ANP QUARTERLY VOL 2 / NO 8

INTERVIEW BY NORA ATAPOL / IMAGES COURTESY VDROME AND THE ARTISTS

On a recent weekday morning, as I was exploring the deep “art” web, as I do from time to time, I stumbled on something that kind of blew my mind. As with all things internet, I’m not sure how I discovered this site…it was probably at the end of some vortex that started with Kristin Stewart and took a left around horoscopes, but regardless I arrived at Vdrome. I can’t think of any other online film venue quite like it. I’ve learned so much from their selections I can’t even begin to describe it. I found out that the project was started by four partners, Edoardo Bonaspetti, Jens Hoffmann, Andrea Lissoni, and Filipa Ramos, who are scattered between New York and Milan. Their program is focused exclusively on films made by artists. As you might know, it is rare to be able to view these obscure works outside the gallery context, so Vdrome really does provide a wonderful service for those of us who love to explore these mediums. In their own words, they describe the project as being, “…created to investigate and promote the relationship between cinema and contemporary art via an online platform that offers regular, high quality screenings of films and videos by international visual artists and filmmakers.” That said, there’s something really unique about their approach to this. Rather then archiving works and letting them drown away in the muck of online data like so many other sites, Vdrome runs their content for limited runs.

Each film is selected and presented by an international critic or curator, and is introduced by an interview with the director or an essay by the curator that frames it within a context and offers insight and behind-the-scenes information. Films usually play for around two weeks before they are taken down and replaced with a new fantastic offering. We recently interviewed the partners to find out more about Vdrome and how it all works.

(clockwise from right) Wu Tsang, WILDNESS, 2012, 74 Minutes, HD Color Video Matt Wolf, I Remember: A Film About Joe Brainard, 2012, 24 min, video, color, sound. Photo by Wren de Antonio Jennifer West, Salt Crystals Spiral Jetty Dead Sea Five Year Film (70mm film negative floated in the Dead Sea and given a healing clay bath in extreme heat in 2008 - stuffed in a suitcase, placed in studio buckets, covered in clay and salt for five years - dragged along the salt encrusted rocks of the Spiral Jetty and thrown in the pink waters in 2013 in below 10 degree weather - Dead Sea floating and mud baths by Mark Titchner, Karen Russo and Jwest - Spiral Jetty dragging and rolling by Aaron Moulton, Ignacio Uriarte and Jwest - DIY telecine frame by frame of salt covered film by Chris Hanke) 2013, 54 seconds, 70mm film negative transferred to high-definition Commissioned by the Utah Museum of Contemporary Art Courtesy Marc Foxx, Los Angeles and Vilma Gold, London Vincent Meessen, Vita Nova, 2009, 27 minutes, DV, color, sound Courtesy Normal

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ANP: How did the original idea for Vdrome manifest?

Vdrome: We had a long incubation phase, in which it changed and evolved typology until it achieved its current format. It started as the wish to organize a one-off program of screenings of artist’s films and videos in Milan, where Mousse Magazine, that hosts the whole project, is based. Yet very soon that idea demonstrated to be distant from the kind of permanent venue, always accessible to everyone that we wanted to offer, and gradually the project started evolving into the constitution of Vdrome, which lies on a very simple desire: that of sharing for a given period of time a specific selection of films and videos by artists and filmmakers that in our opinion are very good and that have a limited access.

ANP: Where did you get the name?

VDR: Cronenberg meets VanDerBeek. Somehow it is a tribute to those two visionary figures, to Cronenberg’s film Videodrome and to Stan Vanderbeek’s Movie Drome, both having stretched the concept of ‘expansion’ towards other spaces, dimensions, and other forms of moving images. Vdrome is also a short and direct name that refers to a common place of encounter, a place where something is always going on.

ANP: Why do you think it’s important to showcase hard to see films?

VDR: Vdrome is less about showing movies that are difficult to get hold of, but about sharing certain works that we find memorable with those who are as curious and enthusiastic by watching them as we are.

ANP: Is there a specific curatorial agenda that you follow?

VDR: Apart from a deep, challenging and always productive confrontation between the four of us about the films and videos that we watch on festivals, exhibitions or suggestions by friends, we have very specific criteria that we share and respect. They mostly concern the average length of each movie, their production date, and their inner, narrative structure. But what we privilege the most is the possibility of presenting exceptional works, with a striking relevance, quality and innovation, and those factors always speak stronger than any general set of rules and agenda. For instance, generally the movies are shown individually and have a general minimum length of 20 minutes but that did not prevent us from screening Amar Kanwar’s poignant A Love Story, or of presenting two experimental short films by Jennifer West.

ANP: The films you showcase are only available for a limited time. What is the conceptual reason for this?

VDR: Vdrome is not a platform, a virtual multiplex nor a record office: we are not interested in functioning as an online video club or as a digital film archive, but in creating a unique experience in which all our efforts are concentrated in presenting in the best possible way the specific work that we selected. There is also a clear allusion to the movie theatre tradition of presenting movies for a limited period and of announcing the future program as “coming soon”. For the time frame in which the work is presented, Vdrome becomes that specific piece, it changes its appearance and it gives it full, unique, exclusive attention.

ANP: What have been some of the most interesting things you’ve learned since starting Vdrome?

VDR: That the film and art audiences are not two separated entities, as it is often thought. That the invention of a precise exhibition format, regardless of the medium or context in which it is presented, is central for the well-functioning of a project. That critical and theoretical frames are vivid complements of artworks.

ANP: Where would you like to see this project expand to in the future?

VDR: In space. Seriously. www.vdrome.org

Los Angeles is a city of secrets. Nothing could prove this fact in a better way than Either Way. I suppose one could call it a gallery, but it’s more of a meeting space. Either Way is actually in the basement of a house, nestled deep in the back hills of Echo Park, that belongs to Julia M. Leonard. Julia is an artist, curator, designer, and collector of interesting curios. Rather than settle for the status quo, she has decided to put her money where her mouth is, and open a truly unique exhibition space. Since its inception, Either Way has exhibited the works of Chris Lux, Paul Gellman, Jessica Hans, Dane Johnson and Ruby Neri (who is also Julia’s sister). We sat down with Julia on a recent Sunday morning, as she set up a strange and wonderful selection of wacky articles in her front driveway for the weekly open house and garage sale.

INTERVIEW BY KENNETH BARBEE / IMAGES COURTESY OF THE GALLERY

ANP: How did the idea for Either Way come about?

Julia M. Leonard: I lived in San Francisco for 14 years. Because of that I was both new and familiar with the LA art scene. My sister lives here and I would go back and forth. When I moved here I started meeting artists and LA is so spread out. You know in San Francisco you’re always meeting people in someone’s backyard, but I was looking for a way to pull artists together here. I wanted to introduce my friends to each other and hang out with their artwork in a space together. My backyard is a pretty nice place to be, so I just wanted to I guess start a conversation. I wanted to have a space that’s more run by us than having a lot of other motives or agendas. It’s a more organic space in a way.

ANP: How do you choose the artists who show here?

JML: It’s just pretty much my best buds! The people whose work really inspires me. My family. So it’s pretty close knit. Working together outside of the art world seemed like a good idea.

ANP: What is it about the art world that you want to separate yourself from?

JML: I don’t know if I want to separate myself from it. I think it’s just that L.A. can be a little intimidating at times. Just this idea of like, the epic show. This place is like one notch removed from that. Most of our openings are more like a barbeque. They’re more relaxed. A more intimate gathering. Not that I’m rejecting the art world. I think that wonderful things are happening and it’s really exciting, it’s really great, but I think creating my own little catch all of that is nice.

Taking from what I see as the gold of what’s happening right now. That’s what I’m going for I guess.

ANP: Do you feel like there is more freedom, both for yourself and the artists you show, by creating a space that’s outside of the usual discourse?

JML: Yeah, we invite performance artists to do performances in the park. I like introducing artists to work together and then see what happens. I’ve had some pretty epic moments with Either Way where I’m like, “Wow this feels really good!” I think that bringing humans together to make art on a really personal level is a beautiful thing. The premise is working with artists to make new, maybe more useful objects. So it’s not about a painting. It’s about something that has a more useful function in your life. Or, if you want, you can covet it and call it art.

That’s the Either Way aspect of it all.

ANP: Is that where the name comes from?

JML: Yeah. That it can either be something precious and on a pedestal or it can be like a beautiful artist made dishtowel that gets used everyday. But it also looks great just hanging there you know? I think art should be your friend. Sometimes it’s gotta do stuff. I wanna touch it! I was a teacher for almost 10 years. I taught preschool. It was a great experience. I love making work with young people and I think I kind of look at working with adults in the same way in some senses. Not that I think they’re children, but I feel that we make art all our lives. That’s what I’m interested in. Not just art that someone else says is important. Kids art is so raw and so personal. That’s what I’ve spent most of my life around.

ANP: Do you feel that there’s an educational component to Either Way? JML: I think it’s more therapeutic. A lot of the artists have partnered with their parents on projects. Some have collaborated with their best friends. I’ve personally collaborated with some of the artists who have come. Those are good days for everybody, when we’re working on a project from love. Not to get too hippy. I think that I like to talk about art, but I don’t always feel the need to write it down. I don’t think that’s necessary to open up and think about it. I like to look at someone’s facial expressions when they talk about their work. I think that’s so important. We get kid of far away from that when we’re working hard in our studios. We have all these commitments and things we have to do.

ANP: Do you feel that looking at art in an over-academic fashion sometimes creates a disconnect?

JML: Well I think that artists put on a jacket of protection and put on a certain persona as an artist. You have to lose some of yourself in that process when you’re going to art fairs and talking to collectors. I think that when you just stand in a room with other artists there’s less expectation in there. You can do more in there. Maybe no one will see it, but it’s just like a safe place to put some work up. I like to work with young artists where I see their talent just squirting out of their ears.

ANP: So do you particularly focus on artists who are emerging?

JML: Not necessarily. They’re just people in my life. The people who invite me into their studios and start a conversation with me. Like I said, it’s a family affair.

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INTERVIEW BY DONALD BLISS / IMAGES COURTESY PORTLAND MUSEUM OF MODERN ART If you ever feel like complaining that there’s no more life in the art scene, then look no further than the Portland Museum of Modern Art. Located in Portland, Oregon, just below Mississippi Records, one of our favorite shops on earth, this non-profit space is one of the few galleries in Portland that we actually care about. We spoke to Libby Werbel, the space’s director to get more information on this unique enterprise.

ANP: How did you originally get the idea to open a space in Portland? Do you guys have a history in the art scene?

Libby Werbel: I grew up in Portland. One of the reasons I left was to seek out exposure to a richer arts culture that I wasn’t getting here back in the 90’s. I realized later that Portland is actually filled to the brim with people like me, thirsty for art like I was. It was important when I came back to start something that could welcome in the greater international arts community. It turned out that the art world is not so big, and I was always being asked by professional artists elsewhere if I knew of any independent art spaces in Portland where they could have shows. The need was always there. It just became more about putting the pieces together. It really wasn’t a hard decision to open up a space. It was harder to determine if I had the gumption to sustain it. The Portland Museum of Modern Art is just an experiment to see how far we could take the idea of a grass roots scrappy art space and legitimize it through the talent alone. That has been our goal all along: to have amazing “how did they do that?” type shows in the basement of a musty record shop, with very little money, but with an amazing community of artists who want to participate.

ANP: You’re located beneath Mississippi Records, one of my favorite places on earth. Are you affiliated with them?

LW: It is very symbiotic, yes. Eric Isaacson, the owner, is my greatest collaborator with this project. He is actually very hands off on the day to day, but when it comes to big picture stuff, he has been my go-to. His aesthetic sensibility informs most of the choices I make, and his taste and approval guide me as I wade through the process of curation and artist selection. We don’t always agree on the shows I have, and that can be pretty humorous at times, but I know when I do a knock-out show, he is really happy the gallery is there. It’s his business model with the record label that inspired me to know I can be an ethical person in a world that is sometimes

confusing and not always guided by ethical choices. He is a very good man to have on your team, and also a very good dancer.

ANP: Why did you decide to call it the Portland Museum of Modern Art? LW: The name wasn’t taken! At first I just thought it would be funny and bold, but eventually it became this reference to something bigger. I think it expresses our ethos. The name subverts expectations and winks at being outside the establishment, yet still makes a reference to the art world and acknowledges the importance of this world culturally. Also when you are creating something out of nothing, you want to give it a fighting chance. My business card says that I am the Director of The Portland Museum of Modern Art. That’s pretty hilarious, right?

ANP: Is there a curatorial philosophy behind the space?

LW: I think we are in a very interesting time artistically. The minimalist avant-garde is really taking a hold. I see Portland as this town that is desperately trying to prove itself as being current and what that ends up meaning is there are a lot of “emperor’s new clothes” exhibits here. Someone says it’s relevant or that an artist is popular in another metropolis, and everyone here swoons and claps. I imagine that happens everywhere, though. I guess my major philosophy around PMOMA is trying to remind people that art can also feel accessible; that openings can be inviting, that discourse is important, and some of the best art being made or that has been made is by people on the outskirts, people who are not in the school of now. I think I try to find work that projects a timeless quality. That being said, we are kind of all over the fucking place. I would say my philosophies around this space rest more in the human-to-human exchange than in a curatorial vision. Can I say I am curating a community experience? Is that a thing?

ANP: What are some of the shows you’ve mounted since opening?

LW: Our first show was huge. It paired one of my favorite artists, Mingering Mike, with our San Francisco friend Sonny Smith, and an African sign painter named Thiam Bellou from Mauritania. All the pieces were paintings of record covers, which seemed like a fitting starting point. Since then we have been fortunate enough to host solo shows from artists like Johanna Jackson, Kyle Simon, Sue Tompkins and Chris

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Johanson. Our group shows have featured work from artists like Ray Johnson, Bruce Conner, Joe Brainard, Lonnie Holley, and the list of talented people goes on and on. We had an amazing show early on of work by African teenagers out of the Sahel, all photo collages and videos constructed on their cellphones. It was so wild and outlandish. The work those kids are doing is straight-up modern folk art. My magnum opus to date, though, was a show by an artist named Mr. Otis. He was a fictional outsider artist who was the brainchild of Northwest historian and writer Stewart Holbrook in the 1950s. This man was the ultimate conceptual artist. That show was the embodiment of creating your own truths and making them real and beautiful: a fake famous artist in a fake modern art museum. It’s all been a dream really.

ANP: Are there any standout experiences you’ve had in running the gallery?

LW: Eric always teases me after every opening because I get really sentimental and feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

It takes so much work to put up these shows and so many people help and volunteer their time and energy and creativity to make this space successful. And nobody gets paid. That would be the biggest standout experience so far, how many wonderful people there are in Portland who help me, and the countless ways I feel their help and support every day with this project. We also host a lot of events in our space curated around each show. Because of our relationship with the record label, we end up with a lot of incredible musicians performing. One of the events was called Sad Night Live and featured musicians singing their saddest songs. Did I mention I was sentimental? I asked our friend Michael Hurley to play because, even though he wouldn’t agree with me, I think he writes some of the most beautiful sad songs I have ever heard.

Since he was so convinced he didn’t write songs that would fit the bill, he let me write his set list for the night. That fulfilled a deep dark fan fantasy in me (God, I hope he doesn’t read this).

That was very special.

ANP: What would you say are the best and worst things about running a space in Portland?

LW: The people that live in Portland. www.portlandmuseumofmodernart.com

Los Angeles has never been known for its dance clubs. Nightlife capitals such as New York, London and Berlin have always held that crown. Clubbing in L.A. usually conjures up images of guys in bedazzled jeans and square front dress shoes, and ladies in too-short spandex dresses and stripper heels that you see covered in their own puke, stumbling across Hollywood Blvd on any given night. However, last summer, over the course of a few scattered and very special (and rather late) nights, a new pop up club/ party called TOP 40 became a neon light in a very dark tunnel. The project began in a storefront art gallery in Boyle Heights where it ran for 40 consecutive nights (hence the name). More of a conceptual art performance than a typical dance club, each TOP 40 night was “curated” by different DJ’s, visual artists, and choreographers. The club’s official statement reads, “In the lineage of social sculpture, TOP 40’s intention is to construct a frame around what’s happening now, celebrating current cultural influence by starting a conversation.” Not standard nightclub fare, and as you can probably gather from those words, TOP 40’s clientele is comprised mostly of art students. That being said, their list of collaborators is actually quite extensive. Creative partners have included artists as diverse as Meghan Edwards (one of the founders), choreographer Ryan Heffington, musician Ariel Pink, director Brian Lee Hughes, visual artist Erin Garcia, musicians Butchy Fuego and Jessica Espeleta and many more. The club’s D.I.Y. attitude and generally ramshackle installation approach gives the place an edge like no other party in the city. Part undergrad thesis project, part senior prom, it’s decadence in the most innocent way. At times, it almost feels as though the wheels are going to fall off at any minute, which of course is why the place is so fun! After they finished

their run in Boyle Heights, TOP 40 popped up again, this time at Mr. T’s Bowl in Highland Park. Again it was word of mouth, running 20 nights in a row until all hours of the night, then again it disappeared as soon as it arrived. However, do not fret.

We’re pretty sure they’ll be back. As with all things under the radar, TOP 40 operates primarily on a word of mouth basis and holds a somewhat members only attitude.

However as the project grows we’re assuming that will change. Keep on the lookout.

Rumor has it that a collaboration with MoCA is in the works, so keep your ears to the concrete (or check out their tumblr) and try not to miss it next time around. top40la.tumblr.com

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BY ALAN SMITHEE / PHOTOS COURTESY MEGHAN EDWARDS

In recent years, our world that seems to have become completely besieged by tote-bag culture.

So much so, that I would gander that every engaged cultural denizen of this generation probably has about twenty of them hanging on a doorknob somewhere in their abode. So why do we need more you might ask? Well, the Pacific Tote Company is doing something different. Started last year as part of Roman Coppola’s Special Projects division, these bags are the most bespoke of the bespoke, designed and manufactured exclusively in California. The bags are both rugged and cool, and the design inspirations are as unique as the people behind them. Tote colors are inspired by everything from vintage Playboy magazines and 1970’s Pirelli Calendars to the colors of the California flag. Since the company started making the bags in very limited quantities, they have been spotted on the arms of some of the edgiest creative individuals around. We sat down with creative directors Duffy Culligan and Peter Brant to find out more about this very unique project.

INTERVIEW BY KENNETH BARBEE IMAGES COURTESY PACIFIC TOTE COMPANY

ANP: Where did the idea to form a tote company originally begin?

Pacific Tote Company: We wanted to develop a line of products that communicated our appreciation for California and the Pacific Coast. We have a fond appreciation for the rich history of art, style, and innovation that lives here.

ANP: How would you say Pacific Tote is different to other companies working in the same medium?

PTC: We’re not particularly obsessed with the thought that we are incredibly unique within the arena of tote bag making. We’re aware that there are a lot of bag companies, however we saw an opportunity to use some of our references and perceptions of our surroundings and apply them to our company and products. The bags themselves are sturdy, fun, and simple... other than that, we expect our style and love of California to carry us from there.

ANP: Can you describe how your creative process works from initial inspiration to final bag?

PTC: Our inspiration usually starts with a strong image or concept. We’ve used David Hockney paintings, a D.H. Lawrence paperback, a fried egg, the California state flag... anything that applies to life in California. Our studio is set up so we can quickly grab any color from our palette of fabrics, arrange a unique bag, and have to our sewer by the end of the day. This flexibility let’s us treat the studio like a laboratory for ideas and inspirations that can be realized relatively quickly.

ANP: Where do your creative ideas come from?

Can you give some examples?

PTC: There is a strange aura that you gather when traveling through and living in California. There is so much history and potential here that it’s almost

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impossible to run out of creative ideas. Everything is an inspiration, from vintage magazines, advertisements, even the California flag.

ANP: What funny things have you learned about the business of making tote bags since you began?

PTC: It’s been entertaining to navigate and work with sewing industry in Los Angeles. You can imagine with a lot of manufacturing in the U.S. moving overseas, the remaining sewers are like salty sailors that have braved the storm. Always willing to take on a new adventure, but never fully trusting of anyone.

ANP: People have said that the tote bag has taken over from the t-shirt as a cultural signifier of this generation. Would you agree or disagree with this? Why? We definitely agree. One of our favorite references is a book of 70s t-shirts. At that point in time, there was an ownership and pride that went along with having the most unique shirt...and showing it off in public. We hope to cultivate that pride with our bags. With our everchanging combination of color ways, our hope is that every person can find their signature color combination and wear it with pride.

ANP: Are there any future projects we should know about?

PTC: We are working on a duffel bag, fragrance, and sunglasses. We have an interest in making and working with any medium really. We wouldn’t rule anything out, at this point. www.pacifictotecompany.com

If you’ve any spent time in the underground music scene in Los Angeles, then you’ve quite probably have come across Clara Cakes. Meet Clara Polito, an industrious seventeen yearold who has selling her unique brand of vegan baked goods around local concerts and happenings in LA for a few years now. Everything she makes is baked from original recipes in her personal kitchen and shuttled to shows with the help of her mom. We think she’s really interesting so we decided to ask her a little bit about her herself and the story behind Clara Cakes and what would inspire a seventeen year-old to start her own business.

ANP: Were you born in Los Angeles or did you immigrate here from somewhere else?

Clara: I was born in Moorpark, which is a suburb forty minutes north of Los Angeles. I lived there, then moved to Bakersfield, then moved back to Moorpark, and then finally moved to LA. ANP: Was there a lot of cooking going on in your home when you were young?

Clara: My mom has always cooked a lot. No one in my family has ever really baked a lot. I think that’s where I came in.

ANP: When and how did you first discover the underground scene in LA? Clara: I think I was eleven. I went with my mom to drop my brother and his friends off at The Smell. I got this brand new, little Lumix camera for Christmas, so I brought it with me and took photos of random people in the alley the entire time. I had no idea who anyone was or anything, and I think that’s why it was so cool. I probably went home and listened to Taylor Swift after.

ANP: How did the idea for Clara Cakes come about?

Clara: I never really had a complete idea for Clara Cakes. I would bake vegan treats avidly after school and eventually I started donating a lot of cupcakes to non-profit bake sales. After a few bake sales people started recognizing me, which was when I printed out some homemade business cards.

ANP: When you started did you consider it a business or just something to do for fun?

Clara: It was definitely something fun to do. I was in middle school at the time, so baking sorta became what soccer is to a lot of kids after school. When I started realizing that baking could not only entertain, but employ me, I considered it a business.

ANP: How do you develop your recipes? Do you have a process??

Clara: A lot of times I’ll see a non-vegan baked good somewhere that I really want, so I’ll go home and try and recreate it. Other times it’s completely random.

My bestseller, the Neapolitan Cupcake, was created in a huge rush before a vegan bake sale contest I entered.

My friend was helping me bake for it, and we came up with Neapolitan.

ANP: When and why did you decide to become vegan?

Clara: I became vegan when I was twelve. I learned about the dairy industry and egg industries and was horrified. These industries are terrible on so many levels. Most obviously for their treatment of animals, secondly for their monopolistic ways and how closely tied they are tied to our government. It’s all really scary, so going vegan felt like the most simple yet huge way to stop supporting it.

ANP: What’s your favorite part of doing Clara’s Cakes?

Clara: It really depends on my mood. Most of the time it’s the actual baking part of it. I love the days where I can just experiment with new recipes and have music playing in the background, it allows me to relax and get lost in the flour and sugar madness. Other times, I love collaborating with artists on new designs and tee shirts. Events are also really fun because I get to meet new people who are trying my stuff for the first time. I love my job because it’s not only a creative outlet, but it also teaches me new business lessons everyday.

ANP: Do you envision Clara Cakes growing from its current form? If so, how would you like to expand?

Clara: Absolutely. I’d like to open a storefront, that’s a big dream of mine. I’d love to publish a cookbook as well. Unrealistically speaking, in ten years I’d like to see a a cooking show, a bakeware line, and a whole set of restaurants and bakeries across the country!

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INTERVIEW BY AARON ROSE PORTRAITS BY PATRICK ODELL

To speak of the film works of young director Kahlil Joseph, is to speak mostly about poetry. The man is a weaver. He is a weaver of sounds, a weaver of visuals, a weaver of emotions…the stuff of life. Gil-Scott Heron’s lyrics speak perfectly to Joseph’s approach to filmmaking. The world as experienced through fragments of a story, the viewer left to fill in the blanks with his/her subconscious. Sounds and syllables co-exist with light and color seamlessly dancing over each other. Sometimes fluid, sometimes staccato, this is a new way of feeling the cinema. The fact that Joseph’s work has primarily focused on the modern African American experience makes this an even bigger leap.

While so many filmic works still portray the Hip Hop community in the same clichés we’ve been asked to swallow for years, Kahlil Joseph as the courage to break free from this. He sees this world through new eyes.

The first film of Kahlil’s that I watched was a music video for Shabazz Palaces.

In the video, the song, “Belhaven Meridian” was treated as a surrealistic love story. It was shot in 16mm black and white, in a single take, on the suburban streets of Watts. The video incorporates various characters walking, dancing, riding motorcycles, and driving muscle cars. At one point, the camera pans right to reveal a fictitious movie set, the on-screen titles alluding to the action on screen being the crew of Charles Burnett’s seminal 1977 film, Killer Of Sheep, a neo-realistic meditation on life in Watts during that era. At one point, during a driving shot near the end of the video, the camera flips completely on its head and continues like this until the conclusion of the film. It was almost like a metaphor. The filmmaker visually informing his audience that he was about to turn the whole damn thing upside down. Up to that point I had never seen a film quite like Belhaven Meridian, and after multiple viewings I quickly declared Kahlil Joseph one of my favorite filmmakers. Since then I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know Kahlil, and have watched his subsequent film projects come into being with even more wonder and admiration. While most of his films have been created within the context of music video, his unique approach to the genre could not be more different from the accepted structure. In fact, to categorize him in the same breath as other music video directors should almost be considered a crime. Take for example “Until The Quiet Comes,” a film made for the musical group Flying Lotus. The film begins with a scene looking down into an empty swimming pool. The location is obviously somewhere in the ghetto. The California sun blazes orange. As the camera moves in we see a little boy fall onto the plaster surface, then cut

to an overhead of his body, now with an obvious gunshot wound, his blood flowing like a river down to the deep-end drain. The shot is one of the most tragic and beautiful images of murder ever put to film. Another gunshot story follows, this time at night. Now it’s a man in his 20s. We witness him stand up from the incident and essentially “dance” backwards towards the previous events that lead up to his violent death. A murder played in reverse. The film was accepted into the prestigious shorts program at the Sundance Film Festival, where it won the Jury Selection Award. Joseph’s films are not easily translated to text. They are visceral, haunting. One must watch them to truly experience them. His work forces us to reassess our assumptions of not only Hip Hop imagery, but also the African American experience as a whole as it is interpreted through the moving image. Another of Joseph’s films, Wildcat, takes place on the scene of an all-black rodeo in Oklahoma. Shot almost entirely at either magic-hour light or in darkness, the film forces you to reimagine the cowboy image through an entirely different lens. Once again, like all of his films, forcing us to reassess our presumptions. Kahlil Joseph works from a backroom production studio behind The Underground Museum, an alternative art exhibition space in Los Angeles founded by his brother, painter Noah Davis. The area is not known for galleries, and could not be further from the hustle and bustle of the Hollywood machine. But Kahlil and his production company What Matters Most have managed to carve out an inspiring niche for themselves in this industry. Like the films they make, their entire operation exists in the quest for new ideas. New concepts for how films are conceived and constructed, marketed and distributed. I recently met up with Kahlil at The Underground Museum to watch a two-screen video installation he had set-up in the space. The piece, a re-edit of a recent Kendrick Lamar video featuring specifically shot footage weaved together with Kendrick’s family home videos was engrossing and moving. Like Joseph’s previous films, this piece presented a vision of the ghetto unlike any created before it. It left me speechless. Even more shocking though was the fact that the installation was set up strictly for whoever happened to hear about it. There was no public opening, no premiere, no promotion. A secret. It was there to watch if you happen to be so lucky as to stumble in. Still in a cinematic daze from the video, Kahlil and I walked to a small Jamaican restaurant around the corner from his studio where we discussed his philosophies on life, film, art, aliens and the philosophy of the drift.

INTERVIEW BY AARON ROSE FILM STILLS COURTESY WHAT MATTERS MOST / PORTRAIT BY WYATT TROLL

Pieces of that letter, Were tossed about that room, And now I hear the sound of sirens, Come knifing through the gloom, They don’t know what they are doing, They could hardly understand, That they’re only arresting, Pieces of a man.

Gil-Scott Heron, Pieces of A Man, 1971

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Wildcat, 2013, 35mm film stills

ANP: What was the first film that you remember having an impact on you?

Kahlil Joseph: Sally Potter’s Orlando.

ANP: What was it about that film?

KJ: It’s hard to know exactly what it is about something that moves you, but at the time maybe the idea that this one actor could not only play different people in the film, but both sexes, at the time I had never seen anything like that. Tilda Swinton was so sublime in how she inhabited the role. My mind was completely blown. That was my first cinematic experience.

ANP: Do you remember how old you were when you saw that film?

KJ: I saw it on TV. Maybe it was even on HBO? I don’t remember how old I was. It felt like I was around ten?

ANP: Did you have an inkling at that point that making movies was something that you wanted to do?

KJ: Very much. It was like the first time that art punctured my little world. The entertainment level in that film was different. It wasn’t popular entertainment. At least seemingly to me. There was something fucked up about it, but it was so embraced by the filmmaker. She didn’t make it all showy. That’s a cool question, I’ve never thought about that before.

ANP: Are there any filmmakers in your family?

KJ: Not that I know of.

ANP: When was the first time that you made an effort to begin working in cinema?

KJ: I don’t know if there was an exact time. It just kind of happened. I was doing an exchange year in Brazil my senior year in high school and I remember being homesick so I would watch things like the Oscars and shit like that to act like I may have been

back home. That was the year Good Will Hunting won best original screenplay. Through all the press around the film I learned about Ben and Matt’s DIY process of getting their story and script made. I really liked the film. As a 17 year-old it really spoke to me.

That was the first time I thought, “If they could do it, so can I.” That’s when I started writing. It was also at that time I was applying to university and thinking about what I wanted to do.

ANP: What was the first film you made? What was the context?

KJ: It was probably something in school. I don’t remember exactly what it was. I think the first film I made was 8mm. I forgot what it was called. I see it every once in a while. It’s funny. There’s a soundtrack on a CD that’s taped to the inside of the film canister.

ANP: Did you only make one print?

KJ: Yeah. It’s so funny.

ANP: What’s the film about?

KJ: I don’t even remember. I’d have to load it up.

ANP: When you’re starting a film project, do you have a particular process that you go through as an artist? In terms of the initial kernel of an idea to the final execution?

KJ: I think it’s different every time. The circumstances are always different. There’s some stuff written down, but not a lot. The written stuff is not always the same thing you’re going to see in the film, you know what I mean? Sometimes there’s none of that. There have been examples of all of the traditions in my work. When you’re creating in space and time it’s always different. Sometimes there is a script that is being read as we shoot. A film where I’ve thought of the whole concept beforehand. But once I get it into the edit, the process becomes a little more organic.

Other films have been the complete opposite. Like

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where I have no idea what we’ve shot. I was just kind of going along with it…

ANP: Sounds very improvisational. Are you usually open to that way of working on set?

KJ: You have to be. But, each case is different. If it’s some live situation that I can’t control I have to really be open. But that’s not really impressive. People have been doing that in film forever.

ANP: You’re speaking specifically about documentary pieces.

KJ: Yeah. But everything I do is kind of documentary.

Like with Shabazz Palaces, a lot of the scenes in that film were just happening. I just spliced it into a music video context. But I do that a lot. I just set up a scene and shoot. I like to react to the way people respond to the scene.

ANP: That’s so interesting because when you look at your final work, it always seems so considered. I’ve always assumed that everything is heavily concepted out in advance.

KJ: I’m just trying to nail a sentiment you know?

ANP: With Shabazz Palaces were you talking about your film for Black Up? KJ: Yes. I’d really like to work with him again. He’s so compelling. I love his writing. He’s such a smart thinker. I think he’s one of the better, if not the best, and he has so much charisma, both on screen and off screen.

ANP: With music films do you tend to listen to the song first then develop the concept or do they happen independently?

KJ: Yes. Completely based on the music. Definitely.

ANP: Do you play the music on a loop when you’re coming up with ideas?

KJ: That’s different every time too. I’m speaking only about music work because that’s mostly what

Until the Quiet Comes, 2012, with music by Flying Lotus, 35mm film stills.

I’ve done. I think a feature film would be done differently. But once you start learning about how different people make great films you start to realize they make it every way under the sun. I mean, I’m not introducing anything new. People have been doing this craft in the craziest ways forever. Plus, in the early days, they were doing it with no digital editing or nothing! But the digital process hasn’t even changed things that much. Everything still seems very 20th Century to me. Jean Luc Godard is the only filmmaker who I feel has fully embraced digital technology in terms of a way of thinking. Other people try to make films that are like real life, but he’s already onto the digital signals that are part of the 21st Century way of life.

ANP: It’s funny that you say that because I’ve always been told that as a filmmaker, no matter what, you should create your image for the big screen. But most people don’t watch films that way anymore…

KJ: It’s like how they say that Jimi Hendrix mastered all of his stuff for a transistor radio. It’s the same thing.

ANP: I want to bring up a conversation we had a few months ago about drifting. And how this idea of the drift, as a part of the artistic process, figures into your life? Meaning getting lost, letting your mind and body wander into the ideas.

KJ: Yeah, I never really thought about it that much.

Onye (Kahlil’s girlfriend and producer) was the first person to bring it up to me. I think she realized that it was important to my process early on, even before I did. It was really observant of her. I’ve found it is better, when you’re in the drift, to be more curious then reflective, which could cause stasis. Curiosity

keeps things active. It’s like shutting off the logical.

The logical is full of shit really. All of the great things don’t fit into that.

ANP: If you could have it your way would you live in a world completely devoid of logic?

KJ: No, no, you need both! Many times for me it seems that the things that are considered illogical are just another form of logic and vice versa. Western logic is very hard though, and nowhere near a healthy or complete world view. It’s not all-inclusive. It doesn’t speak to the whole depth of reality, you know what I mean? That’s really what true logic is all about.

Deep True laws.

ANP: It makes sense that you would build a road that goes both ways.

KJ: Yeah, because when you get into the hills it’s all fucked up. I don’t know. It’s just small thinking you know.

ANP: Do you feel like you’re fighting against that in your work?

KJ: No, I think I’m just embracing a larger set of rules. In my opinion, most people don’t do that.

I mean, the best one’s do, but it’s not common. It seems like the best artists literally embrace a larger set of ideas, rules, concepts and approaches that other artists don’t. I love the filmmakers Lucrecia Martel, Paul Thomas Anderson, Apichatpong Weerasethakul and I think their films are totally accessible. But people today still have trouble understanding films like Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master. That’s crazy to me! But if you look at society it makes complete sense.

ANP: Well most people are not taught to look too deeply into things. Schools take us from point A to point B to point C to point Death…

KJ: Well, I definitely feel like the terrain these days

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is even more hostile and rigorous than it was for our parents generation. But every generation has their own set of challenges. With those challenges it seems like they breed a whole new set of tools in addition to the one’s that you’ve learned on. The internet allows you to navigate things a lot faster which is only a positive contribution to evolution in my book. There’s all these new ways to learn now.

ANP: So do you think that access like that will eventually rollover into the next generation’s creative output as well?

KJ: Well, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. To take it a step further, you know there are aliens and stuff like that, UFO’s, and you can hear a lot of the conversation going on about that. Usually it’s about their weapons or what their motives are…but I’m curious about what their art looks like! If they’re that far advanced what the fuck does their music sound like? I want to visit their art museum. I’m sure it’s so far ahead of us in terms of innovation. I mean, that is, if they’re that advanced. Technology always goes toe to toe with advancements in art. So, in theory, if their technology is so far advanced, then if you think about it, their art must be advanced parallel to that.

ANP: Or possibly art could have even become irrelevant.

KJ: Yeah, like religion.

ANP: That is really interesting to think about how from a societal and governmental standpoint an alien nation or an alien race is usually defined, first and foremost, by its potential weaponry…

KJ: Yeah, it’s always about their weapons technology or, “How mean are they?” or how nice. Are we nice?

ANP: Why do you think you chose to work in film?

m.A.A.d., 2014, with music by Kendrick Lamar, Video Stills

KJ: I don’t know. Everybody kind of has their own thing. There was no critical juncture. I like the collaborative nature of it, for sure. But I have also learned that it is about leadership. Being a filmmaker can really teach you how to lead. It’s surprising to me though that that aspect of the craft isn’t taught in film school. I’ve noticed that certain artists are really good at leading. I saw all this old behind the scenes footage of Ingmar Bergman at work and you could tell his crew really liked him on that film. They were all laughing. It just felt like he led so gracefully and simply. His films can be so dense and he studies darkness so keenly, but there was such much lightness on his set.

ANP: Is that the kind of set that you like to run?

KJ: It depends. You’d have to ask someone else probably. Again, different projects I’ve done

have a different energy each time. It’s just like life. Sometimes it’s serious, sometimes dramatic, sometimes frustrated, and sometimes relaxed with a sense of focused curiosity and exploration, which to me is the best. You always try to do your best despite the circumstances that you’re up against. That’s where real character is defined. I know I can get better at that though. It’s all about harnessing energy.

