W W W . A R T W E D N E S D AY. C O M
T h i s i s co p y n u m b er
James
Max
The Watermill Center, near Southampton, Long Island, is a laboratory for creativity and experimentation. Founded by the avant-garde theatre director Robert Wilson in 1992, it is a place where young and emerging artists meet to do, “what no-one else is doing,� says Wilson. It is also his home and archive. A Waco, Texas native, Wilson gained international notoriety when he joined forces with Philip Glass on the the monumental opera, Einstein on the Beach, in 1976. Collaboration and collision drive Wilson’s large and influential body of work, which transcends convention and includes performance art, opera, musical theatre, drawings, and furniture design.
At the Watermill Center, each room is intricately curated with junctures and fissions between common objects, pre-Columbian artifacts, artistic works, and chairs. Chairs are everywhere; as functional places to sit, modernist antiques, and objects set loose and placed in exaggerated contexts. The artists are always cooperating, contextualizing and experimenting alongside Wilson. And while they’re immersed in their own unique visions, the beauty of Wilson’s haven is the way these bright, creative minds are able to derive inspiration when their collective perspectives join together.
coming of age B y A l e x i W asser
Once upon a time, a much younger version of me went to New York to see a boy. I barely had any money, but an ex-fling told me about a cheap hotel he’d seen advertised in the back of The Village Voice. $200 a week did sound too good to be true, especially in New York’s fashionable meat packing district, but I was a hopeful dreamer! When I arrived, the hotel was a shit-hole filled with the borderline homeless and trannys. It was a place where hookers took their john. God, I was an idiot. Or was I just super young? Maybe both. I rode up in the hotel’s jalopy of an elevator, while a big black hulking brute of a man stood behind me, his warm breath on my neck. He bore a hole in the back of my head with his relentless stare. I think he was drooling too—not that I think I’m hot shit or anything. I’m sure he would have drooled over any girl he was planning to kill with his bare hands. But that day, it was me. Me! We arrived at my floor. I ran to my room, and he followed. I hoped he didn’t think I was racist, cuz I’m not—but the blood on his face and his lazy-eye made me nervous. Not to mention, he was following me after pressing the button for another floor. I got to my room, and the peephole was filled with toilet paper. Someone had removed the glass and filled it with toilet paper. The room was as small as an American Apparel dressing room. But not nearly as modern and bright. I could hear heavy breathing. I pushed my bag and a chair against the door. Suddenly there was a knock, which progressed into a threatening bang! “Let me in, miss. You better let me in!” It was the guy from the elevator!
The banging continued. I was too scared to cry. This was no time to cry. ‘Be calm.’ I crawled under the bed, yelling, “Get away from here! I’m calling the police!” This would have been difficult, as there was no phone in the room and I didn’t have a cell. I was going to get raped, die, or experience a combination of the two. I grabbed my bag, pried open the window and climbed eight flights down the fire escape like a bullet. The front desk could keep my money. I called the boy I’d come to New York to see. We’d had one epic make-out during a previous visit and I wanted so badly to recapture whatever it is I thought we’d had. But when I got to his place—it just wasn’t there anymore. This whole visit was putting way too much pressure on the both of us. I wasn’t in a good place emotionally either, not just cuz I’d nearly been murdered. I also didn’t like my body anymore. I’d gained weight since I’d last seen him. And I thought my looks were the only thing that defined my self-worth. I felt needy and aimless. I didn’t feel loved or safe. And it wasn’t this dude’s job to provide me with any of that. He was basically a stranger. And was it just me, or was I like a foot taller than him? I guess I’d never realized how much my head tilted down when we were talking. Then I got my period. Instead of making up an excuse so I could run downstairs to a bodega or something and buy tampons and baby wipes, swing by a Starbucks so I could use their bathroom, buy us two lattes, and then return saying something like, ‘God, they took forever to make these lattes!’ (which is what I would do now...), I went mute. Did nothing. He suggested we smoke pot. I really didn’t want to, so I said, ‘OK’. As usual, the pot made me paranoid as fuck. Suddenly every look and move he made was negative and aimed towards me. We passed out at his house… and I prayed that I wouldn’t bleed on his sheets. I left in the morning, without saying goodbye. I called my ex-fling who’d vouched for the shit-hole hotel, figuring he owed me. He said I could stay with him. The only thing was, I didn’t wanna have sex with him, but I knew I’d feel obligated. He’s a dude, I’m a girl, and we’d already had sex. I just shouldn’t have gone to New York. Yikes, being a teenager who thinks she can handle everything can be very confusing.
