"Visions, dreams & memories: Objects of Dead Desire"

"The flow of things..."

"Oculus"

"Danse"

"Playtime"

"Leafdrain"

"Anomy"

"Retain"

"Open halfheart"

"Isla de Recuerdos"

"Self as tree"

"Orilla"

"Floorcap"

"My mother's wheelchair"

"Tres Caballos"

"The mummy's dream"

"Shark"

"Snowalk"

"A drift"

"Upsidedown clown"

***All images © KGB/SlipperySoul (archival prints available for sale)

On the wall across from the foot of the bed were many photos of people (ie, Slippery-moi) being intimate, nude and otherwise sharing personal moments. Above the bed to the left was a sprawling oversize puzzle of a woman sucking cock and getting nookie-nuzzles, etc. In the near corner stood a makeshift altar of significant but not entirely understood significance. All around the room on the (perfectly) ugly beige carpet were strewn used rubbers, sex toys, empty beer cans---the usual one-night party detritus. Lastly, projected on a screen placed over the room windows, was a looping video of a woman (an ex-girlfriend) seen replaying in her recollections poignant scenes of love, frolic, play and isolation. "Is That All There Is?" sings a breathy Peggy Lee in the soundtrack refrain.

These then were some of the artifacts, sights, sounds, experiences reconstructed from memory and imagination of a look back at my loves, my lusts, my losses, and my certain isolation. A one-night performance/installation in a dingy room 828, shared with hundreds of strangers who also must have wondered within, "Is That All There Is?" But what a Party!!!

***Installation/Performance/Photos/Video/Poems by Keith Broadhurst, aka SlipperySoul (thank you SO much Sandra for the impromptu shower scene!) Thank you A to Z, Liag!

***Also, if ANYONE has pics/video of the bathroom/shower performance (or any bedroom pics too), I'd LOVE to obtain copies from you---the documentation would be truly invaluable to me!

***mock-up for Peepshow proposal with notations

***outta control porn puzzle and altar

***The Peggy Lee YouTube video is posted only for reference & enjoyment-- the original installation video is not shown in this blog.

Seems like so long ago already...summer strolls by the shore; combing, finding, collecting, wondering, seeing, dreaming...all now a distant fantasea in my mind.

All Photos © KGB/SlipprySoul 2005

(Archival color prints available for purchase)

Big fat fluffy flakes. A steady stream all afternoon, into the the evening and beyond. Halloween still three weeks away; Christmas way outta sight and mind. The trees full and summer-green, caught the wet clingy white stuff like a frail web under an endless stream of clumsy 300lb trapeze artists. Something would have to give. While beautiful, it became increasingly apparent that it was a quite unnatural--and wicked-- combination of late summer and uninvited mid-winter. The un-naturalness was hightened by sporadic flashes of lightning and crackles of thunder, muffled only slightly by the soft white blanket below. Nature was clearly out of sync with itself. The incessant, unprecedented "Lake effect" snow covered and weighted all the earth under its' path. As early as mid-afternoon the land was becoming strewn with splintered branches under drooping trees. Nature's perverted way of pruning the weak, I thought to myself. But the perversion grew to make even less sense as the snow continued and healthy, often huge vibrant trunks and branches simply couldn't hold the mounting heavy frozen white water. Cracking, ripping wood echoed as soft thuds slamming into the growing white graveyard . By 2 am the eery stillness of the frozen graveyard made for a surreal backdrop to the slow-motion destruction going on all around, far as you could hear and see. If trees could scream, this was their night. "Arborgeddon" had arrived.

A street in the neghborhood

The homestead

The homestead front yard under the "dancing" tree

Reversal of Nature's norm

When the going get’s really tough, I do what I’ve always done when things get very tangled, very intense, very suddenly—I put pen to paper (“finger to keyboard”), and write. Though images are my main currency of expression, they are insufficient and lack the vocabulary to help me untangle my thoughts & emotions; images are futile in such cases. Writing, on the other hand, is the surest, most immediate route I can take to my head and more “deadly” (for me), my heart. It is where I’ve always taken refuge & found solace when the “levee” is near the breaking point. In this case, as it turns out, there was in fact a “deluge”….

