ruse came to light only when he was forced to admit it to save himself from being convicted of a more serious crime. During World

War II he sold one of his fakes to Hermann Göring for Hitler’s collection, and after the war he was charged with the traitorous act of selling a national treasure to the enemy.

When he claimed he forged the painting, no one believed him until he proved it by demonstrating his process. He was then charged with his past frauds and later died in prison.

One artist even went so far as to forge his own works. Giorgio de Chirico, an early surrealist painter, was best known for the groundbreaking “metaphysical” series of paintings he created early in his career. His later works were much less popular, and his career went downhill as he watched these early paintings sell for more on the open market. To capitalize on this, he began secretly creating new metaphysical paintings and predating them by 20 years. He was caught and was not prosecuted, but his credibility suffered.

All of these forgers worked in the pre-eBay era. Things were different then. Each time one of these men sold a painting, he had to meet the buyer in person and look him or her in the eye.

He had to stand in front of the painting, which he himself had just forged, and pretend it was by a master artist. The forgeries had to be of very high quality, or the scams would not have worked.

But eBay changed the rules. For the most part, eBay sellers are anonymous, and they need only show a few select photographs of what they offer. They use “as is” and “no guarantee” clauses in their auctions. The paintings don’t have to stand up to any kind of close, in-person inspection, so a forgery can be really bad and still sell on eBay. There is someone on eBay willing to take a chance on virtually every forged painting that is offered. The truly atrocious ones obviously sell for less than the skillfully rendered ones, but they all sell for far more than they are worth.

| 103

N

o Sleep til’ Brooklyn by

significant art collectors, Upper East Side habitués, visual arts professionals, and members of the general public. The presumption that art could be acquired only at auction gradually evaporated, and, within a few years, the kinds of middling auctions customarily held each February faded from the New York art calendar.

It would be accurate to say that presently art fair appointments, in New York and elsewhere, highlight numerous pages in the agendas of art dealers throughout the world. In New York, fairs concentrating on photography, works on paper, Asian works of art, outsider art, and other specializations are now major events on the city’s calendar, and during one particular interval in February, known as Armory Show Week, New York is the home to many art fairs of varying sizes and fields of interest, especially contemporary art.

Internationally, this new phenomenon of turning a city into a weekend-long art tourism destination— created in conjunction with an art fair—has transformed a portion of the art market into a megaselling machine. Basel is now home to a half-dozen fairs in mid-June. London, with the Frieze Art Fair and several satellite fairs, now dominates October, and Miami, with Art Basel/Miami Beach and nearly one dozen additional expositions, rules December. In Portland, Oregon, the Affair @ the Jupiter Hotel art fair was moved from late September to mid-September in order to coincide with the popular TBA (i.e, Time-Based Art Festival), and, in harbors from Florida to Maine, SeaFair is presenting art fairs on a customized yacht in 31 locations during the intervals they are respectively in season. In a counter-directional move, dealers in smaller markets, such as Dallas and Stockholm, are establishing new fairs that bring together art dealers and art collectors on a regional basis.

Boogie

B

arry Neuman

The Invasion of the Art Fairs

“Every weekend, New York is an art fair.”

During the heyday of the mid-1980s art market, this saying proved true in every gallery district in Manhattan: from 57th Street and Madison Avenue to SoHo and the East Village. Art aficionados from around the globe visited galleries on a monthly, weekly, and sometimes daily basis; attendance and business were good in both front and back rooms. At certain times of the year, select gallerists permitted themselves the time to step away from their spaces to participate in art fairs in Basel, Chicago, Cologne, Paris, Bologna, and Madrid; there they hoped to reconnect with existing clients, establish connections with new clients, and generate sales to local and out-of-town collectors. However, for the most part, New York dealers found the idea of corralling themselves into a New York convention center peculiar and redundant.

Then, the art auction boom hit.

104 |

Headlines were made. The prices paid for impressionist paintings and works of modern and contemporary art became news, making wellestablished auction houses Sotheby’s and Christie’s household names.

Within a season or two, so many new collectors were flocking to auctions that, reportedly, they did not know about galleries and believed that art could be purchased only at auction.