ANP: How do you harness energy?

KJ: Meditation is probably the easiest answer and I don’t do enough of it. But then there are super practical things like communication and feeding the crew on time. On a film you have to move energy around to get what you need! That’s how you find what’s working and what’s not working. It’s very interesting for me to watch behind the scenes footage.

Just to feel the vibes. I’ve watched Woody Allen, Coppola. I haven’t seen that much of Scorsese.

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ANP: There’s some really great footage of Kubrick at work.

KJ: Yeah, talk about a General! He had a higher plan. He had mediators. If you needed to talk to Kubrick, whether you were an actor or whatever, you had to talk to his guy, then that guy would go and talk to Stanley.

ANP: I wonder if that was because he needed to be in that drift? He needed to be in that wild space…

KJ: I could understand that.

ANP: What gets you up in the morning?

KJ: It’s bigger than this or that. It’s the whole thing.

I’m very fortunate just to just be existing. It seems like a miracle to me. You know what I mean? It’s like, what the fuck is going on? This shit is for real and we have the opportunity to feel and be something. You could re-invent your life in a matter of months

Arcade Fire: Reflektor Tapes, 2013, 35mm Film Stills

because life is that dynamic. It’s happening millions of times a second around the globe. It’s just about knowing that and deciding to take part on that spectrum of evolution, or remaining stagnant.

ANP: Yeah, and you could re-invent yourself pretty quick too…

KJ: Yeah man, shit, like in a week!

ANP: Well we all exist in these bubbles. Each person has their own bubble, and we choose what it looks like in there, what it sounds like in there, who is invited, who’s not. But we can always pop that bubble.

KJ: Yeah, I was just reading something about that. It was a theory that those bubbles we create are actually at the root of all human suffering. It’s just about us believing our story. But that story doesn’t necessarily exist. It’s interesting to think about.

ANP: One could argue, if you choose to go down that rabbit hole, that the whole foundation of human experience is an illusion that we manufacture ourselves. All these individual bubbles that are supposed to fit into this giant bubble of the universe, but don’t really always do that…

KJ: Yeah, and then there are all these little microbubbles. Like peoples’ lives on their phones and

laptops. People’s digital lives. For some people, their digital existence is a massive part of their life! People are posting and tweeting, which then leads to another web within that bubble of things that have happened or are happening. It’s like a mini bubble nation. I guess it’s cool you can see what people are doing and connect a lot easier. It’s a fundamental tool, and sometimes I think contemporary artists could really learn to embrace it. It’s become a part of the fabric of our lives, but it’s also not real. You do still hear about people who don’t even participate in that. Their relationship with life is different.

ANP: I understand that.

KJ: Yeah, they understand that there are certain tools there, but it’s not their life. I’m always surprised at how vain it all is. I mean it’s very, very, vain! It’s not really about ideas. But it’s cool. You can see what people are doing. It’s a tool. But sometimes I think contemporary artists really have to embrace it…

ANP: Really?

KJ: Well, it’s only not necessary if they came from before the internet technology cultural landslide of the past decade and set themselves up in the cultural consciousness. Like Wes Anderson or Sade. Those people are good. But like someone like FKA Twigs, you’re going to first see her on the internet. Maybe

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you’ll go see her live when she’s in town, but most of how you’re going to experience her is through what she’s put out on the web. If you’re in the arts maybe some friends of yours might run in the same circles and maybe you might meet her. But for the most part, it’s all digital communication. I mean, I know that digital communication has definitely helped me.

ANP: Do you hope people to have to search and make the extra effort to find out about your work?

KJ: I don’t know. I’m just trying to make good work.

I feel like if it’s good people will find it. It’s so hard to find good stuff these days that I feel when people find it they share it with their friends. It’s my job to just make it good enough. But at the same time we’re just seeing the first generation of people who grew up with this tool. The internet is like fifteen years old. That’s nothing—50 years people in all parts of the globe will have access to this.

ANP: So do you believe that it has the ability to change human consciousness?

KJ: I’m sure it will be a major component. That stream of information. For sure. I think there will be a combination of catalysts. Digital communication will just be conveniently there at millions of gigabytes a second. That would be my guess. But time will tell.

INTERVIEW BY ALEXIS GEORGOPOULOS PORTRAITS AND STUDIO PHOTOGRAPHY BY CALI THORNHILL-DEWITT ARTWORK COURTESY CHERRY AND MARTIN, LOS ANGELES

“Honor thy error as hidden intention.”

So reads a card in Peter Schmidt and Brian

Eno’s Oblique Strategies deck of cards. This humble yet resonant piece of advice could be seen as a mantra of sorts for the process of artist Matt Connors. Smart, geometric and minimal but also imbued with a casual air, a nonchalance, his paintings and sculptures strike a rare balance, contrasting the detached and historical with a sense of something real; unfolding, unhindered and genuine.

One can detect nods to Helen Frankenthaler, André Cadere, Morris Louis, Sigmar Polke, Hans Hoffman, Barnett Newman, Anne Truitt, Sean Scully, Sam Francis, and Daniel Buren in his work, but admittedly, Connors’ palette of influence is continually evolving. And yet, it must be said, in Connors’ work, reference is a subject in and of itself. Not limited to the insular jargon of the world of visual art, he casts a wide net. You might see a reference to a song by Glam satirists Sparks, or to a Durutti Column title, or see a deliberately crude rendition of a Cluster album cover. Like

language itself, where Connors finds so much inspiration, such as Gertrude Stein and Jack Spicer essays, reproduced in his book A Bell Is A Cup (Rainoff, 2012). These works draw connections with Connors’ process – his work suggests quotation, parentheses, reflection, new vocabularies, and new grammars.

Lest one feels lost in the cerebral conversations that bog down so much contemporary art, in Connors’ work (exhibited recently at MoMA PS1, the Walker Art Center, Herald St, and Cherry & Martin) there is sheer joy to be found in the color and texture. Witness the saturated cobalt blues and rich pomegranate reds that have dyed the canvas through and through.

Works such as, Food Plus Drug (2012) or the springy Kandinsky–esque squiggles that make Vocals (2010) seem to ricochet off the canvas.

If he shares with contemporaries Alex Hubbard, Richard Aldrich, Joe Bradley, Bernard Piffaretti and Alex Olson a certain penchant towards the reductive, the messily contained, Connors stands apart with what might be called a gentle mysticism. Not the macho variety that characterizes a good deal of 20th Century Modern Abstractionists but a kind that may be said to be particular to the

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early 21st Century. One that seems to say, “There is something here, something deep, if you care to look. But if you just want to cast a cursory glance and have a pleasant experience, well, that’s your right, isn’t it?”

Though he is often called a painter, ‘painting’ is not always what his ‘paintings’ look like.

MoMA PS1 curator, Peter Eeley has suggested that, “His canvases often don’t look like they’ve been “painted” as much as soak-stained, remarkable for the apparent thinness of their surface; paint ends up in them, rather than on them.” Indeed, one afternoon, while we spoke in his Williamsburg studio, he laughed as he described how when he wasn’t happy with a particular piece. In reaction, he simply reversed the canvas, turned it inside out, and let what had seeped through the canvas become ‘the painting’. This allowed both sides of the painting to interact—in the process creating an accidental work that pleased him much more than the original.

Not so much an error, as a perfect realization of the unintended finding its way to the fore.

The following conversation took place last Spring via telephone. A casual conversation among friends.

(previous page) Fifth Thirds, 2012 Acrylic on canvas 100x80 in. (above) Trapdoor, 2010 Oil on stretcher bar, muslin and hand painted frame 35.25x 31.25 in. (opposite) Installation view of the exhibition Matt Connors: Complaints III Cherry and Martin, Los Angeles, CA January 18 – March 15, 2014 Photo by Brian Forrest

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Alexis Georgopoulos: Hey Matt!

Matt Connors: How’s it going?

AG: Going well. I’m suffering from some horrible spring hay fever allergies, but otherwise good.

MC: I’m feeling that too, but I thought I had a brain tumor.

AG: Funny you say that! Because you know, I have sort of a hypochondriac thing about that exact thing!

MC: Yeah? Also there’s a meningitis outbreak going around among homosexuals. I was like, “Oh my head hurts…”

AG: Wait, what is Meningitis?

MC: All I know is that you get it and you’re dead two days later.

AG: Oh my god.

MC: It’s so mysterious I don’t even know that much about it. Freshmen in college are the most likely to get it…you can’t go to college unless you get a shot for it or something.

AG: Wow. Well, I hope both of us are just suffering from allergies.

MC: I know! I started to realize that’s it’s from my nose to the back of my head. So, it’s more like a sinus…

AG: I get this cloudy head thing where it’s like doing anything that requires actual brain function becomes really challenging.

MC: That’s nice to hear because maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Yesterday I had to go give a lecture and I left my computer at my studio and it was an hour away.

AG: Oh no!

MC: Luckily the people at my gallery were here and I was like, “Do you mind emailing it to me?”

AG: Oh, so it was mostly images not notes?

MC: When I have to remember words, then that’s when I really get nervous. I don’t get nervous if I’m just riffing. I don’t know, that’s easier for me for some reason. If I have to follow a script I feel stupid.

I feel nervous.

AG: So how did it go?

MC: It was good. Because, I always do it off the cuff, I don’t think it really impacted me that I didn’t have my images with me. So it really depends on the crowd. If they’re really cool art kids and they’re just into talking, it’s perfect. Because that’s all I really want to do in lectures just shoot the shit with them.

I don’t make the kind of work where I can give a chronological story. So either they’re cool and I get a vibe from them and we can just talk and they think I’m funny and it’s fun, or I get this negative vibe from them.

AG: The audience was receptive, then?

MC: They were really cool actually! I’ve been obsessed with Suicide this week, the band, so while I was waiting for the email to come in with the images I showed them this live Suicide clip on YouTube.

Suicide were so old when they started…

AG: I guess I never really thought about that.

They did both look pretty haggard from the beginning…(laughs) MC: I think in 1979 Alan Vega was like 35? Which is so weird! I’ve been thinking about how weird they are as a band in general. How from outer space they are, yet at the same time they’re this very traditional rock and roll band.

AG: In certain ways they were very traditional, very 1950s rock n roll.

MC: I was going to speak about their music in relation to how I feel about genre and paintings. I was thinking about how they seemed so crazy Punk Rock and from outer space, but they were actually doing like this Elvis thing, basically.

AG: (Laughs) First of all, why hasn’t the second Suicide album gotten a proper reissue? I don’t understand.

MC: Is there a second one? I didn’t even know about it.

AG: Yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard a couple of the songs. Diamonds, Fur Coat, Champagne or Sweetheart? Those were some of their songs from that record. Anyway, that record

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had some great stuff on it. I think that record was produced by Ric Ocasek from The Cars.

He must have heard the pop potential at the heart of their strangeness. Even though he was the go–to guy for Pop crossover. But of course it didn’t go over.

MC: They’re such weirdo’s! It’s amazing.

AG: Well, when you mentioned genre as it applies to your work, what were you talking about specifically?

MC: Matt (Wolf, filmmaker) and I did this funny talk at the Walker Art Center recently, and we came up with these keywords. I think Matt came up with Genre and that gave us something to talk around, I think of painting itself as kind of a genre.

I think of myself as an artist first, but then I’m totally happy as a painter. It’s like a writer who’s writing a mystery or like a filmmaker making a Film Noir. So I like to think about my work more in terms of genre rather than style. It’s a fun way to think around the process.

AG: Let’s get to that.

MC: How do you record this?

AG: I have the most bizarre set-up! When I used to write for magazines regularly I had a proper recorder.

MC: Plug in microphone or something?

AG: Exactly. But I’m having this problem where I’ve re-updated my iTunes password so many times that I’ve forgotten what it is.

So I wasn’t able to download this app that would have made this very simple. So what I’ve got going now is ridiculous! It’s a 1/8th inch cable going from my phone into my laptop and I’m recording it all into Logic.

MC: You should put a Vocoder on it. (laughs) AG: Yeah! Anyway, how is LA? How long has it been now since you’ve been living there?

MC: I came here in February, I think. It seems like a long time ago now…but it’s cool! My main psychological issue right now with this whole idea of being bi-coastal was deciding to solve this

anguish between New York and Los Angeles. But I still have to remind myself that I’m doing this, because I still have a lot of stressful thoughts about deciding. I have to remind myself that I’m doing both of them. I just need to relax about it. The whole reason I moved is because I fell into this really rad apartment, which is super beyond belief. It’s tiny, it’s a studio, but it has a huge yard and it’s in a great neighborhood. I have a fireplace and a washer/ dryer. There’s this ridiculous view! So it’s just like stupid nice and cheap. That’s really great. And I fell into this art studio and then I had all this really great serendipity where two friends of mine are down to be my permanent New York sub-letters.

They took both my apartment and my studio there, so that solved this huge anxiety part of the whole idea. They’re super flexible, so now whenever I want to come to LA, they’ll just pop into my place in New York.

AG: That’s perfect.

MC: I know! When that started to shake down I said to myself, “Really? This is wild!” And you know they’re friends and artists, very trustworthy and all that. So I just need to relax and be like, “Everything’s working out.” I’ve had three months to make all of my shows over the last couple of years and sometimes I think that’s less than ideal, but then I wonder if maybe I do it on purpose without realizing it.

AG: Like it is a necessary evil?

MC: Maybe, but I kind of want to figure out some kind of middle. The gallery in New York (Canada Gallery) has been closed for about a year because they’re building a new space. So I don’t really know when that show will be, but I’m hoping it will take a little bit longer than three months.

AG: What’s a typical day for you in Los Angeles?

MC: I live right by the dog park, so I just get up and go to the dog park. I either go hiking in the morning or around sunset with a bunch of friends. It’s super easy and you can get to Griffith Park really easily.

You know LA a little bit right?

AG: Yeah.

MC: Griffith Park is a five-minute drive. It’s ridiculous and you can do pretty killer hikes. It’s a good exercise. So I’ll either hike in the morning or hopefully in the afternoon. My studio is a few miles away and I drive to the studio, usually pretty early.

I’ve maintained this jet lag schedule where I wake up early. It’s just about getting older, I guess. So I’ve become a kind of a 9 to 5’er from Monday through Friday. I think it’s partially because my New York studio is in Williamsburg and I really don’t want to go out there on the weekends or after dark. But I’ve had that studio in Williamsburg since 1997. So that’s shaped me into working on a real salary man’s schedule.

AG: I think it’s challenging when you’re creating your own hours. You can sometimes fall into a trap where you don’t know when to clock out in your mind.

MC: I tend towards feeling guilty so I’m always thinking I’m not working enough. But then I can also feel like I’m always working. It’s such a weird and ridiculous fantasy to be doing what you want to be doing as your day job. So it’s kind of nice to create some false trappings of ‘going to work’ sometimes, you know?

AG: I’ve never had the liberty of having a studio outside of my apartment, but I’ve reached a point now where I think I need to do it. I can’t blur the line between the two.

Even though I have all my instruments in their own corner of my apartment, there are just too many distractions. Did I deal with my bills? Finish that book? Clean the apartment?

MC: If you jump into it, your life will follow you.

You’ll force yourself to create circumstances that let you do what you need to do.

AG: So do you find fewer distractions in California than you would in New York?

MC: I don’t know. Both of my studios are equally kind of isolated. Maybe a little bit less so in Williamsburg, but my studio here is in an area

Installation view of the exhibition Painter Painter Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN February 2 - October 27, 2013

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called Glassell Park. It’s pretty industrial. There’s only one place to eat. I have to drive ten minutes just to get to Whole Foods. My distractions are more from the internet you know? When I’m working I feel like I’m vaguely on autopilot. I don’t really have a plan and I just show up at the studio and read and look at things and push things around. Something will eventually float to the top about a decision I have to make, but it’s real slow and very piecemeal.

Sometimes I wonder if I do anything. I could have a whole studio day where all I did was decide that a painting went the other way around. But I had to stare at it for three hours and read a blog to figure that out.

AG: Your recent book, which is beautiful by the way, is called A Bell Is A Cup. Besides being a great title, funnily enough, that was the first time I heard Wire in high school…

MC: It was that album?

AG: Yeah! It was! Strange, huh? It wasn’t Pink Flag or Chairs Missing. It just happened to be playing in a record store!

I bought it on cassette. The full title of the record was A Bell Is A Cup…Until It Is Struck, right? That brings to mind the way your work calls into question specificity or functionality. Is that what drew you to the title?

MC: I’ve always loved that title. I have certain things that kind of turn into mantras. Just things or sayings that I really mentally hook onto. I had that record when it came out too. So that phrase has been kicking around in my brain. It’s funny because these undergrads were looking at the book yesterday and they were saying, “Wait! A bell IS a cup!” I was thinking, “Oh my god.” But I think it’s just such a beautiful little poem in three words.

It’s a really efficient little phrase that reads much larger than it is. Which is kind of a model that I like to follow. But another reason why I chose that title for the book is I like to have these embedded, really super personal references. You know, the actual title of the Wire album has a second part that’s

on the back of the cassette. It’s A Bell Is A Cup… Until it is Struck. So a person picking up my book, reading the title, especially if they are familiar with that Wire album, the second part of the title would kind of reverberate without them actually having to read it. I also really like that process of suggesting invisible allusions or invoking an absent part. I’m also starting to feel guilty about my overuse of other people’s titles.

AG: It’s funny. Our relationships to references are all quite different and it feels like we all make different decisions about when it’s OK to reference and when it’s not OK to reference…

MC: I think music and record covers and record titles were my very first introduction to art-making.

Also, maybe it relates to a certain poetics, where you were listening to music and looking at an image and those two things together create an atmosphere or an idea. You know when you’re a kid how deep you get with album covers and music? I remember I was listening to Prince’s 1999 as a kid and there’s a part at the end of one of the sides where there’s a voice that yells out, “Help! Somebody help me!” I was so deep in that album that I ran outside because I thought someone was in trouble! I thought it was real. It’s just that weird connection. Some of the records that we were both probably into, like New Order and Joy Division, those bands are so oblique and there are really complicated relationships between the music and the covers. To me that was a real formative idea in terms of making meaning.

So I do like to reference music. I’ve worked at record stores for my whole life. My brother is really involved in music and I studied music in college.

So it’s a real pivotal way of thinking for me as a musical appreciator. I’m not anywhere near to being a musician, but as a music listener, it’s a great way to think about meaning and structure. So yes, referencing music for my work seems really natural to me.

AG: I love the text in your book. It’s interesting that you’ve included texts by

Gertrude Stein, Peter Eleey, and Jack Spicer. Have you ever thought about writing yourself?

MC: I would like to, but I find writing incredibly difficult. It’s so hard and painful. But I think I need to get over that. There are things that I do write as part of my job, and I will say that after the fact I really enjoy it. As a matter of necessity, I think there will probably be more and more occasions for that. I would like to do some curating in the future and I’m sure that will involve justifying what’s there. But still I think it’s really hard. I have friends that are writers, so I understand the pain that goes along with it.

Every writer I know talks about how painful it is.

AG: You like to use the word poetic(s) a lot, which can mean a lot of different things.

But it seems like one of the many strengths of your work is your ability to conjure something or, perhaps, suggest something.

As you said earlier in regards to the book title, to let things reverberate out. That makes me think of poetry more so than prose.

MC: Maybe it’s related to my attraction to minimalism? I don’t know. The less is more thing is so tired I guess, at this point, because more is more too. But, for me, I also think it relates to my restlessness. My attention deficit disorder? I’m not really interested in making anything highly crafted as the end product. I just want to see the ideas finished. I have an idea and I want to make it so.

I’m not interested in a very high polish or a super delicate construction. I have much more an interest in expediency. I’m restless. I don’t have that much patience. If I have an idea I just want to get it out there so in some ways I’m not really that invested in the physical making of the work. The end product is to me a little bit less precious or valuable than maybe it would be to a different kind of artist. For me, it’s more like evidence or the residue of me working out an idea. The bigger project of how I think in materials. I don’t use fancy paint brushes, I don’t use super nice paint, I don’t work on things

Fiction, 2011 Acrylic on canvas, 2-part 59x36 in. each part

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for a really long time because they usually generate the next idea while I’m making it. Then I don’t have the patience for waiting on that second idea. So I’ll jump to the second idea and it will kick back ideas onto the first idea. So it’s more of a process for me than a slow secretion I guess.

AG: Your other book, Correspondences, uses frames as it’s predominant theme, leaving rectangular voids of empty space. And many of your paintings don’t contain subject matter. Can you tell me a little bit about this fascination with frames?

MC: I don’t know where it came from, but I think that as I started to think of the work more as objects, I really could not escape from that physical perception of them. This is common for most painters. Because the physical paintings are objects when you have to build the structures all the time and it’s like you’re building little minimalist plinths. When you look at other people’s work, you look at the edges and you see how they’re hung on the wall and you see how the corners are dealt with and for me that just developed into a pretty intense focus on how the edges in my work were dealt with in relation to the center. But also, without the hierarchy of it being in the center or the edge. Someone recently was asking me how I felt politics could play into being an abstract artist and it rendered me mute and sort of guilty feeling.

But in some ways I think that the schematics of focusing on the perimeter rather than the center in a rather ideal world is maybe political? Also, I used to work in a much smaller scale and it started to feel very meaningful to me. I pay a lot of attention to scale and those pieces were really a series of small, edge shaped objects. The edges and the borders of those were very important, so as the scale has increased, I feel like I still focus on the ephemeral aspects of the work. I think it’s just become a really exciting process to have that stuff take over. It was an experiment, like me asking, “What if the center is the edge and the edge is the center?” It’s a material project as much as a conceptual project.

Views of the artist’s studio Los Angeles, CA Photographed by Cali Thornhill-Dewitt (opposite) What Was Music., 2012 Poplar and oil 68.5x40.75 in.

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Reverse Commute, 2014 Acrylic on canvas 14.5x12 in.

Courtesy of Canada, New York (opposite) Installation view of the exhibition Matt Connors: ZONDER KARMA, Amagansett, NY June 14 – July 6, 2014

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AG: I suppose the word function is a loaded word. But as we’re all surrounded by material objects. It’s something that you just can’t help but think about. Have you ever had moments where you’ve asked yourself what is the function of this work that you’re making?

MC: When you’re a young artist in New York and you’re working and busting your ass to pay your rent and then suddenly you get to be an artist as your main job I think there’s a crisis. It seems ridiculous and you feel like a wastoid that you’re making this “frou frou” for the 1% or something.

I just think about myself as a human being and I have really fed off of and lived off of art and kind of the ideal of the inherent politics of my version of abstraction. I think there’s a utility in being an artist. Producing culture is a really civilizing thing in the world.

AG: What do you mean by civilizing?

MC: Anti-barbarism?

AG: Oh, so you mean civilizing in a positive sense?

MC: This is such wishful thinking and something that I think me and my friends cling to in order to feel good about it. I mean that sounds so depressing, I don’t know if I would have survived or at least been the person I am without finding art. Even from art books then eventually going to museums.

I think that physical paintings as objects of consideration, to me they’re kind of like philosopher stones or something. You look at them to glean some sort of ideas or maybe complicate your ideas? My particular favored art experience is one of complication and confusion. So as a consumer of art that’s what I want. I don’t really appreciate the experience of known things. The things that change my life and make me think are these times of confusion and misapprehension.

AG: Why do you think you get so much from confusion and disorientation?

MC: I just think it’s productive. We’re fed all this dialed-up, sealed-in meaning then we get it and we go on. The art and music that sounded like nails across a chalkboard when I was young ended up being the stuff that I really loved later in life.

AG: Like what? Can you give examples?

MC: There are very specific painting techniques that used to drive me crazy. This is so basic and boring, but I used to hate acrylic paint. I used to have this old art school thing where only oil paint acceptable, and now I’m only using acrylic paint. I’m facing all these technical things with it that used to rub me the wrong way. Before it felt very amateurish or cheap.

AG: But you use acrylic in a way that seems very naturalistic.

MC: I hope so. I hope my materials will change…

AG: Another recurrent theme in your work is these cylindrical metal bars or tubes. You often lean them up against the works and that seems to be like a recurring theme. Do you think of those as totems in a way?

MC: Maybe? But the sculptural stuff is really generated by chance within the studio and a real sense of permission and letting myself appreciate imagery and pictures that are generated in my studio. The first time I used one of those leaning poles, I was working on a sculpture that involved a pole. I had just gone to Home Depot and bought the pole, which is as far as I had gone into thinking about it. But I needed to get it out of the way of something so I leaned it in front of a painting. It just created this image, a three-dimensional thing, it acted as a line addition to the painting. I was at a place in my artistic development where I was really excited about following the rabbit holes of really basic, stupid ideas. Not stupid, but just following the trail of the work as it suggests things. I didn’t understand at that point why I couldn’t do that. So I did it, which is ‘one small step’ for a painter. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal. But for someone who considers himself a two-dimensional artist to add a three-dimensional part feels very dramatic.

That was very gratifying to let myself kind of own up to that image and then use it as a work. In retrospect, there are references to Joseph Beuys, and there’s Cadere and Blinky Palermo’s staffs, that are also totally the same thing, ‘totem’ stuff and that’s obviously in the meat grinder that my brain is. So it’s there and I really like that postacknowledgement of the obvious references that have been feeding into my autopilot. I made this

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piece that was basically kind of a painting/sculpture combine and it turned out to be a pretty faithful copy of a Richard Serra prop piece. I eventually referenced the Serra piece in the title. But it’s not like I didn’t know I was doing that, I just wasn’t bothering to worry about it. In the end there are a lot of crucial differences. Richard Serra is an artist that I always hated actually.

AG: Why’s that? Did you find the work just ego driven, monolithic?

MC: I also just thought they were ugly! (laughs) I just had a taste thing with them. I’m still not in love with certain super ego driven practices. The piece that I did is actually one of my favorite pieces, even though it makes this really clear reference to Richard Serra. I don’t know. I’m not troubled by it, there’s no anxiety in that influence for me. The Serra piece is probably in the book. It’s called “False Prop.” The actual Richard Serra pieces were like a box, stand-alone iron slabs that use gravity to stand up. The prop piece was a big iron square with an iron pole that was holding it to the wall. But in my painting there’s a wooden plank on the floor then there’s a cardboard tube leaning, but it doesn’t touch the painting, so it references the elements of the Serra thing, but there isn’t any real gravity involved in the painting. So it’s just skirting all those issues. But right when I finished it, I thought, “Does this look like a Richard Serra?” After you find it in the book, you should go Google the Richard Serra one.

AG: You often use tray pieces where you have an object that holds a few different pieces. Does that also come about when you’re just rearranging things to create space?

MC: I had come up with this idea for building these trays to dip paintings in and I did do that, but I had a couple of false starts. I had someone build me a tray that was the wrong size. So this wrong sized box was sitting around my studio and I had to get stuff out of the way, so I started to stack paintings in them. So yeah, it was just like another accidental image, an external composition, that then I repurposed as a work. They also seemed like simple machine-like sculptures to me, they’re really nice

vehicles for color and for setting up very theatrical color relationships. In the new work for my next one-man show, I’m really paring it down. You’ll see, everything is weirdly monochrome. This expediency has kind of devolved into just putting this color next to that color. So I just paint two canvases so I can just put the colors next to each other.

AG: Barnett Newman is someone who I think of occasionally when I look at your pieces and he definitely explored some things like that. What’s your relationship to his work?

MC: That’s another thing that’s funny because Barnett Newman and Robert Motherwell are certainly looming large, and I like them a lot. But I would say they were absent from my artistic upbringing. I was never super stoked on either of them until recently. I’ve never owned a book by either of them. This is really an adult onset appreciation of these artists.

AG: It is curious when you make something that you come to find out after the fact resembles someone else’s work. And someone whose work you don’t even care for!

MC: It’s like your subconscious is telling you to pay attention. Someone wrote something about this painting I made and they were like (adopts mocking tone), “Rothko much?” And I thought, “Oh yeah, that does look like a Rothko! (laughs) But I mean, I’m never going to make a Rothko copy and even if I did, I think it would be interesting in the way that I failed. So, I don’t think it’s a problem. At MoCA here in LA, there’s a primitive installation of a faux-Rothko Chapel. It’s almost like my work told me to go look at it, you know? I think that’s exciting.

And that’s part of why I’m really dedicated to this interpretive, loose, open-ended process because I think it creates these directionals that don’t necessarily just move forward.

AG: What do you make of the fact that in the past few years, you and a handful of other artists have been grouped under the rubric of New Abstractionists?

MC: I think it’s boring and not that interesting. I do think it’s hard to write about artwork. So, if those categories help people make sense of things, that’s fine.

AG: Is it about people coming to grips with the fact that paintings seem to still be relevant to people? And they have to place it on a certain historical continuum? Or is it a commerce issue?

MC: I mean, sadly I think it’s a bit of a market thing. As we speak, there’s a figurative renaissance happening. I mean, who knows? I know how long these ANP’s take to publish (laughs) so by the time it comes out, there’ll probably be a figurative comeback. But that’s an unfortunate part of these categories. I think it’s cool when critics are actually trying to grapple with why people are maybe thinking in similar ways. That’s a cool iteration of these categories, but I think that might be the exception rather than the rule. There’s also a rage right now for finding older artists that could have their second act that were undiscovered. So that’s also getting a bit ridiculous. You know, like, “This lady from Laguna Beach is 90, and she makes triangle paintings. And no one’s ever seen them!”

AG: It seems that critics have created this dialectic between either the artist who’s ironically detached while referencing or the artist who’s earnestly engaged while referencing. Whereas there’s this ideal of the artist who is just naturally making work that’s unique.

MC: Which totally exists. I think unique doesn’t have to be, you know, there’s a different person making every body of work so they’re de facto different works. I don’t appreciate irony as a mode of working or thinking. I think I’m a bit more of a romantic or idealist. Jokey, ironic artistic practices make me sad. There is a real tussle with how people are engaging with art history and how it’s characterized. It’s come up a lot recently.

AG: There’s a beautiful interplay in your work between the deliberate and what we could call the chance or the happenstance.

Do you consider improvisation part of the process?

MC: Totally. And then, there’s also a complication of, once you know that chance and accident are part of your process how do you cultivate chance without it becoming fake, you know? I was talking about the drip as a concept and how I make fake drips all the

False Prop, 2011, Acrylic on canvas, wood and cardboard, 3-part 85x60x32.25 in. installed. Photo by Robert Wedemeyer Second Divot (articulated) for Candy, 2012, Acrylic on canvas, 80x60 in. overall installed (opposite) Demonstration (red and blue), 2013, Standard construction grade walls, welded sheet metal, paint, 2-part, 6 meters high.

Photo by Sebastiano Pellion di Persano

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time. Like, if I want to place color somewhere but I don’t feel like using a brush, I manufacture a drip and it’s kind of comedic. I load a brush and hover it over the spot and then it creates this thing that’s theoretically accidental.

AG: It’s the anti-macho Pollock.

MC: I guess Pollock was macho but he was doing this very delicate thing. I also think that maybe characterization of Pollock’s drip being his “jism” is getting a little bit old.

AG: I wasn’t thinking about jism per se. I was thinking more about the physical gesture and the jazzy…

MC: Just talking about the drip as an analogy for history, or Abstract Expressionism. Like, the drips would be the byproduct of a really furious brushstroke that went across the top. And you didn’t care that it dripped all across the bottom! Now when I make a drip, I’m obviously referencing historical...

I mean, you can’t have a drip on a painting without someone thinking of quote-unquote drips. But it seems like an exciting word, another piece of language I can use. I do have legitimate drips happen because I’m a mess. But in learning to be an artist, in just the same way that I appreciated those studio constructions that then became intentions, I started to notice that, “Oh you know when I have to move a really wet painting over another wet painting, it will probably drip on that painting.” So after that happened a couple times, that became a tool for me. I can construct two paintings next to each other and utilize the accidents that proximity creates as another kind of grammar. Sometimes I think of my studio as a desert island studio. Like I don’t have any other supplies, I’m just stuck in this room and I can only use these twenty things. Some of those things happen to include those other paintings I’m working on. But, to return to that earlier question, I’d say as a person working with this stuff, I take a very idealistic, optimistic, charitable, hopeful stance on all these issues of appropriation and semantics of history and re-use. I’m trying to proceed rather than get mired in it. I think if you’re legitimately just making stuff and you want to see what comes out next, I think there’s this hypothetical vacuum that critics and other artists really want to exist. But it sounds boring to me and also impossible.

Every so often one stumbles onto a body of work that feels as though you’ve discovered a hidden gem. Fiona Clark’s work most certainly falls into this category. Clark is a New Zealandbased documentary photographer whose work strikes a very unique chord.

It is quite surprising that her work is not more widely known. Clark first came to prominence in 1975, when her photographs, touring around New Zealand with an exhibition called The Active Eye caused major controversy because of their subject matter, transgendered women. She faced a major censorship crisis. In fact, public outcry to her work was so strong that the exhibition was not allowed to open at the Auckland City Art Gallery, and her two images were removed from the exhibition at many venues throughout New Zealand. The images eventually went missing from the exhibition. The works shown, two black-and-white images of a dance party, were actually quite tame by photography standards. It was only when the viewer took a closer look that

the disquieting sense of things not being quite ‘right’ emerged. The fact that the subjects were transgendered wasn’t the issue. Other photographers had mined these subjects. The problem here was that they were having fun. Up to that point no photographer had the either the vision or the nerve to portray the transgender community this way. Remember, this was the early 1970s. Ten years before Nan Goldin’s seminal work on the subject, Ballad of Sexual Dependency. Goldin’s photos, while absolutely stunning, could hardly be labeled “fun” and she was in New York! Clark’s photos were from Auckland. The effects of this early censorship on Fiona Clark’s career were immense and long-lasting. She withdrew from the public eye and did not exhibit her work for many years after. The images contained in this portfolio are from this body of work, recently resurrected and re-titled Go Girl. The photographs here were primarily shot at an Auckland nightclub called Mojo’s and are part and parcel of the same images that were deemed too controversial to exhibit back

BY AARON ROSE

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then, yet now they actually feel quite contemporary. The rapturous poses of the people in these photographs are hard to deny. The subjects are obviously thrilled to be caught on camera, reveling in the spirit of youth and sexual discovery.

However while their playfulness survives, looking back these images also serve as raw testimonials of hard-lived lives. Many of the people within the photographs are now dead. Casualties who fell off into a world of brutality, AIDS and drug-drenched death. The excellence of the work in Go Girl goes beyond sheer technical craft. Fiona Clark has “the eye’.

This is great documentary. The real deal.

There is something so inherently natural about her framing, her composition, and her approach to color, that the images almost transcend their medium to become poetry or maybe stills from a film that we wish actually existed. In the meantime, sit back and soak in the images on the following pages. Project your wildest fantasies onto the faces and bodies of the people looking back. In this writer’s opinion, there’s much to learn there.

Dianna Stripping at Mojos, Auckland, 1975

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Ian Geraldine at Home, Auckland, 1975

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Dianna and Sheila at Mojos, Auckland, 1975

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Tiny Tina at Mojos, Auckland, 1975

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Sheila at Mojos, Auckland, 1975

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PORTRAITS AND INTERVIEW WITH JOSH CHEON BY DAMON WAY IMAGES COURTESY THE BANDS AND DARK ENTRIES

Operating in the hazy underground of San Francisco, a city known for its entrepreneurial prowess and lofty mindsets, resides a lone wolf named Josh Cheon‌a purveyor of the obscure and champion for the forgotten. Over the past four years he has applied his energy towards a simple record label concept and developed it into an impressive catalog of releases, a strong online distribution hub and cultural beacon for the audience he serves. His ability to cut through the noise and assemble a well-curated range of artists, past and present, is second to none.

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(clockwise from top left) Belaboris, Finland, 1984 Linea Aspera, London, 2013 Borghesa, Yugoslavia, 1985 Kitchen and the Plastic Spoons, Sweden, 1980

ANP: Where does this desire to bring things from the past into contemporary times come from? At what point in your younger years was the seed planted?

Josh Cheon: It is so hard to know exactly where it all started, but when I was young my dad had this huge record collection that I would always get into.

So I grew up listening to lot’s of classic rock and music that was not of the time. Like listening to ‘60s music in the ‘80s. Then as a teenager I was listening ‘80s music in the ‘90s, whereas my younger brother was into the Breeders, Offspring and all those Indie bands at the time, and I was buying all Cure cassettes, which I would make my brother memorize by album color.

ANP: At what point in time was this?

JC: This was around 1992. I would buy so many records back then and I would feel like, “Why am I hoarding all of this stuff, and how am I giving back, or keeping the cycle going.” So I felt like I wanted to open a record store, because I would spend my weekends in Manhattan digging in record stores as a teenager and never want to leave.

ANP: Do you ever open one?

JC: No, but the label is kind of like having a record store, or giving back to the cycle. And distributing 300+ titles from all over the world is a part of that. I would like to have a physical space one day.

ANP: It’s the early ‘90s and grunge has taken over with synth music being totally out of favor. What was going on with you then?

JC: In the early to mid ‘90s I had two goth girl friends, and we would just listen to the Misfits, The Cure, Nosferatu, Q Lazzarus and kind of the darker

heavier stuff. My friend did not even have a stereo in her car, so I would hold a boom box in my lap and we would blast this stuff out of the window.

ANP: And then what?

JC: I then started working for Metropolis records in 1998 as an intern for two summers in Philadelphia, which was my first taste of working at a record label.

