Vintage at Galerie Tenko Presents, Tokyo, 15.05.25-29.05.25

In a hut tucked between Shibuya and Ebisu is a new gallery space which opened last month. Well - ‘new’ isn’t quite accurate - but - ‘hut’ is no exaggeration. Since 2022, Tenko Nakajima has been running Galerie Tenko Presents as a nomadic space. These intuitive and nichely curated shows have occurred in locations cleverly orientated for each artists work; these range from a love hotel in Kabukicho for a Louis Backhouse exhibit, or the Hysteric Glamour shop hosting the installations of Argentinian director Amalia Ulman. Now, Tenko has got the keys to her first permanent space. It’s a hut that used to be a bar, that, as Tenko recalls, she had visited as a teenager circa 2015 on electro-swing nights, which, “already, during its peak was considered a bad genre.”

The inaugural exhibit in the space Vintage features installation work by English artist Merlin Carpenter. Tenko describes how she shared a taxi with Carpenter in Busan last year, how they discussed his Marx and Trier drawings - Trier being Marx’s birthplace. Carpenter made these works during a residency in Beijing (perfect) - they struck Tenko as both relevant and vintage. Boom, she goes off about how Tokyo is actually the capital of vintage and preserving the past:

“Vintage stores are treated like museums here, each item is repaired, cleaned and so-curated. I love the thought of the buyers frequenting a suburban Goodwill or Humana once a year, filling up boxes with weathered reunion t-shirts and college jumpers and restoring them to Japanese standards. Then re-selling them at prices surpassing their original tags.”

My first impression of Galerie Tenko Presents caught me standing between a Denny’s and a Starbucks - no Galerie or art kids in sight. I called Greta, a close friend of Tenko’s and I, who had invited me to go with her to the vernissage of Vintage - I’d hopped into a cab straight after my 9-5. She put Tenko on the phone, who apologized and chuckled,

“Of course, I put it wrong in the IG bio - sorry!”. She passed me the right address and I rode another ten minutes in an uber that smelled like citrus Febreeze. The vernissage was supposed to be over in five minutes - but, of course, there was no rush among the group of bright young things mingling and smoking right outside.

Before I could even set foot inside, I was stopped by my dear friends, Yoma (big scar through right eye, even bigger heart) and Carlos (mysterious guy, youtube connoisseur) who took my heavy Longchamp X Jeremy Scott bag off me and handed me a beer. We chatted about everything but art while a cute girl kept on staring at us. I wanted to include her in the conversation, because I felt awkward for her - she seemed to just want to be part of something and so clearly was not. After, I realised she was actually there with Carlos, he introduced her to me, in front of her, as follows: “She’s a Louis Vuitton bag customizer and one time she was commissioned to paint a father kissing his kid on the lips, so she painted this image on the LV trunk, but then LV did not approve of this image and now because of this incident LV only offers selective pre designed customisation.” She nodded her head. I didn’t get her name.

I squeezed past the people, said 'hi' to Tenko who just come back from LA and recieved a quick debrief of all that happened, could have happened, but did not, on her trip. She was wearing a cute beige matching set and was serving beer behind the bar with her mom, Hanayo an acclaimed experimental artist. Finally, I find Greta, she is chatting to a guy called Alex (never met him before, celine vintage bag, skinny pants, is offended about me asking if he works an office job) about her new loaded Glock 19 tattoo on her thigh. It’s big and sore and dope. “It’s the first gun I shot.” she says. She had gotten it to cover a tattoo she’d grown tired of.

I escape the conversation by climbing up the wobbly wooden ladder to the top floor of the gallery (I shall not be able to wear any of my outrageous heels to the next show). The uppermost floor looks like an abandoned Japanese bedroom. Partly falling apart; quite charming. Carpenter has painted his black, thick-stroke faces not on canvases, but on the gallery’s walls. Sprawling, with no boundaries, over the wood and metal inserts. Open Territory. It will be interesting to see how it interacts with the work of following exhibitors, like the second intervention in the space, by Jay Chung and Q Takeki Maeda, **Hanshan Shide.