He was house-sitting for a painter in the East Village. When I got there, a few of his friends we’re hanging out. A photographer and her bestest girlfriend, the fashion designer. These girls were mean. They were flaunting their intimate friendship making it very clear that there was no chance they’d ever consider opening up the group to make room for me. They were members of an exclusive club that was at capacity, and I was the nerd standing outside in line. Geeze, I didn’t even have time to decide if I liked them, before they made it clear they were excluding me. So I drank, creating more bloat that I’d hate myself for later. We sat around, watched a movie, listened to Andrew WK, and talked a bunch of random bullshit. Eventually everyone went home, leaving me and the dude to ourselves. I dreaded this, cuz I wasn’t feeling sexual. But he was slowly morphing into a self-proclaimed doctor of sexy. Healing girls who didn’t feel good about themselves, it was clear he was about to take me on as his first patient. We laid on the living room floor and started kissing. I could handle this. Maybe he would just French kiss me for a bit then fall asleep? He pulled my pants down, I mumbled, ”No, um, don’t... I, um, I’m having my female problem.” Female problem? If I could have punched myself in the face to snap me out of my passive bullshit, I would have. But I was so deep inside my skin. I couldn’t see or take ownership of myself. I couldn’t stop apologizing. It was like everyone else was perfect, and I was just lucky to be among them. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it! How spineless and weak I was. What was I so scared of? Why did I care what anyone thought about me? He didn’t stop pulling my pants down. ‘Huh? That’s weird,’ I thought. He must not have heard me. I said it louder now. “But I have my period.” He looked at me, and I looked back at him. His head was between my legs, and he just smiled. And that’s when my gnarliest sexual experience happened to me in my whole entire life! He very coolly and calmly pulled my tampon out of my vadge with his teeth, tossed it aside, and went down on me...
p
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CA
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hope
T h e F i r s t St e p i s A d m i tt i n g Y o u Ha v e a P r o b l e m P h o t o g r a p h e r S cott T r i nd l e S t y l i s t N u ra K h an
Jade wears coat by Versace.
From left: Jade wears coat by Aquascutum. Emily wears trench by Burberry. Tights by Wolford.
Jaime wears coat by Cacharel. Gilet by Neil Barrett. Jeans by Cheap Monday. Coat (on chair) by Clements Ribeiro.
Emily wears jacket, lingerie, and hat by Louis Vuitton. Tights by Agent Provocateur. Coat and parka by Joseph.
From left: Caroline wears coat and bag (on f loor) by Topshop. Coat (inside) by Joseph. Boots by Ferragamo. Chloe wears coat by Joseph. Coat inside by Miha. Bra by Eres. Tights by Jonathan Aston. Shoes by Jimmy Choo. Bag by Simone Rocha. Jade wears coat by Burberry. Shoes by Manolo Blahnik. Bag (on f loor) by Paco Rabanne. Jaime wears coat by Matthew Williamson. Tights by Wolford. Shoes by Tabitha Simmons. Idina wears tights by Falke. Shoes by Ferragamo.
Idina wears parka by Kinder Aggugini. Coat (inside) by Cacharel. Lingerie by Eres.
From left: Chloe wears coat by Missoni. Bra by Eres. Shoes by Charlotte Olympia. Tights by Falke. Caroline wears coat by Missoni. Jeans by Ksubi. Shoes by Jimmy Choo. Tights by Falke. Bronte wears coat by Giles. Shoes by Topshop.