The catalog was full of EBM, Industrial and Future Pop, but they also did some reissues of older stuff like Bunnydrums, Leather Strip and Clan of Xymox, which gave me a taste of the underground. That first summer in Philly, I remember buying a CD at Tower Records on South Street called New Wave Class X, which had Snowy Red, Executive Slacks, Medium Medium, Simple Minds and other underground stuff. So I started to dig for the next thing and think, “Where did this come from and who’s in this band or that band?” and start linking it all together.

ANP: Then you started working at DFA right?

JC: No, before DFA I was an intern at 4AD (Beggars Group) and at that time they bought Matador Records, so I helped them move all the 4AD stuff across the street to the Matador offices and then I started working there.

ANP: Were you into the Larry T. (notorious NYC club promoter) thing back then?

JC: Sure, I would go to Luxx and see Chicks on Speed, W.I.T., Avenue D, Ladytron, Adult, and buy all the Gigolo Records stuff from Europe. Tiga’s Sunglasses at Night, I loved that stuff. It was all so familiar and synthesizer-based which I could totally relate to and so similar to the stuff I grew up on like Soft Cell, OMD, Depeche Mode.

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ANP: For me the Electroclash period felt very nostalgic as it connected the loop between my teenage years and being an adult. Also, coming from a place of Indierock, it was like all of sudden we got permission to dance. All through the ‘90s you had to sit still at shows and not really move and maybe even sit down. It was still energy. And then The Rapture came though it was like, “Wait, we can have fun with this.”

JC: So after Matador, I didn’t know what to do and DFA put an ad in CMJ Weekly and they told me I was the only person that responded to it. This was before the Rapture and LCD Soundsystem put out their LPs. They were just doing 12”s at the time.

And then I met Tim Goldsworthy at a Rutgers graduation ceremony and he ended up sending me a really nice care package. Inside was this mix James Murphy did for Colette. It had all of these electronic Post Punk songs on it, which added fuel to the fire. When I was working at DFA, I would bring in them all my recent Indie purchases and say “We need to listen to Glass Candy, we need to listen to all of these underground bands.” And then they would just turn me on to classic acts like Terry Riley and Loop.

ANP: What were the first synth bands you really responded to?

JC: The British ones. Soft Cell, Human League, and OMD. I wore out the first Alphaville record so much when I was a teenager. I loved the flare and theatrics. It was so over the top. But the music was so well done and so well produced. The first Ministry is still one of my favorite albums of all

time. It just hit a nerve in my brain that left a mark and still resonates today with what I like, a good melody.

ANP: It seems like that would be the seed for everything you do now.

JC: At 16, I was so obsessed with The Cure, Siouxsie, and Bauhaus. I remember going to this record shop on St. Marks Place and asking for any Cure or Siouxsie stuff that they had, and the guy working there said “If you are into those bands you have to check out Clan of Xymox,” and then pointed me to Tower Records around the corner to get a copy. So I picked up the first two CDs, which forever changed my life.

ANP: When you think about all of that, how does it create a vision for Dark Entries?

JC: I can sum it up as being in High School with my older cousin being way into Synthpop and New Wave, and she would tell me about this club she would go to called “The Bank.” And as soon as I turned 16 and got my drivers license I would go to New York every Friday and Saturday, and dance to all of this music by myself all night. And then just drive back home at 3am in the morning.

The music was like my drug and every time a song would possess me I would run up to the DJ and ask what it was. At the same time there was this other movement called Future Pop. All of these German and Nordic bands releasing stuff that sounded like a Depeche Mode song.

ANP: And that started to formulate your future ideas around a label?

JC: Yeah, I started to think about music more seriously than just collecting. I also had a knack for finding rare albums and re-selling them. I guess this was a lesson in business 101.

ANP: Let’s talk about the name Dark Entires.

Did that come from the Bauhaus song?

JC: Yes. When I was 14 listening to Gothic Rock Volume 1 on Cleopatra Records, “Dark Entries” was the first song. I would hold a boom box on my lap in my friend’s car and blast that song every night on our way to Denny’s. So when I was thinking about what to name the label that was the first name that would always come to mind. So I had to use it, it was where it all started for me.

ANP: What was the timing around that?

JC: The boom box was 1996, but the label was cemented in 2007.

ANP: When you moved to SF from NY, did you know you wanted to do a label?

JC: I moved here then started to feel more confident. San Francisco definitely boosted my self-esteem and creativity. I felt everything was possible here.

ANP: So you are going to do this record label and name it Dark Entries...How did you launch it?

JC: I was living in this house in the Mission and I remember asking my roommate who had a label in the early 2000s about it, and he pointed me towards all of these resources for vinyl pressing, mastering, having jackets made, etc. In 2006, I met Phil Maier who runs the blog called A Viable Commercial. I won a record by The Dance off him and he dropped it off at my house and immediately we clicked and became friends. He then pushed me to look at Eleven Pond as my first release. So I contacted the band and drew up an agreement. Then Jeff Gallea from the band drove up from LA and helped me silk screen the first edition.

ANP: It’s such a great record to hang your first release on. They are one of those obscure bands with a tremendous amount of talent. They should of broke through and been huge.

(clockwise from top left) Xymox, Netherlands, 1983 ADN Ckrystall, France, 1982 Indoor Life, USA, 1981 Eleven Pond, Rochester, 1986 (opposite) Selected Releases, 2009-2014

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JC: Yeah, but the timing was off in the sense that it was already 1986/7 and hair metal bands were starting to take over.

ANP: When I first met you and was exposed to Dark Entries, I saw the label as something really focused on reissues. You have since put out music that is not reissue based. You have also become an online distributor with a good amount of 3rd party music flowing through your site. What this always your intent?

JC: My original plan was to release a reissue then a new release, alternating with reissues on odd numbers and new releases on even numbers. And this was the way it was with my first release, Eleven Pond and my second, Death Domain, and my third release Second Decay, but then I realized that there weren’t enough new artists for me to release, and that I had a dearth of archival stuff to get to, so I just kept going with the archival stuff. The distribution happened as kind of a fluke. I would contact other labels to see if they wanted to carry my records in their online shops, and they would ask if I wanted to trade. So I said okay to Annalogue, Mannequin and a few others, and then it just spiraled to a point where I would just start buying titles to carry in my store.

ANP: From a genre perspective, do you feel that the label is bound to anything, or broader in the sense that you can go anywhere with it over time?

JC: I think I can go broad with it. I don’t think I have pigeon-holed myself too much to any one genre. I mean going from Eleven Pond who has essence of For Against, Depeche Mode and New Order then jumping over to The Danse Society which is very Goth-Rock, then jumping over to Lives of Angels which is DIY Indie-pop.

(clockwise from top left) Buzz, France, 1985 Presteg Dred, Denmark, 1981 (Re-issue 2010) Robin Crutchfield, Darker days As I Recall, Zine, 2010 Bay Area Retrograde Volume One (BART), Various Artists, 2010 Buzz, France, 1986 (Re-issue 2011)

ANP: There are people in society that are great barometers for things that will connect to larger groups, whether it be fashion, art, design, music, etc. I think you have a great sense for what is going to connect.

JC: I feel like if I like it, then other people with like it. I trust that if the music moves me, that it might move other people. I was in college radio for eight years of my life and I was the music director and would review hundreds of albums. I would build my radio shows from themes, which allowed me to jump all around. I was such a nerd with researching specific songs and bands.

ANP: How many releases do you have right now?

JC: I am up to 48 right now.

ANP: That’s a lot of releases in four years.

More than most!

JC: When I started everyone was giving me advice, saying “Don’t put out 100 records...be more like Dischord.” And then my engineer, George Horn, said, “Josh, you have this momentum and if the demand is there, why not release more music?” So I listened to him and went with it. Now I release three titles every two months or so.

ANP: What were the ‘90s like for you from a music perspective?

JC: In 1992 I was really into The Cure but was also buying stuff like En Vogue, TLC and Salt-n-Pepa.

I was also listening to lots of classic rock like Pink

Floyd and the Nuggets compilations. By 1995 the Goth girls and I would listen to Misfits and the Cramps. In 1997 my friend Anna turned me onto Indie rock like Stereolab and Belle and Sebastian and I got into shoegaze with My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive and Chapterhouse.

ANP: We talked about Slint earlier.

JC: Yeah, I didn’t get into post-rock stuff until 2000. I had this girlfriend that was studying abroad from the UK and she brought a giant CD booklet with her, and every page had bands like Slint, Mogwai, Sonic Youth, etc. I was like “What is this?”

I hadn’t heard any of it. At that point my references were the ‘80s and band’s referencing that sound.

ANP: The ‘90s Indie scene was pretty amazing from a DIY ethic. Labels like Gravity Records were pushing it hard with everything circulating between San Diego, DC and Olympia. Did you catch any of that?

JC: Working at the college radio station, I would go see all the bands that I was obsessed with like Erase Errata and Black Eyes and Pinback. I was also really into K Records and met Calvin Johnson when he played at my college. I would buy everything off the K Records mail order and he would email me with personal notes thanking me. So I guess seeing the way he ran his label probably had a subconscious effect on me with my own label. I then got into noisier stuff with label like Three One G, Load, Gold Standard Laboratories.

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ANP: Gravity was doing such a good job with screen printing releases, adding ephemera, creating editions , etc. in a time when CDs were overwhelmingly dominant. And as I think about it now, I can almost see a thread of Gravity in Dark Entries with regard to the care and detail that you put into it.

JC: When I bought records as a teenager in college, I would fixate over the album artwork, the inserts, color schemes, and everything else that came along with them. I would collect all the limited edition silk-screened records from Hand Held Hart and Deathbomb Arc, so yeah I can see that too.

ANP: Who helps you with that? I see so much effort put into each of your releases and I think, “Wow, this is really considered.” Is that all you?

JC: I have a designer named Eloise Leigh who is now in Berlin. She has been my designer since 2010.

With the silk-screening, I do it all myself. I have pulled the screens for every single release, handnumbered all the releases (when I was still doing that) and stamped all of the inserts.

ANP: There is an element of craft with what you do that separates it from everything else in your space.

JC: Yeah, a lot of labels that are doing these ‘80s reissues are doing high-end 180 gram vinyl with glossy jackets. To me, that takes away from the D.I.Y. cassette aesthetic that the original release was

presented in, framing it in this more polished and shiny light. Eloise and I want you to feel the rawness of the music via the record jacket fibers and even with the paper inside. I want it to feel like what it would have felt like in the ‘80s.

ANP: This is really consistent with your releases, meaning the visual or aesthetic aspects of them seem just as important as the music.

JC: When I listen to the music, I have a passion for the sound and what it feels like. Eloise shares this vision and we parallel the jackets, inserts, ephemera, and color schemes to it. The whole thing is very circular and thought out.

ANP: When you are working with bands that are typically creative, there has to be a collaborative process. It can’t just be you with your ideas as they are going to want to participate. How does that work?

JC: A lot of the time we are just reproducing the original artwork. If there was a jacket that was previously done, we are not going to change it and give it a new look. We will add new inserts and printed ephemera to accompany the release. But there are projects that require completely new designs for release that did not have designs before.

So in those instances we go to the band and ask for everything they have saved in their archives and we scan in everything and go from there. Every project we do is always bounced back to the band for their

input. Their voice is such in integral part of the reissue. With Eleven Pond, Jeff didn’t want to use the original artwork and I was kind of apprehensive, as I wanted to recreate exactly. But he wanted use a picture of the band, so I said okay. Right from the beginning I learned how not to be so steadfast with my ideas to mimic everything. I was open to his interpretation of how he wanted it to look back in the ‘80s. I think it came out pretty well.

ANP: Is there anything that you salivate over that will never be reissued... Music that just exists out there and will forever just live in obscurity?

JC: Oh yeah, there is so much! It happens multiple times a year where I will contact the band and they will say, “Sorry, no thanks, that was a long time ago.” A lot of them will have found religion or something else that prohibits them from revisiting their musical past. In some cases it evokes a dark memory or pain, and a lot of bands don’t want to go there or they can’t get all the band members to have consensus so they just let it die.

ANP: Solid Space comes to mind.

JC: Solid Space...yeah. That is tricky. The problem is that there are two members and one guy lives in the UK and the other in the South Bay (SF). The guy in the South Bay wants to re-record a number of the songs because he feels that recordings don’t sound right. He wants to change enough of it that it won’t really sound like it did. In my head, I am

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such a purist and I want it to sound like the original cassette. The other problem is that the master tapes are gone, which were thrown out in the ‘90s by the engineer’s wife. I call them every few months and keep trying.

ANP: Talking about the re-mastering, how does that work? Are you the one tweaking on it?

JC: I rely on the engineers at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley. They dehydrate or “bake” the reel-to-reel tapes and then transfer the material. We then use those files for the re-mastering process with my engineer George Horn who has worked on every single release on Dark Entries.

ANP: What is it like when you discover something that has never been touched?

Does anxiety pour over you with regards to making contact?

JC: It becomes this overwhelming and consuming thing to just make contact with a band member and get a confirmation. I have a very addictive personality so it works well with sleuthing.

ANP: It was amazing to see how fast you worked when we talked about Lives of Angels.

JC: You played that song...I went home at 2am and I found and emailed the singer/songwriter within 20 minutes of being home. Four hours later at 6am he contacts me saying, “Yes let’s do it.”

ANP: It was so impressive...and I can totally identify with the anxiety of discovery. If

you aren’t quick to own an idea it will go out into the aether and someone else will pick it up. In your case, there are a handful of labels working the same landscape, so it even becomes more urgent feeling, as I am sure a fair about of inquiries are lost to this.

JC: Yeah, many times it happens where other labels have already approached the band and then I approach them, which can lead to feuds between the labels.

Unfortunately, it is very competitive now because there are so many labels doing ‘80s reissues. Whenever I email a band I always assume that they have already been contacted so when I get the reply back, “How did you hear about me?” I am like, “Really?!” [smiling].

ANP: How did the Jeff & Jane Hudson release with Captured Tracks come together?

JC: Well, Captured Tracks emailed Jeff & Jane Hudson a week before I did.

But since I know Mike Sniper at Captured Tracks, I proposed that we do a joint reissue, which he agreed to. We might be working on another one next year.

ANP: Who? JC: Well Captured Tracks is reissuing some of the Flying Nun catalog. There

is a band from the label that I have been working with for the past two years called Phantom Forth, a husband and wife duo from Australia. I have the masters and a deal with the band, so I hope they make it a part of their reissue series.

ANP: Do you think a lot of this is being driven by the web?

JC: Of course, if YouTube didn’t exist I wouldn’t have The Product, I wouldn’t have the Danse Society demos. A lot of these bands I have heard are the result of getting lost in a YouTube vortex…which I could never do as a teenager. I would just go to the record stores and dig and dig and dig, or find out about stuff through word of mouth, cousins, friends, or going to a club in NY and hearing new bands and asking the DJ, “What’s this?”

ANP: I kind of miss that. The whole experience of getting compilation cassettes from friends. It was so personal as the tracks would be handwritten with this kind of DIY cover art. Whenever I hear songs that I was turned onto that way, it takes me right back.

And now what I find amazing is that the connective tissue for this sort of thing lives in YouTube.

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(clockwise from top left) Jeff & Jane Hudson, 1983 Kitchen and the Plastic Spoons, Sweden, 1981 Starter, Switzerland, 1981 Wasp Women, San Francisco, 1980

(opposite, from top) Parade Ground, Golden Years LP Parade Ground, Belgium, 1985

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JC: Yeah, there aren’t these tape traders anymore or these publications naming all the new releases.

Fast forward 30 years and this is the way people are consuming music now, which I don’t think makes it any simpler as you still have to spend a lot of time digging whether it be YouTube or record bins at Amoeba.

ANP: YouTube is like the infinite record bin.

And to your point, you can’t just search a tag and get all of the good stuff.

JC: Yeah.

ANP: Do you think that with this era of music the “finds” are starting to dry up? Or do you think there is a lot more out there to discover?

JC: It’s infinite. Just when I think there is nothing else, I find a lost album that has never been released.

ANP: Do you ever have this experience with band where you go through the process of a release and you see that you have given them new life?

JC: Sure, there are a few bands that, since the reissue, have reformed and played shows. Eleven Pond, Vita Noctis and Jeff and Jane Hudson started playing shows again for the first time in 25 years.

ANP: That is an amazing thing though, meaning giving the artist life again. I imagine if you are from the ‘80s, and you are in your late ‘50s, that there are not a lot of

places to do this without a context. You give them context to express themselves again musically and artistically.

JC: Um yeah, it runs the gamut from band members being totally disinterested and not wanting any copies of the release, to a band needing 100 copies for their tour, or to give to their friends.

ANP: Do you play music?

JC: No ANP: Or obsess on gear?

JC: When I see gear over at friends’ houses I do want to touch them and I become curious about how the sounds are made knowing that this is where the music I’m releasing comes from. I get very nervous around the instruments though. But then at the same time I think about how the bands didn’t really know anything about their instruments and just took stabs at it, with a lot of them being antimusicians and just doing what they did without any formal training.

ANP: But you are DJ. JC: I do DJ a lot. Every week.

ANP: Where?

JC: I am part of a collective called Honey Soundsystem.

ANP: What is that?

JC: We are four queer guys that share a passion for digging for music from all genres, past to present.

We got started with all of us coming from very

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different paths, including Italo Disco, New Wave, Techno and House. It has evolved into this thing where we are just four music dorks who obsess over this stuff.

ANP: Do you just play in SF or go out of the area?

JC: Yeah, all of us do gigs all over the country.

ANP: Do you ever use Honey as a testing ground for new material that you are considering releasing.

JC: Not really. The music I play there is so different than the music I release.

ANP: But when I saw you play the other night before Silent Servant, you played a Victrola track, which I hear you are going to release soon.

JC: Okay, caught! And I have played bands like Eleven Pond and Neon Judgement. Actually, I have played a lot of my songs now that I think about it.

ANP: Who are your musical heroes? Artists that have stood the test of time…

JC: The Cure, Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine, Patrick Cowley, Arthur Russell, Siouxsie, Nico, Joni Mitchell, early Ministry... Those are all huge for me.

ANP: What do you think of the new breed of Post Punk and Minimal Synth bands?

JC: I think a lot of it is hit or miss. Some bands are making their music sound very “now” but there are a lot that are very derivative and calculated.

(clockwise from opposite, top left) Nagamatzu, Sacred Islands of the Mad, LP, 1986 Nagamatzu, London, 1986 Q4U, Iceland, 1981 Lives of Angels, London, 1981 Patrick Cowley and George Socarras, USA, 1981 Severed Heads, Australia, 1983

ANP: Do you think it has the potential to breakthrough to a larger audience? A sort of second 1980s?

JC: No, I don’t think that will ever happen again. Labels just aren’t throwing money at bands any more. Everything relies so much more on touring and selling merchandise.

And I feel like a lot of these bands are in the same predicament as the late ‘70s bands. They are confused and not doing it for the money, but are doing it because they have the passion. And they are releasing on cassettes again because they are affordable whereas vinyl is expensive.

ANP: For me cassettes are really nostalgic as I grew up on them, but if I had a preference it is not be a cassette.

JC: No. When I get a cassette in the mail to master from I get so frustrated because the cassettes from the ‘80s have a limited life span. The more you play it the more you are shedding off the audio and losing frequencies. To reissue something on cassette that is going to have a limited lifespan, and isn’t the highest quality, doesn’t make sense to me. But for the nostalgic quality and to handle a cassette, I do understand the psychology behind it.

ANP: Yeah, I feel like cassettes are kind of this blind nostalgia where they are obscure, weird and out of favor “so let’s do that” vs. what is going to deliver the best product. Whereas I still think vinyl holds up in terms of a great audio experience.

JC: It does, but it’s definitely a psychological thing, this

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whole vinyl resurgence. My engineer is stumped as to why he is doing more records than CDs. To him it doesn’t equate because he knows down to the physics that CDs are superior. But for us we want to touch the vinyl and jacket, and the artwork is bigger, and the ephemera is better, which creates the experience that I love.

ANP: What do you think about SF as a place to live and do what you are doing from a cultural perspective? Is there anywhere else you would rather be?

JC: I love SF, but I also like Oakland because of the space you get, and how much more everything is spread out, and that they are warehouse parties. It’s way more underground and kind of more like a Sheffield. But it’s also a much quieter suburb with a suburbia feel to it. I would love to have a shop or warehouse over there, but I would also feel disconnected from the pulse of things, which are tied to SF. I would also love to take time off and live in different cities, but it is hard to lug 1000 records around. I would love to have a residency in Berlin, live in London... go back to New York. I would love to live all over, but SF is currently suiting the needs of my label.

ANP: Where do you see Dark Entries in 10 years?

Do you see burn out or expansion?

JC: If anything I would want to release three records a month, but I am limited to the workspace, which I operate out of. It is really small. But I feel like if anything it will just grow and get bigger and bigger, as I get more distribution and people get clued into what I am doing.

BY NICHOLAS SCHOU / IMAGES COURTESY OF THE ARTISTS

Since its founding, Southern California has been associated with its fair share of cults, gangs and bizarre secret societies. Maybe it’s something in the water, but for some reason people like to spin out on the West Coast. Though there have many famous purveyors of countercultural weirdness, in terms of sheer craziness, few can come close in comparison to The Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The Brotherhood was an organization of acid-dropping hippy surfers that operated out of Laguna Beach, California. The organization was started in the mid-1960s by John Griggs as an alternative-lifestyle commune. They described themselves as a group of idealists who used LSD as a religious sacrament. In 1967, The Brotherhood of Eternal Love opened a storefront called Mystic Arts World on Pacific Coast Highway. It served as a headquarters of sorts, and included a head shop, art gallery, bookstore and exotic-goods retail shop that also boasted a meditation room in back. As fate would have it, by 1969, what had begun as a group of spiritual warriors had turned to the manufacture of LSD and the importing of hashish from Afghanistan in hollowed out surfboards. By decade’s end, the psychedelic messengers had sidetracked into a smuggling operation that made the group one of the largest drug cartels in America. Dubbed the Hippie Mafia by Rolling Stone magazine, they produced and distributed drugs in hopes of starting a “psychedelic revolution” in the United States. Their trademark product, a brand of LSD called Orange Sunshine was supposedly produced in quantities numbering in the millions of hits. Around this time, John Griggs formed an association with acid guru Timothy Leary, and in 1970, he hired the radical left organization Weather Underground for a fee of $25,000 to help Leary make his way to Algeria after he escaped from prison, while serving a 5-year sentence for possession of marijuana. But all good things must come to an end. The activities of the Brotherhood came to their demise on August 5, 1972, when in a drug raid, dozens of group members in California, Oregon and Maui were arrested.

On the occasion of the upcoming exhibition Orange Sunshine and the Mystic Artists, 19671970, curated by Bolton Coburn, we decided to feature this brief primer on The Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The exhibition opens this summer at Coastline Community College in Newport Beach and will focus on the various artists, photographers and craftspeople who exhibited at Mystic Arts World during the Brotherhood days in the 60’s. According to former Mystic Arts World gallery director Dion Wright, who collaborated on the exhibition: “While it lasted, Mystic Arts World was a focus of seminal, sometimes cosmological, and always superconscious Art.” In honor of this, we contacted Nicholas Schou, whose book Orange Sunshine: The Brotherhood of Eternal Love and Its Quest to Spread Peace, Love, and Acid to the World is perhaps the definitive text on the group. He has generously allowed us to excerpt it here. Enjoy the ride!

Steve Hodgson never forgot the mischievous grin on his new co-worker’s face, a crooked smile that seemed totally at odds with his flashing blue eyes centered within raccoon-like rings that evoked a world-weary wisdom beyond the stranger’s years. John Griggs was a wiry, well-groomed man who, from a distance, appeared normal enough, dressed as he was in the white polo shirt, khaki shorts and tennis shoes that formed the standard uniform of Laguna Beach’s parks-and-recreation department. But upon close inspection, nothing could disguise the fact that there was something different, something askew about him. “He had a somewhat-broken face, and it was just imprinted with this grin, a smile so large it was threatening to shatter his face,” Hodgson recalls. “His eyes were just beaming, and I didn’t know what he was smiling about.”

Hodgson, a soft-spoken, introverted film student who grew up in Pasadena, was crashing at his aunt’s house in Laguna Beach during the summer of 1966, sweeping stairs and emptying trash bins for the city. He’d taken the minimum-wage job so he could earn a few extra bucks while he waited for the fall semester to start at the University of Colorado. He clocked his time for the city during the day, and in the evenings, he made a ritual of kicking back on the bluff to watch the sun set.

He couldn’t imagine a better place in the world to hang out all summer than Laguna Beach. Hodgson considered himself a gypsy of sorts, intellectually speaking at least, and this town was the genuine bohemian article, a halfhidden enclave of painters, poets and musicians bursting with creative

energy and blissfully segregated from the rest of Orange County, California’s burgeoning suburbia, by a fortress-like ring of craggy hills and canyons. With a dramatic coastline, scenic bluffs and rocky coves, Laguna Beach had long played host to artists, most famously Plein Air Movement painters such as Edgar Payne and William Wendt. In decades past, the sleepy artists’ colony served as a weekend retreat for Hollywood film stars such as Charlie Chaplin, Bette Davis, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland.

By now, however, Laguna Beach had been transformed into a bustling resort town, teeming with art galleries and cultural celebrations, often held at an outdoor auditorium at the base of Laguna Canyon, where the local aristocrats hosted their beloved Pageant of the Masters, a quasi-feudal ritual in which local residents dressed up in costumes and re-enacted famous paintings, including Emanuel Leutze’s Washington Crossing the Delaware and Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper. An avuncular World War I veteran named Eiler Larsen—always dressed in a rumpled suit, with long gray hair and a flowing beard, known to everyone simply as “the Greeter”—would wander up and down Pacific Coast Highway, cane in hand, calling, “Hello, there” and affably waving at tourists as they drove into town.

Hodgson and another city worker were parked in their dump truck next to a row of trash cans at the top of a flight of wooden stairs that led down to a secluded beach when Griggs approached them, introduced himself as a newly minted trash collector, pulled a cigar-size joint from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

(opening spread) Jeff Devine Brotherhood of Eternal Love, Canyon Acres, Laguna Canyon, 1971 (clockwise from top) John Griggs, Founder of The Brotherhood of Eternal Love, Photo by Dion Wright Dion Wright Starseed,1975 acrylic on canvas 30x30 in.

Robert Altman Mystic Arts World The Brotherhood Store, Laguna Beach, March 8, 1970

“You guys smoke?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Hodgson answered.

Griggs jumped in the truck, they rolled up the windows, and, a few seconds later, Hodgson got high on the job. As he drove south along the highway to the city dump, Griggs, sitting in the passenger seat, suddenly rolled down his window. “I’m driving this truck in traffic, cars are everywhere, and John is leaning out the window as far as he could reach,” Hodgson recalls. “And I’m leaning over trying to pull him back in, and he’s just waving at everyone, yelling, ‘Hello! Hello! I love you! I love you!’ and embarrassing the shit out of us.”

The next morning, Hodgson’s boss, a burly ex-barber, called him and Griggs into the office. “You guys been drinking on the job?” he barked.

“No, no, no,” Hodgson insisted.

“Well, let me smell your breath. I’ve been getting all these phone calls about someone driving one of my trucks all over town saying he loves everyone.”

Hodgson feigned bewildered ignorance, delighted at the realization that what had begun as a menial summer job had unexpectedly been transformed into a mind-altering adventure.

“John just turned you on by his presence,” Hodgson explains. “If you couldn’t stand it, you’d be out of that truck in five minutes. He was one of the most powerful people I’ve ever met in my life. He was just there, just open and eager to see you and relate to you only. Like you’re the only one in the room when he’s talking to you. I don’t think anybody could meet John for more than 10 minutes and walk away with the same skin on they had when they met him. He’d melt you down and put you back together and make you feel love, make you feel great.”

Once Griggs discovered Hodgson played the harmonica, he refused to let him do any actual work. While Hodgson belted out blues riffs on his mouth harp, Griggs pushed the broom, making up nonsensical lyrics to go along with the melody. It didn’t surprise Hodgson that Griggs knew a lot of people in Laguna Beach or that his friends shared Griggs’ indefatigable appetite for celestial daytime distractions. Everywhere they went, someone would pass Griggs a joint to smoke. “People kept us loaded all day long,” Hodgson says. “It was incredibly menial work, but being with John made it fun.”

Although Griggs loved to goof around while high on pot, he was serious and even evangelical in his enthusiasm for another drug that had been cooked up a few decades earlier by Albert Hofmann, a Swiss chemist with Sandoz Laboratories: lysergic acid diethylamide, or LSD, also known as acid.

Hodgson had tried LSD a few times at parties and thought of it as a rather intense recreational high, but Griggs insisted that acid was nothing less than a religious sacrament, a key that in the proper hands could unlock the mysteries of the universe. “He told me that he’d seen God while high on LSD,” Hodgson recalls. Earlier that year, Griggs explained, he and a few dozen close friends, all of whom grew up in the shadow of Disneyland in the working-class city of Anaheim, had absconded to a cluster of houses in the secluded hills of nearby Modjeska Canyon. Griggs, only 22 years old and already married with two kids, lived in a century-old stone building he called the Church. He asked Hodgson to take some LSD with him there. At first, Hodgson refused, but Griggs persisted, and eventually, Hodgson gave in.

Encircled by oak trees and perched atop a steep hill at the end of a winding dirt road in Modjeska Canyon, the Church had a screened patio in the rear that afforded a sweeping view of Saddleback Mountain, a 5,600-foot escarpment of the Cleveland National Forest named for its twin peaks that, when viewed from a distance, form the silhouette of the pommel and seat of a saddle. Beneath the porch flourished an orange grove and a vegetable garden, where Griggs and his friends grew their own food. Decorating every wall inside the stone building were portraits and representations of various deities: Jesus Christ; Buddha; a host of Hindu gods and goddesses; even snapshots of Eastern mystic teachers such as Paramahansa Yogananda, an Indian-born teacher of transcendental meditation who achieved fame in Europe and America after World War II. Incense candles burned in imported bronze dishes, filling the house with hazy smoke and the odor of sandalwood. Stacks of metaphysical and psychedelic literature adorned the bookshelves: dog-eared copies of works by Timothy Leary, Ralph Metzner and Richard Alpert, a trio of Harvard psychology professors whom Hodgson had heard were using LSD in experiments on one another, their students, even local prison inmates—the latter in an attempt to prove that acid, when expertly

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Encampment at the Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Mark Chamberlain, Courtesy BC Space View from the stage at the Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Mark Chamberlain, Courtesy BC Space (opposite) Performer at Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Jim Koch, Courtesy BC Space Happiness Tent at the Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Jim Koch, Courtesy BC Space

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administered, could reduce recidivism rates. To readers like Griggs and his friends, Leary’s just-published The Psychedelic Experience was a timely how-to manual for cosmic mind expansion. It billed itself as a translation of the ancient Tibetan Book of the Dead, a compilation of aphorisms, chants and prayers that steer Buddhist initiates toward a state of enlightenment after achieving the death of one’s ego. Griggs told Hodgson that he and his buddies from Anaheim recited it chapter and verse whenever they got high on acid, and that the book guided them in their quest for spiritual enlightenment.

Griggs and his friends, Hodgson reasoned, were willing guinea pigs in an experiment Leary didn’t even know was taking place in California. They were dropping acid and transforming themselves one trip at a time in hopes of proving Leary was correct that LSD could cure the most hardened criminal.

A few of the folks at the Church were suntanned surfers with flowing locks of golden hair and sublime, spiritual dispositions, but most of them, including Griggs himself, were former heroin addicts and boozers, petty crooks, and street fighters who’d drifted in and out of juvenile hall, jail and reform school. They had nicknames such as Dark Cloud, Eddie Spaghetti, Fastie and the One-armed Bandit. “They thought of me as a soft city boy,” Hodgson recalls. “I couldn’t relate to any of them except John, who insisted I take acid with all of them.”

Following Griggs’ instructions, which he gathered were gleaned from Leary’s acid manual, Hodgson lay down on the floor of the screen porch with several strangers and closed his eyes. “We all joined hands,” he recalls. Just as Griggs had promised, what happened next changed his life forever. “It was an out-ofbody experience, a religious experience,” he says. “Someone was reading from The Psychedelic Experience and making sure everyone was okay, that nobody was having a bad trip. I remember helping Christ carry a cross. I remember seeing this pierced figure bleeding and a crown of thorns and him carry a cross and me helping him. I don’t know what it meant. It blew my mind. It’s been a point of wonder all my life.”

At the end of the summer, Hodgson left Laguna Beach and returned to Colorado, where, inspired by the visions he’d experienced at the Church, he set about making a documentary about LSD. He hoped to interview Leary, Metzner and Alpert, who had been kicked out of Harvard for refusing to stop their LSD research. At a Sept. 19, 1966, press conference in New York City, Leary famously commanded everyone on the planet to “turn on, tune in and drop out.” The trio had also established a commune at the Millbrook, New York, mansion of William Hitchcock, the son of a millionaire oil magnate whom Leary befriended while at Harvard. A procession of beatnik luminaries such as Allen Ginsberg and Ken Kesey, plus jazz musicians such as Thelonious Monk and Charles Mingus, dropped by Millbrook in a never-ending parade of LSD-popping poets, socialites and protohippies.

One day, Hodgson showed up with his camera crew. “Leary welcomed us and gave us a tour and befriended me like a great friend,” Hodgson recalls. “He wanted us to come into town the next day where he was giving a lecture on The Psychedelic Experience in New York City.” Hodgson filmed the lecture, and Leary asked him if he wouldn’t mind driving an ancient-looking Indian swami, a guest of his at Millbrook, back to the estate. “‘Just don’t let him stop at a liquor store,’” Hodgson says Leary warned. “They had to keep tabs on this swami because he liked to drink a lot. And sure enough, when he got in the car, the first words out of his mouth were ‘Could we stop at a liquor store, please?’”

After dropping off the alcohol-addled swami, Hodgson said goodbye to Leary and flew back to Laguna Beach to find Griggs, whom he regaled with tales of the defrocked Harvard professor. He asked his old friend if it’d be okay to take a few shots of the Church to use in the film. When he heard that Leary was onboard with the project, Griggs beamed with excitement and granted Hodgson his wish, giving him free rein to film whatever he wanted at the Modjeska Canyon house.

Hodgson felt protective of Griggs and resolved to shoot only a few scenes that didn’t include closeups of anybody’s faces. “As I was packing up, Griggs took me into the living room,” Hodgson recalls. “And on the mantel of the fireplace was an open bowl, 14 inches across and 10 inches deep, full of 100 microgram capsules of LSD.” Griggs reached into the bowl with both hands and began to dump fistfuls of acid into Hodgson’s rucksack. “Do me a favor,” Hodgson says Griggs said. “Go turn on the East Coast.”

Press clippings featuring the Laguna Happening. (opposite, clockwise from top left) Young Woman at the Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Jim Koch, Courtesy BC Space

Hodgson never saw Griggs again, and his documentary would never be completed. He returned to New York and distributed Griggs’ acid to everyone he knew. Then someone broke into his apartment and stole his film. In the previous few days, he’d received several telephone calls from the FBI, asking to see his footage. After the break-in, an agent hauled him into a field office, stripsearched him and interrogated him about Leary. Hodgson, who had finished college and was now eligible to be drafted for service in Vietnam, fled to Canada, where he remains today, 40 years later. He soon heard that Griggs and his friends in Modjeska Canyon had moved to Laguna Beach and helped usher in a flowering hippie scene that established the city as a Southern California version of Haight-Ashbury, luring countless flower children to overrun the resort town and fill its beaches, coves and canyons with the scent of marijuana and hashish and the wild sounds of the latest psychedelic-rock albums.

Griggs would eventually lure Leary himself to Laguna Beach.

Public Sex at the Laguna Beach Christmas Happening, 1970 Photo by Jim Koch, Courtesy BC Space Carol Abrams The Entwives, 1967 Colored pencil on paper 20x26 in.

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Dion Wright Taxonomic Mandala of Life, 1965-1966 Oil on plywood 136x96 in. (opposite) FBI Wanted Poster featuring members of the Brotherhood.

John Griggs with Timothy Leary and his wife Rosemary, Laguna Beach, 1968 Press Clippings featuring the FBI acid bust of The Brotherhood of Eternal Love

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Within days of his arrival, Leary was telling anyone who asked that Griggs was not only his good friend, but also his “spiritual guru” and “the holiest man who has ever lived in this country.” But Griggs was far more than Leary’s guru. He had his own legally registered church and used its tax-exempt status to establish Mystic Arts World, a metaphysical bookstore, hippie boutique and head shop on PCH. Through the store, Griggs and his friends helped transform Laguna Beach into the epicenter of Southern California’s acid scene, where teenagers from as far away as San Diego and Glendale knew they could find the most-powerful LSD anyone had to offer.

Griggs and his friends ran the biggest marijuana- and hashish-smuggling network in the United States. Each week, their cars and trucks, outfitted with special stash holes or carrying hollowed-out surfboards, crossed the border from Mexico and made their way to Laguna Canyon and a warren of clapboard houses and log cabins on Woodland Drive. The neighborhood became known as “Dodge City” because of the frequent police raids that took place there, a surreal skirmish with the local forces of law and order that did little to stop the flow of illicit drugs into and out of Laguna Beach. Also at Griggs’ command was an even bigger fleet of vehicles—Volkswagen buses, campers, Porsches and Land Rovers purchased in Europe and driven east, then sent home on container ships from India and Pakistan, laden with tons of hashish purchased in the exotic bazaars of Katmandu and Kandahar.