A selection of Carpenter’s 2006 pencil sketches on paper lean against the walls in glass frames. My favourite, Trier (Beijing) 2 (2006) depicts a group of Karl Marx busts. They all look mad. It makes me think of when Beijing gifted the city of Trier a statue of Marx for his 200th birth year anniversary in 2018, and Trier was reluctant to accept the offer. Now, the statue stands, a 4.4-metre bronze statue, just off the main street.

Merlin Carpenter glided past the crowd like a wizard, his long hair flashing white-grey-brown as he snapped photos of us with a tiny camera. Carpenter’s entire career hums with political tension. Grounded in Marxist materialism, his work tears through the illusion of artistic autonomy, laying bare the art world’s unavoidable entanglement with capitalism. He doesn’t soothe; he sabotages. One of my favourites? Communism Time for a Bath (2003), a repurposed BlackBerry Alpen cereal box.

I climbed back down. The vernissage was over. We all walked off together to find an izakaya big enough to hold us all. I was overwhelmed, and Greta was overwhelmed, so she suggested we should Irish exit. We did so. Then she changed her mind, “Wait, let’s say bye,” so there we went back and said bye. The weakest Irish exit ever. I lit a cigarette on my way home with my new Tenko Presents lighter. It has a quote on the back, which I’d forgotten. I just looked it up on Tenko’s webshop. It says: “I wasn’t expecting to enjoy this and I am not.” I don’t know who you are, Georgie, but thanks.

Matt Gess’s Maiden Crimes 1 (2025) and Militia (2025) were shown at Récréations a show by Gnossienne Gallery alongside work by Nayan Patel, Sasha Miasnikova and Jordan Derrien. View the project on Instagram here.

*Maiden Otto*

There’s something that can only be brought out by being locked away: this is the tension that suspends Maiden Crimes. "It’s about yin and yang", said [legendary erotic photographer] Eric Kroll to Matt Gess, who had tracked him down to his kitchen table in Arizona. Balance is a notion that applies just as much to the climbing of chain-link fences as it does to the ecstasy of constrained compositions; these are all driving forces behind Gess's work.

Coming across a Maiden is a revelation that makes the word casting appear sanitised and crass. “You know what Eileen? I think [NAME] might be a Maiden…” We cock our heads, squint our eyes and pout our lips at each other, considering the idea like we just tasted something new. What’s your taste? Matt describes things like trespassing as ‘delicious’. Maidens are discovered, they walk out of the water of their past dripping with becoming; like every crime, they are unique. For example: Maiden Kirsten was sitting on the pavement of Kingsland road, “parked outside Greggs, lipstick defiant”, “she styled herself, quickly stuffing a circus flyer in her bra”. Charlie Osbourne emerged to Matt in another way: the theatricality of her rigid and heartfelt musical performances. These are subjects Matt observes from the anonymous position of an audience member or passerby- Maidens emerge having built their own kinds of stages: Kirsten with her pile of street cardboard, or Charlie at the ICA... Maiden is a project that poses seductively in the field of surveillance, anonymity and consent; no wonder Matt calls it a ‘license to voyeurism’.

*Maiden Kirsten*

His spare captions under his instagram posts are tantalisingly partial origin stories: “​​I saw Vivi working behind an Irish bar in Helsinki two hours before my flight back home. I asked her if she wanted to come back to my room and play dress-up.” Matt turns to me, “She works in KFC,” he says, breathlessly, “it’s perfect.”

And this is the key to understanding why the pictures have the effect that they do: it is a fetishistic approach to the details of living, of being, that makes Maiden Crimes the realest. The fetish is not the black patent heels, the velvet mask or the nipple cover; it’s not the leather glove, or the absence of a lower arm, it’s not the top of a flesh coloured stocking or the 1930s girdle, or any of the objects Matt plays with - it is none of these things in and of themselves. It’s the focus of an eye on a singular point, it is the tension of bodily concentration until one’s mind empties: not falling from the platforms; the explosion of a stepped-on grape; the expression of breath into an instrument and its contortion into sound, it is the narrowing in on a target until it is the right moment to squeeze the trigger… “you know when you shoot someone you say: I’m going to shoot this person. And it’s like what? With a camera or a gun? It’s the same thing.” This violent metaphor is appropriate for an artist whose alter ego Claudia Speed comes from the protagonist of Grand Theft Auto II.