“Killing Me Softly”

I recently became aware of an artist (via M-Space) who very much intrigued me by virtue of some rather idiosyncratic shared tastes in favorite artists, respective collections of “oddities”, and even, I soon realized, ways of thinking. I was naturally intrigued and very attracted by this, as it’s not something an “odd animal” like me sees every day. I was asumming (hoping?) more/less the same would be the case from her standpoint. So, I sent an email(s), noting our peculiar similar interests, and suggested it might be cool to collaborate on a project or two. Naturally, I was delighted (relieved?) when she acknowldeged a similar intrigue & interest from her side. I showed up at her studio with some of my work in hand and a few project ideas as starting points. As we viewed each others work, we talked about the influences on our respective work, how we worked, shared experiences in school, and kicked around some ideas for collaboration. I became inceasingly stimulated by her words and our obvious shared aesthetic affinities. I was comforted by her demeanor, her openness, her willingness to share. I also immediately felt very comfortable in her “space” (studio) —all the reassuring oddities she had told me about were there (and then some!), the laidback casualness and arrangement of her “things” large and small, even her sense of organization. In a word, I felt “at home” –a perfect vibe for contemplation and creation. It was as if I had somehow had a hand in helping her “throwing it all together”. It felt right, it felt good, but most of all—and inexplicably—felt familiar. Even more bizarre (surreal?) it also happened to be the very same(!) space (ie, same building) that I had been directed to when I mentioned to an acquaintence I might be looking for a full/part time studio. The “intersections” and coincidences between us, already piling-up, continued to grow rather strangely….

As we got to know each other and started working together, the crossovers, the essential instincts and even intuitions, large and small, seemed amazingly (to me anyway) synchronous. On the other hand, she is different enough from me in certain ways , that the plot “thickens” rather than “thins” by being too familiar to my psyche, too much like me. I think we’re both “hard” and “soft”, in certain ways, trusting yet cautious, cynical yet fundamentally compassionate, sincere but with a taste for sarcasm and absurd humor. Both fundamentally spiritual in our way, expresssed primarily through our respective mediums, sensuality & love. Above all though, she is the “real” deal—true to her artistic self, sacrificing to that self, at the expense perhaps of other dimensions of her life. That is probably the coup de grace for me---that type of dedication & commitment is very appealing, very engaging. In hindsight, she is also “warmer” and “truer” to herself , than I thought perhaps she would be before actually meeting & working with her. The fact her artistic medium—sculpture/3D—is totally disimilar than my own—photo—I see as complementary and “positive separation”. Too many cooks in the same small kitchen could easily “grate”. However, even here, the crossovers are wickedly more similar than not: I am drawn to, inspired by, tend to create 3D objects, “installations”, etc., for the ultimate purpose of photographing them, whereas she is often inspired/stimulated by photographs/ 2D images. Moreover , we both are primarliy, perhaps ultimately, inspired by the human figure. We both also have a penchant for doing/capturing our “self-performance” on film. All in all, some very coincidental, happy “meeting grounds” between our respective mediums.

So by the time we actually started working/photographing , my head was buzzing with creative energy and impulse. I was happy as a clam in …well, whatever clams are most happy doing—that was me! For some reason the image of that wonderfully absurd skit Christopher Walken did on Sat. Night Live where he’s producing the recording of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult kept popping into my head. In the skit he’s going back & forth through the studio door, in typical Walken manic-comic fashion, imploring Will Ferrell (playing cowbell) to "Gimmee more COWBELL baby! I got the “feva”!… and the only thing that’s gonna cure that feva' is MORE COWBELL! I need more COWBELL!!" Of course, the harder Ferrell bangs the cowbell, the more his hairy “innertube” tummy jiggles and moves “in time” out from under his too short 70’s shirt…! Absurd, but for some reason the enthusiasm of Walken’s “feva for cowbell” just resonated in my head and added a nice touch of internal giddiness for me. I was in my element, sharing exactly what I love doing most—creating-- with someone who is at least equally open, imaginative, stimulated and engaged on the same level, all in a space –psychic & physical— totally conducive to the goal. Suffice it to say that I’ve never experienced such a creatively, even emotionally, nourishing and rewarding experience with someone in such a short period of time, and in such unexpected fashion.