Fa s h i o n D i r e c t o r M aya S i n g er H a i r A l e x Brownse l l a t T h e B o o k A g e n c y f o r Bl e a c h L o n d o n M a k e - u p Ly z M arsden a t The Book A genc y P h o t o g r a p h y A s s i s t a n t M ark S i m p son Fa s h i o n A s s i s t a n t L u cy G l over Mo d e l s J ade Par f i tt a t S t o r m , C h l oe Hayward , E m i ly Ho p e a n d J a i me W i nstone a t Ne x t , C aro l i ne B u i st, Bronte a n d Id i na a t S e l e c t L o c a t i o n M a x i l l a S oc i a l C l u b , No t t i n g H i l l , L o n d o n
Po r t r a i t s E m i ly Ho p e
b ac k t o t h e f u t u r e
LOO K ING F OR LIL Y C OLE ’ S DRE A M IN E A S T LONDON
B y J ess i ca Br i nton
1: Farm : S h o p, D a l ston Lane , London .
Ask Lily Cole to describe her perfect city of the future and this is what she’ll tell you: “Blade Runner meets Into Great Silence. It would be a stoned version of New York, if that city were run by Shinto monks. New York with all the madness history and energy it offers, made sustainable, with no poverty, more nature, more birds, more green, more butterflies, more spaces of quietness and calm, more community, more culture, more street parties, more music, more dancing, more laughter.” We are peering at some chickens on a roof of Farm:shop, a three-storey, nine month old in-house farm in Dalston. The chickens are in a coop. Downstairs there are fish in a tank, and fruit trees growing in cupboard under lamps. “Are they… happy? ” she asks of the chickens, looking at the skyline (cranes, planes) but a notice on the door reassures her that yes, these hens, that lay two Dalston eggs a day, are very happy. The tomatoes are “doing well” too, and the lettuce, which are grown in a “hydroponic lettuce system.” “Chickens are very easy to look after!” says Paul, one of the proprietors of Farm:shop. “They’re like vending machines, you feed them and you get eggs out. I didn’t know what eggs were. They’re a natural discharge, it isn’t a little baby! That’s a new one for me.” Lily worries about the tomatoes “shyly pushing their heads out into the concrete
3 : wo l f o l i ns , a l l sa i nts street, l ondon . 2 : Bootstra p com pany, as h w i n street, l ondon .
landscape,” and buys a shitake mushroom honey for 20 tiny pots (“it tastes surprisingly good, like elderflower!” says Amy Lee, who
home-growing loaf.
It’s clear that Farm:shop doesn’t have all runs the company’s Honey Club). Next year, the answers for Lily (“the environment seems they’re expecting hundreds. harshly urban in this instance but it would be
Is it just us, or does the building feel
great if the idea picked up and more natural sort of... jolly? and agricultural spaces could be incorporated
“There is no better feeling than being on
into the city landscape to localise aspects of that roof,” says Stewart, clearly delighted with the situation. “You smell soil, plant
food production”).
Perhaps the Bootstrap Company will. The something, grow it and eat it. You see the building in Dalston rented out as work space horizon! The building is a living breathing to young creatives and charities has solar thing, not just a concrete structure. We panels on the roof that generate 70 percent reached a stage now where we can’t of the building’s energy on a sunny day. They imagine the building not having the garden also have a friendly gardening club growing and the bees anymore.” This is closer to what Lily was talking
vegetables up there too.
“We’re trading off time for product,” says about! “It’s contagious,” says Stewart, Sam Aldenton, Chief Executive. “We’ve given because the business in the next building ourselves time back and when we do that, we halted work on its roof and revised its plan do things like grow vegetables and take time to in order to have a garden too. “Once you do contact someone on Freecycle with our sofa.”
it and show it to people, they say, we’ll do it
Lily has friends at Wolf Olins, a branding and why didn’t we do this ages ago?” company in King’s Cross. Three years ago, the
Guess who loves bees too? “They’re
business made friends with Global Generation, really very fascinating,” says Lily, who has a local children’s charity, moved four tonnes a tattoo on her foot that reads “as the bees of earth onto its roof, and began to grow do geometry” in Latin. She also wrote her cabbages and potatoes, root vegetables and final art history thesis on the Mexican artist herbs. In May 2011, some bee hives arrived.
Gabriel Orozo and his “artistic interventions
Stewart in the urban landscape, demonstrating our Robertson, the building manager, who’s capacity for creative engagement and realready made the joke that working up here imagining of reality every day.” “It’s
been
wonderful,”
“isn’t bad for a job, ha ha!”
says
“There is an inexplicable wonder and
“The bees, the veg… Well you go to the mystery to how bees know how or why to supermarket and chuck it in your basket, don’t play, or the part they play as individuals you?” says Stewart. “But it takes 35 weeks for within the whole.” Who’d live in a super city that wasn’t as a cabbage to grow.” This year, the hives—which were established in May—have made enough wise as a hive?