*Matt Gess in the house of Eric Kroll*

Perhaps it is enough for now, to simply say that the fetish look invests objects with a magical coercive power over individual subjectivity. Matt’s work recognises the addictive determinism generated by Fetish. Careful arrangement of objects set in motion a sequence of events: female clothes on a male body creates certain life-situations. Cross-dressing in West Hollywood, Matt says, “I would find myself climbing over chain-link fences”. L.A plays itself, life seduces itself, one thing leads to another…

“When I was cross dressing and going to these strip clubs I’d literally be getting into these cars with these men and climbing these fences. It wasn’t always sexual. I love iron gates and what it represents of being locked away, and I think that kind of came from growing up in South Africa- the gated compounds with security and it was always just like quite fascinating and really beautiful because you’ve kind of got like these illuminated swimming pools and these big like chunky gates that have, like, electricity going through them.”

Apart from the strip clubs of Hollywood, there is another cinematic influence on the project. In his room in East London, Matt’s nameless Canary likes to perch on his stack of Alan Clarke DVDs. The Yorkshire-born director (1935-1990), whose later minimalist works on topics such as the miner’s strike, Road (1988); childhood heroin use, Christine (1987) and the Troubles in Ireland Elephant(1989) gave the violence of British Social Realist Cinema the Bressonian purity, precision and appeal of a finger dragged across skin, the sound of a dress being unzipped. The video of Osbourne in a prim buttercup-yellow dress spinning and playing her harmonica iconica, is a performance that would not have been amiss from the legendary party scene in Road. There is a clear fascination in Crimes not just with the acting in Clarke’s films, but the social-psychological aura emitted through the stripped-back nature of the sets. Their cheap plain kitchens and unplastered walls, like the pale, rail-thin bodies of Maidens, captivate in their austerity. There is a tension of set and character; history and choice: between the purple pub carpet and aubergine hair; neglected linoleum and patent heels, of weathered junkie skin against orange brick. Clarke’s protagonists and Matt’s Maidens are aesthetic creations that both tenderly embody and fiercely rebel against their surroundings.

We are in a borrowed mansion in Epping Forest, surrounded by chintz and framed photographs of an English family where the mothers wear pearls. Matt is preparing the room, where, in two hours’ time, he will shoot Maiden Rafe. Elusin’s song, silhouette, fills up with the room alongside the smoke machine- the shoegaze haze activates the power of the objects thrown on the bed: Mickey Mouse mask; Eric Stanton Book; black caged hoop skirt; patent heels size 10; a single white gym sock (photographer’s own). Ignoring the still life he had been arranging on the floor, Matt turns to the assemblage on the bed: “accidents are the whole point.” Whilst the shoots are planned carefully, there is a refreshing lack of career-calculation to Maiden Crimes, “I have to hide my phone after I post.” Matt tells me, “quite a few stylists have got in contact, which is nice of them, but a certain part of me is just like… fuck off?”.

This is why Matt’s photos stand out from the scroll; as we are inundated with digital pornography, the analogue fetish adventure endures…

Can fiction ever be art criticism? How did the merger between the art world and advertising occur? Where is the reward in critical distance?

Natasha Stagg admires art, but would not call herself an art critic. Her book, Artless (Stories 2019-2023) documents the fashion, art and nightlife scenes of New York city. A follow up to Sleeveless (2011-2019), Artless comprises dispatches from NYC’s artistic “scene”- with essays featured in Spike, Artforum, Buffalo Zine and Gagosian Quarterly. Always self-effacing, the author pleads with us not to take things too seriously by describing her new book as “What I think sometimes, some days, about some things”.

You could mistake Stagg’s writing for autofiction (with titles like “Is Anyone Listening to Me? I Love It” and “Social Suicide”) but the star of Artless is Stagg’s foray into pithy, non-autobiographical shorts. Her upcoming fiction work, Grand Rapids, tells the tale of fifteen year-old Tess and her titular Michigan hometown. Published in September through Semiotext(e), its cover features one of Issy Wood’s painted Fiat interiors. Wood’s work is an apt choice - her painted veneration of stagnant objects reflects Stagg’s writing, which transforms Grand Rapids into a collection of architecture and emblems.