Griggs and his friends weren’t just hash smugglers; they were also America’s largest LSD-distribution ring, complete with mobile laboratories that always managed to stay one step ahead of the police and federal drug agents who constantly, but with scant success, chased after them. Their exploits, beginning well before San Francisco’s so-called Summer of Love introduced the world to hippies in 1967 and stretching over the next several years, most famously included springing Leary from prison with the help of the Black Panthers and the Weathermen. They would eventually lead to the creation of a multi-agency task force that formed the first legion in America’s global war on drugs, carrying out arrests from Orange County to Oregon; Hawaii; even Kabul, Afghanistan. The raids netted dozens of suspects and sent an equal number underground, scattering around the globe in pursuit of an outlaw life that would, in some cases, last decades.

By then, Griggs and his cohorts had turned on countless young people with their own brand of cosmic, mind-expanding, highly powerful LSD: Orange Sunshine, which would find its way to Grateful Dead concerts and love-ins up and down the coast of California, and then to hippie communes and cities across the country and beyond.

Charles Manson and his followers would get high on Orange Sunshine. So would the Hells Angels and the unruly audience at the Altamont Music Festival. During a three-day happening in Laguna Beach—a riotous, apocalyptic birthday party for Jesus Christ that began on Christmas Day 1970—a cargo plane would drop a full load of gray cards over a crowd of 25,000 concertgoers in Laguna Canyon, just up the hill from Dodge City.

Each card included a tab of Orange Sunshine. That year, the FBI estimated, Orange Sunshine was being manufactured by hundreds of pill presses stashed in various houses across the country, and federal drug agents traced the acid’s spread to such far-flung locales as London, Bangkok and Sydney.

Just as Leary was enticed by Griggs to join his cause, so was Jimi Hendrix, who starred in a movie that paid tribute to the hash-smuggling exploits of Griggs’ cohorts. On a windy summer day in July 1970, the world-famous musician even played a private concert for a band of Laguna Beach smugglers and their surfing pals in a cow pasture high on the slope of Haleakala, a 10,000-foot volcano on Maui. The concert took place there because several of Griggs’ foot soldiers had just escaped to Maui from the increasing heat in Dodge City on a 25-foot yacht loaded with 6,000 pounds of Mexican pot—the cultivars of which would become the legendary “Maui Wowie”—and arrived in the tropics like conquering warriors in a royal canoe.

Griggs and the rest of his crew were psychedelic warriors who had turned on with acid and tuned in to a newfound sense of spiritual purpose. Instead of dropping out of society, they created their own version of it, one that they hoped to single-handedly spread through their entire generation.

Their goal: turn on the entire world. First the police and later Rolling Stone magazine would brand them the “Hippie Mafia.” They called themselves the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The book Orange Sunshine is their story.

Orange Sunshine: The Brotherhood of Eternal Love and Its Quest to Spread Peace, Love, and Acid to the World by Nicholas Schou is published by Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martins’s Griffin and we highly recommend you go out and buy it immediately.

Bolton Coburn’s exhibition, Orange Sunshine and the Mystic Artists, 19671970, runs July 25 – September 26, 2015 at Coastline Community College in Newport Beach, California.

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INTERVIEW BY CLARK RAYBURN PORTRAIT BY ED TEMPLETON

Deadbeat Club is a Los Angeles based small publishing house started by artist and photographer Clint Woodside. We asked him to tell us more about it.

ANP: Can you give us a brief history of Deadbeat Club?

Clint Woodside: Deadbeat Club originally started, really, just as a website to sell my zines and a few things by my friend James. We shared a studio downtown and were making a bunch of things, and we wanted to have something to let people know it existed. Eventually, James had a child, and wasn’t able to focus as much on making the things that he was working on. So I just kept making zines of my own. A few people liked what I was up too, so I would sell one or two a week probably. Up until then it was just my work. Then Ed Templeton shattered his leg… him and I have been buds for a bit now, always talking about how we wanted to work on something be it a show I would curate something or other. When he broke his leg and was couch ridden for a long time I called him up and felt like maybe he needed a project or else he would lose his mind, so him and I did a split zine. One half was part of his series called “make up girls” and my half was a travelog called “N/S/E/W”. There was no publishing company idea in my head when we did this. I just saw it as another zine.

But after it was done I was pretty excited about the idea of putting other people’s work out. Around that time my friend Devin Briggs who has been making zines for a while, told me he was working on a new one, and asked if it could be on “Deadbeat Club”. It was funny. He paid for the whole thing himself but asked to have my logo on it. So Devin’s was the first one that actually had the logo or any issue number on it.

ANP: So, it happened very organically?

By this time you could kind of feel a little bit of a positive swell about what we were up to. So around this time I went up and visited my friend Ray who runs a similar small press called Hamburger Eyes. While we were up there we were talking about how Printed Matter is going to do the LA Art Book Fair for the first time. This was super exciting to me because I used to go to the New York fair all the time. And I already had all the zines that I just put out. Ray didn’t really know much about it because he’s always been on the West Coast. He knew it existed but didn’t know how insane it is. So I asked him, “why don’t we split a table?”

It’s only $100 for a table, but we are both broke…so why not split it? Basically I was thinking I would just take a little bit of the table because Ray already had at least 100 things out. Once we told Printed Matter we were going to get into it, they got pretty stoked and actually offered us each a table. I didn’t really want to do it because I only had five zines out, but Ray was all about it and who am I to say no because we all know Ray could use the space. So that’s when I decided to put out a whole bunch more just in time for the book fair. I also called on a bunch of friends who I knew make great stuff like Andrew Jeffrey Wright, Alex Lukas, Matt Leines (mostly friends from Space 1026 days) along with a few new friends here in Southern California whose photography I have always loved, such as Grant Hatfield, Nolan Hall & Deanna Templeton. I mean…I offered everyone a free spot to sell stuff on my table. I didn’t take a cut. I just wanted to fill the space. Well, that was pretty amazing, and everyone was very excited and receptive about it. That’s when I started thinking…why don’t I just keep making these for everyone I really believe in? It’s kind of just gone from there.

ANP: But now it has really taken off.

The interesting thing is…now there is kind of two parts to Deadbeat Club. The “crew,” which are Devin Briggs, Grant Hatfield, Nolan Hall, Ed & Deanna Templeton and myself. That part of Deadbeat are the ones that have shows together, have meetings and talk about our work, go out and shoot together. We are all friends who are pretty tight, and really like and respect each others’ work. Then there

is the publishing side. That’s all me. I curate that all. I pay for it all, assemble it all. Although, Ed, and really everyone in the group, helped out exponentially with that last book Ed did, “Random & Pointness”. There was just so much folding. But it’s on my head if something doesn’t work out. I get suggestions from everyone on what would be good or not, but in the end its my call. So far it’s been a great balance.

ANP: Have you always been a zine-maker?

CW: I have always contributed to zines ever since high school. I think the first zine I was published in was a hardcore zine called “Living” out of my hometown in Buffalo that Joe Lucca did. I took pictures of Unbroken.

That was early 90s, and it wasn’t until 2004 that I actually made my own zine. That was called “ Summer Of Positivity”, which was another zine that had to do with the punk scene I was a part of in Philly. Even that was something that I edited and didn’t solely create. But, inside of it had some pretty great stuff…recipes, essays, photography. I had Ian MacKaye and his partner Amy Farina contribute. This was when The Evens (their band) just started playing shows. They wrote call and response haiku’s. Pretty cool. It was a special time where a lot of friends who I love all had new bands. A lot of positive political action was happening because we were about a year in to the second Gulf War, and there was just a real good energy in the air. Besides that, I contributed to countless things over the years. I was, for a long time, a heavily involved member of Space 1026, an artist collective in Philadelphia and it seemed like everyone was making something. I was always asked to pitch in. Who am I to say no?

ANP: Where did you get the name?

CW: There’s a couple answers. First, obviously it’s a B-52s song. I have always loved the B-52s. This is not my favorite song by them but its not bad, and the name has always stuck with me. The other side is the idea of the kind of life we live. Growing up, as skateboarders, punks, artists, and so on, we were often called slackers, deadbeats, and the like. Now, being a professional artist is a very intense gig.

It’s not all just making beautiful things. There’s a lot of hustle that goes on behind the scenes that I think a lot of people don’t know about. So artists still get that negative tag as being a slacker or a deadbeat… So I think it’s kind of a tongue-in-cheek call out about that. It’s funny what us deadbeats have become.

ANP: Is there a specific credo behind the endeavor?

CW: Not really. I guess one rule I have is all the photography I print has to be from film. We broke that rule once so far for the “Surf Disturbance” zine, but that was less about art and more about journalism and showing a situation. Some of the best stuff was shot on digital, so we used it. Other then that…I think I just try and think things through and try to use what I have learned from growing up in the DIY punk scene. Running our own mail order, taking stuff to shops I know and trust. It’s like putting out 7”s. You gotta hustle…but that’s the fun part. Mostly.

ANP: What has been your favorite Deadbeat Club project so far?

CW: Each project gets better then the last…I love it.

The Spot zine we just did with Boo Hooray was really great. Spot is the old record producer for all the early SST records. So he recorded all the greats, Black Flag, Minutemen, Husker Dü, Big Boys…the list is crazy. All that time he was taking amazing photos too, documenting both the life of the bands and the surrounding beach culture of the South Bay. It was really great to help out with this.

Spot was crashing at my friend Tim Kerr’s house for a while and I would always hear good things about him.

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So when Boo Hooray came to me with this I knew he was family, and I knew it had to be done…and look how good it came out? That’s what this is really. A way to return the favor to people I know and respect. For years I have been blown away by all these great books and zines, and the community that comes with it, so this is a way to return the favor and try to create more stoke. For those people before me that have done it for me, and to the people who are going to do it in the future.

ANP: How do you think zines fit into the overall publishing landscape in 2015?

CW: I think zines have really encountered a surge lately, and people are starting to see that it doesn’t have to be that set size of half letter page. There is a lot of opportunity to explore ideas on your own. It’s really a democratic form of book that if you are passionate enough about can really be anything you want it to be. With larger publishing, you have to convince someone its worth being printed.

With self-publishing it’s up to you to get it out there. With smaller publishing, you can really feel a personal and intimate nature to the book. You can target a specific group of people or leave it as vague and wide spread as you want.

The cost of making something can be so low that if you try an idea and it doesn’t really come together, its not going to be the end of your bank account, where as with large scale publishing it is so expensive that publishers have to make money off each release and it makes it hard for them to take chances and try strange new things, and really explore. I think somewhere between the two is the magic… both worlds existing, and sometimes coming together.

Who says that Steidl can’t make a Alec Soth book and then have a pocket in the back where Soth has made a smaller publication on his own imprint Little Brown Mushroom?

This is an idea I am looking into now for maybe making our first Deadbeat Club book. It might happen, it might not. If it is right and makes sense, I’ll make it happen.

Another thing about zines is, its far more immediate. You could shoot something, get it processed and make a zine at a copy place all in the same day, if you would like. We tried to get the Surf Disturbance zine out pretty quick after the riot happened so that it still had some relevance to what happened. There is an immediacy to it that is not as break neck fast like blogs or tumblr but still moves fast enough where there is not already a dated feel. It’s a way to experiment on concepts and see what develops. Maybe you want to make a zine of a body of work and see how it all comes together before you want to publish a full book about it. It’s a testing ground.

ANP: What would be your dream project?

CW: Awww man… this is it! I am so excited to do this and I am constantly amazed about new people I get to work with on Deadbeat Club releases. Lately we have been doing some shows here and there. One in Australia, one in San Jose. I would love to have a good one in LA where its kind of the home turf, but even on that side of things, I would love to curate more, I used to do it in Philadelphia at Space 1026 and I would like to maybe do more photographybased curation for some spaces. But I guess in a way that’s what these zines are anyways. Curations. I also would like to try my hand at some book releases on Deadbeat Club.

Not trying to take away from the zines we do now but maybe continue with those and make small runs of books as well. That’s something down the line but I’m not sure how it works yet. www.deadbeatclubpress.com

One sunny afternoon about a year ago I met up with Cali Thornhill-Dewitt to share a smoke on a street corner in Hollywood. After the usual catching up and chit-chat, he suddenly dropped a bomb on me. “I think I’m gonna quit my job and become a full-time artist,” he said. “What do you think?” Being a member of the no job/just art crew myself, I couldn’t have been more elated. Eschewing any sort of security and diving headlong into the inspiring and terrifying world of art-making is one of the most profound leaps a person could make. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare. Regardless to say, I supported him wholeheartedly. At the time, Dewitt was working primarily as a photographer, blogger and as the founder of Teenage Teardrops and Witchhat, a record label and publishing house respectively. While these pursuits have continued in various forms, since that first meeting I’ve seen him leap into the object-making game like few artists I’ve encountered. Working from a dingy studio on Wall Street in Los Angeles’ Skid Row, a wonderfully cohesive body of work has emerged. Last fall at Human Resources gallery in Chinatown a large crowd milled about eagerly absorbing Dewitt’s first large exhibition in Los Angeles. Shared with young artist Audrey Wollen, the space was filled with black, hanging sweatshirts. The works were hung suspended from the ceiling in an installation reminiscent of stadium seating. However in this case, the viewer became the spectacle. The individual sweatshirts were emblazoned with carefully composed Old English iron-on letters, each with a particular “Rest In Peace” message for a celebrity who had died—usually someone who left us too young. However, rather than revealing their names, Thornhill-Dewitt instead listed only cause of death, leaving the viewer to guess as to who the particular victim was. For example: “ACUTE MULTIPLE DRUG INTOKICATION VIPER ROOM SUNSET BOULEVARD HEROIN COCAINE”, refers, of course, to the actor River Phoenix. The exhibition, which proved a major stepping-stone and a conceptual leap forward for his work, was almost completely sold out the first night. Concurrently, Thornhill-Dewitt has been creating another body of work using the customarily commercial medium of vinyl signs. It turns out there is a vinyl sign shop located in an indoor shopping mall beneath his studio. These signs, usually created for the purpose of announcing the most mundane of messages like, “Special Sale” or “Bathroom For Customers Only” have become entirely subverted in Cali’s world. Utilizing “stolen” photographic images from the internet, arranged alongside simple sayings, which are usually composed of two bold words and/or lyrics from songs, he has created something entirely new. The works are instantly recognizable as his, the product becoming a unique aesthetic, which blurs the lines between art, advertising and political propaganda. In an era where young artistic practice has tended to favor the subtle over the audacious, these works are a welcome respite from the visual drudge of the current scene.

BY AARON ROSE / IMAGES COURTESY THE ARTIST

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INTERVIEW BY ALISSA WALKER IMAGES COURTESY THE ARTIST It’s truly remarkable that San Francisco based artist/ designer Barbara Stauffacher Solomon hasn’t been featured in this publication before. Her story is quite fantastic. It’s like something out of a movie.

She’s lived through more lives than a Cheshire cat, and now that she’s in her 80’s (as this interview will attest), she’s still as feisty as ever. Barbara Stauffacher Solomon trained first as a dancer and artist in her native San Francisco and then, in the 1950s, travelled to Switzerland where she studied graphic design under world class Swiss design guru, Armin Hofmann. So assiduously did she absorb Hofmann’s hard-line Modernist doctrine that even when she returned to 1960s America to work as a graphic designer, she still stuck doggedly to the rigors of Swiss design. Remember, this was at a time when, as she notes, ‘psychedelic squiggles’ were the norm. Despite job offers from the many prominent design firms of the day, Stauffacher Solomon remained outside the graphic design bubble. She studied Architecture at the University of California, Berkeley. She taught at Harvard and Yale, and today, continues to work as a designer.

Yet she is perhaps best known for the gigantic and exuberant Supergraphics she painted on the walls of The Sea Ranch project in Northern California.

The Sea Ranch is a unique architectural community designed in the mid-1960’s as a sort of utopian gesture in communal living. The homes were all sited with careful attention to the natural landscape along a ten-mile stretch of the Sonoma coast. For Barbara (or Bobbie as most know her), The Sea Ranch was, ‘an opportunity to be an artist again, to paint on big white walls, from wall to wall, and from wall to ceiling, and to do what I wanted to do without the daily office grind of clients telling me what they wanted from me.’ The resulting creation has become one of the most celebrated interior installations in the history of design. Many designers have claimed to be purveyors of Supergraphics, but it all started with Barbara. Since then she has designed numerous retail and architectural projects for the likes of the SF MoMA, and more. She is also author of many books, including her self-published biography, “Why? Why Not?” which we highly encourage you to read. Alissa Walker sat down with her in her San Francisco studio to hear more.

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Alissa Walker: I’m interested in your career as a woman in design as well as the importance of Supergraphics. I know that you’ve made a transition from being a designer to artist, is that’s correct?

Barbara Stauffacher Solomon: No!! I actually went from Art to Design. I went to art school when I was young, but then I had to make money because my husband died, so I went to Switzerland and studied design.

AW: Oh, I see! Tell me about that. Were you here in San Francisco when you went to art school?

BSS: Yes, I was born here.

AW: But I read somewhere that you were actually trained as a dancer, is that correct?

BSS: Yes! My mother used to play the piano in the San Francisco ballet to make some money, so they put me in all the classes. I would go to dance class and then I’d go to art school at night.

AW: Were you trained to be a dancer first, or did you always want to be an artist?

BSS: I was trained to be a dancer. I danced in nightclubs.

AW: But you knew that wasn’t going to be your career?

BSS: I didn’t think about it then. I did know that I didn’t like getting all dressed up and being a dancer that much. I wasn’t all that mad about it. I just wasn’t

sure, I just knew that I preferred going to art school than doing ballet. I lived alone with my mother and actually her big theory was if you keep a girl busy, then she won’t get into trouble. My mother is really something. So, I went to high school at Galileo (a progressive school in San Francisco), but I got out of it early because I was so busy going to ballet classes. I didn’t even finish, but I got a diploma because my mother went to the principal and said she was going blind and that I had to leave school to support her. She was lying through her teeth.

AW: Soon after that you got married to your first husband, Frank Stauffacher. Were you practicing as an artist at that time?

BSS: No! In those days women artists were totally different, I mean, there were very few female artists and the ones that were practicing were sort of pains in the neck. Being a woman artist in those days was very different than it is now. It was kind of pathetic! They just did these sloppy, weak paintings and they tended to be too sensitive. Um, yeah I wasn’t very fond of that scene.

AW: What did your first husband do?

BSS: Frank made movies. That’s why I know all about movies. I married him when I was 19! So, when you’re asking me what was my career before that, it wasn’t much.

AW: Well, if you went to art school, you were obviously making art…

(prior spread) Barbara Stauffacher Solomon with porcelain enamel “EXIT SIGN” and a Charles Moore & Bill Turnbull wall. The Sea Ranch, 1967. (clockwise from top left) Barbara Solomon at sixteen, a featured dancer at the Copacabana nightclub. Fisherman’s Wharf, San Francisco, 1944.

The Sea Ranch logo on The Sea Ranch Store. Joseph Esherick, architect. 1967.

The Sea Ranch Store.1967.

Brochures and a Christmas card for The Sea Ranch. 1960s.

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BSS: I made art, but I didn’t consider myself an artist.

AW: Right.

BSS: I didn’t have a gallery. Women artists didn’t sell!

AW: So, you were married at 19 and then did you have to move to LA and be close to the film industry?

BSS: Oh no, no! I mean actually, I met Frank when I was seventeen. He was 14 years older than I was. So he was 32. And he was dreamy! You know, just divine! Just after I met him, my mother and I decided we should go to New York where I danced in nightclubs to make money. All I wanted to do while I was there was to go home and marry him, but my mother thought I was too young.

There was actually an agent in New York who got me a job dancing with the Metropolitan Opera Company, but instead I just went back to San Francisco and followed Frank around.

AW: So you were saying that at the time you didn’t really have any female artists that you looked up to. Were there male artists whose careers you really appreciated?

BSS: I do remember that all I did when I was in New York was go to the Museum of Modern Art. I went there all the time! Just wandering around, I adored it. I really liked the Russian Constructivists.

AW: But you stopped doing art when you moved back to San Francisco?

Interior mural painted on wall of architect Charles Moore’s Condominium unit. 1967.

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BSS: Well my husband knew a lot of fancy people and I just felt stupid around them. So I went to Berkeley and studied French and history and philosophy.

Just to try to educate myself.

AW: Were you trying to get a regular bachelor’s degree?

BSS: I was trying to educate myself so I wouldn’t be a total idiot! In those days, if you were a pretty girl, you just followed the man around and never said a word. You wouldn’t dare! I felt very uneducated! I wanted to go back to school and learn what I didn’t know. We lived in Sausalito and I’d commute to school.

I’d take the bus. I’d do my homework in the library, then go meet him at his office. At that time, we went to parties every night. He was the one who was the life of the party and I was just the cute little chick that followed him around.

Nobody talked to me. It was different in those days, the man was the big cheese and the woman, if she was pretty, just followed him around.

AW: So when did the transition occur where you began to take your creativity seriously?

BSS: He died.

AW: Oh wow! So right away did you need a way to support yourself?

BSS: Yes! I wanted to get away from San Francisco, so I went to Switzerland and studied graphic design. I came back and opened an office in 1962. That was when I was asked to work on The Sea Ranch. I knew the architects. It was my

first job, and it just happened. After Switzerland, I just got dropped right into the best place in the world! I was this pretty girl and they all wanted to screw me so they gave me work. The clients were all pretty amazed when I won prizes!

They didn’t know what Swiss Graphics were. They hated it! They thought they were Nazi graphics. It was absolutely the opposite of all the hippy stuff that was going on at that time. My graphics portfolio was all designs I had made for Armin Hofmann, my teacher in Switzerland. They weren’t made for the eyes of anybody around here. I was trained to be a Swiss designer and I just did what I was best at. What I was trained to do.

AW: So what year was this?

BSS: It was ‘63 or ‘64 when I was doing The Sea Ranch. In those days you couldn’t just go to your computer for design. They hired me to do their logos and their stationary and brochures. I did all the ads too. The agency would write the words, but the client insisted that I do the visuals. Also, I was having an affair with the developer of Sea Ranch, so, you know, I got to do whatever I wanted. Then, when they went to build the Swim and Tennis club, they had run out of money. The inside of the building was just raw plywood, and it looked awful. They didn’t know what to do with it. So I said, “Let me paint it!” So we had it painted white and I just came in and did the Supergraphics.

AW: Was it a struggle to work on such a large scale?

BSS: Well, remember I had been a painter. When I was young I had studied with Clifford Still and David Park and those guys, so it didn’t floor me to make things big on walls. I loved that, I could play painter again and I just took over the walls…

AW: Were you painting it all yourself? Or did you hire people?

BSS: I had a couple of sign painters and I told them what to do.

AW: So it brought together all of your skills?

BSS: Yes. It was easy for me to work large. I had that old training and it was very kinetic. I liked working big and moving around. We’d paint stripes up that way, and then this way and then that way. It was absolutely fearless work.

AW: Do you think the Supergraphics are really what made you famous at the time?

BSS: Yes! I got so much press! I won design prizes. I started working for the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art around that time as well. Doing the graphics for their monthly bulletins and brochures.

AW: You worked with the museum for a long time. Are any of your works in the collection?

BSS: My drawings are there but they’re quite different from my graphic work.

They’re from a very different part of my life.

AW: Well, let’s get back to The Sea Ranch.

BSS: The Sea Ranch started as something idealistic and kind of wonderful.

We were going to build all this stuff and everybody really did their best work there. The client would let us. Then the salesmen came in and started selling the property and it just got to be more about the bamboozling of the buyers. We were so clever that it made us sick. Then I decided I’d had enough of graphics.

You know, every job after the Sea Ranch was less and less interesting. Around that time I had a show in New York at Design Research. The whole New York design world was there and I probably could have moved there, but I really

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just didn’t want to go to hell in New York. I mean, it could have been easier in New York, but instead I came back to San Francisco and married this young architect, Daniel Solomon, do you know him?

AW: I don’t.

BSS: He was teaching at Berkeley. Then I got pregnant, had a baby, and the day that she started kindergarten I went back to college and studied some more.

I liked studying! I like books! I like reading! I liked hiding at Berkeley and studying. I got a degree in history and philosophy and then I ended up going into architecture. Not because I wanted to draw anything anymore, but I was just good at drawing.

AW: Do you think it was because in creating Supergraphics you got a nice sense of doing spaces?

BSS: I don’t know. Actually at the time I thought I would just work with my husband as an architect, but that didn’t turn out. I thought being an architect was probably less deceptive than being a designer. I mean, at least people need houses!

AW: What? You don’t think people need design?

BSS: I don’t think people need design. It’s always a problem. They think they need it. It attaches itself very cleverly onto them.

AW: So was that when you made the transition into doing more drawing type work?

BSS: Well, that’s when I decided to do my thesis in architecture. While I was at Berkeley, I was just studying. I loved reading all the French philosophers who hated design. I was the devil for being a designer while learning to write

French philosophy…to be “seduced by the image” and all that. I just was always hypnotized by all that philosophy. I enjoyed it. For my Masters thesis, I had to make 25 copies and they had to be 8.5 x 11. That’s when I started making everything 8.5 x 11. After I graduated, my husband didn’t want me around the office, so I started writing books. Bill Turnbull from Sea Ranch wanted to employ me, but he didn’t want to compete with Dan. It was tricky! Anyone that would hire me would be competing against Dan for jobs. It was very complicated. Dan would let me participate in his office if I would be a landscape architect, because then I would be useful to him, and not competitive; and so I did.

AW: My god, you’ve done it all.

BSS: I knew everybody who was working in that field so I just learned it! I learned designing landscapes by all those of years in Larry Halprin’s office, watching everybody do everything. Anyway, I ended up writing a few books on the subject. “Green Architecture and the Agrarian Garden” and ‘Good Mourning California’. Rizzoli printed those. Recently, I self-published two books that are much more crazy, and Rizzoli couldn’t publish those because they would never make their money back. I was going to publish my autobiography, but I thought that was just too obnoxious. Then I did this other book, just for fun, called “Utopia Myopia.” It’s 81/2 x 11. I wanted to see that one published, so I just published them both.

AW: Tell me about Switzerland, why did you choose to go there?

BSS: Best design schools in the world.

AW: Well, obviously but…

Supergraphics. Men’s Locker Room, The Sea Ranch.

1969 Supergraphics. Women’s Locker Room, The Sea Ranch.1969. (opposite) Signing for a shopping center in New Jersey. 1970.

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BSS: I had some names there! My husband had done Art and Cinema at the San Francisco Museum. One of the curators at the museum was one of our best friends. He’d just gone to a design conference in Aspen and met Armin Hofmann and his wife. Armin was the head of the graphic department at the Basel School of Design. Armin became my mentor. I was this little widow with this three year-old daughter.

AW: You took your daughter with you?

BSS: I took her with me. My mother came to help me. I was a mess because my husband had just died. I was miserable, I missed Frank. All the men were chasing me and I just wanted to get away. I wanted to disappear.

AW: And how old were you?

BSS: I was 26 when Frank died I look back at it now and in Switzerland it was fine, you know I didn’t have to be the pathetic widow anymore. I was The American, the blonde American. I used to be a bleached blonde.

AW: Were there a lot of other women studying with you in Switzerland?

BSS: No, there weren’t. There were a few Swiss women, but it was very competitive to get into that school. Only about ten people would get in every semester. I got in on the strength of my portfolio, work that I’d done here at the San Francisco Art Institute.

AW: Which was years before…

BSS: Yes. And also, Armin Hofmann was wonderful!! They’d asked him if I spoke German, and he said yes. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.

Armin was an angel. Then, when I came back to San Francisco with all that marvelous training I opened my office.

AW: Do you think that what you learned there in the early 1960s was very different from what was being produced here in America at the time? Did you know other people from school who had come back here?

BSS: No! I had no relationship with graphic designers here. I did my own thing and I only knew architects. I did what I was taught to do in Switzerland, as though I were still there. I did exactly what I would have done, what Armin taught me to do, as though he was in my head telling me what to do. That’s probably why I was so successful.

AW: Have you done any Supergraphics recently?

BSS: There’s a new shopping center in Larkspur Landing in Marin. They just hired me to do the bathrooms. They wanted that same Northern California look that Sea Ranch had and I was the only one around to do it. So I did the bathrooms there the same way I had done the Swim and Tennis club on The Sea Ranch.

AW: I think my favorite part is the reflected heart.

BSS: Well that’s from The Sea Ranch!

AW: That’s my favorite signature move of yours, that’s just a brilliant, wonderful, simple design.

BSS: I did that to make them happy! They wanted it to be like The Sea Ranch.

It’s fun doing Supergraphics. It’s still easy, even in my old age I can still figure it out and do it.

AW: As someone who lives and works in San Francisco, do you see or appreciate any of the good architecture here?

BSS: There’s not much good architecture in San Francisco really. There’s very little. It’s not like Los Angeles. I used to be on the Art Commission. With all the committees here, it’s hell. Do you know what The Ribbon of Light was?”

AW: At Embarcadero?

BSS: I did that.

AW: Oh really? I had no idea!

BSS: Yes. I had a friend who was on the Art Commission at that time. I met her at a party and she said, “Oh Bobbie, you should compete in this competition.”

And so I did. I was competing against Vito Acconci from New York, but we were friends so we decided we’d go in together. We didn’t want to compete against each other. And we won! That project took us ten years, there’s a whole saga about it in my book, “Why?, Why Not?”.

AW: It’s funny that you said before that architecture was more useful than design do you still feel that way?

BSS: You can live in a house!

AW: But what you’re saying is that design to you is just decoration?

It’s not an intrinsic part of life.

BSS: It can be.

AW: Do you consider yourself to be more a designer than an artist?

BSS: I don’t know. That’s why I started making books, because I can say what I want, which was not always true when I had clients. I was always saying the wrong thing. I wasn’t good at being, you know, polite. I don’t know. I like doing the books. I like writing better than I like design.

AW: Well it’s a way that you can communicate directly with your audience. I think that’s a big thing…

BSS: Yes, and I enjoy drawing. I like making books. I can’t honestly say I’m an artist and sit down and paint big paintings. My daughter does. And she’s very good at it, but I can’t take myself seriously doing that. But doing the books I like doing it.

AW: Do you think that also stems from your 8 ½ x 11 paper obsession?

BSS: Perhaps, but I really like working alone. I like writing alone, I like doing it all by myself. I don’t like bossing people around.

AW: I’m the same way, that’s why I’m a writer.

BSS: Really?

AW: Yeah, I sit at home and I do it myself.

BSS: Yes, I don’t like being the boss. Anyway, designing was easy for me. It was just easier to just do it than to boss somebody around. Also, then I could keep the money, because the only reason I went into design was because I had to support my daughter.

AW: Yeah.

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BSS: So I wasn’t interested in having this whole scene around me.

AW: Right.

BSS: In the late-1960s, I did Design Quarterly for the Walker Art Center. They wanted me to do it on Supergraphics, but in those days I just was so incapable of writing a sentence. That’s when I went back to Berkeley to get educated. So I did the book with Dan, my husband, called, “Easy Come, Easy Go.” I did the graphics and he did the writing.

AW: When you first started studying design there were things happening. Women were for the first time being accepted into the design schools in Europe.

BSS: There were a few women going into design, but they were all Swiss. There was one girl who was Irish and could speak German so she did a lot of translating for me.

AW: The Swiss were more progressive than American schools at the time…

BSS: The schools were excellent and almost free in Switzerland. I couldn’t have afforded to go to schools here. They were too expensive.

AW: Now no one can.

BSS: Frank had gone to Art Center. That’s where he learned to make movies. Do you know Tony Duquette? He was Frank’s best friend. I think about it now, and if I had been really clever, I knew those guys, Frank Capra and Zimmerman and George Stephens. They were all great to me when Frank was sick and dying. Frank was still curating Art and Cinema at SFMOMA, and I had to write all the letters because Frank couldn’t. He was too sick and all those guys from the Screen Directors Guild came up to speak. They were angels and they loved Frank. They were so kind. I remember we were taking Frank Capra back to his hotel. He was staying at the Fairmount, and we were walking in the lobby over the big red roses in the carpet, and Frank had a fit. He just sort of fell down on the floor. He had a brain tumor. It looked like he was having an epileptic fit. It was just like that. Capra just picked him up and carried him to the car. He was just marvelous. George Stephens would finish Frank’s sentences when he was stuttering because he’d had a second operation, and they cut part of his brain out. I had great respect for those guys.

AW: They sound like great friends.

BSS: They were. I suppose if I’d been smart I would have gone to Hollywood and someone would have given me a job. Imagine if I’d gone to UCLA film school, I could have a made a whole world out of that. I don’t know, I just wanted to get out. When I was pregnant I had gone off to Europe. We had some artist friends that were all going over there. The dollar was so good! If you had one dollar, you were rich. It was a marvelous the exchange rate. I just wanted to get away from everybody. Go hide, be somebody else. I wanted to be Swiss.

(prior spread) SFMOMA. A selection of monthly calendars. 1963-1970. (clockwise from top right) Embarcadero Center. Logo & brochure cover. San Francisco. 1968.

Signage for Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco. 1966.

EASY COME, EASY GO. Design Quarterly. Front and back covers. Walker Art Center. 1968.

Water tower. CalExpo. Sacramento, CA. 1966.

Street View. Porcelain enamel SIGNS exhibition. Design Research, 57th Street, New York City. 1967.

Original sketch for Supergraphics. Painted on walls of Men’s Bathroom.

Marin Country Mart. Larkspur Landing, CA. 2013.

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Also, living in San Francisco in the 1950s, that whole scene, I watched friends going down to Mexico and taking mushrooms and dying. I knew Alan Watts and that whole scene and I hated it. I didn’t like all those hippies. In those days, all the men had a wonderful time. It was all drugs and sex, but to be a woman, you would just pass platters of spaghetti. You served the men and then you went and fucked them, and I don’t know, I didn’t go for it. Being married to Frank was not like that, Frank was not like that and going to Switzerland was kind of like the opposite of that. I didn’t like that whole hippy scene. I didn’t want to be a part of it. Really I just wanted to get the hell away from here, I almost married a Swiss man and then I never would have come back.

AW: I’m glad you didn’t marry him!

BSS: I didn’t set out to be an emancipated woman. Even in my second marriage I would have been happy to work for Dan in his office, but that didn’t work out so I started writing books. I had to do something with my time.

AW: I think even though you didn’t set out to be that you have become a very big hero for women.

BSS: I have to admit now, I like living alone, I didn’t like being a spouse. I hope you like your husband!

AW: I do.

BSS: Good, enjoy it. Good. I don’t think men act quite like that anymore either.

AW: I think it’s different. Expectations are different of women too, but of course, we’ll have children soon, or some day, but he is just an equal partner and I have to work too.

BSS: I really did just follow Frank around like a little baby doll. I didn’t open my mouth until he died and I had to. I knew Charles Eames, and he was phoning me all the time, to see how I was and everything. I suppose I could have gone down there and gotten a job from him. I don’t know, I just didn’t want to ask favors. I was no good at it. I remember once in New York, when Frank and I got there after we’d had Chloe, my first daughter, in London. I needed a job because Frank was busy networking, trying to get work. I went to Time Magazine. I went to a couple of other places and asked them to give me a job, but I didn’t know how to do anything! It was awful. I didn’t ever want to be in that position again.

Where you walk in and they don’t give you a job. You have to have been to some fancy college so that’s why I got myself over qualified later. I hated New York it was awful. Actually, I would take the bus over to New Jersey and I would teach little kids ballet, it was the only thing I did know how to do. That’s probably why when I got pregnant, I went off to Europe. I didn’t hesitate. In retrospect I wasn’t that happy playing wife. I did it, but I wasn’t very good at doing what other people said.

AW: It’s difficult to be independent and also in a committed relationship.

BSS: Yes. At one point, Keith Monroe, the sculptor, dumped his wife and came over to Switzerland. He talked the Graham Foundation into giving him money so he could come over and buy a car and chase me, but I didn’t want to marry him. I said to Armin, “Keith wants me to go home with him and marry him, he said, “Well, you certainly know enough to be a housewife.” And boy did that

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work! That was such a good, silly thing to have said to me. Armin hardly spoke English in those days, but he figured out enough English to say that to me. Keith went off to visit Henry Moore in London and I wrote him a ‘Dear John’ letter.

There’s strength in being able to make enough money, that you don’t have to ask somebody for money.

AW: That’s hilarious.

BSS: But I didn’t do it on purpose, it’s not like I set out to be that way. I was always looking for some man who would take care of me and pay the rent. I was sick and tired of making all the money. I would have loved to have found somebody who could have done that. I was always sort of searching for one.

My second husband was young and cute and healthy, that was in itself nice. He wasn’t old and dying. I wanted to have another kid. I don’t know why I felt that need. Nobody does anymore. My daughter does though, she has a kid and she’s not married. She wanted the kid and she thought she’d marry the guy but he dumped her and she’s a beautiful girl. She may have gotten a little of that from me. I remember when I was pregnant and I told my mother I was going to Paris.

I was a dancer. I saved my money. I got a student ticket. It didn’t cost anything to go on a student boat back then. But I did it, it was my money and I didn’t have to ask anybody for it.

AW: I want to hear a little bit more about the role of being a woman in design?

BSS: Yeah, looking back I see all these things and it’s crazy that I did them. I mean I opened my own office in 1962. But I didn’t do it because I was trying to be women’s lib at all. If Frank hadn’t died I would have been this spoiled, rich, Hollywood girl, you know? He was a filmmaker. Maybe I would have tried to be a painter? Who knows? But I didn’t do it because I wanted my freedom. I had to make money because I had a kid and he didn’t leave me any money when he died. So I had to make money, so the only thing I knew how to do was paint. So I went to Switzerland.