In response, the Art Dealers Association of America established The Art Show in 1989. Holding it in what is now known as the Park Avenue Armory, the ADAA presented the art fair over the course of an extended weekend at the same time the auction houses were previewing exhibitions for their February auctions of mid-priced works. In the dead of winter, the warmth of the temporary town square created by The Art Show attracted a gathering of

Photographs courtesy of the Armory Show, New York

Although art fair visitors used to say to exhibitors, “See you at the gallery,” and art gallery visitors now say to dealers, “See you at the fair,” galleries still occupy the heart of the public marketplace for art. To establish and operate an art gallery, one does not need to apply to a committee. It is not compulsory for a gallery to present any particular program of exhibitions or represent a range of works specifically produced in any medium or during any period. Gallerists are free to choose to exhibit works by local, regional, national, or international artists whose reputations are emerging, established, or revived in venues that are stately or casual, locally or remotely situated, or traditional or unconventional. From terrains composed of such a wide array of independent entrepreneurs, many art fairs have been created.

The Gramercy International Art Fair, the precursor to the Armory Show, was founded by four young art dealers to affordably and effectively promote recognition and sales for works by emerging and recently established artists. In Madrid, a committee of Spanish art dealers established ARCO as a means of creating a platform of consequence for art being produced and offered in Spain. In Tokyo, several art fairs were founded to invite the cognoscenti and general visitors to an open and userfriendly environment for viewing and purchasing art.

Like other small businesses, galleries are more sophisticated than they used to be. However it can also be argued that art fairs are extremely efficient at marketing impressive numbers of works of art within short periods of time at fixed locations. The results achieved in recent years have convinced some art fair operators to adopt conventional marketplace strategies and reconsider how their business infrastructures are organized. Talk about the consolidation of some fairs has been commonplace for the past two years.

Merchandise Mart, which had purchased Art Chicago in 2006 and inserted it last April into Artropolis (an event of several disparate fairs concurrently taking place in a single building), has announced that it has invested in the Volta Show, a satellite art fair taking place in Basel at the same time as Art Basel, and in the Armory Show. Other fairs operate independently but are cooperating with each other to improve venue-tovenue transportation and other services that make it more convenient for attendees.

As for the future of art fairs, it is reasonable to say that digital media may play one role in the artist-audience relationship and another role in the dealer-client relationship. At the Armory Show 2007, Andrehn-Schiptjenko, Stockholm, presented Pirate, an eight-and-a-half-minute-long video work by Annika Larsson, in a small-screen format. Interestingly, Larsson—who had created the work as an expression of her support for open sourcing—uploaded the same work onto YouTube.com, allowing Internet users to view it for free. At this year’s fair, Artnet.com and Art Basel teamed up to create an online catalogue of exhibitors’ works and installation views of each booth. The virtual art fair may not replace the real one, but it appears to be in beta mode. “See you online” may become as commonly heard as “See you at the fair” and “See you at the gallery.”

| 105

M

ichael Alan’s Draw-A-Thon

In challenging traditional practices of art education and offering a rare alternative for many budding artists, Michael Alan has found a way to capitalize on both his passion for art and his business. Alan’s provocative event, Draw-a-thon, allows both artists and models to change it up through costume, props, and music sequences. Here, Alan reveals just why he’s got artists all over New York buying into his dream.

—Danielle J. Walker When you feel the art world is filled with shit, then you must create your new space. As an artist it is your job to create your own reality. You have to make strong work and create a way for it to be seen. An artist is a 24-hour functioning machine built to invent new ways to knock down boundaries.

At the first Draw-a-thon my intention was to have an eight-hour marathon with 12 models at low cost outside of art school. As the event grew, I formed a collaborative relationship with the models and saw the opportunity to bring in elements from my own art. I started composing full-length albums (Michael Alien, Van Gogh) to fit the scenes being created.

By the third Draw-a-thon Matt Brennan made a cardboard costume that reached 14 feet high. It was devastating. It had 12-foot arms that were operated by a nude man. When I saw that, I knew it was time to bring my drawings to life. Every month after that, me, Diana, Matt, and new member Will, made each Draw-a-thon an art project in itself.

Many artists are there because they want an alternative to conventional drawing classes and community, and we work very hard to make sure that there is a place for everyone who wants to be down. Most regular training is about academic basics, raw nude form, concentration, and focused silence on the model—which I believe can be counterproductive.

When things are too tight, they tend to break and people get tense. The energy is low and practice becomes rejected. Many art students leave art school never wanting to draw from the model—they think it’s lame—when in reality, the chance to observe and create from someone is special. I suggest context by grounding the models in reality—through their interaction with tangible things in an environment— making them more than just the nude bodies we see in traditional art education.

My Draw-a-thon is a collaboration with the models, my friends and the artists who come.

I encourage the viewer to reinterpret what is in front of them and show me their drawings—so I can be influenced.