C u r a t e d b y N oa h K h os h b i n
e h t
f o k r wo
the invisible man
a
n i lv
l a b
p o tr
When no-one was interested, Alvin Baltrop (1948-2004) found beauty in the chaos that was otherwise invisible. Prostitutes plying their trade, runaways engaged in sordid acts, casual liaisons, corpses fished out of a river. In the 70s and 80s, the piers on New York City’s Hudson River looked abandoned—but amid the ruins was a heaving bed of artistic and sexual experimentation. The African-American photographer watched friends, lovers, and strangers through his lens, reinterpreting the so-called dark side as something elegant and beautiful. He documented the piers as a breathing architectural ruin—a raw amalgamation of opera house, bathhouse and flophouse for the city’s subculture inhabitants. It was theatre in the broadest terms. By fusing portraits, still-life and landscapes into a performative and illicit architecture, Baltrop blended multiple photographic approaches. And in the end, created a new storytelling art form. He patiently waited hours for the pitch perfect image, sometimes dwelling in the pier’s rafters to capture a moment from afar, other times breathtakingly close to the action. Alvin Baltrop walked the same NYC streets as Francesca Woodman, Larry Clark, Peter Moore, and Danny Lyon—but passed on the other side. His powerful images, rarely shown before his death, were rejected and dismissed. A social outcast. Perhaps the New York art world can ask itself why they crossed the street when they saw him coming.
A ll images cour tesy of t h e A lv i n Ba ltro p T r u st & t h i rd stream i n g l l c ( ny )
busto y paisaje  2011
piernas abiertas  2011
cuerpo roto  2011
P h o t o g r a p h y a n d A r t PA O L A K U D A C K I Mo d e l M A R Y N A LY N C HU K Je w e l r y T O M F O R D S t y l i s t N ATA S H A R OY T M a k e Up Y U M I H a i r N E IL M O O D I E M a n i c u r i s t T O M B A C HI K A s s i s t a n t C R A IG S A L M O N D i g i t a l Te c h A L E S S I O B O N I C a p t u r e a n d R e t o u c h i n g D -T O U C H
stephens
Po r t r a i t s b y Backyard B i l l
Estuarios Estuaries 2001
Chances are, you haven’t heard the name Luis Stephens—and he prefers it that way. The only reason his colorful oil paintings have come to light? His family persuaded him, after decades of painting, to let us into his beautiful, abstract world. Turns out, Stephens doesn’t crave recognition. At all. The Mexican artist—and one-time fencing Olympian—has created 90 incredible pieces in 45 years. Cast your eye over his work, and it’s clear that Stephens’ finely-tuned attention to the smallest details is one of the governing principals of his work. He painstakingly imagines realistic figures in fantastical settings, emphasizing the relationship—as he perceives it—between object and form. He pours over the same painting, sometimes for years, until it is perfect. Stephens paints every Wednesday—without fail.
Acuario (m贸vil) Aquarium (mobile) 2008
Tres Orejas Three Ears 2009
Ritos Danzantes Dance Rites 1979
Susana Susannah 1995
La Familia Del Artista The Artist’s Family 1984
El Amor de Dios God’s Love 1979
five minutes with luis stephens What do you wear when you’re being creative? Jodhpurs. If we climbed into bed with you, what would we find? Flannel sheets, K-Y natural, and a cask of Amontillado. What irritated you today? Squeaky beans. What’s the worst art show you’ve ever been to?