Here, Stagg speaks with Hollywood Superstar editor Sydney Sweeney about the moral grey area of her profession, the mythical creature that is the objective art critic and her high school reunion in Michigan.

Sydney Sweeney

Tell us about the title Artless? We know, and love, Sleeveless. Each of your collection titles feels super specific.

Natasha Stagg

My editor Chris Kraus suggested adding date range as as a way of establishing it as a series of essays born from a certain time. The name ‘Sleeveless’ is fairly enigmatic. You don’t necessarily know what you’re going to get from its title, so you add a subtitle : ‘Fashion, Image, Media, New York 2011-2019’ and people know it’s a book of essays. Artless is a word often used to describe prose, as in ungainly, naive, imprecise. While I like art, I'm not an expert. A lot of the stories were assignments or press releases, but I call them “stories” because that’s what they all are, even if they were also musings, or reviews, or diaries.

SS

One of my favorite chapters in Sleeveless talks about the microtrend and the micro influencer. Do you think we have micro trends in contemporary art right now?

NS

The NYC scene, which is the only one I would know right now, does feel increasingly niche.It does feel a little bit oversaturated with micro- influencers - that thing of everybody knowing everybody. Is there such a thing as there being too many, or not enough, personalities?

SS

There’s a photo of Charli XCX wearing a t-shirt with - “They don’t build statues of critics” on it. Where is the reward in having critical distance?

NS

I respect critics more than I respect my own profession, probably. I think I'm trying to be as honest as possible about my involvement in the scene, in my writing. Almost all critics have some kind of involvement with what they write on, but serious critics get basically nothing from it, not even good pay, and they work because they are just passionate about unbiased commentary needing to exist. The art world is so circle jerky, and corrupt, and objective critics are so rare at this point, maybe there should be statues of them.

SS

Art speak can be incredibly alienating, it’s a way of excluding certain people from the art world.

NS

I am interested in the way that art can work its way into fashion or marketing - there is a lot of cross pollination. People get tired of the same words, so you have to find synonyms. Sometimes these come from slang, or memes or whatever, but people can see through the application of viral language to marketing really quickly - it’s so painfully obvious when advertising adapts the language of the internet.

SS

A lot of Artless is fiction, moving away from the cultural critique towards a short story format that recalls Mary Gaitskill.

NS

I have always been happier writing fiction. It provides a kind of freedom. In non-fiction you are making a claim, even when you state clearly you’re not an authority on whatever the subject is. In the introduction to Artless I tell the reader not to listen to any of these claims. My favourite story is maybe the one I wrote as a press release for the artist Alex Carver. He did a show of paintings that used a process of layering prints with an intricate stamping process. His research ended up inspiring ‘Transplant’, which follows a family whose patriarch has a transplanted heart.

SS

The combination of fictional writing and the display of art has formed a new kind of art criticism, maybe without the critical element. I think it’s exciting.

NS

I am so inundated with cultural criticism at this point, writing more of it can feel like throwing fuel onto a fire. Or pointless. My goal has always been to focus on language, so that it is the writing that moves, rather than the content. And anyway, there is no such thing as fiction and non-fiction, really. Nothing can be proven to be either or the other. There's also no such thing as critical distance. Whatever lines exist, they can always be blurred.

SS

Do you see yourself as a writer more than, let's say, an art or scene critic? Or are you a mixture of both, like Cookie Mueller, who wrote Walking Through Clear Water in a Pool Painted Black?

NS

I always go back to Elizabeth Hardwick, who wrote so much criticism and commentary, but also one of the best novels, Sleepless Nights, when she was 63. I feel really good about having written four books. It means I am actually a writer. My first book could have been a one-off; I wrote it in grad school. The second and third were collections of shorter pieces I’d mostly already written as assignments. So it feels good that I’m publishing another novel, even if it’s ten years after the first one.

SS

It feels as if the time period in which Artless is set, the years of Covid, fuelled the transition in your writing practice from cultural critiques to fictional storytelling.