AW: You started your practice only out of practicality?

BSS: I needed to make money and I wanted to get away from all the people staring at me. I mean, nobody had any idea what was really going on. I was miserable, and I didn’t want to look pathetic, so I went where nobody would know me. It didn’t matter and I was fine. The fact that I learned all of that design stuff over there was just sort of good luck.

AW: I really like that a basic move in practicality sparked an entire career for you.

BSS: Yes, but anyway, design is to turn shit into ice cream.

(clockwise from top left) Sketch for Subways exhibition. Architectural League of New York. 1968. Installation Views. Subways Exhibition. Architectural League of New York. 1968. Poster for Subways exhibition. Architectural League of New York. 1968. UTOPIA MYOPIA. 36 PLAYS ON A PAGE. Cover image.

2013. WHY? WHYNOT? Cover image. Autobiography. 2013. (opposite, clockwise from top left) HEARHEAR, record Shop. Logo and Supergraphics. Ghirardelli Square. San Francisco. 1968. Signage and Supergraphics for Boas Pontiac, Used Cars. 1969. Supergraphics for PuddinTane, children’s store. Ghirardelli Square. San Francisco. 1968. Retail design for VeryVeryTerryJerry, shoe store. The Cannery. San Francisco. 1969.

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In 1981, Gibby Haynes was getting his degree in accounting at Trinity College in San Antonio. He seemed to excel at everything he applied himself to: captain of the basketball team, president of his fraternity, accounting student of the year. If history had stopped there, we might have had here just a Rockwellian portrait of a talented lanky Texas boy.

The first solid sign of his derailing is Strange V.D., a zine Haynes began with his college buddy Paul Leary, composed of gross medical photographs with fictitious names and descriptions of diseases as the accompanying text. Soon thereafter the pair formed a band, performing under various names such as the Dick Gas Five, the Inalienable Right to Eat Fred Astaire’s Asshole, and Nine Foot Worm Makes Own Food. Within the year Haynes graduated from Trinity and got a job at the prestigious Peat Marwick accounting firm. It didn’t last long. After accidently leaving a picture of some mutilated genitalia on the copy machine, Haynes soon parted ways with the firm to pursue his commercially improbably band, now named Butthole Surfers.

In an era when Bad Brains, Sonic Youth, Black Flag and Husker Du were all making their mark, Butthole Surfers came out with what was by far the weirdest prong of 80s punk rock. Songs like ‘Cherub’, ‘Human Cannonball’, ‘22 Going on 23’ and ‘Sweat Loaf’ just hadn’t been done before.

This sublime Texan sardonicism seemed to come from nowhere, perfectly realized. It holds up well to modern listening, too. Try their free web-radio station: www.buttholesurfers.com/ radio for a sample.

Photographs and recordings can only hint at the fully immersive chaos of a Butthole Surfers show.

They didn’t just lure you in, they attacked all your senses, cut you loose from reality for a darkly psychotic revelation. Haynes would alternately spray piña colada scented smoke on the crowd, yell through a bullhorn or ignite columns of fire,

stammering schizoid outbursts with mousetraps clamped over his nipples and penis while Red Asphalt or a sex-change operation was projected behind the band, a naked female dancer would stare absently into a bank of strobe lights, while a sweat-drenched throng of fans churned to King Coffey and Teresa Nervosa’s mesmerizing twindrummer rhythms and Leary’s acid-fried guitar riffs. The show seemed more like an insane cult indoctrination ceremony than a rock concert.

But before and throughout Buttholes, Haynes made visual art. The art, music and lyrics all inform and intersect each other: messed-up body parts, ailments that don’t make sense, problems of body and mind, how to keep control from running away from the mind or letting the mind ruin the body, through drugs, psychosis, or just bad choices, amid a whirling cartoon regurgitation of pop culture.

These have been central concerns throughout Haynes’s (and Butthole Surfers) varied, bizarre and unlikely career. Beginning with the artwork for the band itself: the covers of Rembrandt Pussyhorse, Psychic… Powerless… Another Man’s Sac and their first EP are all extensions of the original Strange V.D. concept. Haynes own illustrative style, which can be seen on the cover of Psychic...

Powerless as well as Humpty Dumpty LSD, often features a Rorschach blend of body parts, faces and eyeballs…and a recurring enigmatic bean/hotdogshaped figure.

Gibby Haynes now lives in an apartment in Brooklyn with his wife Missy and their three-yearold son Satchel. His artwork is everywhere, and downstairs is a makeshift studio of rigged-together modular synthesizers. I hung out with Gibby and Satchel one afternoon and talked with him about his art and Butthole Surfers, first at his studio and then at his apartment. Satchel alternately sang and talked continuously throughout the interview, but unfortunately it was impossible to decipher most of his cryptic ramblings.

INTERVIEW BY SEAN KENNERLY PORTRAIT BY AUSTIN RHODES / IMAGES COURTESY THE ARTIST

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Gibby Haynes: So a friend of mine making a short movie the other day asked me to play the crazy person… of course. I had to stand outside a subway and act crazy while they were filming from across the street. I was dressed for the role. I looked like a crazy person, and just out of nowhere, a guy who works for my booking agency comes out the subway, it’s 8:30 in the morning, he sees me there, acting like a crazy person all ‘wooooahahhaahhhhoo’ and he’s says, concerned, “Gibby, man, what’s going on?” and I was like ‘dude, he totally bought it! He believed it! I did good!’ [Gibby notices at this point that his three-year old son Satchel has been smearing a banana peel into the table as we are talking.]

Gibby (to Satchel): Oh, nice, buddy! I gotta bring you something to wipe off your hands. Hold on, you can’t do that, really, ok? Have you caught that he calls me Gaga?

Satchel: Gaga!

Gibby: Some people call me Gibby, Dada, but Gaga?

Satchel (referring to banana peel and debris he’s been mashing into the table): Take that away!

Gibby: Ok. Hold on a sec – [Gibby leaves to get a paper towel] Satchel (to me): There’s magnets upstairs.

Sean Kennerly: Really? Magnets are cool. Do you play with them?

Satchel: Yeah. You can lock them up. Sometimes you can ball up the magnets. Sometimes you can get away from them.

Sean: You can’t?

Satchel: You can!

Sean: That’s a noble pursuit.

[Gibby returns] Gibby: Did you find out some cool stuff from him?

Sean: Yes. There are magnets upstairs.

Gibby: I think he’s gonna be pretty smart. I think he’s gonna be ok.

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Sean: He’s already seems smart. There are so many ways to go wrong though.

Gibby: I know, man. There’s the drug thing, like if he does what I did, starting to get drunk at 11 years old and shit…

Sean: Is that really unhealthy?

Gibby: Nothing’s unhealthy. Doing the same thing as everybody else, that’s unhealthy. I was making these real simple abstract paintings, geometric shapes, 8’ by 8’, really simple. You either appreciate that stuff or not. When you’re making a big square that’s got some splatters on it, how do you make it appealing or how do you make it be art. I have to do a lot of thinking. I had to do it horizontally, couldn’t do it vertically on a wall because paint dripping I did not want. So when you’re there and it’s on a table, you can never get a look at it really so you have to know what you’re doing in advance, like everything. It’s so much different than the other thing that I do, little figurative drawings. There’s hardly any thinking involved in that, it’s automatic. That’s what’s fun about it, it’s like jogging, you get in that zone and it’s a meditative state.

Sean: It’s more free-associative.

Gibby: Yeah, totally, you can do that, every line – you create problems and you solve them, whereas if you’re doing a big-ass abstraction all your problems are in advance and you have to solve them first or it’s just not gonna work. It’s funny how the thing that’s simpler visually is a more complicated process. I’m sure that free-association, if you get down to the electronics of it all, is probably a bit more complicated than making a big giant square.

The most recent one I did…I took it to the framers and when they were unrolling it, the assistant was doing it wrong and scraping the painting against the table, and I was like ‘Dude! Dude!’ and evidently I insulted the framer cause he said “What, is it still wet?’ That’s a real asshole question to ask ‘cause it’s acrylic paint that’s been rolled up for five days, and you’re really calling me an idiot for being upset that someone’s scraping my painting? But I didn’t get to see the actual painting framed when it was done, so I had the people at the gallery send me a photo of it, because I’d told him to frame it a certain way and I wanted to make sure he did it. They sent me a photo and it was off-angle, distorted in a couple of different ways and it looked like he totally fucked the framing up and I questioned it, I was like ‘How does that look?” I called up the gallery assistant and said, ‘How does that look? Did he

really stretch it too much and round it off on the corners?’ I just wanted to make sure it got framed right, but the gallery took it as me questioning their ability, questioning the framer’s ability and their choice of framers, and they’ve been doing this for so many years. This was the straw that broke the camels back, apparently, and the guy who was selling my paintings just stopped returning my phone calls. It was all because of asking questions about the framer.

But, when I did go into the gallery to look at it, it just looked beautiful, the guy did a great job on it. All the distortion I saw on it was from the way they cropped it, from the way they took the picture.

But he’s the main guy who buys most of the artwork from Dustin [Yellin] now. He came to one of the shows and saw one of my black and white pieces and asked if I could do it in color, because he said he could sell them. So that’s how it started. He’s the main buyer of these abstract geometric pieces.

He’s got eight galleries all over the world. Dubai, Paris, London. It’s not so awesome for me, ‘cause I can’t do big paintings anymore. It’s $70 for the canvas, and after the framing and paint, you’re $400 into it. It’s a bummer.

At least the last one was gorgeous. I did it in these really bright colors… magenta, bright yellow and bright orange. You know how colors come and go? This was a year ago, and right after that you started seeing those colors everywhere! The Charlie Rose show logo, three-dollar umbrellas, it’s like, ‘oh, man!’ people are saying ‘Oh, yeah, 2013 red’.

Sean: So you’re continuing to do both styles, both the premeditated geometrics and the free-associative drawings?

Gibby: Yes, I like doing both things. And since I got this space, I fell in love with doing big stuff. So now I’m working on doing two foot square panels and putting 16 of them together to get a big thing. If you just scribble on 16 squares and arrange them and you can get cool stuff. You can go for days, seeing which lines go together and how you can put them together. You can incorporate my stupid little cartoon-like drawings into a big giant abstract thing. It’s fun using the shit these kids come up with. Spray paint and paint pens are AMAZING! they’re Amaaaaazing! You can get the same colors in markers and spray cans now. Opaque paint pen colors are so cool. And they have these really wide thin markers, you can put white right on top of black, totally opaque.

Satchel: I want to go home.

Photograph from Butthole Surfers Double Live, 1989. A limited edition ‘official live bootleg’ double album which was released independently on Latino Bugger Veil Records, complete with 8-page black and white booklet, and individually numbered picture sleeve.

(opposite, clockwise from top left) Gibby Haynes, early 1980s.

Known for taking the stage at early concerts with hundreds of clothespins attached to his hair and clothes, Haynes would often strip throughout a show until he was down to his underwear, or less, by the end. Other attire included flasher-style trench coats over his nakedness, ridiculously home-styled wigs and cross-dressing; often enjoying a skirt made of an American flag and a large ‘60s torpedo-style stuffed bra. At other times he would hide condoms full of stage blood in his clothes and repeatedly fall to the floor, appearing to bleed profusely.

Butthole Surfers from Melody Maker Magazine, April 1988.

Photo by Andrew Catlin Butthole Surfers, press photo, circa 1984

Gibby: Here, look at this magazine. It’s hard to make a perfect square. The reason I would do another painting is because the last one wasn’t perfect. I’m doing something pretty simple, but it’s really hard to do perfect. Making an eight-foot square is a lot more difficult than you’d think. There was a show Butthole Surfers did, February 7, 1987.

You ask three people what happened that night and you get three different answers. This guy had a camera that night and took this gorgeous black and white footage.

Satchel: I want to go home now.

Gibby: I gotta talk to this man for a minute, just sit there for a little while longer, alright? I love you!

Satchel: No you don’t. [laughter] Gibby: It was the hesitation that got you, right?

Yeah, buddy. Yes I do love you.

So this guy had this super 8 footage of the show and it looks beautiful. He got it transferred in

slow motion for some reason. He used some of the footage for a documentary that he did called Witness. I wanted to use the whole film and maybe do a documentary on just that night, something that’s not a normal documentary, and this guy wouldn’t let loose of the footage. And he said “Plus you’ll have to get permission”. There’s a woman on stage that night who wasn’t in the band [Kathleen Lynch, the naked dancer who frequently performed with the band in the late 80s], and it looks like I’m having sex with her, and he said “You’d have to get Kathleen’s permission, and what about her kids, you know? She’s not gonna blah blah blah…” And I said “Dude, I’m friends with Kathleen, I just bumped into her on the street last night, she doesn’t have any problem with it, and she doesn’t have any kids.

What’s the problem?” And he said ”Yeeeah, well, you still have to get permission…” And I said “Oh, you mean you have to get permission from people you use on film when you can see their faces?”

Butthole Surfers, Various recordings 1983-1994

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and he paused, realizing that he had never gotten permission from us to make this film.

So, but recently some friends let me know that the club Danceteria had taken a video and it’s pretty good, some of it is really good. There’s some amazing stuff. The guy that worked at the club stole it and gave it to a lawyer who was afraid. It’s a really convoluted story, but we got a copy of it. I told a friend of mine about it, and his wife works for Steven Soderbergh. For some reason, my friend, who’s friends with Steven, had a bit part in one of his movies, he used to do live sex shows in Times Square. He did a film recently with that porn star Sasha Grey, my friend had a speaking part in it, a couple a scenes. I haven’t seen the movie, but what he looks like now, he’s kind of bald, little bit overweight…he just looks like a porn-mongering creep. It’s so perfect for him. I can just see Soderbergh going “Oh yeah, maybe you could…” It’s like being cast as the fat kid in a movie, it’s always a

bummer, you’re like “Why am I in this movie? I am fat and the creepiest person ever.”

I’ve always wondered about that and the Proactive skin acne zit commercials, they always have a spokesperson for it. How do they find them? Do casting agents go out and find people with bad skin and approach them like “Oh, we were noticing that your face looks like shit, can we use you in our ad?”

“Oh, it looks like you could lose some weight, we’ll put you in our whatever diet plan.” Do they tiptoe up to them and whisper “Katy Perry”?

Sean: That’s the same as you being cast as the crazy person I guess. You gotta be comfortable with your persona.

Gibby: Ha Ha Ha! So basically I told my buddy and he mentioned it to Soderbergh that this had resurfaced…a crazy band’s craziest show caught on film. I didn’t know that he had mentioned it to him, but a couple weeks ago Soderbergh got back to him and said ‘I’m not doing anything now, I want to see

that footage’ So he’s looking at it now.

I hate the formula for documentary filmmaking nowadays, the parade of talking heads of semifamous people, someone standing on a highway overpass talking about the guy with mental illness, you know? So I was talking to [Soderbergh] over the phone, expressing my doubts about making a traditional documentary. So what do you do without doing Thurston Moore, Lydia Lunch, blah blah blah, Jim Thurwell. There were a bunch of interesting people there that night, it would be tempting to do something like that, but how to avoid that and still make it an entertaining piece of film.

I thought Soderbergh might be a good person for that, because even in his first feature film ‘Sex, Lies and Videotape’ he used video footage creating a sort of faux-documentary deal, and he recently completed a film on Spaulding Grey, which I thought was cool because it was about the last couple of years of Spaulding Grey’s life, and he

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didn’t shoot any new footage himself, he just used found footage and gave it a narrative by piecing it together.

My idea is just to lie. I’m not about finding the story, I’m about making it up. In most documentaries that are good, there’s some backstory. Daniel Johnston’s got the mental illness. You gonna do a Kurt Cobain thing? It wouldn’t have been as effective if he hadn’t killed himself. Most of them have a backstory.

There’s no backstory for the Butthole Surfers except for maybe the crazy singer’s got a kid now. That’s pretty bare. The one thing I wanted to do that might be fun…it looks like we’re having sex on stage, so I say, during the making of the documentary we find the child who was born of this.

Sean: Maybe this isn’t the best thing to be putting in the interview though, if you’re going to make a movie.

Gibby: No, it doesn’t matter. If you do tell a lie during a documentary, it’s no different than

every other documentary because you can’t escape your point of view as a documentary filmmaker. The reason you did the documentary alone will dictate the subject matter. They pretend they’re capturing some reality, some truth, but they’re just cherry-picking and massaging their own truth. So what’s the difference? Might as well just straight up start lying from moment one.

Sean: Like Herzog.

Gibby: Really? So here’s a shot, there’s a screen capture. [shows me a picture on his phone] The actual footage looks way better. There’s some shots further out where you can see the audience. It would be so easy to make a hand come out and shoot me on stage…massage the footage, add special effects. You could have people swear that my head got really, really thin and round and flat. When I told Soderbergh about the pregnancy thing, you could tell he really liked that idea.

Sean: I haven’t been able to find very much documentation on film from that era…the mid-’80s.

Gibby: There’s a site called Anal Obsession. This guy’s got every single show we’ve ever played, whether there’s audio or video, and most of them have video.

There’d be tons of stuff that we could get if you wanted to do that. But these friends of mine have some great backstage footage. You could take stuff from that show and then take some backstage stuff and pretend that it’s the same night. You could get an actress to play Kathleen with any shitty video camera and a dingy backstage and interview the actress as Kathleen. Or you just use her. You know, like those documentaries where you ask them one question and then use their answer to answer another question. That’s the kind of cheating and lying that I would do if I were going to make a documentary film. Not only would I cherry pick, I would plant the cherries as well. It doesn’t matter if it’s a five-minute long film or an hour and a half, I think it would make an interesting documentary, cause it’s some of the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen on a rock stage.

Were we the first to do it? No, I mean in terms of a rock and roll band, looking like you’re having sex on stage? Probably pretty close? If you’re talking about weird shit on stage you’re obviously going to come to GG Allin. Jesus Christ. Did you know that he was born with that name?

Sean: Oh yeah. His brother couldn’t pronounce it and it became ‘GG’.

Gibby: Yeah. I think there’s a fundamental difference between feces and sex.

Sean: I saw a guy finger GG in the ass on stage.

Gibby: Well, yeah, I mean, that’s what I’m wondering. If you’re going to talk about being naked on stage, he did it better than this. Context is everything.

Sean: Yeah, but he was trying to kill the audience.

Gibby: It was violent, and there was a lot of poop.

Sean: The Butthole Surfers is more of a dark psychotic psychedelic trip where you melt down into schitzophrenia.

Gibby: Yeah, well…some of the footage we have is really gorgeous, and I wonder what Soderbergh would do with it. Like there’s one scene where I’m standing in front of a red background and I’m singing derangedly, “Why won’t you go where my mom is” and there’s some spoken word moments, there’s one point where I’m talking to the audience and I’m trying to describe my hallucinations. It was definitely LSD that night. What do you think about documentaries these days?

Are you tired of them, do you think they’re great? Do you prefer them over regular films?

Sean: I like documentaries but I agree with you that the format is pretty played out.

Gibby: It’s not as bad if you’re doing a voiceover, not as bad as the talking head.

But we’ll see. Who would you think? I mean, Soderbergh just kinda fell into my lap. I wasn’t planning on that, but he’s mainstream and he’s made some great Hollywood style films. I sounded like I was pitching it, and he’s heard them all

Butthole Surfers, Austin, TX 1985. Photo by Pat Blashill (opposite page) Various Show Flyers, 1980 -1990s

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definitely. But he’s was basically talking like ‘I have time to do this now,’ like he was basically doing it.

[At this point, on the insistence of Satchel, we move the interview from the studio to Gibby’s apartment.]

[Now we’re in his apartment. I’m admiring a photograph of Gibby, Roky Erickson and Willie Nelson standing together.]

Sean: Wow, nice.

Gibby: Fucking killer band, right?

Sean: Is that Gary Floyd?

Gibby: Roky Erickson. That would be great if it was Gary Floyd singing “Sister Double Happiness, We Love You.” Were you a fan of Mike Kelley?

Sean: Yeah, he was one of the best.

Gibby: I never knew that was his piece on the Sonic Youth [Dirty] album cover.

Sean: Yeah, they’ve had an amazing array of artists doing their album covers.

Gibby: Yeah, I was gonna say, they didn’t really do their own art, they were like monster appropriators.

Sean: Yeah, I always thought Sister one was one of their few ‘band’ album covers, but I found out the other day that it’s a Dan Graham piece.

Gibby: Oh really? I had no idea they didn’t do that themselves. I still think as immature, childish and junior high as it is, Butthole Surfers is still a better name than Sonic Youth.

Satchel: Butthole Surfers!

Sean: I couldn’t find any pictures that corroborate this, but I remember seeing Kathleen dance with you guys and she had a shaved head and metal teeth. Was she ever really like that?

Gibby: Oh, yeah, awesome! The grill. That was really cool because it was a pre-grill grill. A genius idea. It was just aluminum foil. She would chew on it for hours. She got into it, “It’s like electricity.” There was one period where she didn’t talk for two and half months while we were with her. She didn’t say but one—well really two words. We were in the middle of Europe on a train ride, and Teresa [Nervosa] really wanted to go see Madonna, and she said ‘I’m gonna take the train and go see Madonna,” and Kathleen said “Madonna! Ooops!”

[At this point Gibby pulls out some artwork for us to look over] Gibby: This one has the lyrics from ‘Pepper’ written on the back. These are kind of weird ones for me. One thing I like doing is drawing with that kind of clarity [points to a particularly indistinct part of the piece]. Those were from the ‘90s.

Sean: When did you start doing this?

Gibby: I’ve always done it. We did all our own album covers. I did a whole series about balloon school. A friend of mine grew up with William DeKooning, and I was good friends with DeKooning’s daughter Lisa until her recent death. After her father died, she sorta psychotically kept everything where it was sitting the day he died. All of his paintings, all of his tools and everything were left out, wrapped in plastic and left in the positions he had placed them. He had this amazing space with this walkway built up so you could see his paintings from different angles. And it was sad because the city, the townspeople, he never locked his door or anything and they just raped him—they took everything, the

Video Stills from live performance on the Steve and Gary Show, WLUP, Chicago. 1984 (opposite page) Promotional poster from Cream Corn From The Socket of Davis, 1985.

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Untitled, early 2000s Pen, ink and gouache on paper Untitled, early 2000s Pen, ink and gouache on paper (opppsite, from top) Untitled, early 2000s Pen and ink on watercolor paper, with stamped impression (bottom) Untitled, early 2000s Pen and ink on watercolor paper, with stamped impression

toilet seat from the outhouse that he had drawn on, the clogs he used to wear, the famous overalls, everything. Lisa had kept it together and after her death, they removed—well they took about 15 of his paintings in this big studio space that he had out, with a walkway built over the space so you could look from different angles—a cool fucking space, with about 3-400 million dollars of art, and after she died they got that in storage, but everything else. Don’t tell anybody, but my dog urinated on a William DeKooning painting.

[Both of us laugh as we look through Gibby’s artwork] I really like that you get it. A lot of people don’t get the sense of humor. Eyes, lots of eyes. Hand-body.

Sean: It’s like a hotdog bean.

Gibby: Hotdog bean? I like this guy’s useless hands.

It’s like he does electronics…

Sean: So you started doing art for flyers and album covers?

Gibby: Well, I started doing art in college, framing it. I was a jock, accounting student and a pot smoker. I just took an art class, and they had this student art show that was gonna be judged by local gallery owners. There were gonna pick three pieces to show in a gallery It was open to the entire student body, so I put three pieces in it. They were pretty radically different, they were spaced out and maybe you couldn’t tell they were by the same person, but they chose my three pieces to represent in the gallery. It pissed off the art students. They were so bummed. Because if it’s a non-art student, it’s just not what their parents paid for.

Sean: At least they have a good story to tell now.

Gibby [singing]: A washed-in closet, washed in the closet…Oh, uh, in college, that’s when Paul and I put together this thing called Strange V.D. magazine. That was right at the time when color Xerox machines were starting to become popular, so this whole world of DIY publishing was out there. So just the idea was to put out twisted ideas, just warped fucking-with-people, making them see something that they really don’t want to see. In San Antonio, Texas, even though it was a liberal arts school, it was incredibly easy to freak people out.

Whenever they would let me, I would do the cover of the weekly student newspaper, and like, get Paul to do weird stuff, dress Paul up, shave his hair or something, take pictures of him.

Sean: You’ve had shows with your art?

Gibby: Oh, yeah, I’ve had lots of shows. I did a show in Los Angeles [at Robert Berman Gallery]. It was me, Raymond Pettibon, Daniel Johnston some others, and Kim Gordon. When I saw the press and the flier for the show, my name was right at the bottom, and I was like, whatever. Then Lee Renaldo got added to the show, and it cracked me up when I saw Lee Renaldo, and then Gibby Haynes, still right at the bottom. But it was really satisfying, at the opening every single one of my pieces sold. I was experimenting with gestural faces…

[Gibby ‘titles’ pieces as we go through them:] ‘Jim the Moon’ ‘Syringe Guy Throwing Up’ ‘Syringe Dude Gets Waxed by Daylight’ ‘We Got the Whisper’ Have you ever heard of Larry Wallis and the Psychedelic Rowdies?

Sean: Is that a Texas band?

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Gibby: No, British. The label they were on also had Ian Dury.

Sean: [looking at paintings] Were you doing stuff like this in the ‘80s?

Gibby: No, no. If I was doing artwork then it was album covers or installations. No, in the ‘80s I didn’t do much…

Sean: You did all the album covers?

Gibby: I was involved in doing the art, except obviously for the clown one, Locust Abortion Technician, and a couple of them Paul did solo.

Sean: Were they collaborative?

Gibby: They were mainly me solo or collaborative, or a couple that were Paul solo. I couldn’t tell you which particular projects. We did the whole thing.

Paul did the layouts and he was meticulous. The first thing we did was on Alternative Tentacles. A black and white picture of three or four bellies and there was this space at the top where we’d put in bold letters ‘Butthole Surfers.’ Jello Biafra changed the album cover design, by making the letters small and really fucked it up as far as we were concerned.

When he did that, we said ‘Dude, why’d you do that?’ and he said ‘I thought it looked better.’ When we saw that album cover and asked him about it and he said that, that was the end. We knew we were not going to continue our relationship Sean: How did the Butthole Surfers develop visually, as a spectacle?

Gibby: Well it literally started out with the music being the excuse – the first things were an excuse.

We just wanted people to look at us, attention, you know? A lot of it. But also the music was a way of presenting something, either a visual element that we wanted to do something with, or some illusion

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of some sort, you know, just fucking with people. Like we set this thing up: we got this notorious drunk character on the scene, had him walk around the club with a bottle of wine and get overly drunk and bump into people. Then we had him come up on stage during our show, and he had a fake wine bottle, and he crashed me over the head with it, and we were then going to break into one of his band’s songs. What happened with that one, though, is that he cracked the bottle over my head, and his ex-girlfriend’s current boyfriend punched him out immediately! So when we went into the song, he wasn’t there to sing it. So then no one got it, and the guy was just an asshole. Another time we were playing this club, and they were getting ready to expand it and had knocked a big hole in part of the wall. It was a thick concrete wall, probably load-bearing or whatever, with these thick pieces of rebar stick out of it at all angles, and I put this mattress in front of the hole and dug out part of it, and when we started playing I put this blood all in it so it made this big stain and I tore my way through it. I hadn’t communicated this properly to Paul though, so when I finally got through, he had been standing in front of the mattress the whole time, so no one saw the effect…

Sean: When did you start doing all this? [referring to the artwork] Gibby: When I finally got a place that was big enough, that I could have a table set out and have all my crap right there. And light, this beautiful light…

Sean: In Austin?

Gibby: Yeah, it was at the end of this cul-de-sac, there was one little road to get in. And the back yard had this big creek/drainage ditch that led down to a total spring fed swimming hole from Barton creek. I remember he was a car dealer, it was his ranch, Leif Ericson, I think his name was actually Leif Ericson. Anyway, it was right on the edge of the hill country and you got everything, foxes, raccoons out the wazoo, deer out the butt. One time I remember Mr. Cigar [Gibby’s dog] got in a fight with a doe with her kids in the yard, and this thing was out for blood, and the thing attacked him, you know, went at him real low, and Cigar was like ‘Holy Fuck’ and went behind this tree, all [makes swishing sounds], and I finally went out there and waved my arms around, but she would have creeeedled him.

Sean: She might have kicked you.

Gibby: Oh yeah, with her kids? In the late 80s there were two fatal deer attacks in central Texas. There was one where this male deer attacked this guy in rutting season, and he had a heart attack and died. Oh yeah, I forgot about this guy. [pulls out another piece] I really like this urethene, water-based urethene.

You gotta be careful with the paint there, cause this is water-based paint and it will totally smear it, you gotta do one quick pass.

Sean: Morbid entrails...

Gibby: Luckily it’s self-leveling, but you can still see the brush strokes there. I could have diluted it with water to make it….it’s a dance, man. But I’ve sold tons of art. I’ve seen some musicians who sell artwork and they’re really just selling their name. It’s not necessarily a negative…

Sean: I feel like that almost doesn’t apply to you because you’re already coming from such an intensely visually band.

Gibby: Yeah, well… I had a chance to have a dinner with Crosby, Stills and Nash, all three of them at the same time. It was on a Sunday, and the night before on Saturday Night Live they did a David Crosby bit, which they used to do a lot. And I asked David Crosby, ‘Hey, did you see they did the David Crosby bit on Saturday Night Live last night?” He said “Oh, great. What did they make fun of me for, being fat or being on coke?” And I said “Both.” He said, “Why the hell would you want to name your band the Butthole Surfers?” And I said “Oh, no, you’re right, we should have named ourselves ‘Haynes, Walthall, Pinkus and Coffee.’’ And he said, “I get your point.” It was like cafeteria-style, and I was

standing in line, sliding my things over there next to Graham Nash, reaching out for something, and he looks and he sees my arm with all the track marks and he said “Looks like someone had a good time.” And I said “What do you mean, that was a hunting accident.” He said “Oh, really? What were you hunting for?” and I said “A vein.”

Satchel: Do you know what these are, Gaga? [holding up a toy] Gibby: Yeah, that’s a wheel, it’s a wheel you can roll, you can steal, it’s like the man on the silver mountain.

Satchel: No it isn’t! This is a blue wheel.

[At this point we migrate to the living room and Gibby pulls up a video of the aforementioned Danceteria show. We watch for a while, and scroll forward to the middle of the show, at a point where Gibby removes his underwear onstage.]

Gibby: Oh shit! Where is the underwear? See, usually I keep a bag of spare underwear on the back of my amp. I go to look for it, and I have no idea where...

I just have to hide it [nakedness] with a [stuffed] horse. [halfway through the song ‘Florida,’ Gibby jumps into the crowd completely naked, but somehow makes it back on stage to finish the song] Sean: Did you ever have problems remembering lyrics when you were on acid?

Gibby: No, cause I always... it’s all just… around. [fast forwards.]

Gibby: Ah, found a dress. Some of the lighting is really cool-looking.

[Gibby reeling around on stage, singing incomprehensibly then pulling out a saxophone.]

Gibby: Ah, that’s where the acid really kicked in. Oh the humanity. Naked Saxophone.

[Kathleen comes on stage, they begin simulating having sex on stage. She wields a large plastic bat] Gibby: That bat was filled with urine. Uh... yeah, I was tripping balls at this point.

[Paul Leary makes whale-sounds on guitar, while Gibby rolls around on stage, then begins describing hallucinations to the audience, “Gimme a break, comethole” Audience is yelling and Gibby responds. The show devolves slowly into feedback and stumbling.]

Gibby: Hey! At this point the dog is discovered shredding a treasured stuffed animal, and it is time for Satchel to go to bed. I thank Gibby for his time and make my exit.

Gibby Haynes & Adriane Malone, Cat Club, New York City, 1984.

Photo by Bardot Untitled, 1993 Gouache on paper (opposite) Untitled, 1993 Gouache on paper

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A few months ago, right in the middle of New York City’s yearly art fairs, a one-night film festival was held to a packed crowd at Anthology Film Archives on the Lower East Side. It was called the Feelings Festival and was organized by visual artists Chloe Wise and Adam Levett. As the name would suggest, this was a film festival like no other. Rooted in what could be described as the “new” new independent cinema, and featuring filmmakers such as Michael Bailey Gates and Claire Christerson, India Menuez, Jeanette Hayes, Alexandra Marzella and many more, the focus of the festival was showcasing films made by artists that featured formats that are almost exclusively screened on the internet. That being said, this was no amateur-hour YouTube festival. The films shown displayed a distinct innovation, charm, and approach to narrative that the entire film industry could learn something from. We asked Adam and Chloe to tell us more.

INTERVIEW BY AARON ROSE / IMAGES COURTESY THE FILMMAKERS ANP: It seems like there is already such an overwhelming amount of film festivals going on, what inspired you to create the Feelings Film Festival?

Chloe: There are lots of other festivals, but we felt like there was a void for this particular kind of experience and participation. Lots of our peers and young artists show their work primarily in gallery settings, but we wanted to give these films a chance to be seen in a new context. Also many of the participants in this festival make work that borders on experimental They work in comedy, music video or net art, so there was a sense of fluidity and fun-ness.

Adam: Younger people increasingly are less interested in the conventional movie going experience. Almost all the work of young people is disseminated online.

Typically, these films are viewed alone on a small screen, such as a laptop or iPhone. We felt people were missing the collective viewing experience. When going to the movies, the audience is, in a sense, captive. The screen and sound are big and immersive. We wanted to bring in some of this conventional experience of movie going, but at the same time we want the experience to evolve into something new. We encouraged people to use Snapchat and Instagram during the screening.

We didn’t want it to be formal. As the festival moves forward we want it to be as interactive a theatre experience as possible.

ANP: Was there any curatorial criteria in terms of the films you chose to feature?

Chloe: not really, we sort of went with our instinct and tastes.

Adam: The curatorial criteria was based first on the desire to see certain peoples’ work that we loved on a big screen. We reached out to friends, their friends as well as artists we admire. There is an amazing community of people working with video and film. It was our desire to bring together all these films that are thematically or aesthetically similar.

ANP: Would you consider the types of works you are exhibiting to be part of a new movement of films?

Adam: I think so yes. We are the luckiest people ever! We live in a time were you literally need nothing more than a phone to make a film. It’s all up to you to just make something…and people are! I think we are on the cusp of a new wave of films and that was what created the idea to do a festival initially. Through social media we have all become storytellers and filmmakers. These are powerful and incredible tools. We were seeing all these films that very similar and wanted to see them in one place. I think, and hope, the world of social media and corporate entertainment and personal storytelling are going to find a balance and confluence of how to work together.

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Chloe: I think the parameters of what can be considered art or video art are blurring more and more with the increasing democratization of accessibility to video materials. As Adam said, anyone with an iPhone can make an incredible or hilarious video piece. While so many of our peers and our own videos are seen primarily online, I think stopping and giving visibility to the new works being made in a context as glorified as a movie theater helps identify and encourage these new forms of emerging media.

ANP: In what ways do the films you choose differ from what one would find at another festival?

Adam: We are attempting to break down the barriers between the festival, the computer screen, galleries and Hollywood. I want to get to a point where anything is acceptable to be broadcasted on screen regardless of quality or production value. To me, this is the most exciting time to be an artist. This model cuts out all the bullshit associated with filmmaking. You don’t need a studio or a gallery to disseminate art, and the filmmakers have access to making these decisions. We want to encourage this kind of growth, and stand aside as much as possible and let the films speak for themselves.

Chloe: In some other film festivals I think, as Adam said, there might be an emphasis on production value. I don’t know if you would find a video shot on Photobooth or a 30 second comedic clip broadcasted on a big movie screen. Here we are democratizing this access. Some of the videos in this festival were weird and silly and funny and experimental, some were high budget and beautiful and adhere to the standards of cinematic production, but there is no hierarchy of what is considered valuable, anything interesting and enjoyable can gain visibility.

ANP: Anthology Film Archives has a long history of promoting new genres of experimental and underground movies. Did this figure into your decision to hold the festival there?

Adam: That was exactly why we did it there! It was an iron-clad record for being the best place to showcase new and exciting work. The space is beautiful. The

people that work there are gods. They’re so nice and so accommodating. We were so nervous because we aren’t technical people and the projectionist is amazing. The mangers are amazing. Everyone is so warm and supportive.

ANP: What would you say is the most interesting thing you took away from organizing this year’s festival?

Adam: The first and most important thing is that there is interest from both artists and audience members. People are tired of viewing things in a conventional way… and people want humor. They want to see new things.

Chloe: I’m just amazed that in New York City in 2015 you are able to showcase your own and your peer’s work in a freaking movie theater. I’m so glad we got to give visibility to some artists that we think deserve it. Usually to give your friends visibility you would just tweet or share a link, but it’s great to know that there is the interest and the possibility to have this kind of work seen in this kind of a beautiful setting. Heartwarming stuff!

ANP: How would you like to see the festival expand and grow in the future?

Adam: We want it to be a community. A place where we can generate films and people can have a discourse, and a forum to show peoples film and new filmmakers to blossom. All we want is for people to communicate and share and grow together.

In addition to doing it twice a year we would like to make it bi-coastal. As well, we are looking into ways through the web to create as community between the screening were people can continue to share films and ideas.

Chloe: We want uniforms and hats. Maybe like bowling shirts that say FEELINGS. We also need a mascot.