Over the course of two days we worked with focus yet all the while relaxed, patient and within a certain liesure headspace—just as it should be. It was simply a beautiful experience for me—even sublime—in it’s way . It’s how, if I could, spend every day for the remainder of my creative life—in that “space”, that psychic headspace, wherever the physical location may be. It was extraordinary and fullfilling. It’s something I’ve always wanted to experience and share with another---for a day, if not forever. I’ve worked with many people creatively, whether for a couple hours or spread out over several years. But not quite like on the “synchronous” levels as this, where both of us were equally capable, equally passionate, intuitive and committed. All in a context of mutual respect for and appreciation of the other’s input, in whatever way. It felt more or less “seemless”. It’s the kind of working creative relationship I’ve always desired and needed, but as I say, never entirely found. The experience also served to remind me of how much time and “head space” I feel I have wasted---and a certain guilt I feel because of it. While I’ve always been a self-starter and prolific in my way, it’s totally another realm to share that energy with someone else’s, and create a unique synthesis---something that can not be created individually—the sum being greater than the parts. “Creation” and “procreation”, utilmately, are not that far apart in concept or deed, in the sense that either way, a unique legacy is created—whether it be in the form of infant or an “artifact”— brought to life by two, combined as one. It was/is an amazing feeling to want to share everything creative with such a person—and know that they’ll “get it”, appreciate it, and reciprocate in their own “beautiful way”. The possibilities just seem infinite.

“In the Arms of Sleep”

By the end of day two I was in/entering that zone where I never want to leave---creatively nourished, stimulated, relating to a kindred spirit in beautiful visual and non-verbal ways. I was even “gastro” nourished thanks to her housemate’s superb gourmet grilling later that day--thank you again, Liag! While at their home, I was made to feel very comfortable, welcome and “warm". The backyard was, primarily by Liag's loving design, like a personal sanctuary with little alcoves and meaningful touches evocative of the serene & spiritual; a place, like the studio, designed for reflection, refuge & creation. Even better, my friend shared yet another part of herself with me—another “spatial” extension of herself that further made manifest her essential spiritual “core”---her bedroom. Like the studio & even the backyard, it resonated warmly within me. I immediately felt comfortable, as if this space too, was already familiar somehow. A “trinity” of beautiful animal skulls, each with touches of her applied jewelry, hung above the low-slung bed, giving an altar-like aspect to her sleep space. As with the studio, this room too was adorned with trinkets & artifacts, all special for their memories & personal mystical associations. It is her personal nightime “grotto”; her place for reconciling her thoughts with her dreams, her spirituality with her sensuality. Among the things she showed me were her several decks of tarot cards, each carefully contained and wrapped. As we looked at them and shared thoughts on them, I couldn’t help feeling like I already knew this person somehow, whether from a past life, as a combination of past loves, or simply that I was seeing incarante someone I had always wanted (to know), but had not yet met (“pre-dejavu”?) Good food and conversation followed.

That eve was special in yet another way. We returned to the studio and began working on another little project. It started to rain—heavily—it had been brewing all day—and the deluge had begun outside the studio windows (and inside her vehicle ;-( As the night wound down, we indulged our senses with a bit of herb, Lady Guadalupe votive candles, valium-like pills and some "doodlings" on a new still-life collaboration. She started the process exquisitely with a twine rope-bound dead sparrow , hanging it inverted insided an old wood box. After a bit more work she quieted down creatively and retired to her floor palette on one side of the studio. I “doodled” for a bit while longer on another piece of this new project “puzzle”. Soon , I too became slumber-like, satiated in head, heart and stomach, and now wanting to be close this remarkably beautiful person who I had come to love in such a short period. As the rain poured outside, the soft music, incense , Guadalupe candles, and one of her softly-lit beautiful sculptures, all co-mingled to create an unforgettable aura of peacefulness & gentleness around her studio. As I laid perpindicular to her, with my head reasting gently on the small of her back, we talked about inane & profound stuff, half awake, half poignant, and all only “half-remembered”, as the herb & pills took their measure. Soon, we were snuggled and aside from some embracing and light petting, it was dreamland for us both. It was, in my mind at least, the perfect, soothing end to a truly wonderful “meeting” of the minds. And the night sky continued to cry steadly, sweetly….. I awoke groggy but content, with this very lovely creature with velvet-smooth skin beside me. “Cold coffee” started the day, a first for me, but even that was smooth & sweet. We did a little business road trip that day and parted company later that eve. She stuffed a $5iver in my shirt for xtra gas money (or was it the little chippendale dance I did that earned it? ;-) The memory of the episode later brought to mind that wonderful Harry Chapin song (“Taxi”) where at the end of the ride she gives him the fare and “ stuffs the bill in my shirt”. They go their separate ways, but with a shared meaningful past, however brief.