NS

I think you’re right. Covid was an online overload. Many of us experienced a collective media fatigue. To pivot after this time is only natural - there was so much reflection on reality, maybe too much, and life became miserable. Everyone was looking for a way to escape; fiction writing feels like an extension of that desire.

SS

How long have you been working on Grand Rapids?

NS

It’s hard to say. I started it right after publishing my last novel, Surveys, in 2016, but I didn’t do anything with it for a long time and then came back to it recently. I’m sure a lot of people have had this feeling - of coming back to something and recognising any of the words. I feel that way with my Substack, even. I will often re-read something I’ve published to make sure I’m not repeating myself, but it will feel foreign even two days later. It’s all a balancing act. You want to write away from what you have already written, but you don’t want to think so much about it that it inhibits your natural flow.

SS

Natural flow is kind of my worst enemy. I wait until it reaches me to start a piece. Can you tell me a bit about the plot of Grand Rapids?

NS

It’s a kind of coming-of-age story set in the city where I lived during high school. When I finished writing Grand Rapids, I actually went back to Grand Rapids for my high school reunion. It felt like I was doing reconnaissance for the book. When you grow up somewhere, things feel differently sized when you go back. The city felt bigger, not smaller, than I remembered. It has grown, but that wasn’t it. The buildings downtown felt bigger.

SS

I know it’s fiction, but, did you tap into your own autobiography?

NS

Of course. That’s always the easy in for me. I wanted to start with something I had a lot of emotional knowledge of. My high school days were my own and still are, but I was interested in whether revisiting that time and place could get me to a character arc, something more universal. I love talking to people who are younger or older than me who find something to relate to in my writing. It’s cool to know that my stories are not necessarily tethered to a generation. You always hear that millennials are so different from zoomers or whoever else, but I have had an opportunity to see what is similar between us, the opportunity being that I can publish stories and know from the response that non-millennials read them, too.

SS

I mean, it’s the mark of a good writer if your work unconsciously speaks to a group of people, even if that wasn’t the intention.

NS

Definitely. I have a lot of trouble with a specific type of Gen X writer I used to like more when they lately take a defensive stance on their generation. It’s different for each generation but, I don’t think you see the signs until it’s too late.

Grand Rapids is published by Semiotexte. Available to pre order now

I met Countess Elizabeth Bàthory in the pub opening her leather trench coat, I was hoping she would flash me but she only wanted to flog me her DVDs. “Cult…” she gasped, between breaths of cigarette smoke that came trickling out from her mouth, and perhaps also her nose and ears... she seduced me through her last remaining eyelashes giving me the look of a smouldering cinepheliac... I could only oblige... My roommate stole my DVD player and I cancelled my MUBI subscription so I left 20 quid poorer and with so much plastic in my living room, watching YouTube Shorts. Where was the cinema? I saw her again sleeping under a piece of carpet in a corner of Peckhamplex. Timidly, I asked her, since I couldn’t watch the films myself, whether she would be able to summarise them for me. “I already have,” she said, “I’ve been thinking of you.” She touched my hand as she gave me a stack of papers, she was soft with an ancient twinkle in her eye. This new blog series for Hollywood Superstar is a transcription of her manuscripts.

Vol.1: The Bloodettes (2005), set in Yaoundé, Cameroon, in the year 2025. Director Jean-Pierre Bekolo said that he was bemused to hear from European critics that he had made "The First African sci-fi film". An outspoken critic of Western film festival imperialism and its obstruction of African cinematic self-definition, Bekolo addressed these concerns directly in his 2018 open letter to the Berlinale, which can be read here. Bekolo makes films for “places, not for audiences”. His films are about Yaoundé, where “funerals are the best parties,” and where the complete mimicry of the Hollywood horror genre is neither possible nor desirable. Instead, by attempting to make sci-fi in a place without a future - where bureaucracy is bloody and time is unstable - Bekolo’s process yields a film of “many impossible genres.” Shown last year at UCLA’s programme African Futurism perhaps this morbidly sexy political satire fits more comfortably in the tradition of The Gothic. Two vampiric sex workers deal with the dead body of a dictator by using their seductive/destructive bodies as modern agents of the pre-colonial women's secret society Mevoungou. For the enjoyers of neon-soaked streets, those who want to see women sexually dominate in ways scientifically unforeseen, those interested in hearing the hardest loop from a post-millenium soundtrack…