106 |

Waiting for Michael, ink on paper, 2006, artwork © Michael Alan

| 107

R

oberta Bayley

By Stephen Blackwell

You may know Roberta Bayley by a photo she took in 1976. It was black and white, and wound up on the cover of the first punk rock album by the first punk rock band, both called the Ramones. She has an inimitable style and panache behind the lens that has gone on to help sell thousands upon thousands of records, T-shirts, posters, books, and various rock ’n’ roll memorabilia. She’s a legend. So how come she only made $125?

Knowing what I know of her, I expect Roberta Bayley to sashay into Café Orlin on St. Marks and Second with the air of Lower East Side royalty. Instead, she sort of hobbles. The queen of punk photography, it seems, has sprained her ankle. “Oh, you know,” she says when I ask her about it, “a New Yorker will be laying on the floor and up you go.”

After the requisite small talk, we slip into conversation about the city’s gentrification, its own

hustle if you will, and the role punk rock has played.

“You know that big mirrored tower over there?” she asks while pointing west, referring to 445 Lafayette Street, the Charles Gwathmey-designed luxury space built right at the heart of Astor Place. “I started getting things in the mail about it after they finished building. In one of the rooms they had this pop art mug shot of Sid Vicious, and the apartment started for something like $3.2 million. And that’s where I am going to move? Yeah, right.”

It’s an interesting point she brings up: the aggrandizement of one’s artistic work in the face of criticism, disenfranchisement, and a million biters.

How many images of Sid Vicious are the masses acquainted with that she snapped on the Sex Pistols’ U.S. tour? And where’s her cut? After all, people like her, Bob Gruen, Lee Childers, and the like were the first to make rock bands appear human: torn up, trying to not be themselves like the rest of us.

“The reason that happened is because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” she states. And it’s true. She grew up in San Francisco where she took one photography class in high school, the kind “where the teacher would take a look and give you a check plus or a check minus. But a lot of things come out of not knowing what you’re doing. The talent you have, you have it from the beginning. It’s only what you see, and then you hit a button.”

Bayley had not done extensive shooting prior to 1975 when she picked up her first camera, a Pentax Spotmatic. She purchased it to shoot the bands that performed at the club where she worked the door, CBGB. “The Ramones were the 28th roll. I had only shot 27 rolls of film before those photos,” she says of the infamous cover image. “I was paid $125. That included the album cover and a second shot that was used for publicity.”

So much for the hustle. When I suggest she must have been stoked at the time, she scoffs, “Oh, they said take it or leave it. I didn’t have a choice really. ’Cause they already spent $2000 on another photographer and they hated his pictures.”

I walk Bayley back towards her apartment, and she reminds me what things used to be for her and her legendary friends. “I was poor once. Nobody had any money back then. But if I can do a little better every year, then I’ll be doing just fine.”

I head west to hop on the downtown 6 stop at Astor. A bunch of teenagers in skinny jeans and punk t-shirts are hanging out at the Cube, smoking cigarettes, talking shit, wasting time. It looks fitting in the shadow of that big mirrored tower.

The Ramones, New York, 1976 108 |

| 109

Books featured in this issue Acts of Charity by Mark Peterson (powerHouse Books) At the height New York City’s nonprofit social swirl, white-shoe charities scramble to give the gala parties that will tease a few more dollars out of their well-heeled patrons. What is revealed are the true personalities behind these seemingly selfless acts.

It’s All Good by Boogie (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books) A gripping look at the predators and prey in the drug game today, featuring crackheads, junkies, and gangsters living in the projects of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Bushwick, and Queensbridge, New York, a place where escape is one rock, one shot, one glock away.

The Art of the Interview: Lessons From A Master of the Craft

by Lawrence Grobel (Three Rivers Press) A sampling of the most memorable stories from Grobel’s career, from Oscar-winning actors and Nobel laureates to Pulitzer Prize-winning writers and sports figures.

International Lonely Guy by Harland Miller (Rizzoli) Combining a painterly aesthetic with a literary mind and a uniquely gritty, north-of-England sense of humor, Miller’s paintings convey a pervasive sense of nostalgia while playing with the ironies of rhetoric and reputation.

Back in the Days by Jamel Shabazz (powerHouse Books) The landmark book that brought 80s street style to the forefront of world consciousness, Shabazz’s first monograph is a timeless ode to hip hop as it was first lived on the streets of New York City.

Jackie: A Life in Pictures by Yann-Brice Dherbier and Pierre-Henri Verlhac (powerHouse Books) From her upper class childhood, the Camelot years, and her latter years as Mrs. Onassis, we witness the public and private moments of the famed former First Lady.