60 to Zero: crash & burn: “What Is and What Should (can?) Never Be”

The day after started well enough. It was sunny and warm, so I got my cup of joe, picked up an art magazine she had given me to read (I love it) and headed for my balcony. I was just getting into the first few pages when I happened to look up and saw a fairly young (45 or so) woman going down my street in one of those 4-wheel mini carts, with red flag on the back and a miniature pinscher sitting on her lap, rather immobile & statue-like. At first glance I didn’t think much of it, but almost immediately thought of my mother (500 miles away)—who can now only get around outside her condo by means of the same type motorized cart. She lives alone, these last few years of her life, half-paralyzed from a stroke she had while only in her earlier 60’s. Her one remaining strike at independence & volition being her cart and will to still make human contact with neighbors in the lobby downstairs and any strangers she may meet across the street in the shopping plaza. Otherwise she leads a reclusive existence; faded beauty, faded health, faded hope having taken their toll on a once extroverted, vivacious woman. I think the association between this young woman in her cart and my mother gave me the sudden impulse to want do a portrait of her—a sort of proxy of my faraway mother who I see too little of these days . In practical terms, it was also an opportunity to finish a long roll of film my friend & I had started while shooting the last photoproject in her studio.

I jumped into some streetclothes, grabbed my camera, ran out the door, hoping to catch the woman before she wheeled away for good. I caught her a block away and asked if she would mind if did a quick portait of her and her statue-dog perched on her lap. She seemed flattered by the attention and was amenable, saying she had actually been wanting to get a portrait of her & pooch done, but for the expense. I reassured her no charge, and would be more than happy to get her pics for interrupting her day and allowing me to photograph her. I suggested we use a side of a house I noticed two doors away to serve as nice clean background, in open shade. We met there, and did the pics. Her name was Cindy and she told me she had been stricken by MS at a fairly young age, and talked about the high occurrence of it in the WNY region. Sitting on top of a small wood staircase on the side of this same house, some 15-20 feet away, were a young mother and her 2-3 year old daughter, watching the impromptu photo session unfold. Cindy & I exchanged info so I could get her the pics when they were ready. We parted, and while walking past the pretty young mother and her adorable blonde little girl—I couldn’t help but notice how the girl looked remarkably like “Wendy Loo” from the Suess “Grinch” xmas cartoon—blue eyes & little “sprout” of blonde hair on the top oher head. In hindsight, I think part of the impulse to do this impromptu 2nd portrait, was the sheer contrast between the semi-invalid woman and the vibrant, pretty young mother & daughter (and to burn a little more film of course to finish the roll--still unfinished!) Mom and daughter were also amenable and we took a few quick photos. I left and went back home where I resumed my morning coffee while perusing the art magazine my new friend had given me two days before.

I’m not sure what part of the art mag I was reading at the moment—I think an interesting extended quote by Warhol, but the phrase “I think, therefore I am” somehow got into my head, perhaps echoing the simplicity of Warhols own offhand aphorisms. I began thinking about the rather childlike quality of Warhol’s observations, contrasted by their obivious far-reaching impact on the artworld and world in gerneral. The free associations started compounding: the character “Forrest Gump”—his “simpleton” innocence ultimately turned out to be full of wisdom; similarly, Peter Sellers’ character in “Being There” (“Chauncey Gardner”= “Chance”) went from a true housebound childlike gardner to (by “chance”) being (mis?)construed as a veritable font of sagaciousness for his simple gardening aphorisms--even by the US president himself-- and virtually over night. I even began playing with the notion of naming my first born (if that were to ever happen) the really goofy & unmelodious combined name “Forrest Warhol Gardner”, so that he would have a leg up on the “wisdom thing”. He would certainly grow strong defending that name, if nothing else. Then too, there's the overarching contrast between my desire to have a son, and the more likely reality I won’t…

I was also pondering the contrast between Cindy & the young mother/child, and the contrast/similarities between the “here & now” Cindy, with that of my aging, ailing, faraway semi-invalid mother. At any rate, I started to write a few lines based on the “I think, therefore I am” syllogism. With notebook in lap, I started to play with the deductive contrasts and possibilities prompted to me by the phrase.