Adam: And tattoos. Feelings Film Festival face tattoos. feelingsfilmfestival.tumblr.com

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When it comes to the history of crime photography there are many practitioners, but very few greats. It is a rarified profession that has been traditionally practiced by a raggedy bunch of surly men in unwashed suits with cheap whisky on the breath. You could probably count the best crime photographers in history on one hand. That fact alone makes Italian photographer Letizia Battaglia’s story remarkable.

The added amazement that she is a woman makes her story even more extraordinary. Battaglia was born in Palermo, Sicily in 1935 and trained as a photographer in Milan in the 1970s. For several decades, she worked for the L’Ora newspaper covering local news items and reportage in her native city. Battaglia took some 600,000 images as she covered the territory for the paper. Historically, Palermo has been known for its heavy Mafia presence (for several years there was one murder every three days in Palermo), so somewhat inevitably, much of her output was centered around the mafia and their activities. In the course of capturing these images, Battaglia has often found her own life in jeopardy. She worked on the front-line as a photo-reporter during one of the most tragic periods in recent memory, the so-called Anni di piombo (the years of “flying lead” in Italian). This began with ferocious internecine turf battles and the murders of senior police officers and politicians, and culminated with the Mafia’s brief but shocking war on the Italian state, in which two leading antiMafia judges died in bomb attacks. While intense emotions of grief, violence, anger and anguish are

rife in her images, what also comes through is a palpable effort to restore stillness and an unshakable sense of humanism to the policemen, Mafia families, women and children that she has encountered.

Men lying in their blood-soaked clothes on streets, masked children clutching guns without flinching, these are the harrowing scenes that find their way into Battaglia’s black-and-white photographs. She photographed the dead so often that she was like a roving morgue. “Suddenly,” she once said, “I had an archive of blood.” Her photos have now become the images that have changed the face of crime photography. She has written numerous books, has appeared in various films including Wim Wenders’ Palermo Shooting and Alexander Stille’s In Un Altro Paese (Excellent Cadavers). In the 2000s, Battaglia stopped taking photographs, instead representing the Green Party in the Sicilian Parliament where she was instrumental in saving and reviving the historic center of Palermo. For a time she ran a publishing house, Edizioni della Battaglia, and co-founded a monthly journal for women, Mezzocielo. She is deeply involved in working for the rights of women and, most recently, prisoners. Now, at age 79, Battaglia is still going strong, and as the following images will attest, she has given a special gift to the canon of reportage photography like no other person in the history of the craft. Gallerist Michela Bruzzo, of Workshop Gallery in Venice, Italy recently sat down with Letizia Battaglia, just after she opened her latest exhibition there.

INTERVIEW BY MICHELA BRUZZO IMAGES COURTESY THE ARTIST AND WORKSHOP, VENICE, ITALY

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They killed him while he was going into the garage to get his car. Palermo, 1976. (opposite) Portrait of Letizia Battaglia by Franco Zecchin.

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Magistrate Roberto Scarpinato (in suit) with his escort. Scarpinato is the prosecutor in the ongoing trial of former Prime Minister Giulio Andreotti. Palermo, 1998 (opposite, from top) Nerina worked as a prostitute. She and her two friends were murdered by the mafia for not respecting their rules. Palermo, 1982.

The arrest of Bagarella, a drug pusher.

Palermo, 1976.

ANP: Can you describe how you started out taking photographs? Were you already a photographer before you started working for L’Ora or was it a natural progression to what you were already doing?

Letizia Battaglia: I was a journalist for a few years before.

Nothing too important, a few reportage articles, nothing more. I had moved to Milan at a certain point and there, I started to work for the press, but they would ask me, “What about the photos?” and so I decided to start taking pictures to accompany my freelance articles. A girlfriend of mine gave me a little camera and that’s how I got going. With time I became more and more passionate until one day I realized that my camera and I had almost become one and the same thing. So on returning to Palermo I started taking pictures of this terrible Cronaca Nera (crime news in English). I want to tell you though that for me, I don’t just see a camera as an instrument for blame and for struggle, one can do almost anything with it. You can take pictures of the most beautiful countryside, you can tell love stories, you can create a world that you have inside yourself, this world that you have inside yourself you can externalize it through a camera. It’s a fabulous means to do that. It really hurts me that in recent times the use of the camera has been so banalised, digital, although being extremely useful has created a lot of banality.

Everyone uses photography but without any knowledge of its language.

ANP: When did it start to become apparent that almost all of your output was devoted to the mafia?

LB: I didn’t understand that at first. When I started working for the newspaper, the L’Ora of Palermo, I took pictures of everything, even football matches. There were four of us photographers, who worked 24 hours a day, all year round, no breaks for Sunday, for Christmas or for Easter. We worked really hard, everyone working their own stories of course.

Look, if you lived in Palermo you’d think it was an interesting, fascinating city, you probably wouldn’t even notice that the mafia was there but as a photo-journalist that was all I saw. I was in continual contact with this reportage, every day there was more violence. Maybe people would just read it in their newspapers but I saw the blood everywhere, human beings that couldn’t take it anymore, a dead child who had been shot just because he had seen something. I’ve seen so many

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tragedies… I get emotional when I think about those years, it’s a bit heavy always speaking about it. But anyway, where were we?

ANP: Did you ever, perhaps at the beginning, see what was happening in Palermo as an opportunity for you as a journalist?

LB: No! Even if I’d grown up in the Congo or in the US, I would still have taken photographs that in some way relate to human rights. In fact, aside from the fact that I’ve been lucky enough to receive several awards, including the most prestigious American awards for photography, when I was invited to do some work in America I asked to be taken to see the hostels for women and children and I took lots of pictures inside not because it was an opportunity to do so but because I felt empathy with their problems. I never looked at all this as a profession; it all happened by itself, I’ve never asked to receive an award, never applied for an award. It all happened on its own. I was always too busy. I’ve worked so hard, I’m exhausted. I’ve suffered enough, I’ve cried, my life was dramatic enough with what was happening in Palermo at that time without looking for other opportunities. Luckily I had other resources available to me. I was able to do some theatre while I was working as a photographer, and some cinema, not out of vanity or ambition you understand, but just to do it.

I’m not vain and I’m not ambitious, I do something and say, thank you, but I do want to see the world change, my own little world, also the world as a whole but you have to start with your own little world, no? And no it hasn’t changed.

ANP: How much were you paid per photo at the beginning? Was there a lot of competition between photo-reporters, to get there first, to get the best picture?

LB: No, I was on a contract. There was a lot of competition but more between the papers themselves because the directors of the papers demanded it. There was competition; no photographer would help another one and especially my being a woman I was immediately viewed with suspicion.

Even if they appreciated my work, they didn’t help but I just got on with my work and would help others if I could, even other photographers. This is partly why I want to do this International Photography Center in Palermo, haven’t I mentioned it?

ANP: No. LB: Well it seems that the mayor of Palermo is going to let me do it. I don’t really want anything, but before I die I want to do this Center where there will be a museum with images of Palermo that have been taken by photographers from all over the world.

A photography school and a photography gallery. For me this is really important.

There has always been competition, not only in Palermo where I was but also in Milan and in Paris. Once in Paris I wanted to take pictures of the BPR (French Cycling Club) but the other photographers wouldn’t let me get near, mainly the male ones, they were terrible!

ANP: What was the attitude of the other larger Italian daily newspapers like? Were they interested in Sicily?

LB: Working for L’Ora they had to have a bit of respect because it was an anti-mafia, antifascist paper and they had had their share of problems. Two journalists were murdered, one was called Mauro De Mauro whose body has still not been found and remains one of Italy’s most famous unsolved mysteries, the other Giovanni Spampinato. So in a sense we were on the barricades with that newspaper and knowing that at that time it wasn’t a profession, more a fight. But you should always fight for where you are in life, otherwise things never change.

ANP: So attitudes to you were on the whole good?

LB: Yes, I mean no one did anything for anyone else but I could sense that I was respected in some way as a photographer.

You could see the quality of what we were

doing immediately. Imagine, they used to call the place where we worked, the tana (a burrow). A tana is something used by animals, not humans because we were so poor, I mean really poor. It was a small office on the street, really miserable but it sufficed. We had everything that we needed to work. I’ve never been a fan of luxury but this was pretty miserable and they called where we worked the tana (laughing).

ANP: I wanted you to talk about something that moved me considerably, what you once wrote for a press release about that day in Capaci, when you were with your mother. You told me that you had wished that you had carried on, had taken the photos, that you still have them here (pointing at my head).

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They put the dead father in the entrance hall so that everyone who passed by could honor his death with a greeting. Palermo, 1986 (opposite, from top) Assassination with Palermo license plate. Palermo, 1988 A plainclothes police woman at a demonstration of the mafia massacres. Palemo, 1992.

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His name was Vincenzo Battaglia and they killed him in the dark, amidst the garbage.

His wife tried to help him, but it was too late. Palermo, 1976. (opposite) Feast day of San Guisto. Racing on the pavement, the horse had broken its leg and will be shot. Mussomelli, 1981

LB: Look. That afternoon I was with my mother, as I was when they also killed Borsellino, we heard, no the television was on, we weren’t watching it but a special report came on saying that there had been an attempt on Falcone’s life. We knew that he was in danger, but they shouldn’t have killed him. We wanted to defend him, but we couldn’t. I didn’t go to where it (the bombing) happened but instead went to the ER as the report had said that he had been taken to hospital.

So I went there. I remember that I was alone, as the others had gone to the motorway with Shobha, my daughter, the photographer. I was sitting there outside the hospital, I didn’t see or do anything and had this camera hanging around my neck, I was there desperate, completely desperate unable to do anything. I lost my professionalism. And when they killed Borsellino, Paolo Borsellino, the other judge, I was with my mother again and we felt this huge tremor, a terrible roar and it was the bomb that they had put there. You can’t imagine what it sounded like, it tore down half a building! They found pieces of a car at the top of a tree, just think what it was like.

That was only 40 days after the death of Falcone, it was too much to bear. It was so painful. These judges defended us, the good ones, there were others who were corrupt but the good ones, they killed them all.

ANP: You knew him well didn’t you?

LB: Falcone, yes. Once I received an anonymous letter, really horrible telling me to get the fuck out of Palermo. I was very frightened. I showed it to Falcone and asked him if he thought it was a joke. He said, “No Letizia, it’s not a joke, here’s what you should do. Take three months off and go somewhere, anywhere, just get out of Palermo for a bit and then come back.” I didn’t take his advice and as you can see nothing happened, but I couldn’t go, I couldn’t show them that I was scared. It was my duty to stay, I had the means to fight them. I want to say that I had a weapon but not a weapon, the means to fight back was my camera. To do my bit, my little bit with my camera. I didn’t go.

ANP: You did well. Do you ever get tired of seeing these images? That people always think of the mafia when they think about Sicily?

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LB: As you saw last night when I showed my work in your gallery, people came and were shocked but I always stay in the second room because the first room with the reportage images, the dead bodies, the blood, the children is too much.

I can still feel it all. I had nights where I would dream about burning the negatives of these images, of throwing them into the sea. In fact, I even made a short film, La Fine Della Storia, a montage where I burnt these images. It started with a phrase by Pier Paolo Pasolini that said. “How can I keep on fighting when I know that our relationship is over”. I mean, was it all worthless, this constant struggle, the photographs, the dead judges? The mafia is very powerful. This world is largely populated by the mafia, not just in Sicily. But we seem to hold onto this connotation. There is a very powerful mafia in Japan, but people don’t just talk about that when they discuss Japan, the Yakuza. In Russia they have a very cruel mafia, in America, everywhere. I don’t know, we have the mafia, which has always been supported by the politicians and we still need to fight. We have other things though. We have great writers and theatre, which need their own space to flourish. We are afflicted by the mafia, but in the end it’s a small island and the mafia is everywhere. Politicians can’t avoid dealing with the mafia, as far as I understand it.

ANP: Have you ever taken similar pictures outside Sicily?

LB: No, I couldn’t. I never wanted to take photographs of war. Others do but I never wanted to. I took those photos because there was already a war in my homeland. I’ve taken thousands of pictures around the world, in Africa, in America, in Europe but never of war.

ANP: And so your photographs of the struggle are always and only linked to Sicily?

LB: Yes. ANP: Was there ever a time when shooting such grizzly photographs became too much?

LB: Many times, all the despair, bombs, death, injuries, death, misery, all things that we have the mafia to thank for. I often thought enough is enough! I would say that’s it and then start again. I finally said enough, and meant it, after they killed

Giovanni Falcone, the judge Giovanni Falcone. I didn’t take pictures of his death or of that of Paolo Borsellino, the other judge whom we all loved. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t bear the screaming, the funerals and seeing the faces of those corrupt politicians who allowed all this to happen.

In the end I was so desperate that I had to leave Palermo and I went to live for a time in Paris, not because it is a beautiful European city but because I needed to get out of Palermo.

Otherwise I would have just died.

ANP: Was it difficult being a woman in the predominantly male dominated world of crime photography?

LB: It was very difficult being a young woman. It was extremely difficult doing a job traditionally done by men.

It would have been the same anywhere in the world, not specifically in Sicily. I was the first female photojournalist in Italy to work for a daily newspaper. I had to deal with physical assaults not just by the police and the carabinieri (the Italian military police) and all the various law enforcement agencies but also by Mafiosi. No one wanted a woman taking pictures of dead children. A man taking the pictures they could have accepted but a woman no. Here I had lots of problems.

ANP: Didn’t Bagarella (a notorious drug dealer) kick you?

LB: This was just an episode, one of many similar ones. I had gone to photograph him as he had just been arrested and as I used a wide-angle lens I had to get quite close to him to get the shot. So as I approached him, he was actually handcuffed to two policemen at the time, he lashed out with a kick. I fell backwards, he missed me but I had jumped backwards to avoid being kicked. In any case I had already taken the picture. This was just one of many, many episodes.

ANP: Did you ever feel that the crime photography you did conflicted with your own personal work?

LB: In any case I’ve always been a militant supporter of justice. I’ve always tried to defend the weak and I was one of the people who wanted to fight against the mafia. So for me

my camera was always a personal, intimate means to tell the world how I felt, using my own passion, and compassion, piety and I hope empathy. I lived through all that pain, all those deaths and injuries to women and children. I felt their anger. I have anger too against drug trafficking, against those who asked for a pizzo (protection money) and against corruption. I could never accept the inhumanity and so I was a photographer, only a photographer who never divided my life into photography, my camera and my life, it was all the same thing.

ANP: Were you never frightened for your life?

LB: I was always frightened for my life! But well, I can’t say that I was never scared, I was, but I knew that these things had to be documented. These pictures had to remain somehow, so that people could understand how much we suffered, we as Italians, we as Sicilians, which in any case is part of Italy, and we as part of Europe. We were completely left abandoned by everyone to the mafia.

ANP: Another thing. Did photographing such terrible things ever affect your own worldview? How did you manage to stay psychologically healthy amongst such horror? What did you say to yourself and what kept you going? I don’t know how you handled being a family that all slept on the same bed where rats bit the children’s feet.

LB: It was just the need to document all this. The world needed to see that here was a woman with two children that had nothing to eat, nothing that could be done. Some time ago a girl in France asked me ‘Did you have the right to take those pictures of a dead child?’ I replied that for me it was extremely painful to have just been there but that I had to do it because these pictures today tell these stories that I am convinced would otherwise have all been forgotten. I have absolute conviction that photographs are essential as a memorial to what happened. Of that I am totally convinced.

ANP: You cite Sigmund Freud as being a huge influence on your work. In what way?

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(above, from left) The scene, with that dry tree and the almost theatrical light, seemed surreal to me, but they had actually murdered the man just a few minutes earlier. Palermo, 1980.

Ignazio Romeo was a jeweler, and also a member of parliament for the Republican Party.

Two very young men killed him in front of her wife. Bagheria, 1984. (opposite) To feed his children he even stole copper from the power stations. Palermo, 1978

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The killers shoot in broad daylight, in front of everyone. Palermo, 1984. (opposite, from top) Palermo, 1982 Children at Festa dei Morti (All Saints & All Souls Day), Palermo, 1986.

LB: I was very young and not very happy in Sicily. I had been quite ill but was saved by a marvelous psychoanalyst.

He was the president of the Italian Society of Freudian Psychoanalysis. He was not just a Palermitan doctor, he was truly wonderful. Even today I am so grateful to him, he gave me back to me, if that makes any sense? I became myself at last and I wasn’t frightened of anybody anymore. So through psychoanalysis I found an inner strength that I had lost over the years for various reasons. I started taking photographs again really thanks to Freud and thanks to psychoanalysis and I have always had an attraction, no not an attraction…

ANP: A predilection?

LB: No, not a predilection, but a huge interest in madness.

For years I used to be a volunteer in the wards of the mentally ill at the hospital in Palermo which had 2500 patients, this was before the Legge Basaglia ordered its closure (the 1978 Italian Mental Health Act that effectively closed down psychiatric hospitals in favor of more decentralized care with the emphasis on cure rather than on seclusion). I used to do theatre and cinema with them. For years I did this, even when I was most active in taking anti-mafia related photographs.

I still went because even inside the mental hospital was deep injustice. I have always had to do things, as a feminist I have always defended women’s rights and the rights of the weakest, of gypsies, of the ill, with kindness and with balance.

Freud helped me understand many things.

ANP: How much did the technical aspects of photography inform your work?

LB: Not much, I don’t believe in technology. With a small, cheap camera you can still take wonderful pictures and with the most expensive you can equally take the most banal and senseless pictures.

ANP: I ask this only as shooting volatile situations can sometimes require much improvisation, sacrificing the best technical approach to ‘get the picture’.

LB: I took millions of pictures, many of which didn’t come out well for one reason or another and consequently I didn’t choose to use them. This would happen often, I don’t know, because of one sort of accident or another. I believe more in their composition and in the attention given to that tiny piece of the world that you have in front of you. It’s not really the technical aspects. I know virtually nothing about technology,

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really. I’ve worked for more than thirty, forty years without caring too much about how technology informs what I do. I think you need something else. You need attention, respect and the desire to honor what is good in our world. It’s that, that I want to honor, the good that is in our world. Let me have a cigarette, one minute…

ANP: What would you say has been the greatest gift that photography has given you?

LB: Photography has given me so much, Freud on one side and my camera on the other have helped me to live. Without photography I would have been much weaker, photography made me strong enough to exist in this world and not to be a loser. This is really important to me, to not live like a loser.

Whatever situation you may have in front of you, you are not a loser, you are not a winner necessarily but you do manage to live in harmony with the rest of the world.

ANP: Finally, when you were preparing for this exhibition in Venice, how did you decide what to include? The decision to show your whole life?

LB: I’ve had exhibitions all over the world but never a solo exhibition in Venice. Saying that I’ve always had a particular fondness for Venice. I had a very important relationship here and lived for some months in Mestre and so I would come often to Venice. Eventually I had to return to Sicily, I was young and my daughter wanted to go back to Palermo.

I was very unhappy to return and it was then that I turned to psychoanalysis, because of this relationship and because of that situation. I really love this part of Italy though, its gentleness. I mean, I’ve been part of group exhibitions here, Italics (at Palazzo Grassi in 2008-2009), but I was really happy when we started speaking about this exhibition. You wrote to me didn’t you?

ANP: Yes, I wrote.

LB: But I didn’t expect you to have such a beautiful gallery, I was really happy to do the show and I thought that considering I’m 78 years old this could be the last exhibition of mine that I actually travel to. And so I decided to show some of my reportage images, some of my re-elaborations and some of the new works that I’ve been working on these past months, everything in other words. I wanted to give you all of myself. It’s really tiring for me doing shows now, my back is bad but I’m so happy that we managed to do this exhibition.

Jim Drain is a master class on fabricating acid thought. His playful and psychedelic creations exist in their own time frame, achieving a dimensional dementia while giving free hugs. He serves and respectfully follows the questionable flashes in his brain to full fruition. Like Burt Lancaster in The Swimmer, he dives into many pools without restraint: furniture, stitching, screen printing, sculpture, painting, kinetic collaboration, collage, clothing design, mural design, video, sound and performance. Jim grew up in the Cleveland area, and eventually moved to Providence to attend the Rhode Island School Of Design. He became involved with the infamous Fort Thunder, a former textile warehouse converted into an epicenter of alternative and underground art and music activity. In 2002, his collaborative group, Forcefield (along with Ara Peterson, Lief Goldberg and Mat Brinkman) was asked to participate in the Whitney Biennial, which is when I first met him. In 2005, we met again in Switzerland, where Jim had just won the Baloise Art Prize. This introduced him to a larger public, allowing him to navigate his future as an artist with more possibilities. Around this time, he moved to Miami, and joined Naomi Fisher and Hernan Bas at the Bas Fisher Invitational, an artist run exhibition and performance space that helped form a sense of community in the face of the surrounding impersonal art fairs.

I once went on a walk with a very distraught and frustrated Jim, who had just received news of being dropped by one of his galleries at the time. Conflicted by the art market and struggling to survive as an artist, he began to set his sight on becoming a more grounded human, finding strength and aligning himself within a more supportive structure. Jim is of a different ilk and demeanor than most, and finding a balance can take time and concentration. When we visited the Everglades together, it occurred to me that this might be where he lived, in tandem with the heron and alligators. It just did not seem unreasonable. Jim once found a t-shirt in a puddle, of a skeleton trucker driving the highway to hell, and proceeded to wear it for the next few years. To him, it is all wilderness, and not much is out of the question.

INTERVIEW BY CHRISTOPHER GARRETT PORTRAIT BY GESI SCHILLING / IMAGES COURTESY THE ARTIST Christopher Garrett: Hi Jim! Jim Drain: Hello?

CG: What does it mean for you to share? To share what you do and to share who you are?

JD: Why not ask what does it mean to love? Is being an artist about loving? Where does this compulsion to create come from? Can a person ‘kind of’ love themselves, ‘kind of’ share? Can I mention Mike Kelley here?

CG: Yes… JD: I never met Mike Kelley, but he keeps appearing in my dreams. The last one I had, he had made a giant volcano. There was a janky moon hanging above the volcano’s mouth, spinning fast and the moon was covered in vomit. Mike Kelley shared so much.

CG: He is/was a major influence for so many. I can see how he can impact the way an artist can work and share. Do you think you followed his lead? Or is it just an appreciation? Or both?

JD: There was a student applying to Yale and he was asked, “How does your work relate to Mike Kelley?” and his response was, “He is my uncle.” The kid got in. I feel like it is a similar relationship. I am inspired

by Kelley’s fearlessness, his intellect, his embrace and exploration of the abject and uncanny. There is always something new to find in his work.

CG: Do you equate sharing with participation?

JD: We sail the ship together and I know that happiness is possible. Not loving others is an infinitely sad proposition. I am struggling with knowing what sharing really is.

CG: Yes, it is hard to know how much to give, how much to share. There are so many ways to participate. We have both shared through the two-step process of making and then showing.

Private contemplation, execution, then public viewing. If you did not have the platform that you have now, that of exhibiting, how would you expend this energy?

JD: There was no guesswork around it. Being an artist provided the attention I craved, even though I had a very under-formed self-confidence. Would I have had the maturity to become something else at seventeen?

I did not choose to become an artist out of a deficit; I would have had to have been so fundamentally different then to know what else I could have become.

My Mom died and there was no going back. It is still that way. Could I be anything else? I was really into the Beats then, so I think I would have pursued writing more intently along a “spontaneous bop prosody” vein

and traveled as a form of erasure. Erasing sadness by running away, seeking poetry. It sounds very privileged and romantic.

CG: Your mom passed away when you were finishing high school. I am curious how you dealt with this at such a young age. Then, managing to go directly to college after that? It seems like an insanely difficult transition. Can you tell me about her? About how you dealt with such a loss and managed to make sense of it? Did the decision to attend art school go hand and hand with rawness of your life at that time in any way?

JD: There was a group of us in high school. It was a parents-with-cancer group. It was nice that they did that. Jamie’s dad died of cancer close to when my mom died. Senior year of high school was such a raw time but I remember it as a really peaceful year. Like waking up and feeling good and then remembering, “Oh right! I am really, really sad.” The sadness provided a drumbeat. I know I needed more time with my mom.

I put pressure on myself to achieve for her. I think it is a pretty normal thing to do but it provides a drive that often can get out of control because there is never enough you can do.

CG: And why were you drawn to Providence?

JD: I twisted my ankle playing basketball in high school. We got creamed in this exhibition game at the Arena (in Cleveland) where the Cavs played. We played against Bedford High School. They laughed at us.

Literally. The floor was amazingly springy and I came down on my ankle the wrong way on a warm-up lay-up.

It was a stupid way to get hurt but I think I was happy to be injured. Anyway, I had three schools to choose from: Cleveland Institute of Art, Chicago Art Institute and RISD. Each provided different scholarships. I was pretty lucky. The school trainer asked when I was getting iced, “Do you like lobster or deep dish pizza?”

Lobster seemed more extravagant. It sealed the deal.

CG: I always think I like deep-dish pizza until after I have eaten some. So you made an instantaneous decision. You were already making art in high school. Do you still have anything you made?

JD: Yes. In fact, one drawing was in a Reeder Brothers (A painting club founded by artists Scott and Tyson Reeder -ed) show a few years ago.

CG: Does your artwork have any purpose?

Serve any purpose? What kind of question is this?

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JD: Who does it serve? Can aesthetics be enough?

CG: Sure, yes. I think so. When it comes to individual expression, there are no rules for that.

JD: There are rules. For example, this spare Beckett poem. It is almost like a Jimi Hendrix song.

My way is in the sand flowing Between the shingle and the dune The summer rain rains on my life On me my life harrying fleeing To its beginning to its end My peace is there in the receding mist When I may cease from treading

these long shifting thresholds and live the space of a door that opens and shuts.

CG: I still say no rules, although it’s often difficult to achieve that status…that form of being. But no rules is also a type of rule, I guess.

JD: Rules help. They provide parameters. Andrea Zittel will say this: that there is freedom within a set of rules.

Maybe you and I are saying the same thing? But, back to your question. Can it affect lives outside of those that can read “art”? Art is as grand as Nina Simone singing at the Harlem Festival in 1969. That stage, the audience, the time, the song ‘Revolution.’

CG: She is the toughest.

JD: Tough like a queen that demands your complete allegiance. I cannot stop listening to “Susanne, live at the Philharmonic Hall, 1969.” She stops and says “Girl, you out there? You better be out there.” It is an amazing moment where Suzanne becomes real. The song does not ever get old.

CG: I love her live rendition of “Feelings”.

Stopping and starting and addressing the audience to break down the essence of the song. I can’t imagine her doing anything else.

She embodies what I imagine she was born to do, although that is my opinion, of course. But some people seem that they are doing exactly what they seem to be put on earth to do. I often struggle with this myself, my role on earth.

But I can’t imagine Mick Jagger as a waiter.

Or maybe I can? But, do you regard what you

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make, what you envision and what you are developing, as your job? If not, what is your job? What do you envision your role on Earth being?

JD: I am positive there are a lot of Mick Jagger waiters out there and actually, there is an interview with Nina Simone that is so pertinent to this. She was rejected from a school to study classically trained piano and despite her lifetime of accomplishments, she is so sad and angry that racism stopped her from following her true dream. Is it my job? I remember being on the bus and I had all my stuff with me. It was 1999 and I was moving to Los Angeles. There was a guy that had been on with me from the beginning. He got on before me in fact. He was from New Jersey and wore a suit the entire way.

CG: He was sleeping in his suit? Cross-country bus trips are so grueling…

JD: I had started in Providence. We talked for the first time in Kansas at some grimy bus stop in the middle of nowhere and we talked about each other’s life goals. This kind of stuff can just happen after being on a bus for 2 days and it is the middle of the night.

There is a grimy delirium that sets in. I told him that I was ‘retiring’ to go become an artist. I don’t know what this meant. It was a bad joke and he shrugged it off. I then proceeded to find my way to LA, work my ass off temping downtown and working kitchens in Hollywood. Does it matter if it is a job? It is a job. It is not a job. Artists work the hardest; work is in their bones. Work cracks their bones. Art is an addiction. A job is not an addiction. Addictions can make you cut off your ear and make the whole world believe that suffering makes for better art.

CG: Being addicted to art is no joke. It just barely makes sense. Having an understanding, having a plan for what you do, can be so

elusive, though. Your work has a thread, a focus that maybe you do or do not notice. Your work is extremely tactile and has a great sense of material thought to it. Is this what you want to be making?

JD: My head is in the fish tank when things come together. My work is tactile. I identify myself this way.

I can see myself continuing in this way and being very happy. I still have a lot more to give in this line of exploration.

CG: Yeah, from the outside it definitely appears to be instantly satisfying, what you do. Like surfing. Do you have a specific effect you are trying to convey? Your sculptures feel as if they are swelling and twisting, and within them I sense an element of struggle. Are you interested in expansion? Are you creating a monster every time you begin a new piece?

JD: ‘Monster’ is a pretty limited viewpoint.

CG: “Monster” meaning something that is beyond your control after it is created. Or maybe it’s just such a shock to step back and see what you made? Something that baffles you after you finish? How did I make this? And sometimes, at least for me anyway, “Why did I make this?”

JD: Why did I make this? Does this have anything to do with me? Does this capture a “what the fuck” moment?

Am I lost in this object? Can this object exist without me? What the fuck am I doing? What is next? How can I make it more simple next time? Why do I have to isolate myself? What would Mitch Hedberg say?

CG: Unstoppable puzzles. Do you care about what others think of what you do?

JD: Of course! Fear eats the soul. Fear fries the French fries. Fear eats the French fries. Soul eats the soul. Fear eats us all.

CG: Do you care about what others do?

JD: How can you not care and compare? It takes a lot of strength to not be pulled into the wake of others’ achievements. Achievements are planets that bend gravity like a bowling ball plopped on a couch.

CG: And do you care what others think?

JD: Ultimately, no. But, it is very difficult to define yourself on your own criteria. There are a lot of people in this world and my ‘problems’ are extremely diddly to the majority of the people alive today.

CG: Totally. I concur. I feel like such an asshole sometimes, complaining and being so selfinvolved. Especially when it comes to anything related to art. But, I guess, it is important to maintain a level of self-awareness. Being present, though, for me, can lead to places that might seem like a waste of time later.

JD: I am not totally sure what you mean. Being present seems to be the goal; self-love takes self-involvement.

CG: Your work seems to exist in a very specific realm of development. It seems very free and very precise at the same time. Is it specific to you? Or more abstract?

JD: There was a woman who came up to me at the first solo show I ever did. It was in Belgium. She said she could hardly look at my work, like it was embarrassing.

She talked to me about how personal and revealing the drawings were. They were deeply personal but could also have been read as very abstracted. She got them in a way maybe better then me.

CG: Oh yeah? I like that. Openings can be so confusing. So nice if you are in a town where you know some people, and they can roll through and say hello. But the initial artistto-public set up is such a disconnected one.

It almost puts too much sloppy pressure on people going to openings where the artist

(below) Sonic Boom Performance, Deitch Projects, New York, 2005 I had a friend walk into this performance and roll her eyes and say, “I hear so much of this kind of music.” What? Sonic Boom makes music like no one else. The outlet in the center of the vinyl pinwheel platform allowed the entire set-up to rotate. It is a sound I have never heard before: the bass scanned the room, enveloping space like a wet sponge as it passed. It was amazing. You can’t please everyone. (opposite) Forcefield Costumes, 1995-1996, Whitney Museum of Art, Mixed media.

On the Free Fridays I would take a bus from Providence after work and stand in the corner and observe the people entering our room. Within the first hour of doing this I had my jewels not only grabbed but held onto. My bluff was called so hard. The dude ran out of the room when I flinched after what seemed like an eternity.

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is present. But sometimes people can really connect with what others are trying to put forth, even if the artist can’t figure it out for themselves. But your work is very dream like, and dreams are just as personal as they are not personal, right? So, sometimes it can be so easy to connect the dots. What you share with others has a dream quality to it, but easily relates in an abstract manner. Almost anything is possible in the sleeping mind, the subconscious. Have you ever been so attached to something you make that you need to keep it? Like, have you ever considered these non-living objects as pets?

JD: I am attached to things I make because I connect my self-esteem to them, fortunately or unfortunately.

It is difficult to separate the success of the object with your own achievements. As far as the pet question, I was waiting to be kidnapped by an Indian tribe or a pack of wooly mammoths, preferably. John Boorman’s The Emerald Stone answered so many questions for me. I could watch that movie endlessly. I’d make a good pet. I was obsessed with finding fossils as a kid.

There are not that many in Ohio: some shells in Lake Erie sandstone.

CG: Did you actually find some fossils?

JD: Yes, I have some of them still. It was an obsession with a need to find traces of life in ancient things. I once dug a deep hole in the woods and found the most beautiful frog. It was unreal looking.

CG: Did you kiss it?

JD: Yes. Then I turned into Dr. Fink. My childhood bedroom was filled to capacity with things I found and saved: coins, baseball cards, letters, rocks, books, posters. My room was tiny. I shared it with my little brother. I have seen bigger walk-in closets. Having stuff can be more about controlling than about owning.

CG: I wonder how your brother feels about that time.

JD: He is in the Navy. We tease him because he cannot live without a dry erase board.

CG: It is definitely time to re-examine the aesthetics of a dry erase board. I think I only like to own things so at some point in my life I can make grand gestures and get rid of it. A very physical gesture of re-obtaining freedom.

Have you ever wished to start over, maybe live as a different person? Different species? Have you ever felt a connection with a cat? Maybe you could re-emerge as a painting cat?

JD: A cat? If I did I would be lion.

CG: Yessss! I am not sure if I am asking the question that I am trying to ask…

JD: I am not always sure what it is to be human. Does anyone? It is what drives us forward, to reach the limits of the definition. Dreams are not ours, not humanity’s.

Last night I dreamt that eight hawks landed on me to extend their congratulations. I was suspect that they might start clawing me to shreds.

CG: Do you feel you belong to this time?

JD: There is no better time than now. We have prescription eyewear, Instagram and malaria shots.

CG: There is that moment when you first get your eyes checked and get your first pair of glasses or contacts or whatever. As if you have been living in a different reality. I feel like that moment mutates and assumes different roles in my life. Maybe it is just the process of aging, gaining insight, etc. I am constantly rediscovering things that I used to ignore. As if I just needed to see things differently, get a new prescription. I think this must relate to how people perceive me and my role in their lives and in the world. It can feel very wasteland-ish when you are trying to follow your personal path. Do you worry that what you do will be misconstrued?

(top) Jim Drain and Ara Petersen Pinwheels, 2004-2005 (2012) Mixed media MoCA Geffen Contemporary, Los Angeles Big shout-out to Mike D. This pinwheel installation at MOCA was the first time Ara Peterson and I were able to put all 71 pinwheels together in one room. It also was the dawn of Instagram and we beat Ben Jones in the most likes. (bottom) Pinwheels, 2005 Moore Space, Miami FL Larry Rinder curated this exhibit at the Moore Space in Miami. Every time we have shown the pinwheels, we make more and more. This was our first fifteen and it was my first time in Miami. (opposite) Jim Drain and Ara Petersen Pinwheels, 2004-2005 Installation at New York Minute exhibition, 1999 at MACRO, Rome Ara walked into the space and immediately said, “let’s make it like an egg.” Ara does not get it wrong so it is easy to agree with him. The idea was that you walk in and feel surrounded by the moving pinwheels. Seeing this image makes me miss Rome. Hi Dindi!

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JD: I don’t think you can do anything about that other than to try to be as honest and open as possible. Easier said than done. Even then there is doubt. Might as well go for a long walk.

CG: Or Sage…Have you ever really felt a void?

Does completing a piece depress you?

JD: The void is a sadness that is difficult to describe. It is the exhaustion of ritual. I do become depressed when completing a piece and you need to provide yourself a lot of room to recover. No one can give it to you and the need is hard to recognize. Sometimes it means making more work, though. Thinking through material. It is hard to tell the difference. I have a hard time doing this for myself.

CG: Post-show depression is mind blowing in its consistency. Even when lowering all expectations, there is too much of a build up to expect nothing. To have an exhibition at all is to want to elicit some type of response, right? Physical or emotional. Something. Even when it works out according to plan, I am sure there is a bi-product of depression in there somewhere. How difficult for you is it to let these things go? Or do you just want everything to disappear as soon as you make them?

JD: I remember anticipating the depression. I went to the Russian Turkish baths and got the best massage ever but I think I should have gone daily for another month to recover.

CG: Do you think you will ever own a space?

JD: It does not feel so urgent.

CG: Not a public space, but just space? Own a house? I ask because when I think of a Drain artwork, I feel an architectural impetus. Is this something you dream of? Building a living artwork, like Niki de St. Phalle’s garden?

JD: I visited Noah Purifoy’s property in Joshua Tree last October. I kick myself for not having visited his

(clockwise, from top left) Sourpuss, 2005 Seeing this work now, several years after its making I see it first as a sculpture about malignant growth, which was probably a meditation on cancer that has been prevalent in my family.

Vagabond, 2007 Mixed media 70x43x80 in.

The sculpture came together last and quickly. It is wistful and naive, like a wish made by a twelve-year-old to run away into an Edward Hicks’ ‘Peaceable Kingdom’ fantasy world.

AIDS-a-delic, 2005 Mixed media with yarn, fabric and beads 84x60x40 in.

The title of the sculpture is taken from a Hanatarash album title. This sculpture was the pinnacle of a first wave of Drain sculptures, each with a chaotic buoyancy of form rooted in a celebratory malignancy. Yamantaka Eye continues to be an inspiration. I was trying to make sculpture the same way he makes music.

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place years ago when he was still alive. Anyway, it was like watching a your best friend decay right in front of your eyes. It was incredibly moving to see sculpture become something so vital and huge. That is the way to do it.