The Breaks: Stylin’ and Profilin’ 1982-1990 by Janette Beckman (powerHouse Books) Beckman goes diggin’ in the crates and unearths a collection of iconic hiphop shots of everything from album covers and studio portraits to street photography and candid snapshots.

East Side Stories: Gang Life in East L.A. by Joseph Rodriguez (powerHouse Books) Be forewarned: this book is not an idealized, romanticized, or heroicized look at gang culture. Rodriguez’s diary entries weave together the lives of gangsters, personalizing his raw, gripping photos and leaving us not as voyeurs but as insiders.

The Electric Image by Chris Kitze (powerHouse Books) On display, advertisements become altered by a change in size, context, and by reflections of other messages superimposed on them. Kitze’s photographs capture the ad as it is experienced as an adaptable entity, revealing new contexts while questioning the original’s authenticity and meaning.

Fake: Forgery, Lies, & eBay by Kenneth Walton (Simon Spotlight Entertainment) Ripped from the headlines of The New York Times, Fake chronicles the downward spiral of greed that led to Walton’s federal felony conviction for selling imposter artwork on eBay.

Fat Girl by Carlos Batts (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books) Enough with the idolization of eating disorders and bony butts! Batts brings the rippling flesh, intimate spectacle, and effervescent beauty of Lillian, his muse, in full effect.

Flesh Life: Sex in Mexico, Photographs by Joseph Rodriguez, Introduction

by Rubén Martinez (powerHouse Books) Documents the putas and putos who stroll the streets, cruising for johns and surviving on their wit, born out of true desperation.

How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale by Jenna Jameson (Regan Books) A shocking sexual history, an insider’s guide to the secret workings of the billion-dollar adult film industry, and a gripping thriller that probes deep into Jenna’s dark past.

Iraq: The Space Between by Christoph Bangert (powerHouse Books) While on assignment in Iraq for The New York Times, at a time when most foreign journalists had fled the country, Bangert records the distance he traveled as a civilian between worlds committed to destruction in the name of freedom.

Maripolarama by Maripol and Diego Cortez (powerHouse Books) Maripol’s photographs vividly depict the extraordinary personalities that inhabited the “forever” hip, arty Manhattan clubland during the post-punk era when hip hop was in its earliest stages and graffiti covered the landscape.

New York Changing: Revisiting Berenice Abbott’s New York (Princeton Architectural Press) More than six decades later, contemporary photographer Douglas Levere uses the same camera and locations Berenice Abbott used in her landmark book, Changing New York (1939).

Orientalia: Sex in Asia by Reagan Louie (powerHouse Books) Reveals day-to-day lives of women who, either by choice or by necessity, exchange their bodies for money. At once alluring and unsettling, intimate and acute, Orientalia offers incomparable insight into this exotic, sometimes erotic, and far from quixotic industry.

Public Access: Ricky Powell Photographs 1985–2005 (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books) The critically acclaimed midlife magnum opus of famed street, celebrity, and hip-hop photographer Ricky Powell, best known for his cult public access television show, Rappin’ with The Rickster.

Ruthless: A Memoir by Jerry Heller with Gil Reavill (Simon Spotlight Entertainment) Tells the explosive story of Jerry Heller’s alliance with Eric Wright aka Eazy-E, one of the legends of hip hop and a founding member of N.W.A.

True to the Game: A Teri Woods Fable by Teri Woods (Warner Books) The book that started it all! Gena and Quadir find themselves caught in the vicious yet seductive world of drugs and money.

E B I R

G N MI

O C N O O S G N I M CO WINTER ISSUE

Warhol | Makos in Context by Christopher Makos (powerHouse Books) An insider’s account of the hijinks and high times at the Factory and beyond, Warhol | Makos In Context is an unexpurgated visual record of New York’s most intriguing circle and a primary source document that puts Warhol in context in Makos’ life.

N O SO

C om S B SU ne.c

CO

TO TO DTzi GO

You On Top: Smart, Sexy Skills Every Woman Needs to Set the World on Fire by Kate White (Grand Central Publishing) From landing a great job to enjoying great sex, White presents 76 lessons on having it all—complete with anecdotes and tips from her own life and the celebrities and experts she’s met.

AWARD-WINNING PHOTOJOURNALISM

110 |

world’s best news pictures

Lapdancer by Juliana Beasley (powerHouse Books) An eye-opening look at the world of professional nude dancing taken by a dancer herself.

Glastonbury Music Festival 2007 Image ©Will Rose/UPPA/ZUMA Press

Bombshell: The Life and Crimes of Claw Money (Miss Rosen Editions/powerHouse Books) A hard rock retrospective by famed graffiti writer, fashion designer, fashion stylist, vintage clothing collector, and all-around diva Claw Money, who made her film debut in Doug Pray’s documentary, Infamy.