The warm sunny morning I was now enjoying echoed against the previous rainy, cool day spent travleing with my new beloved friend delivering a package a couple hrs. away from B-lo. Though not doing something creative with her, it had nonetheless been fullfilling as I simply enjoyed “her”—her company, her conversation, her warmth, her opennesss, her humor. In contrast to me, where I tend to gravitate towards “reservedness” and being guarded when I probably would be much better served “opening” up, she seems to come from the other direction. Moreover, I was feeling the huge contrast of “back to unfullfilling reality” of today against the previous 2-3 days spent creating, communicating, being nourished creatively, all in a completely satisfying way. Though “my cup [had] runeth over”, I was already parched, thirsty for more.

Very sweet memories of time spent together began to mix with bittersweet thoughts of info exchanged between us that cast a spectre over the limits of whatever relationship—if any-- we would or could have in the future. The “silver lining” of the past few days now contrasted sharply against the impending dark cloud---a dark cloud populated by great divides in our immediate and long term respective life agendas. I already knew I wouldn’t see her for a month or so. Beyond that, she might get “an offer she couldn’t refuse” in that time and take a turn from B-lo much sooner than later. I too will inevitably leave B-lo, and yes, sooner hopefully than later. There are other “divides” in our respective outlooks which also cloud the picture. So, with all these divisions and harsh contrasts flickering through my head, my emotions racked from going so suddenly from a very sweet pinnacle to a rather deep valley, the storm cloud burst, and “le deluge” began. With the internal levee breached (ironically in contrast to those damn “Do Not Break Down” stickers from the day before) the damn could not hold and the flood ensued. A flood like I’ve not experienced in a very, very long time.

There is a portion of this narrative that I've decided is best left as an “inner monologue” rather than a dialogue to be shared, at least for now. I would only say that on a personal level, reaching-out, being unable to "grasp", and certain past connections, combine to form the large, unspoken background that give the foreground (this blog) its’ proper perspective…..The "short strange trip" did not occur in a vacuum; and the sweet is not so very sweet without having tasted the bitter.

Suffice it to say here that I bear in mind Hunter Thompson’s self-admonition in his “bye bye” note, “Don’t be greedy”, and my own self-admonition to appreciate what “Is”, as opposed to grasping at shadowy “what ifs”. So, feeling a bit “adrift” at the moment, I guess I feel a certain affinity with the character in “Castaway” who found solace in the simple notion that the sun will indeed rise tomorrow and who knows what the tide will bring in next? Maybe even a little more cowbell….'-0)

I doubt

Taxi (Harry Chapin) It was raining hard in 'Frisco, I needed one more fare to make my night. A lady up ahead waved to flag me down, She got in at the light. "Oh, where you going to, my lady blue?" "It's a shame you ruined your gown in the rain." She just looked out the window, and said, "Sixteen, Parkside Lane." Something about her was familiar, I could swear I'd seen her face before. But she said, "I'm sure you're mistaken." And she didn't say anything more. It took a while, but she looked in the mirror, And she glanced at the license for my name. A smile seemed to come to her slowly, It was a sad smile, just the same. And she said, "How are you Harry?" I said, "How are you Sue?" Through the too many miles and the too little smiles, I still remember you." It was somewhere in a fairy tale, I used to take her home in my car. We learned about love in the back of the Dodge, The lesson hadn't gone too far. You see, she was gonna be an actress, And I was gonna learn to fly. She took off to find the footlights, And I took off to find the sky. Oh, I've got something inside me, To drive a princess blind. There's a wild man, wizard, He's hiding in me, illuminating my mind. Oh, I've got something inside me, Not what my life's about, Cause I've been letting my outside tide me, Over 'till my time, runs out. Baby's so high that she's skying, Yes she's flying, afraid to fall. I'll tell you why baby's crying, Cause she's dying, aren't we all. There was not much more for us to talk about, Whatever we had once was gone. So I turned my cab into the driveway, Past the gate and the fine trimmed lawns. And she said we must get together, But I knew it'd never be arranged. And she handed me twenty dollars, For a two fifty fare, she said, "Harry, keep the change." Well another man might have been angry, And another man might have been hurt, But another man never would have let her go... I stashed the bill in my shirt. And she walked away in silence, It's strange, how you never know, But we'd both gotten what we'd asked for, Such a long, long time ago. You see, she was gonna be an actress, And I was gonna learn to fly. She took off to find the footlights, And I took off for the sky. And here, she's acting happy, Inside her handsome home. And me, I'm flying in my taxi, Taking tips, and getting stoned, I go flying.......... ...................so high, .....................................when I'm stoned.

In the Arms of Sleep