New German Expressionists, in Mexico City about 10 years ago. Nothing works on huge canvasses. Small bad paintings are bad enough; when they are giant size they worsen exponentially. Which animal, vegetable or mineral would you most like to see Damien Hirst cover in diamonds and flog for a small fortune? The Rock of Gibraltar—try them apples, Hirst! Imagine you’re Richard Prince. What picture do you re-shoot and call your own? Ralph Gibson: “Days at Sea.” The first line of your gravestone will read... Here lies Luis—he knew jack shit. (Plagiarized from T. Lekas.) What does your brain have as its screensaver? It’s an image. William Bouguereau—“Nymphs and Satyr.” What’s the most expensive piece of art you’ve bought? Five paintings by the artist Maxwell Gordon, in November of 1965. And they were absolutely worth it. Which song instantly picks you up? Monk—“Sophisticated Lady.” What makes you get out of bed in the morning? Life, of course. Beautiful life. Make us laugh. A man walks into an expensive restaurant and decides to order only appetizers and soup. He gets three orders of Beluga caviar, two orders of artichoke hearts and one order of bone marrow on toast. He then orders an expensive wine and the special Udon noodle soup. He walks out without paying the bill. The proprietor runs after him just as he’s pulling out of the parking lot, jumps into his car, and frantically follows the thieving client. When he finally spots the perpetrator’s car it is parked in front of a brothel. The proprietor runs in and denounces the non-payee to the madam. They both dash up to room 10A to find the culprit with his face deeply imbedded in a lady’s most intimate area. The restaurant owner screams at him, “You didn’t pay my bill!” The man removes himself a little and explains, “I didn’t pay your bill, sir, because the soup had a hair in it.” The restaurateur sputters, “A hair in the soup, a HAIR in the SOUP! Look at what you’re eating NOW!” The man replies, “Yes, and I’m not gonna pay for this if, in here, I find a NOODLE!”
‘she has eyes in the back of your head’
‘she has eyes in the back of your head’
P h o t o g r a p h e r W i l l i am E adon S t y l i s t A nna b e l T o l l man
Shoes by Tom Ford.
Bra by Agent Provocateur.
Top and bow-tie by Kiki de Montparnasse.
Dress by Valentino. Shoes by Yves Saint Laurent.
the pancake Makes 8-10 What you need 110g Plain Flour a pinch of salt a pinch of sugar 1 free-range egg 1 free-range egg yolk 285ml milk 2 tablespoons of melted butter How to make it Put the flour, salt and sugar into a mixing bowl. Gradually whisk in the egg, egg yolk, and milk until smooth. Heat a pan to a medium heat. Dip a piece of kitchen paper into butter and wipe around the pan. Add one ladleful of batter and swirl it around. Fry the pancake from 30 seconds to one minute, until it’s nicely golden on its base. Carefully flip it over and cook it for another 30 seconds. Hints and tips Don’t over-beat your batter. Rest your batter in the fridge for at least 30 minutes. It’s sod’s law that your first pancake is a disaster—so don’t let it put you off. Courtesy of Gizzi Erskine, author of Gizzi’s Kitchen Magic.
Collar by Louis Vuitton. Blouse by Valentino. Shoes by Tom Ford.
Tuxedo bib and top by Kiki de Montparnasse.
We asked William Eadon to probe his friend and actress, the divine Rebecca Dayan. In return, she was allowed to poke back. Brace yourself. W Who are you? R Still figuring it out. W So you meditate. Give me some tips. R Close your eyes. Breathe deep. Repeat. W If you were invisible, you would... R Rob a bank. Naked. W Ever cheated? R Ask me no questions; I’ll tell you no lies. W So, you’re an actress... tell me about your latest film. R I just finished a movie called Celeste And Jesse Forever, a romantic comedy set in LA, with Rashida Jones and Andy Samberg. W How do your mornings usually go? R Turn alarm off. Go back to sleep. W What is the naughtiest thing you did as a child? R Make my friend drink piss. W If you could be me for the day, you would... R Change your focus.
R What surprises people about you? W My age. I’m constantly being underestimated because I look younger than I am... but I am experienced mannnnnn. R What would we find in your bedside-table drawer? W Condoms. Crystals. Catharsis. R When was the last time you lied? W Probably when I was a child over something silly, I guess. I don’t lie, to a fault. But I do like to sneak up behind people and scare them. R What was your first sexual experience? W I guess rubbing up against the Davenport watching Scooby Doo—I thought Daphne was pretty. Or maybe it was an episode of Wonder Woman. The “lasso of truth” turned me on. Those girls on Gilligan’s Island were sexy too. R How would you like to die? W Old and fast. R What’s your favorite curse word? W Fuck. R When do you look your best? W When I’m not looking. (That is to say, when I’m feeling my best.) R If you could be me for the day, what would you do? W Hang out alone, masturbate, dance, drink a little, repeat. Whoops. I’m me again, Tempus Fugit.