CG: I really like that in the process of helping to establish the Watts Towers Art Center, to preserve Sabato Rodia’s Towers, he must have seen a way that it could be done, how his own vision could actually be realized, actualized.

To me that is true perpetual energy. When you were growing up in Cleveland, were you aware of other places in the world?

JD: I was really proud of this one experience I had right on the brink of moving away. I was buying eyeglasses at Beachwood Place Mall and the woman behind the counter asked me what country I was from.

I said, “Orange,” not realizing what she was asking.

She looked puzzled. I repeated myself, telling her I was from a place 20 minutes away.

CG: Sounds about right…

JD: Teresa from Barcelona was an exchange student at Orange High School for a year. She once graffitied, “I am so happy and I don’t know why.” Brilliant. I did not know what to talk to her about so I looked up Barcelona in the Encyclopedia and found their average rainfall, their gross domestic product, facts about Franco and Gaudi. I talked to her about these things with her. She was really confused.

CG: And she didn’t know why? Did you want to escape?

JD: I wanted to participate and not be a passive spectator. I did not know how to do this on my own because everything seemed so far out of reach. I did not know where to begin.

CG: Are you someone that makes your own scene no matter where you are? Or do you want to be where a community can be developed?

JD: What an ob-scene question.

CG: You might be right. Does your creative spirit need to be in a certain environment?

JD: I am not sure right now.

CG: Me either. When you are making something, are you aware of and do you care if it has an individual aspect to it? Would you care if someone was making the same thing? I once asked you about doppelganger artists, and you responded kindly, saying there is room for everyone. Do you still feel this way?

JD: Yes. I understand the cop instinct, but I don’t think it is ultimately very productive to be a cop. I really believe that there is never malevolence behind the creative impulse.

CG: What are your feelings towards private practice vs. collaboration?

JD: I like collaborating with people. It allows you to visit spaces you could never get to on your own. Brion Gysin called it a “third mind;” collaboration pushes you to this ‘third’ space where neither you nor the person you are working with could ever get to alone. It forces to stand behind your ideas and pushes you to communicate, a learned skill that really does not come easily for me. The downside to collaboration is that some of your ideas don’t have a place within a shared context and need to get sidelined. This can be very painful. The result would be a messy goo if everyone’s ideas were in the soup. It is a small miracle that people can put aside their egos for something that they can’t quite see. It is like deaf Gene Wilder and blind Richard Pryor making artwork. The nice thing then is that you have all these sidelined ideas to tap into later on your own.

CG: Finding that chemistry, a perfect collaborator, is one of the most satisfying things ever. Just eliminating the strange pressure of doing it yourself is huge, and sharing a brain and momentum and energy

(left to right) Serpent, 2009, Mixed media. iii open iii closed, 2007, Mixed media. These feel like the most ‘me’ works. I love them. They are not maps or animals, but they are built very intuitively. Being in that space of making feels so good.

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is so positive. It takes the self-involved aspect out of studio practice and just opens it up, don’t you agree? I collaborate with Dana Dart-McLean as Breathing Works, and I am so happy to have this outlet. It is always said that making art is the best part of it all, not really the exhibiting of it. I mean, making and moving towards it, in unison, is the exciting part for me. I found this to be especially true with her, because the collaborative process is all about this. Do you find this to be true? What are the elements that make it work for you? Is it just the energy? Sharing trust and responsibility?

When it is out in the open, it is interesting to see the response and to feel secure in sharing the response.

JD: I think one of the reasons I collaborated with Mat, Ara and Leif was just to hang out with three brilliant people. I would be lying if I did not say the end result was not so important but I don’t think it was the same for each person. This was good, too. Not everyone needs to be on the same page necessarily. It is good to work with someone who thinks differently than you.

It makes it challenging but it should not be a predictable process, where you can anticipate the other person’s ideas. What is the point then? There were times were I wanted to pull my hair out because things were not moving fast enough or the ideas were not gelling. But, I am sure it was the same for people working with me, too.

CG: Are all of your collaborations equally as satisfying? Have you ever felt it just completely failed?

JD: There are results that I had a difficult time relating to. I could not see myself in the decision and trusted that it needed to be done. These things became the root of work that Ara is making now and am glad they were not shot down.

Window installation at Locust Projects, Miami, 2010 This exhibition at Locust Projects began by making drawings on pages of books with melted crayon. The space was flooded with amazing southern light that illuminated the drawings throughout the afternoon. I look at this image and think of how ‘interior’ that exhibit felt. It was intentionally more biographical than most.

CG: I worked for you and Ara Peterson during the summer of 2005, helping to prepare for your show at Deitch Projects that fall. I remember we didn’t wear a lot of clothes, that warehouse was so hot! I also remember eating a lot of veggie dogs and drinking margaritas after work. It seemed like such a fun project, such a fun way to make art. But ultimately, it was a complex undertaking and extremely stressful for both of you. Looking back, is something like that worth it? Is it just about living in the present and dealing with ramifications afterwards? Could you do something like that again? Or was that an important structural lesson in how you approach ambitious projects? It seems like you haven’t ever really slowed down...

JD: “It seems like you haven’t ever really slowed down.” Since you know me well, you can see that I continue to push forward. I attribute this drive to landing me in the hospital a few years ago with a kidney infection. I had a 104º fever and was sweating buckets. I really had pounded myself into the ground.

CG: You like to push it.

JD: Hypnogoogia, the Deitch show on Wooster Street: I don’t know where to begin with this one. That exhibit pulled together work Ara and I had made the previous four years. We added more sculpture, Sonic Boom played the opening and Yellowman played the closing. How much more crazed could it have gotten?

There was one work we made and never exhibited that captures a lot of the feelings from that time. We sourced some really old wood from Connecticut. They were 300-year-old salvaged barn beams. We had them made into stocks that were then metalicized silver. They function as a shadow sculpture, creepily and invisibly lurking over those memories. It is a pretty beautiful sculpture that spoke to our take on optics: that seeing is not a passive thing, that there is a violence to seeing and that seeing is done with the entire body.

CG: Wow! Shadow sculpture! I love that.

Would you consider that as an actual part of your work together? Like an invisible show?

Also, and I guess it doesn’t matter, but where is that work now?

JD: It’s at Ara’s house.

CG: You work with a multitude of materials and mediums. And feelings. Performance, collaboration, sculpture, painting, clothes, sweaters, collage, talks, etc. Do you place your ideas into a specific form as you are

brainstorming? Kim Dingle once explained that her ideas just need whatever material works the best for her ideas. It isn’t necessarily that she chose her material at the outset. Do you do this? Or do you start out with specifics in mind?

JD: It’s like making a playlist. You start with a direction and it builds and challenges you as you go.

CG: In that vein, can you explain your Iggy Pop story?

JD: A suitcase full of Iggy Pop’s clothes was left at a house he sold to a friend of a friend. When I caught wind of this, I knew what I needed to do: photograph the contents without really having an end goal. It was the best. We made life-size photos of his crummy stained sweaters, Versace tank tops and crappy undies.

They could have stood alone.

CG: And as someone who works with so many available resources with which to share, does this often find you at a loss? Have you ever experienced artistic blockage?

JD: Right now. I am not sure how to answer this question.

CG: Ooooo, boy. Well, have you ever been at a loss for ideas, at a loss for what to make?

It seems that some bodies of work mask this element, coming off as so naturally formed.

Yours seems this way to me.

JD: Of course. Then I think of my varsity basketball coach and that helps. “Drain, stop going through the motions!” “Drain, get your goddamn head in the game!” I loved coach Z. but I think he wondered why I played at all. The other center was a sophomore and the kid was clearly better than me. I had seniority until I got hurt. I really tried hard and unlike the other players, I would study in the locker room before games.

I played because I loved the elegance of basketball, the grace of jumping, driving and always moving, the fraternity and physicality of the sport. But, it also got me out of my head a few hours a day.

CG: It’s funny. I never equated your height with that particular sport. I guess I always think of Sasquatch, of camping, or hiking. Like Charles Burns’ Black Hole. I do think I need to see a picture of you playing basketball, though. Do you still watch or dream about it? Does it still inhabit a part of you?

JD: I have not had dreams of playing in a long time but when I have, it usually involves a panic of suddenly needing to suit up and no one is aware that I am 38 years old and out of shape.

CG: When did your interest in the future begin?

When did your interest in astrology begin?

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JD: The future? Mat Brinkman brought me to that place. It is less an interest in the future so much as finding a different head-space. Working with Mat was like traveling the cosmos together. I don’t know if I understand astrology more than being aware of when mercury retrograde hits. My Mom raised us going in and out of remission while working full time as a nurse. My Dad tried to be around. Anyway, I saw a Jungian therapist who I will forever be grateful to (thanks, Mom). This therapist opened up the dream world for me. I had a hard time verbalizing things, but analyzing dreams was different. Once that world opens up, you are able to see that the psyche is plugged into something else besides your own wall socket. Exploring astrology involves exploring a similar energy field to the dream world. They all provide guidance.

CG: Having an outlet, a source to reflect on, is so important to so many. Tapping into elements of living that you were not aware of can be so helpful. And having someone to talk to and help shape that knowledge and appreciation of self is beyond helpful. I remember going to therapy when I was younger and feeling so freed up.

The way they used art in the therapy process was a big deal for me. These days, sometimes I almost feel that I have no form of guidance. But of course, this is completely untrue. There are so many nuanced forms of it, down to the most basic elements of discipline. How does charting the alignment of the universe relate to your day to day?

JD: It is easy to become caught up in it and lose your selfie in the mirror. The best guide in the end is your own intuition and gut.

CG: I agree. How does this relate to the less controlled portions of your life? And how does this type of processing carry over to your artwork?

JD: Is there a separation between art and life? Can art be therapeutic? Or is art making more about capturing that progress? Sort of like Hansel and Gretel leaving crumbs? Why does an artwork work, is successful, has sustaining power? You don’t have to be an honest, good person to be a very good artist. The work has different requirements, needs and demands.

CG: Would you say that art is a type of guide for you now? Or has it been? Or even a guard rail? Something that, even as a schedule, keeps you focused? A guide for expansion, dreaming, growing, etc.? Some people just like to push paint around, for example. It can mean many different things to many different people…

Pleat Constructions, 2011, Mixed media, Fabric Workshop, Miami I wanted to try and have the sculptural work be informed by the architecture of the knit garments. It was a game of telephone where the pleats of the sweaters became wooden pleats on the wall structures. We had three months to make it and the Fabric Workshop was like ‘don’t worry, make it as challenging as possible.’ So we did. The sweaters alone took weeks to make with several of us working on them at a time. We even had two people on the knitting machines at once because we were using the full bed. Yo! Knitters.

JD: I am not sure what you mean. Art is an unquestionable.

CG: Now I am not sure what you mean. So we are even. Are you someone that worries about the future? Do you put emphasis on harnessing a future directive?

JD: Yes, it scares me shitless. No joke.

CG: What exactly is it that worries you?

Besides…everything?

JD: That I am repeating a stupid pattern, that I am not being kind to myself, that I am hurting others, that there is no time. At this point I can see the arch of a lifetime in my Dad and my aunts and uncles.

CG: What is time? At a certain point in people’s lives, things start to add up, don’t they? Pile up and add up. Ageing is a fucking trip. Life is a trip. How important is your lineage to you?

Your art history, your involvement, your past endeavors?

JD: I resisted an art historical narrative. I really thought that art history was someone else’s fantasy narrative with the goal of keeping the dialogue as insular as possible. You can keep this perspective, but it locks you in such a forever embattled position that is very tiring. I think the German painters address history pretty well. It’s best to look to them for guidance, plus, I really love art history. Also, a visit to the Ufizi and the San Marco in Florence will set you straight.

CG: What about in regards to your own history, in the realm of art and your place within it?

JD: There is still a lot more to do.

CG: In Providence, you were an integral part of Fort Thunder. And you lived in the actual Fort Thunder complex for a while, right? With school and art projects and collaborations and everything you were involved in, I am

imagining months, maybe years, could fly by without realizing it. What was it like to be so engrained in the elements there? What was it like to be so involved then? Did it seem like an endless drive towards possibilities?

JD: I had the feeling we were making something pretty special. I remember Mat would hand out flyers to strangers. Here was someone who was happier with headphones on, drawing at his desk, than having to talk to anyone, much less strangers on the Brown campus. It got us out of our element and we all pushed each other to achieve something more and new. There was a potent feeling that anything was possible; we could invent it out of thin air. The place is still with me.

I miss eating Brian Chippendale’s vegan cookies.

CG: I am a little late to this, but I was completely unaware that the Fort Thunder compound was razed. Right before the Whitney Biennial? What happened after that, to the energy in Providence? Was it just a readjustment period? Or was it a sign to move on, as the community, I imagine, must have been a bit shaken up by that?

JD: It was a weird time. There was a golden shovel ceremony with the city planners and the developer in the parking lot outside of the Fort Thunder building.

Someone was playing Lighting Bolt from a PA. It was blasting from a loft in the building in attempt to be disruptive. There was a line of people making noise and I was there. I remember thinking: “Jim, don’t do anything that will get you arrested because you have so much work for the Biennial still to do” while also berating myself for thinking this. It was a sad time.

CG: Oh man, that sounds rough. And confusing.

People are such assholes when it comes to the idea of what makes the world work. People

Couple Chair, 2008 Wood, powder coated cast metal 36x24x24 in.

If this chair had a baby, would it be a LAZ-Y-BOY? Untitled (bench), 2010 Powder coated stainless steel and aluminum 19.5x47x20.75 in.

Grab bars: they are the “305 Way” to make a quick railing. It’s part of the visual language here. I also wanted to make something that was ‘Judd indestructible,’ something that was the exact opposite to the work I had been making for the past several years.

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tend to really emphasize what I perceive to be of very little importance. I can’t decide if these moments make me want to build up to become stronger, or flee, in realization that the world is out of control.

JD: I was pretty bitter at the time. It is easy to call a capitalist “scum” when they have just made a pile of bricks where once was a community center.

CG: Absolutely. When did you know something special was occurring? Were you watching and participating in developing what is known as the Providence scene, or was it already happening when you got there and you joined in? A little background, please. Also, were there any women involved at all??? For someone that was not there, I get the general sense that it was heavy on the male psychedelic noise nerd tip (sorry)…

JD: Xander Marro and Pippi Zornoza bought a building and made an all-female place called Dirt Palace, largely in part to respond to the male-dominated psychedelic noise nerd tip trip. On the one hand, it was a testosterone stew and on the other, it was a testosterone pizza.

CG: Delicious?

JD: Music was the center. Six Finger Satellite was on sub-pop, Shepard Fairey had a documentary out, and Arab on Radar did not come from Brown or RISD. The year before I got to RISD there was a riot that was called ‘satanic’ on CNN. A party in an empty train tunnel blinded a RISD security officer. This event became the rallying point for a group of people. It gelled a kind of energy that tilled a mind-space that Hisham (Bharoocha), Bjorn Copeland and all the people in my age group just walked into. There were just so many talented people around: Seth Price,

Camo Champion, 2012, Mixed media Working with the ribbon was like playing with an oscillator: different woven patterns created different visual spaces. There were many discoveries in this process and this work is a good example of one such discovery. I became interested in pushing the painted surface so that it began to disrupt the woven pattern.

Hugs, 2012, Mixed media Here is the ultimate sampler of the woven potentialities. That bottom right corner! That was heaven. I really love the back of this painting, too. (opposite) Fatty Rose Crushing the Sun, 2012, Mixed media The paintings came directly from making sweaters for Opening Ceremony. I saw the ribbon within a woven pattern becoming an enlarged pixel or knitted stitch. It was setting limitations and then seeing how I could bend and break them (while making paintings of thorny roses).

Lisa Oppenheim, Isca Greenfield-Sanders, Shana Lutker, Karl Haendel, Kerry Tribe, Taryn Simon, Kevin Hooyman, Becky Stark, Steven Sprott, Ben Russell, Xander Marro were all within a few years of each other at Brown. Joe Bradley, Kevin Zucker, Takeshi Murata, Dan Colen, Sara Greenberger Rafferty, Christy Karacas, Elliot Hundley, Claire Rojas, Whitney Bedford, Joshua Abelow, Andrew Kuo and Francine Spiegel were all within a few years of each other as undergrads at RISD. I am sure I left some people out (accidently).

CG: You have an upcoming Forcefield exhibition (retrospective?) this fall at the RISD Museum. What is happening with this? Getting the band back together, so to speak, and re-imagining a collective consciousness must be fun and a trip at the same time.

JD: It is going to allow us to show work we have never shown before. It was a little awkward at first, but once we started unloading the archives I think we all remember the amount of joy that went into the project. We are showing work within a group exhibition called “What Nerve”, curated by Dan Nadel and Judith Tannenbaum.

CG: What equals meaningful existence for you?

JD: “With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.” It is a nice quote but really it is something I keep asking myself.

CG: Like: “Decisions, decisions, decisions”…? How does one maintain a balance of creating while accepting what already exists?

JD: I told Jeffrey Deitch, when he asked a similar question, that it is sometimes really important to be dumb to context.

CG: I think he has definitely used this approach with mixed results. I make things that are therapeutic for me foremost, and sometimes the reasoning comes later.

Maybe never. But it is important for me and many other artists I know to explore those tendencies and trust in a meaning and value in what happens at the end of the day. Is your work at all therapeutic? Was

there a specific moment in time, within the explorative studio bubble, that it all began to make sense to you?

JD: Art making is not therapeutic. There are professionals for that. I really believe that.

CG: Really? Well, there are many different ways to find to understand your place in the world. And I think making art can be a very effective therapeutic tool. Maybe you are just talking about yourself? It can definitely be a struggle sometimes, for sure, though.

JD: I think that this is a problem artists have, believing work is therapeutic. The therapy needs to happen outside the art practice.

Otherwise, there is too much placed on the work. The work has to work too hard. It is better to keep it simple.

CG: Have you ever felt completely satisfied with something you have made? Have you ever gone to sleep completely satisfied?

JD: I think I typically go to sleep completely satisfied even when I have made a complete mess of things.

CG: Sleeping in Oblivion. I like it.

JD: And grinding your teeth to oblivion.

CG: When you make a new series/ grouping/blob and show it, do you approach the public as if they know nothing about you? Or do you hope that people are following along? How important is that to you? Would you rather not be tied to what you have done in the past? It seems appropriate to ask this because you have a lot written about you, and your synopses are basically the same, give or take. Does this matter? Would it be nice to just reappear with a clean slate?

I don’t really think the world works like that, but....

JD: Josh Smith is pretty genius at handling expectations. It is one of the best things about being an artist…to see work that exceeds expectations, and then unexpectedly, mysteriously, that changes over time, that grows and dies and is reborn. That is the thrill, the addiction pill.

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(A word from Jim, about Jim) Christopher, thanks for doing this interview.

I began knitting because I knew it was being overlooked in as a sculptural methodology.

But really at the time, it was something no one else was doing in Fort Thunder and I did not know what else I could bring to the table.

I loved comics, printmaking and music but I was invested in sculpture. The textile industry was a ghost in Providence and the abundance of material and knowledge overflowed. It was easy to tap into this other place, one that could be used in sculpture but did not have to be a discussion of art. Elyse Allen let me use her knitting machine while she went to work; she would come back and show me what I did wrong. It was a lot of frustration.

I took my knits to Liz Collins and asked her how to make a garment from them. I had no idea what to do with these long pieces of neon knit. Liz and Elyse have continued to be so amazingly generous with their time.

Liz basically said, “Go for it and see what happens.” My garment making bounced between hand sewing, machine sewing and glue-gunning the knits together. Textiles provided an armature to continue to explore sculpture even when I was not using knits. It was a compass to navigate forward.

My ideas have expanded in many different directions. Right now it is about bringing the ideas and form together into discreet objects. It has taken some time to build the foundation for doing this, but working on the Forcefield show has been helpful. It has allowed me to see this entire body of work, really examine where it came from and how I identified it with myself for so long. It is like visiting a good friend without feeling a loss of friendship, despite the distance. Having the distance has been nice and I am still proud of the work without it overpowering the ideas and work I need to form for myself now.

BY JAMIE BRISICK PHOTOGRAPHS BY NICK WAPLINGTON, MIKE BALZER AND JOHN LYMAN

I missed the Op riots, but I did get a firsthand account from my brother Steven, who arrived back to the house a couple hours after they happened with electric eyes. He described burning police cars, bottles hurled at cops, shirtless, flat top-haired guys shouting “Take it off!” at buxom girls in animal-print bikinis. He said the smoke looked apocalyptic and the sand cloud, kicked up by rioters fleeing from billy club-slashing cops, looked like something you’d see in the Sahara desert. Only much later did he tell me about the final: Mark “Occy” Occhilupo versus Glen Winton, best of three, a rising south swell, big hacking frontside carves, fins-free lip blasts in the shorebreak.

“Occy ended up taking it,” he said, “But man, you should have seen these guys turn over a cop car!”

Surf contests were not a new thing in 1986. According to The Encyclopedia of Surfing, “Ancient Hawaiian chiefs competed against one another in surfing matches often accompanied by high-stakes wagering; stakes included canoes, fishing nets, tapa cloth or swine; servitude, even life itself, was occasionally put on the line.” From the late fifties to the early sixties, The Makaha International Surfing Championships, held in Hawaii, was regarded as the unofficial world championships, drawing up to 500 entrants and a respectable amount of media coverage. But with the sixties counterculture came a disenchantment with surf contests. Surfing was art not sport, went the argument, and distinguishing winners from losers undermined the whole communing-with-nature element. Perhaps the greatest proponent of this attitude was Miki Dora, aka “the Black Knight.” In one contest he rode a twelve-foot tandem board in the final (the surfing equivalent to running a 10K in ski boots). In another he went up to collect his first place trophy and, in front of fans, judges, media,

and fellow surfers, hurled it straight into the sand. His coup de grace came in the 1967 Malibu Invitational. In the semifinals, with thousands of spectators huddled on the beach, he took off on a wave, dropped his shorts, and flashed his bare ass while riding the length of First Point. He then set off on what can only be called the greatest surf odyssey of the twentieth century.

Funded primarily through bogus credit cards, forged checks, and the kindness of bewitched, often deep-pocketed friends, Dora gallivanted around the world riding the best waves, drinking the finest wines, and living life on his own terms, all the while avoiding any semblance of “work.” His surfboard was his magic carpet and his wits were his wings, and from the late sixties up until his death in 2002, excepting a couple brief prison stints, Dora lived the Endless Summer lifestyle.

His spirit is encoded in surfing’s DNA. I started surfing at Malibu in the late seventies. The golden rule was style. Under no circumstances did you ever want to look like you were trying. Often waveriders would relax into a soul arch, hands clasped coolly behind their backs. The surfers at The ‘Bu wore puka shell necklaces and had sun-bleached, long, blond hair parted in the middle. Marijuana smoke wafted from VW vans in the parking lot. No one seemed to have a job.

There were some great characters. “Mickey Rat” jogged from his beater white Valiant to the shoreline in high-cut Sundek trunks, lemon yellow Kennedy single fin under arm. He had broad shoulders, a washboard stomach, and a thick mustache. At the shoreline, he stripped out of his shorts, hung them from his neck, and surfed his entire session naked. When he was finished he rode to shore, put the shorts back on, and walked up the beach as if the whole thing never happened.“Fruit Loop” wore striped Dolfin shorts, rode a pale pink

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MIKE BALZER

twin fin with checkerboard rails, and spun a dizzying number of 360s, sometimes eight per wave. He lived in North Hollywood, worked as a hair stylist, drank gin and tonics, favored the Flock of Seagulls flop long before it was fashionable.

“Coke” lived in the bushes behind the Malibu swamp, aka “polio pond.” How did he get his nickname? One sunny August morning, my brother Steven and I were making our way across the kelpy low tide rocks toward the water at Third Point. Exiting the surf was this deeply tanned, snaggletoothed, twentyish guy carrying a blood red Natural Progression pintail. He gave us a surreptitious nod.

“Coke?” he said.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Wanna buy some Coke?”

I was thirteen. Steven was fourteen. Less than a hundred yards away Mom was stretched on a blanket, reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a cooler full of PBJs and Dr. Peppers next to her.

All of this is to say that surfing once had a dangerous allure. It felt rebellious; it abounded with weirdos and outcasts.

But this would change dramatically over the course of the next decade. In 1976 the IPS (International Professional Surfers) was formed, creating an official world tour that aspired to the heights of golf or tennis. In 1978 came the NSSA (National Scholastic Surfing Association), “created for the sole purpose of keeping surfers in school,” said its founder, Chuck Allen. I surfed in many NSSA contests, and though professionally run, they were almost Boy Scouts-like in their goody-goody tone. Team members wore matching tracksuits, maintained B+ averages, never swore. Not only was the

sport cleaning up its act, it was almost overcompensating for its renegade past.

By the mid-eighties surfing had become big business. Brands like Quiksilver, Gotcha, and Billabong were expanding into major department stores, world champion Tom Curren was profiled in Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated, Hollywood surf films North Shore and Back to the Beach were in production, Tom Hanks was a regular foot, Sean Penn was a goofy. Promoters saw great opportunity to hurl the sport forward.

“What happened was we over-promoted the event,” said Op Pro contest director Ian Cairns. “We lost sight of the core element, which was surfing.”

The 1986 Op Pro was held on Labor Day weekend. It was promoted as something much bigger than just a surf contest. There was the MTV live broadcast, presented by VJ Dweezil Zappa. There was the skate ramp demo with Christian Hosoi. There was the bikini contest. There were hair bands. There was the superhot Sunday afternoon with something like 50,000 people packed onto the sand, many of them with their backs to the water. There was a lot of beer.

Accounts vary as to what specifically sparked the riots, but the most popular version is that a bunch of lecherous dudes shouted for a girl to “show us your tits” and she did. From there it turned ugly quick.

It’s comical to think that something so tender and sensual would lead to burning police cars and ATVs and lifeguard jeeps. I’m reminded of something one of the older guys at Malibu told me right around the time I hit puberty. “We’re real simple creatures. We want to either fuck or fight.”

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D. DAVID MORIN, OP PRO ANNOUNCER “We used to do the Op Pro in mid-August but then they wanted to get the holiday crowd, which was a bad idea. Once we shifted it to Labor Day then you had all these yahoos coming from the Inland Empire and coming down to Huntington Beach; it was this big cross-section of people, but kind of beach dregs, sort of lowest common denominator.

I don’t know where they were getting all their beer but I guess someone was selling beer. The riots were on the last day of the contest. We could feel this thing going on behind us. We were about fifty meters from the water. HB is a really wide beach.

It was a hot day. We had the Miss Op contest—that got the guys going, and then a lot of beer. And then some chicks started flashing their tits at guys up toward the pier, and now everybody’s really going crazy, like a Raiders game or something. So things just really started boiling.

We were trying to do the finals, then the cops showed up and these guys were flipping cop cars and there’s helicopters overhead. So we’ve got about 50-60,000 people where we are, there’s bleachers on the beach and bleachers on the pier, so we’ve got our own little mini stadium on the waterfront, and we have a hardcore crowd. So I think the only clever thing we did was it was 20-minute heats, best two out of three, Glen Winton and Occy going neck to neck in the water, and Ian [Cairns, contest director] and I were sort of keeping track of what was going on, and things were getting really crazy, and we didn’t want our guys, our surf guys, to leave the event and get mugged or hurt, so Occy won the first two heats, so we had to lie and say that ‘Oh, we have a third heat’ because we didn’t want our people leaving.

It was our call up on the platform to say, ‘Look, we can’t end this right now, so if we can buy another 20 minutes.’ So we just lied and sent Occy and Glen out for a third and final heat, and we just took our time tabulating the scores, and bringing the competitors up to the stage, and by that time enough cops had come and subdued it, but it

was out of control, it was definitely a dangerous situation right in the middle of the finals, so the only sane thing we could do was to extend the meet, lie about the last heat, and try to let everybody get out of there safely. And in just that one half-hour difference, law and order was restored.

Did it give surfing a black eye? I don’t know.

Surfing was always a counterculture, subculture. It was just kind of part of the circus. When you pick Huntington Beach as a venue, anything is possible.

Maybe it was a plus. Maybe it added some excitement. Maybe it got [surfing] more publicity.”

STEVEN BRISICK, SPECTATOR “I was at the top of the bleachers, and probably sixty to seventy yards down from the pier. And it was between the semi-finals and the finals when the competitors are hydrating and getting ready for the final. And there was a girl down below, on the backside of the bleachers, and she was communicating with a guy at the top of the bleachers, near where I was. He either dropped a sandal or a cup, or she may have flashed him first, but she definitely flashed her tits at the guy, and he dropped either a sandal or a cup, and she picked it back up and threw it at him, and by then there were about three or four guys up top hooting and screaming. Obviously there was alcohol. I think they had those plastic red cups.

These guys were tan, wearing trunks, they didn’t look like they surf all that much—these were the sort of guys who go to parties without a T-shirt. They were just there for the party. They weren’t paying attention to the surfing.

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So then it just spiraled from there. Maybe someone innocent down below got hit by a cup or beer or whatever it was, and sand was getting kicked up. And as I remember one cop pulled up, and then all of a sudden the crowd is getting into it with the cop. There was yelling and screaming.

It was like the Huntington Beach punk rock moment for the tattooed locals, and the crowd was already kind of stirred, so it was like, Let’s get at the cops now! People were just jumping on the bandwagon. Everything happened on the backside of the bleachers. I remember at one point I was at the top going, Is the entertainment better out in the water or behind the bleachers here?

‘Cause it’s getting out of control! I walked down to the beach, under the pier, and up to PCH and by this time it was fully going. There were cops in riot gear with shields over their faces, battalions drawn. The crowd kept moving north. And I remember thinking, These guys are going to get their moment. They’re going to be able to throw a bottle at the cop car and get away with it.”

MATT WARSHAW, SURF JOURNALIST “It’s very surprising to me that it didn’t happen from the very, very first Op Pro. I remember being down there in ‘81 or ‘82, whenever that first one was, and there were these crazy sand fights that would erupt on Saturday afternoon when it got hot and there was just this crazy energy. The surfing was okay, but it was never going to command the attention of however many tens of thousands of inlanders that were down there. I remember walking down the beach to my heat in that first Op Pro which was more or less my last contest as a pro, and walking past this crazy sand fight, and the next year there was the same thing, and that was the exact same energy that finally bubbled over into the riot, and it happened again just a couple years ago. The whole idea of having a contest on a summer weekend at Huntington Beach—you’re just rolling the dice.

I was in the bleachers so I had this sort of bird’s eye view of the riot when it broke out. I was amazed by it, but in no way was it surprising to me. It was just taking something that in earlier years had been ramped up to seven or eight and

NICK WAPLINGTON

now just turning it up to ten and it was off and running. It was weird how fast it happened and how violent it got. It was one thing to see all these people throwing sand and bottles and ‘Fuck the Police’ and this kind of stuff. I didn’t feel endangered because you could just walk down to the ocean, and there were no guns, because this wasn’t a time when they were just going to go shoot people, but it just felt like this insane bubbling over of teenage idiotic energy. It felt surreal, especially with burning things and turning cars over. I remember thinking, If this gets any weirder I’ll just walk off these bleachers and go into the ocean and wade down to Lake Street or wherever.

At that time I was already down on the ASP (Association of Surfing Professionals). The 25-event tour was stupid. Having a contest at Huntington seemed stupid because Trestles was always better. Ian Cairns was having contests in wave pools. They’d taken the end of the season and put it in Australia instead of Hawaii, which was absurd. The riot just kind of seemed to almost justify this ‘Let’s change pro surfing’ trip that I’d gone on, and many of my colleagues at Surfer magazine as well. In a weird, awful way it was like, See, if you guys are going to put together a tour and if this is the crowd you’re staging it for, well this is what’s going to happen. We weren’t necessarily thinking Dream Tour [introduced in the ‘90s, a tour comprised of the world’s best waves] but we were thinking the great events are at Pipeline and Trestles. There were good events to be had and we wanted to see more of the good ones and less of the stupid ones.

So there was a sense of I told you so. I should add that that was right after the ASP was picked on for South Africa, and Surfer magazine at that time was way up on its high horse, with good reason, over the fact that they were having contests in Sun City basically and that was just a dumb idea at that time, and Ian was staunchly defending that we don’t do politics even though the entire rest of the sporting world had turned their back on South Africa, and that actually did make a difference with ending apartheid. So you didn’t want to see all the shit that burned up and all that, but nobody got killed and it seemed like a finger in the eye of the ASP, and I wasn’t entirely bummed to see it happen. I think we hoped that this might steer them away from what we were already calling ‘The

Parking Lot Contest.’ It didn’t happen right away but maybe it was in the back of Rabbit’s mind when they got the Dream Tour going.”

NICK WAPLINGTON, PHOTOGRAPHER “I remember getting up and driving down there and there was traffic chaos because of the plane crash— an Air Mexico plane came down in Encinitas and everyone on board died, and it took out about five or six houses, and everyone in the houses were killed. So all the cops were there. That’s one of the reasons why I think there were so many problems was because the police department’s resources were stretched. It was Labor Day so I imagine some of the cops would have had the day off, and with the plane crash, and with 100,000 people on the beach — it’s just the kind of situation that wouldn’t happen now.

I was not the biggest surfing fan, and I was really going to watch the Alba Brothers on the ramp that they had on the beach. I remember watching the skating, which was on the north side of the pier, and then seeing the smoke, and then running to see what it was, and when I got to the lifeguard station kind of all hell was breaking loose.

‘cause remember back then you could get away with drinking a beer as long as it was covered? And I was told that the cops were arresting people for drinking beer out of those Styrofoam holders. I just remember everyone chanting at the cops and there being this anger. I think that once it blew up people were really into it.

When I look at my photos, something that was not really apparent then but is now is just how racially homogenous it was. Almost everyone is white.

There’s a couple of Mexican-looking dudes, but this is 1986. And then you realize that the kind of mass immigration from Central America really kind of started in the late eighties, early nineties with the wars there. At that time the first generation of immigrants weren’t really into going to the beach.

So it was a really white, Caucasian crowd, which is interesting.

It all happened really quickly, and I had this one roll of film, and I was being very careful, thinking about trying to capture the beginning, middle, end.

I was in a kind of work zone. I’ll also never forget the intense heat from the burning cars. I wanted to get closer to cars but I couldn’t because the heat was just incredible.”

JOHN LYMAN, PHOTOGRAPHER

There were these waves of people pushing forward and pushing back and people running into the lifeguard station and taking things and burning things and there just didn’t seem to be any cops anywhere... until suddenly the National Guard arrived and they started to clear the beach. All the stuff that I’ve read subsequently about under the bleachers, about girls bikinis being ripped off, I didn’t see any of that. But when I was talking to people there, at the time, people were saying that the cops were trying to stop people drinking beer on the beach even if they were concealed in those Styrofoam holders, RVCA .COM / 123

“I had spent most of the day shooting photos of the Op Pro surfing contest for one of the surfing magazines. I took a break and went home, just a couple blocks from the pier. I was having a tuna sandwich when a friend came in saying there was a riot going down at the pier. We listened to my Radio Shack police scanner and sure enough the police are freaking over the radio.I grab my camera and the radio and run down to the pier. I arrive in front of lifeguard headquarters just as the crowd is rolling over a cop car. I’m shooting photos of all this going on when emergency flares fall out of the trunk of the cop car.

It took no time at all for the rioters to light the flares and torch a cop car and a lifeguard jeep...

So there I am sandwiched between the lifeguard building and the burning cars with the rioting crowd behind. The crowd saw me taking photos and decided they all wanted to be in the photos and surged toward me in an effort to get in the photos. It got a little scary for me with the crowd rushing me like that so I ducked into the crowd, worked my way through, across the service road and onto the beach for a different angle of the crowd.At that moment I heard on my police radio that they were charging the crowd. The police came running through the crowd and onto the beach where I was standing. A cop came running up to me as I’m showing him my press badge but he didn’t care about that at all and threw me to

the sand. My camera went sprawling in the sand and the cop is yelling at me that I should have left when they said to disperse. He had his knee in my back with my hands behind me getting ready to cuff me telling me I was under arrest when all of a sudden the policeman and I are being showered by broken glass. This guy on the beach had thrown a bottle and it hit the cop on his riot helmet and shattered all over us. He looked up, as did I, to see the guy who threw the bottle start to run away.

The cop jumps up off of me and starts to run after the bottle-throwing rioter. I jump up, grab my camera, and run in the other direction.I ended up on Main Street shooting photos of the crowd as the police pushed the rioters away from the beach.

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The photos I shot of the riot appeared in several newspapers and magazines, but I was surprised when the Huntington Beach police came to my house wanting the photos I shot to help them ID the rioters who torched the car. The cops saw me shooting photos on a video they obtained. They used the photos and they helped to convict several rioters.”