P I C T U R E S T H AT N E E D TO B E S E E N

BEST USE OF PHOTOGRAPHY - BOP

US $8.95 / INTL $12.50

Grab your copy Unique in its conception and scope, each issue provides over 70 pages of news, interviews, features and debate.

Reporting on everything from old masters to conceptualism, each month THE ART NEWSPAPER brings you the important stories from around the globe.

“The Art Newspaper is an invaluable source of information about art and the art world”.

PHILIPPE DE MONTEBELLO, DIRECTOR, METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, NEW YORK

NEWS, EVENTS, POLITICS, BUSINESS, ART, MONTHLY WWW.THEARTNEWSPAPER.COM M isha Erwitt

ADVERTISING: +1 212 343 0727 SUBSCRIPTION: +1 888 475 5993

37 Main Street Brooklyn, NY 11201 tel 866.99.ARENA e-mail arena@powerhousebooks.com

Mon–Fri 10 am –7 pm Sat–Sun 11 am –7 pm

powerHouse Books

Wish you were here...

I]Z ;jijgZ d[ 8dciZbedgVgn E]did\gVe]n B6N &)Ä&-! '%%-

EDL:G=DJH: 7DD@H VcY K>> egZhZci i]Z Òghi C:L NDG@ E=DID ;:HI>K6A l^i] \ZcZgdjh hjeedgi [gdb

8JG6IDGH @Vi]n GnVc BVgi^c EVgg AZhaZn 6# BVgi^c I^b 7VgWZg

Jane’s Carousel + 56 Water Street + DUMBO, Brooklyn, NY

k^h^i lll#cZlndg`e]did[Zhi^kVa#Xdb

F

ubz We Must, We do…But Really, Who Doesn’t?

Let me start by introducing myself: My name is Fubz.

I am a photographer, and one of the publishers of Beautiful/Decay magazine. This piece may come off as hypocritical but I can and will continue to be hypocritical sometimes. Being hypocritical keeps my perspective realistic; I do it for my own sanity, to see both sides. That being said, I am a hustler—be it as a photographer, a publisher, a marketing director, a DJ manager, or any other gig that keeps me immersed in independent culture. But my point, if you will, is to question the act of hustling and where it will lead us, or, more importantly, me.

As a generation, we have become “‘bout it” to get ahead as individuals, to live the American Dream.

As a result, some seem to have forgotten about the world beyond the Lower East Side or Melrose. Is this small world worth all the blogs, the Wednesday night parties, the flyering, the publishing, the making and remixing of music?

I am a native of New York. I spent a few years in Baltimore, which I look back at as the most growth I have had. My perspective is shy of being wellrounded. It bothers me, what I am really doing— always hustling for a dollar or leaving my mark on society via culture? I have been questioning what I am adding, and whom I am helping other then myself.

It is all bollocks.

Think of the magazine, record label, promotions company, website, store, clothing line, printing company, design firm, consulting company that you work for or may even own and run… What is it worth? Why do we work? What are we really doing? What ever happened to altruism? Who am I to think that my culture is the most important? If I spent a percentage of the energy I use to keep all my endeavors moving forward to help out others—or better yet the larger scheme of the world, not just my scheming—maybe this world would be better off. I am surrounded by handfuls of self-driven people; I wonder what would happen if we all took a step back from the few square miles we maneuver in.

Does the world beyond know “tastemakers” or “influencers” exist—and are they even supposed to?

Is it necessary to add to what we have already? What kind of future are we contributing to? Sometimes, I want to stop and participate in real social change and not just continue on an obscure path of independent culture. I started thinking this way many years ago, but put it on a back burner due to the need to feed myself, literally.

Recently I started documenting my home borough of Queens. While doing this I crossed paths with a multitude of races, religions, nationalities, and cultures and found the hustle is larger and more meaningful than the culture I live for. People hand out flyers, run food carts, sell clothing or bootleg

120 |

Photo from an ongoing series documenting the 118 square miles of the borough of Queens.

DVDs for a living on Roosevelt Avenue—and are happy, or at least smiling when doing it. They have come to New York for a better life. Their hustle is far more cutthroat and vital than mine will ever be. I tip my hat to everyone hustling for theirs.

Many people come to New York to have a piece of the streets paved with gold, as the old adage they told the immigrants goes—even believing that old Sinatra line about making it here. Those people believe in the hustle, as do I, but please, let’s not lose sight of our reality.