A c t r e s s R e b ecca D ayan H a i r S l oane S era & E r i c Ha u ck a t B u m b l e a n d B u m b l e , N YC M a k e - u p T racy A l fajora a t Jo e f o r Na r s C o s m e t i c s S t y l i s t s A s s i s t a n t s Par i s S cott & K ate S c h oenstadt S e t d e s i g n M anny N orena a t M a n u e l No r e n a S t u d i o , N YC S p e c i a l t h a n k s t o Zac h V e l l a
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W W W . A R T W E D N E S D AY. C O M
E ditors-in- Ch ief & Creat ive Direc tors J ames Pen f o l d & M a x Ber g i u s A rt Director E l ke Hans p ac h @I n k Va l l e y - L o n d o n Photo Director A c i d Po l ka - A u k A r t Fe a t u r e s E d i t o r C h r i st i ne M ess i neo Fa s h i o n D i r e c t o r M aya S i n g er Fe a t u r e s E d i t o r Brooke Le Poer T renc h Contr ibutors Pao l a K u dack i , M aryna L i nc h u k , J ess i ca Br i nton , L i ly C o l e , W i l l i am E adon , R e b ecca D ayan , T odd S e l b y, R o b ert W i l son , L u i s S te p h ens , B i l l Gent l e , L u dv i g , S cott T r i nd l e , M ark S i m p son , N oa h K h os h b i n , A nna b e l T o l l man , N u ra K h an , S l oane S era , E r i c Ha u ck , N atas h a R oyt, Y u m i , N e i l M ood i e , T om Bac h i k , T racy A l f ajora , Par i s S cott, K ate S c h oenstadt, M anny N orena , A l e x Brownse l l , Ly z M arsden , J ade Par f i tt, C h l oe Hayward , E m i ly Ho p e , J a i me W i nstone , C aro l i ne B u i st, Bronte , Id i na , g i z z i ersk i ne Special thank s A l e x E a g l e , Pa u l Hod g son , K i rsty R e i l ly, E m i ly S ykes , J o & A l b ert at M a x i l l a Ha l l S oc i a l C l u b , L u cy G l over , N i am h Q u i nn , R od M an l ey, Zac V e l l a , M att h ew S h att u ck , J or g e L i nares , A lv i n Ba ltro p tr u st, C ra i g S a l mon , A l esso Bon i , R u p ert Fow l er , t h e W aterm i l l C enter sta f f, D -T o u c h N YC , K ev i n Braddock , A nndra N een , E l ayne Bo h ary, Farm S h o p, W o l f f O l i ns , Bootstra p C om p any, S am T easeda l e , J ason R e i d , ce l est i ne c l ooney, l u ke t i p p i n g , t h i rd stream i n g l l c ( ny ) , a l l sta f f at g enerat i on p ress , p a u l h ew i tt, h ay l ey roac h , randa l w i l co x , g eor g e p ank , caro l i ne nosewort h y, mark morr i son , n i co l as ma l l ev i l l e , jack dr i ver A nd f inal ly big love goes to the fol low ing for believ ing: Frank & S a l ly Ber g i u s T ony & R ose Pen f o l d Peter , jane , samant h a , james & tony sm i t h A nd s p ec i a l ly a l l o u r f am i ly & f r i ends w h o h ave s h own e x traord i nary s u p p ort - yo u a l l know w h o yo u are ! Publisher A rt W ednesday For all editorial enquiries please contact editorial@artwednesday.com For all advertising enquiries from issue two and beyond advertise@artwednesday.com For all correspondence 8 Quebec Wharf, 315 Kingsland Road, London E8 4DJ Š2011. Art Wednesday Limited, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or part without permission from the publishers. The views expressed in AWE Magazine are those of the respective contributors, and are not necessarily shared by the magazine or its staff. Printed and bound in the UK by Generation Press.
W W W . A R T W E D N E S D AY. C O M W W W . A R T W E D N E S D AY-J O U R N A L . C O M W W W .T W I T T E R . C O M / A R T W E D N E S D AY W W W . F A C E B O O K . C O M / A R T W E D N E S D AY