MEL YORK, SPECTATOR “The riots started because a bikini contestant named Robin was attacked by the pier at the bottom of the steps not too far from where she left the bleachers. Bleach-blonde hair with a

JOHN LYMAN

slight crop on top (wearing a suede-like bikini), I remember her like it was yesterday. She drove the crowd insane with natural big breasts and she was wearing an animal print bikini—leopard if my memory serves me right. Just after firing up the crowd she exited the bikini contestant area en route to the restrooms located by the pier. She had an escort, be it a friend or boyfriend, a heavy metal-style guy who had long, black wavy hair and green eyes. He could easily have been mistaken for a girl. Just after reaching the bottom of the stairs on the south side of the pier, near the ladies restroom that used to be there, she was attacked by a guy who grabbed at her bikini top trying to rip it off of her. She punched him in the nose and

blood shot all over the place. People started yelling and screaming everywhere. More guys grabbed at her bikini and her friend who had long hair took a few swings and escaped unharmed just as a motorcycle cop drove his bike down the stairs to assist and rescue Robin (the crowd that attacked had a few metal heads mixed in it).A motorcycle officer drove down the steps to assist and just as he did she was able to escape while holding her bikini half on/half off. I have photos of her. She ran into the restrooms directly to her left and the crowd who had just ripped her bikini nearly off her body attacked the officer. Prior to coming down the steps he had apparently called for back up and when they arrived they were also attacked RVCA .COM / 125

by the crowd, hence the ripple effect it had on the entire beach and pier areas. That is how the riots got started. I was there on the pier and saw the entire thing. The circle everyone is referring to was right near the bleachers. Yes, it was just down the steps where the old restrooms used to be located, which is now the bicycle parking area. Yes, “the circle” grew, and fast. The riots branched out and sparked in a few other areas as well and onto PCH. We noticed this as we quickly got out of there. I later heard that she had actually won the Op Pro bikini contest but was disqualified for not being old enough to run for Miss Op. In the contest that year the girls had to be eighteen and she was only something like sixteen or seventeen.”

MIKE BALZER

RICK DEVOE, SPECTATOR “When I was sixteen, Tom Curren was my favorite surfer in the world-my full-on idol. I went down to the Op Pro early on the morning of the final day, August 31, 1986. I was hoping for an autograph, or at least a high five from Tom. At the time, Tom Curren was the biggest star in surfing, so getting anywhere close to him was nearly impossible. I remember watching Tom surf his heats, and I was so stoked to see him surfing right in front of us.

As the day went on, Tom lost out of the event, and the crowd was going a little bit nuts. You could tell there was some weird feeling in the air, like everyone was too drunk or just about to start going wild at any time. During the final (Glen Winton versus Occy), my friend and I were walking around behind the scaffolding when we heard a bunch of yelling and then fighting. It was at that moment the Huntington Beach riot started-right in front to us.

We were young, so we were shitting our pants watching all these drunken dudes throwing rocks and running around like animals. We kind of backed up toward the scaffolding, hoping we wouldn’t get dragged into what looked like a huge mosh pit on the beach. Everyone on the beach was going crazy. We were in shock and didn’t know what to do. About twenty yards away from us a cop car got flipped over and then, Bam! the thing caught on fire. We looked for somewhere to run.

We turned around to see the competitors’ area with no security in sight. My friend and I kind of looked at each other, and I don’t know if it was the riot or what, but we got caught up in the whole vibe and just ran into this little area where all the pros were hanging out. At this point it was totally empty and all the security guards were nowhere to be seen. My friend yelled at me, ‘Dude, grab something.’ I looked for something to pillage. Remember, I’m sixteen and had never seen anything like this. I looked around and saw a wet, red contest jersey hanging on a railing about three stories up from the sand where I was standing. The competitors had a little area up on top of the scaffolding

where they could sit and watch the contest. It was like I was possessed, and when you’re a kid, all you can think of is getting souvenirs. I started climbing up the inside of the scaffolding toward the jersey. I was about two stories up when I looked down and realized how high the jersey actually was. I kept climbing and finally reached it. It was still dripping wet. I looked over the railing and saw a bunch of pros’ boards sitting there. Tom Curren’s was right in front of me. I sat there and stared at the board— Tom Curren’s board was two feet away from me!

Just as I was falling in love with the board, I heard a gruff yell from the other side of the scaffold.

‘Hey!’ A huge security guard spotted me holding the jersey. He started running over to where I was, so I frantically climbed down. Halfway down I noticed my friend getting chased under me. I panicked and let go. I fell about a story-and-a-half to the sand and ate it when I hit. I was right in front of my friend, so we ran out from under the scaffolding together.

When we ran out, we were smack dab in the middle of the riot again. By this time the cops were charging after everybody swinging their batons. All hell had broken loose. We started running toward an area by the pier that looked safe. As we started running I heard footprints literally pounding behind me in the sand. Before I could turn around, I heard a loud thump and my friend’s voice yelping.

I spun around to see my friend on the ground. A cop had just nailed him on the leg with his baton.

The cop was standing over him in a rage. I stood there for a second and made eye contact with my friend. ‘Run, Rick!’ he shouted.

Then, as the cop looked up and yelled at me, ‘Hey, stop!’ I just turned around, put my head down, and started running like I’ve never run. I ran up to the street and kept running ’til I was about five blocks inland from the beach. I hadn’t realized that I was still holding the dripping wet jersey.

When I looked down and saw the jersey, I immediately forgot about the whole episode and laughed because I had the best souvenir ever!

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rented at San Onofre. He had a big bruise on his leg, but he was able to escape the cop by crawling under the pier and up the beach. The next day we watched the riot on the news. They showed the burning cars and the guys throwing bottles and all that, but they also showed highlights of the heats earlier in the day, before the riot started. Tom Curren was surfing against Michael Ho, I think.

He was wearing a red jersey—it had to be the very same jersey I climbed up the scaffolding and snagged. I was dying. My friend was pissed that he didn’t grab it first.

Now, two decades later, I still have the jersey—it’s framed and hung up in my hallway. Every time I look at it I trip out and laugh at the story of me and my friend in the middle of the Huntington Beach riot.”

BLINDERS, SPECTATOR

(COURTESY OF BLINDERSPOKER.BLOGSPOT.COM)

“The year was 1986. The scene was the annual summertime Op Pro surfing contest in Huntington Beach, California. When all was said and done, multiple vehicles would be burned to the ground, over a dozen arrests would be made, and a massive response was required by every police agency in a fifty-mile radius to stem the rioting.

I have not told my story publicly before. You see, me and a group of my friends were ultimately responsible for instigating this riot, and had a very unique vantage point of its progression. I will actually describe in scientific terms riot formation and progression before this is over. Now don’t get me wrong here. We had no intentions of starting a riot, and I do not feel any criminal responsibility for the events that took place. Let’s just say that had I not been there on that day with a group of my friends the HB Riot would never have happened. It required a spark. A seed. We unwittingly provided that spark. After that it evolved on its own in front of our eyes.

I had been going to the Op Pro for years. It was a great place to hang out with friends, watch world-class surfing, and, of course, world-class girls. We would typically set up shop at the top of

the grandstand. From there you can get a 360 view of everything going on from the surfing out front, to the skateboarding on the backside, to the bikini contest and MTV broadcasts on the right. The black arrow indicates where we were located on the day of the riots. The first white tent to the right was where they were broadcasting for MTV. Dweezil Zappa was a VJ and we had a blast making fun of him. We would organize chants of ‘Dweezil’s a Dick!’ among the ten to twenty of my friends there at a given time. It was great because we were right over them, and it would disrupt the filming of the show.

The area behind the skateboard ramp indicated by the red arrow is where the riot began. This was directly behind the grandstand where we were located. In 1986, G-strings were not in yet. What did exist was ‘Jane bottoms.’ Remember Jane from Tarzan? She wore a leather semi-tattered skirt. So the farthest you could go then was a G-string, with flaps of leather-looking material flapping down over most of the exposed area. By Sunday, most of us had already hooked up with various hotties attending the Op Pro throughout the week. My friend Jay was no exception and had landed a super hot, Jane bottom-wearing, LA ‘nine,’ who was hanging out with us and her friends on that fateful Sunday in 1986. But hanging out on a grandstand is no way to work on your tan, so she decided to grab some rays with her friends behind the grandstand.

So there we were, watching the semi-finals of the Op Pro, and glancing over the back from time to time to check out the sunbathing beauties. At this point a gust of wind manages to flip one of the flaps over, exposing a full half-cheek.

It seemed like she did not notice! She just continued to lay there, half-cheek exposed to the world. This was creating a bit of an uproar. People walking by would stop and stare. Photographers would stop and take pictures of the halfass. It was great fun, until I guess she noticed the issue with the flap and remedied the situation. This was a huge disappointment to my group of friends, the bystanders, and the photographers. Half-ass was pure gold at the time.

Now to further date this, there was a song that was played in decent rotation on KROQ called ‘One More Shot’ by C-Bank. I came up with the idea of chanting ‘One More Shot’ at the girls to see if they would expose a flap again. So we chanted ‘One More Shot’ a few times over the back of the grandstand, and that is when the donut formed.

The evolution of the HB Riot can be described as the evolution of a donut shape. It has a center location (center of attention), and an interior diameter.

It also has a thickness to it. The riot area is the area between the interior and exterior diameters of the donut shape. The number of rioters is typically the maximum number of people who can fit in this space, crammed as tightly as possible.

A donut about two to three people thick formed around the sunbathing girls as a result of our chanting ‘One More Shot.’ Reports several days later said that someone yelled ‘Take it Off’ but that was not correct. The donut started to thicken. The interior diameter shrunk tightly around the three sunbathing girls. The exterior diameter increased as well as people came over to see what was going on. This donut continued to grow for about one to two minutes before it suddenly and completely collapsed into a full on grope-fest of the girls. Almost immediately an undercover cop broke the donut back open and became the new center of attention for the donut. He did a decent job of spreading the interior of the donut out to a decent size. The crowd did not know what to do so they looked to us at the top of the grandstand. A group of three girls were walking trough the middle, and we all pointed at them.

They noticed this, and luckily scampered out of the middle before they could be properly contained by the interior of the donut. Then, for some reason a group of about four new girls decided that it would be a good idea to sunbathe in the middle of the donut. Again, the donut found a focus, and gained strength and size. It contracted around its new target.

Where I last left off, four random girls decided to sunbathe in the center of the donut for no apparent reason, and the donut found a new focus. The center contracted once again. The thickness grew to close to 500 people trying to understand what all the commotion was about. Again, the center contracted tightly to just wider than the towels the sun bathing girls were on. Then, in just about thirty seconds this time, it completely collapsed again in another grope-fest. A top may have been ripped off this time according to reports issued later. It took a bit longer this time, but once again an undercover cop, this time with the help of a uniformed cop, reopened the donut. They tried to get the center widened up. Then a couple beach cops on ATVs road into the center of the donut.

The donut had a new center of attention. This time it was the HB Police. A couple of beer bottles flew into the center of the donut. One actually hit a cop.

One of the cops then sprinted into the donut, and dragged someone out of it and into the center, and started beating him with a billy club. The beer bottles really started flying into the center at this point. The donut was getting angry.

The donut was focused on the cops. The donut continued to grow. Its center was pretty wide now, but its outside diameter was huge. The donut was more than a thousand strong now.

The cops made a tactical decision at this point. Since this crowd was behind the grandstands, and was being fed by people defecting from watching the surfing contest, they decided to try to separate the two, and starve the donut of its potential for growth. The cops started slowly moving towards the lifeguard headquarters to the southeast. The donut followed them. It was amazing to watch from the top of the grandstand this gigantic donut of people slowly drifting away from the grandstand. When the cops made it across the wide stretch of sand to the lifeguard headquarters, they panicked I guess and went inside and locked the doors behind them. The donut had lost its focus. The donut was mad though. Mad at the HB Police. Some cop cars were parked at the lifeguard HQs and the donut happened to be surrounding them. The crowd moved in once again. The center collapsed around a police car. The crowd rocked the car back and forth eventually managing to flip it over. Someone set it on fire. On to the next car. Rinse, repeat. 300 or so yards behind the grandstands there were cars on fire and an angry, rioting crowd.

I turned to miss Jane bottoms, who had rejoined us at the top of the grandstand, and said, ‘Can you believe that you caused all of this?’

She cried.

Fast-forward about 45 minutes, and the police from every city around were staged there on the beach. It must have been eerie living in Orange County that day and watching cop after cop from random cities speed by towards the beach with their sirens blaring. A line formed of cops stretching from the parking lot to the water just south of the surfing contest. They started inching their way north clearing the beach and the grandstands. When the line reached our grandstand, I decided to leave, rather than wait to be forced off the grandstand by the cops. It was a good decision. I was able to scramble off the beach as the cops pushed north and also started to block the exit to the east. Some of my friends who waited including my brother would not be so lucky. They would need to fight their way off the beach and got clubbed a few times by the cops for good measure. The entire remaining crowd was basically pushed onto Main Street, and anyone loitering got beaten by the cops. My brother was running from the cops at one point and turned to go into one of the surf shops where he knew the employees. They had locked the door, and were not going to let anyone in. He went back to the street, and got beat down by the cops.

Eventually the cops would clear the downtown area of the rioters. Changes would be made to the timing and set-up of the Op Pro to try to prevent a future occurrence—things like removing the skate ramp from behind the grandstands. These changes don’t really exist anymore. This could all happen again.”

KEITH POLETIEK, SPECTATOR “That whole day is still kind of a blur. From inside the house where I was staying with my wife we could hear people shouting, then screaming, then running by in panic. Someone ran up and yelled, ‘It’s all kinds of crazy at the pier! It’s a riot and it’s out of control!’

Though the stories differ from one person to another, the best analogy we gathered was that some girls on the pier decided to show the crowd that their racks were just as hot as the Miss Op chicks, who were getting all the attention, so they flashed everyone. The crowd called for more and the girls responded until the police decided to put a stop to it, and when they did, the crowd decided to put a stop to the police for putting a stop to the show, and boom! It all went crazy!

I watched in horror as people fought police and lifeguards, police cars and ATVs were turned upside down and lit on fire. Bottles flew over the house I was in, breaking on the asphalt and on cars in the parking lot. People pushed one way, then riot police with shields pushed the other way. I’ve only been scared a few times like this in my life. Thank God the crowd didn’t decide to trash our house and our cars.

Some dude walked up to me and said, ‘Do you have a Band-Aid, man? I cut my foot on broken glass.’ His foot had a three-inch slice that almost went to the bone! Dude, you need more than a band-aid! Get to the hospital!

Believe it or not, while all this was going on, there was still a surf contest happening! Here’s a trivia question? Who won? I think it was Occy, but I’m not sure! Not many people cared! Live now, surf later!

Arrests were made. The contest was cancelled for a while. New rules were put into effect. I believe the Miss Op Contest went away, and I was left with an incredible surfing memory that is still talked about today, and still makes me say...dude!”

NICK WAPLINGTON

NICK WAPLINGTON

SONNY MILLER, PHOTOGRAPHER/FILMMAKER

(SONNY PASSED DURING THE CREATION OF THIS ARTICLE, RIP) I remember the Op Pro as a building phenomenon, America had never seen surfing at the level that it had grown to. By ’86 the momentum was huge, there was a skateboard ramp, they were holding it on a big holiday weekend, (...)

the culture of Huntington Beach was just whack, it was bleachers of gridlock, and there was a whole vibe going on behind the bleachers that was just all mad, crazy people.

I was up in the VIP bleachers and I literally captured an incident of these rocker dudes pulling this chick’s top down, and the whole sand-kicking at the cops. It instigated from a bunch of drunk people. And you could see surfing going on looking one way, and on the backside you could see this escalating riot developing. It was like a civil war broke out!

I saw a cop car on fire and so I wanted to shoot photos. I left the VIP area, and the security guy said, ‘You leave the compound and you’re not coming back in.’ I didn’t care. I ran over there.

Shot a bunch of photographs. It turned people into these wolves, thinking they were given a hall pass to do anything they wanted. They were pushing cars over. Standing on the roofs of people’s cars.

All of a sudden I heard ammo going off in the cop car, ‘cause the cop car was on fire. I looked up and saw all the SWAT guys lining up in their shields.

I ran back to the compound, begged the security

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guy to let me back in. He did. I just sat up there and shot everything. There was all this dust kicked up from cops chasing after people, just running across the sand, mayhem. The Poor Man from KROQ was there and he’s like, ‘Hey man, just come over to the Poor Palace and hang out there.’

So once it had calmed down, me and Rabbit [Bartholomew, ’78 world surfing champion] went over to his condo on the north side of the pier, and there was a full KROQ party with babes, and we ended up just staying there for the night.

GLEN WINTON, OP PRO FINALIST “There are tens of thousands of people on the beach, we paddle out for the final, come in, and the place is deserted, a ghost town! And I’m cruising through town by myself with a trophy and a pocket full of cash and people are looking at me saying, ‘What are you doing on the streets, man?’ And I’m going on, ‘I’m all good.’ So yeah, the town was deserted, everyone was off the streets, it was such a change in half an hour!”

NICK WAPLINGTON

JUNGLE JIM, SPECTATOR “Let’s get it straight once and for all. The beach cops started the riot when they moved into the initial fight scene. They sprayed everyone with Mace and hit innocent bystanders with their billy clubs. Everyone got pissed and the anger spread like a wild fire. I was in the middle of the whole thing and saw it unfold. If any of you were right there you would know what I know. After the cops pulled that shit the group around the fight chased them to the wall and then let them retreat back to the station.

The crowd could have killed them on the spot but let them split. The crowd also let them leave the beach—eight or so in two cars—before they took over the station. The cops started the riot. The cops started the riot. The cops started the riot. Get it? They want everyone to think that it was some unruly mob because the cops that were there know what they did.”

IAN CAIRNS, OP PRO CONTEST DIRECTOR “From our perspective as the organizers of the event, we gave them the perfect storm to make it happen, because the Op had grown every year, and in 1986 we teamed up with MTV, with Dweezil Zappa going across America and finishing up at the Op Pro. And I guess the promotion was so big that it attracted a crowd much bigger than a pure surf crowd, it was a crowd with Dweezil Zappa fans, and they came down with total mayhem. So that’s what happened—we over-promoted the event.

To my understanding there were a couple of chicks getting hassled by guys, the chicks took their tops off, which in France or at Bondi Beach in Sydney would have been no big deal, but in Puritan America it was a big deal. And the police came and overreacted and clubbed some guy on the

head, and he’s bleeding and they’re trying to arrest this guy and the crowd’s watching, and the crowd just turned on them, and before you know it there’s a mob of people pushing against the police. And the police pulled back, and at that point the crowd went ballistic. I personally think that if one cop would have fired a shot blast into the air, and then threatened to shoot someone in the crowd, it would have stopped. But they didn’t. They pulled back.

The crowd felt they had carte blanche. And then it just goes ballistic. I mean, how can people pull a door off a car? How do you get some sort of manic sense to do that?

Tearing number plates off cars and throwing them into the lifeguard headquarters and breaking windows!

Before you know it there’s like five cars on fire. I remember being at the top of the scaffolding watching the surf contest in the water and Armageddon behind us. The police helicopter’s down low kicking up sand. I thought I was in Vietnam! The cops called the riot police.

Meanwhile, we’re trying to run the surf contest, there’s this whole crowd watching Glen Winton and Mark Occhilupo. And Occy had won both finals, and there’s

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these guys just going ape shit behind us, and we knew we needed to keep everyone on the beach. So Winton and Occy agreed to say that Winton had won the second one so we could send out a third heat in the best of three. By this time the riot police have turned up and they’re in this one huge line in their riot gear and their helmets and their clubs out, and they start to march down the beach, just beating on people mercilessly all the way across the beach.

And my friend, Bill Richardson, who’s the captain of the lifeguards, he didn’t abandon his post. By this time people have torn the doors off the headquarters, they’ve got five or six police cars on fire, black smoke everywhere, complete and utter mayhem going on. And Bill Richardson just goes, This is bullshit! And he wasn’t going to have his lifeguard headquarters burned down, and he goes downstairs, and he’s got a .45 hand gun, and he just shoots one round out of the hand gun, and the crowd just dispersed like bloody ants! So he singlehandedly held off the crowd from burning down the lifeguard headquarters.

So now the contest is over, and Occy won, and all the surf crowd leaves, and unfortunately they get caught up in all the shit going on. It was just so horrible! I’d parked my car next to the lifeguard headquarters and when I got there it had been walked all over by people, the windscreen’s busted, the roof’s just crushed in, it was just completely ruined. I just said to my wife, ‘This is bullshit! We’re leaving!’ And that was it; a month later we’d left California and went back to Australia.

BY AARON ROSE IMAGES COURTESY GALERIE BERLINISCHE AND PERES PROJECTS, BERLIN PORTRAIT BY JASON SCHMIDT

On a recent trip to Berlin I had the pleasure of encountering,

This Sweetness Outside of Time, a retrospective survey of the work of Dorothy Iannone at the Berlinische Gallery. A fantastic exhibition, it traces her work through various stages of what I consider a most profound journey. Since she started painting in 1959, Iannone has challenged contemporary culture through her singular artistic voice as well as her radical sensibility. She has occupied herself with the attempt to represent what she calls ecstatic love: “the union of gender, feeling and pleasure”, as she herself describes it. Today, her œuvre encompasses paintings, drawings, collages, videos, sculptures, objects and publications. While she is considered a contemporary of early feminist artists such as Judy Chicago and Sylvia Sleigh who sought to counter sexism with a distinctly feminine aesthetic, Iannone has charted a different path. Her work is deeply personal and unmistakably feminine yet seems blissfully unconcerned with dismantling the trappings of patriarchy. Rather, in her world, women and men are both governed by the dictates of erotic passion. I had seen examples of Iannone’s work before, but never in such broad context, and I would most certainly consider this discovery life-changing. While still in Berlin, I immediately got on the phone and attempted to secure an interview with her, however due to her increasing age, she politely declined my request. Of course, this was a major blow. It is not ften that I feel such a need to meet a person directly and pick their brain. However, undeterred, I decided to sit down, do the research myself. I needed to write something about this fascinating artist. Nearing deadline on this issue, I knew her work was the missing piece in this magazine. The words following here contain a somewhat abridged account of the wonderful life and work of Dorothy Iannone. This is only the beginning. I did the best that I could, but I highly suggest you research further.

Dorothy Iannone was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1933. She is the only child of an Italian-immigrant widowed mother, who worked in a chocolate factory when Dorothy was young. In the early 1950s, she attended both Boston University and Brandeis University, choosing to study English Literature. In 1958 she married the Abstract Expressionist painter James Upham and the couple moved to New York City. The following year, when she was 26, after a visit to her husband’s studio, she began to paint alongside her him. She has described her early works as “finger paintings,” and she did not necessarily take the works very seriously, yet something was born in her during that time. Even then, she was no stranger to controversy. In 1961, Iannone was arrested by US Customs for importing the banned novels of Henry Miller, and subsequently won a court case against the authorities.

Her actions led to the government lifting the ban on all his novels in the USA, and overturning the censorship of many other authors. In 1963, Iannone and Upham opened the Stryke Gallery, an exhibition space on 10th Street. At the time, 10th Street was the center for avant garde art galleries in New York City. Together, they ran the gallery when they were not traveling and working on projects in Europe and Asia. It was during one of these travels, in 1967, after a cruise to Reykjavik, Iceland, that she met the German artist Dieter Roth. She claims that Roth was “waiting for them on a pier, holding a fish.” Iannone and Roth quickly became lovers, and after a brief return to New York, she and her husband separated. She quickly moved to Dusseldorf to be with him. They remained companions until 1974, and lifelong friends until his death in 1998. During their time together they

Dorothy Iannone and Dieter Roth, late 1960s Southern Façade, 1962 Collage and oil on canvas, 149x149 cm (opposite) Let the Light from My Lighthouse Shine on You, 1981 Gouache on synthetic board, 142x102 cm

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were immersed in the vibrant Dusseldorf Fluxus scene, although she would later inscribe on a piece: ‘I am she who is not Fluxus.’ Iannone often painted Roth, her self-declared muse, depicting both him and herself as active lovers, comfortable with their desires and pleasures. She removed self-consciousness from these works, and in doing this, dispelled the taboo that so often surrounds sexuality. The works becoming elevated to an act of both bodily and spiritual union. Between 1968-1969 Dorothy Iannone made a series of 27 drawings depicting her life with Dieter Roth while living in Germany, France and Iceland. Dorothy described this period as “always immersed in the beloved.”

She called this series of drawings Ta(Rot). In them, Dieter Roth was also known as Dieter Rot. The drawings are beautiful, romantic, and personal.

Today, Dorothy Iannone’s œuvre, which now spans more than fifty years, includes paintings, drawings, comics, sculpture, autobiographical texts and films. Since the 1960s she has been seen as a pioneering spirit against censorship, for free love and autonomous female sexuality. The paintings, visual narratives, texts and books by this pioneer of women’s sexual and intellectual emancipation draw uncompromisingly on autobiographical themes. They are for the most part delightfully direct celebrations of women’s sexual power. As the result of that, Iannone’s art has been frequently censored because of allegedly pornographic content. Yet her depictions of the sexual union between man and woman have an unmistakably mystical dimension rooted in the spiritual and physical balance of opposites. This anchors her visual universe within cultural history and lends a modern, personal interpretation to Eastern religions, including Tibetan Buddhism, Indian Tantrism and Christian ecstatic traditions like those of the seventeenthcentury Baroque.

(clockwise from top) I Love To Beat You, 1969-1970 Acrylic on linen mounted on canvas 190x150 cm Look At Me, 1970-1971 Acrylic on linen mounted on canvas 190x150 cm Think You There Was…, 1972 Acrylic on linen mounted on canvas 199x118 cm (opposite) I Begin To Feel Free, 1970 Collage, acrylic on canvas 190x150 cm

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(from top) Flora and Fauna, 1973 Color silkscreen on paper, 59.5x72.5 cm

(opposite, clockwise from top left) Ta(Rot), 1968-1969.

A series of 27 drawings depicting Iannone’s life with Dieter Roth.

Dorothy Iannone in 1972 with examples of the cutout People from 1966

A Fluxus Essay and An Audacious Announcement, 1979 Acrylic painted crate, with cassette recorder and cassette

Dorothy Iannone in 1966

I Was Thinking Of You, 1975 Photo engraving on paper, 76 x 44 cm

She has been described as a priestess, matriarch, and sex goddess.

As a self-taught painter, her works are as disconcerting for their shrill blend of the both the naive and the hippyish. She creates scenarios in symbolic settings, in which she also consistently celebrates a playful handling of her subject matter. One can also certainly see influences of Gustav Klimt, tantric art, comic books and pop, all packaged with a certain revere for folk art. However all of her work defies falling into any of these direct trappings. The first thing you notice when viewing her works is that there are words everywhere. In a drawing about her sexual rites of passage, she writes: “Domesticity is dull and deadly, the thing to realize is that everyone knows this.” She goes on: “Try living mostly alone. Maybe you will learn to be more connected to people.”

Often, to really appreciate her work, you have to get up close, to squint and peer, and read more than you look. There’s a nice plainness to the calligraphy and the way everything is drawn. In Iannone’s idiosyncratic visual language, breasts are usually represented as circles within circles, genitalia often appear atop people’s clothing and a woman’s swollen labia can be as large and round as testicles. The depictions of sex organs in Iannone’s works come in all shapes and sizes, yet somehow, all this sex neither arouses nor titillates. It is repetitive, I suppose in the way most sex is. I don’t think she intends her work to turn us on.

Unlike other artists whose works have fallen into the “feminist” realm, Iannone’s work celebrates matriarchy and men as well as solitude and togetherness. She believes art and living should be considered exercises of freedom. In a turn that’s quite difficult for any visual artist to pull off, and she depicts herself in her work as both powerful and submissive, the goddess and the whore. Her art is more childlike and innocent than forceful or dogmatic.

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In her 1972 work, “Think You There Was…,” a woman bends over backward as a man penetrates her. The woman’s bright red nipples, which jut upward, are the same shape as the man’s penis and almost as long. As the two bodies fuse in an indeterminate space, the man appears to be behind the woman, but his genitals float flatly on top of the painting. It’s hard to say who is penetrating whom.

Additionally, in an early series of small wooden cutouts from 1966, which she simply titled “People,” Iannone featured a cast of famous names and mythological beings including among them Charlie Chaplin and JFK, Henry VIII and Jackie O Kennedy. In the works, genitals poke through their clothes and the men look like they’re wearing strap-ons. The figures, rendered crudely with felt tip pens on cut out cardboard, were cheeky, funny, comical and thereby critical of the subjects they portrayed. In 1968, Iannone was invited to exhibit alongside Deiter Roth in an exhibition called “Friends” at the Kunsthalle Bern. Harry Szeemann, the curator of the exhibition, along with some of the other artists in the exhibition found the clearly identifiable images in Iannone’s paintings a bit too drastic. In response to this, before the opening, the artsist covered the genitals with brown tape. This is quite amazing considering this was the age of the sexual revolution. After some argument though, the artists realized that they were foolish and decided to remove the tape, but the museum held firm. They requested that the offending paintings be removed from the exhibition. This led both Iannone and Roth to remove all of their works from the exhibition, creating a controversy throughout the art world at the time, and eventually causing Szeemann his job. While some could consider her works crude, even pornographic, she is simply portraying the basic facts of life. A body reduced to sexuality, whose intimate parts and actions have been made public. A portrayal of a simple, naked, sexual being, doing the things that take place in private, away from the public eye, the stuff of her bare life. Sex. In Iannone’s works, erect penises wave, buttocks burst from the surface and breasts bulge, vaginas are proffered and everyone’s at it. They reflect the life and loves of the artist in all its glory. If these works were being created by a young artist today, you might call them post-feminist. But she made them in the late 1960s and early ’70s, when the first wave of feminism was cresting. Interestingly, Iannone maintained a respectful distance from emergent Feminist theory and its protagonists. In a fascinating way, they combine apparent submission on the part of the woman and obvious selfobjectification on her part, but with a clear sense that this artist is firmly in control of her story. In fact, she painted herself having intercourse decades before Jeff Koons documented his sex life with his porn-star wife, La Cicciolina, and in 1967, Dorothy Iannone made an artist’s book naming all the men she’d ever slept with, decades before artists like Tracy Emin made similar works, to similar controversy. The more things change, the more they stay

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the same. Iannone continued to create works with even more graphic subject matter well into the 1970s. In a work titled, “Let me Squeeze Your Fat Cunt” from 1971, the sexual attributes of her subjects are reversed. The female character in the painting says, “Let me touch your fat cunt” as she touches the crotch of the male character. Pushing it even further, it seems as though the female character, not the man, has the big heavy balls in the picture.

In her well-known multi-media installation, “I Was Thinking of You,” a video monitor is contained in a painted box.

Inside, we watch Iannone’s face in close up as she giddily masturbates. When it was exhibited in the 2006 Whitney Biennial, it was considered one of the most transgressive

works in the show. Not bad for a woman in her 70s at the time.

The extravagantly decorative video-sculpture was originally made in 1975 and updated in 2006. On its exterior, the handpainted wooden box depicts a man and woman in flagrante sexual positions. A cutout where the woman’s face should be holds a video monitor displaying a loop of Ms. Iannone’s face, where she proceeds to pleasure herself. On the sides of the box, a cryptic text urges men to surrender. While it is obvious that she is masturbating, there is something subtle about the work. It does not feel pornographic. Iannone has said that in this work she tried to capture the “soul passing over the face,” and as her eyes flash at the climactic moment you can almost see it happen. Another video work, Follow Me (1977), takes the form of a three-panel black and white work with a video

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monitor built into it. The video shows the artist’s face as she sings one of her texts, which is also drawn out on the panels. The front is ornamented with her self-portrait as a naked, opulent goddess beside her lover. In another from 1980, titled, The Heroic Performance of Pastor Erik Bock, the artist fixed her camera on her then lover, a sexy preacher man, who awkwardly delivers an hour-long sermon on Christian love and community.

The painting on the box looks like a free-love nudist colony.

Now living in Berlin, the 80-year-old American artist’s work is still as raunchy as ever it was. She is still a poster woman for the depths and possibilities of erotic art. By all accounts something of a bohemian “grande dame,” Iannone has a colorful and varied biography peppered with intense friendships with male artists and writers, all of which are integral to an appreciation of her art, particularly because her personal mythology, experiences, feelings and relationships are often the subjects of her work. One can only applaud. But we should celebrate these works for more than just an artist’s stamina. There are lots of other ways one wants to celebrate a woman like this. Most importantly, she has been fearless in her pursuit of personal freedom. She has devoted her life to unconditional love. Even though she is perhaps most well known for her works depicting her relationship with Dieter Roth, in the context of her œuvre, this becomes only an episode.

Even though she sacrificed her marriage for him, they did not hesitate for a moment to break up and let go of one another for each to follow their own creative path. For both, their life design, which was their art practice, always came first.

For more than half a century, Dorothy Iannone’s work has illuminated a journey of ever-increasing sexual, political and spiritual awareness and a life perpetually in search of union with the beloved, the viewer, her listeners and the world.

But the real spirit at work is Iannone’s infectious blend of playful seduction, iconoclasm and a particular brand of sexual liberation. Something that, even though we’re now decades later, in this writer’s opinion, is still very much needed. One could say that the intention in most of her works, and she’s maybe even speaking for all women, is to liberate men and lead them back to a somehow lost version of love. She aims to free them, through her works, from their sad, earthly existence. These words taken from her work “Follow Me” should be read and considered closely, “Follow me, it’s not too late to remember who I am.”

(from top) People, 1966-1967 Felt pen on paper on wood 21 objects, 36x21x1.2 cm each The Next Great Moment in History Is Ours, 1970 Silkscreen print on paper 73x102 cm Lions for Dieter Rot the Present Lion Master, 1971 Etching on paper, 86x95 cm (opposite) Let Me Squeeze Your Fat Cunt, 1970-1971 Collage, acrylic on canvas, 190x150 cm

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BACK MATTER CONTRIBUTOR BIOS Alissa Walker writes and speaks about design, architecture, cities, transportation and walking for many publications and events. She is the urbanism editor At Gizmodo and her work regularly appears in Los Angeles Magazine, the LA Weekly, Dwell, Fast Company, GOOD, T Magazine, and the Los Angeles Times, as well as on the KCRW public radio show DnA: Design and Architecture. In 2010 she was named a USC Annenberg/Getty Arts Journalism Fellow for her writing on design and urbanism. She interviewed Barbara Stauffacher-Solomon for this issue.

Jamie Brisick has written two books: We Approach Our Martinis With Such High Expectations (Consafos Press, 2002) and Have Board, Will Travel: The Definitive History of Surf, Skate, and Snow (HarperCollins, 2004). His stories have appeared in The New York Times, The Guardian, Details, and The Surfer’s Journal. In 2008 he was awarded a Fulbright Scholarship. He lives between Los Angeles and New York City. Foe this issue, Jamie wrote the article on the 1986 Op Pro Riots.

Damon Way has a pop culture resume that is hard to believe. In 1994 he founded DC Shoes with Ken Block, eventually building it to become one of the most successful action sports companies in the world.

Apart from his business ventures, Damon is an avid fan of underground music and art. He currently resides in San Francisco and serves as a partner and brand advisor to Incase. Damon has recently launched TVNNEL, an online music sharing platform. He wrote the feature on Dark Entries for this issue.

Patrick O’Dell is a Los Angeles based photographer and filmmaker. Professionally, Patrick has traveled the world as a senior staff photographer for Thrasher and photo editor for Vice Magazine. He is also the creator and host of Epicly Laterd, a web series on vice.com. Odell’s candid intimacy with his subject matter combined with his poetic eye for finding beauty in even the grimiest of scenes gives his work a natural style that is truly his own. He photographed Clara Polito for this issue.

Cali Thornhill-Dewitt is a Los Angeles based artist, photographer and music video director. He is the founder of the seminal book publishing company Witchhat and record label Teenage Teardrops. He has also created music videos for Dunes, Hunx & His Punx, and Antwon, As a visual artist he has exhibited his unique and controversial works in Los Angeles, New York and Tokyo. His artwork is featured on our back cover.

Nora Atapol is a short story author, essayist and award-winning poet. She has work appearing or forthcoming in over a dozen venues, including Slapshot Mag, The Spirit of Regret, and the Fantasy journal Black Horizons. When she’s not frightening strangers with her writing, she’s most likely frightening her husband Kevin and their two mischievous cats: Zippers and Snaps. Nora interviewed the founders of VDROME for this issue.

ANPQuarterly Volume 2/Number 8 Publisher PM Tenore Editor-in-Chief Aaron Rose Art Director Casey Holland Contributing Writers Alissa Walker Damon Way Jamie Brisick Christopher Garrett Clark Rayburn Alexis Georgopolis Sean Kennerly Michela Bruzzo Alan Smithee Nora Atapol Kenneth Barbee Donald Bliss

Contributing Photographers Nick Waplington, Patrick Odell, Jason Schmidt, Ed Templeton, Cali Thornhill-Dewitt, Damon Way, Austin Rhodes, Gesi Schilling, Fiona Clark, John Lyman, Mike Balzer, Peter J. Brant, Wyatt Troll, Jeff Devine Special thank you to: saac Soloway-Strozier, Caroline Urbancic, Molly Small, Duffy Culligan, Meghan Edwards, Nick Haymes, Brian Lee Hughes, Omid Fatemi, Nicola Friedrich, Lucy Rose, Nick Haymes at Little Big Man, Michelle Pobar and Elizabeth James at Cherry and Martin, Los Angeles, Darryl Natale, Shaun Motsi and Javier Peres at Peres Projects, Berlin.

ANPQuarterly is published by RVCA Corp © 2015 RVCA (All rights reserved). Printed May, 2015 on Crumple Street in Gardena, California. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited by law. Opinions expressed in articles are those of the authors. All rights reserved on entire contents unless otherwise noted. Artists, photographers and writers retain copyright to their work. Every effort has been made to reach copyright holders or their representatives. We will be pleased to correct any mistakes or omissions in our next issue.

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(front cover) Gibby Haynes, 2014 Photograph by Austin Rhodes (back cover) Cali Thronhill-Dewitt, Untitled, 2014 Mixed media