- Eileen Slightly

The diary of Countess Elizabeth Báthory: The Bloodettes (2005)

'My friend is tired - Your corpse is beautiful’

One moment the light and sounds were falling out of the shut door, and the next only a scream. It’s weird however used I am to women screaming it’s always a jump to hear someone you love do it. Into the room we fell from the ceiling, His body was cold, wet and stiffer then His cock just 2 minutes prior. How did a man write and direct this, how did he write us so right and real we not only demand respect from you, but love and respect ourselves. Anyway, more of that later. First we gotta find out what to do with this Goddam body. All these powerful men coming and cumming night in night out, they uphold an idea of this country and our cunts that frankly don’t work. You see this country is independent now, but the structure of hypocrisies was left behind, and these dogs of men desperately re-enforce it.

How can you describe our future when you’ve only focused on re-writing our history? We’re living in the future of 2025, listening to mevoungou, we know this dystopia like it avoids us. How can you expect us to dance and sit and look this goddam good just to belittle our native tongues? Yep you paid for this night, but we paid for this country with our asses.

“How can you film a love story where love is impossible?”

Quickly we lost his body either in a fridge or another scene, now alone with us three in this car and his head in a Sainsbury’s bag for life, we ride.

How can you feign sisterhood? I can’t even explain it, you would just have to experience it, or you just have to believe when I say it’s me + Majolie + Chouchou 4eva. To recognise the ‘I’ is to admit there is not only you but others, tonight I reject this self-alienation, there is no ‘I’ only ‘we’. Our blood has been sucked and un-sucked time and time again. Who said this story is one you can follow? You make us laugh. This is beyond narrative, beyond these structures and beyond the systems we’ve been raised in. Tonight we will get ready in our own time. Slow motion fight scenes in front of cars and hotel rooms remind me of the old kung-fu movies we’d mimic as kids, the powers of the east to battle the evils of the west. We shimmy around putting on knickers and skirts and swapping tops and blotting lipstick. Circles around the bedroom, I smile up at the posters they have in their room, especially the Scream (1996) one that I too have hung on the wall in the nook of my lair. Our beautiful bodies joyfully montage to the repeating melodies, we hum along. I feel the blood leave my veins and I’m light headed again. This is sacred.

Eternal powers, cgi, holding her hand. We sit to eat at the table in the room we cooked in. I sip lots of green potion from my comically large wine glass and transport back and forth from this alien planet to the moon. 2025 is here, I wear glitter on the lids of my eyes and the sky has the colours of love bites and wine.

“How can you make a horror film in a place where death is a party”

I slurped and sniffed too many letters this weekend and now the salt I lick from my fingers burns my tongue. He throws a punch and I knock him to the ground, my kung foo choreo is reminiscent of Bausch; the absurdity of reality. Blood takes a hold of him, clogging up his airways, choking him, he always liked it rough. He splutters red, Majorie reaches over and with her finger collects the thick dribble and smudges it onto her lip and cheek. My tummy grumbles. Only through destruction can we achieve such beauty...or something like that.

When their zippers are undone, their walls come down, they told us all their secrets and now we can use them to bury the body.
Stood around the open casket, orange plates holding cake. We exist in these spaces of the in-between and nowhere in particular. How did we get here? Was this before or after? It doesn’t matter, it just happens; how can we continue to make sense in plots and art when the real life makes no sense at all. Our world holds too many histories, projections and thingamabobs all too intersected to be told or sold separately. Christian Metz defines fiction as “seems-real” tonight we define fiction as “non-fiction”. The General's dead and we gossip over his body.

I spent this evening surrounded by my best friends, but whispering with Him, he too saw the words I was saying. They bled into his skin and he said little but wrote me the sort of lines I usually struggle to write. We performed so naturally that I wondered if we’d directed it together, or if he just had once been me as well as the director. I don’t know, it’s confusing, but as I said, isn’t that the point. This evening bled out of his skin and we appeared clean in a morning. I smiled on my way home, clambering into bed with my Majolie and my Chouchou, they sleepily engulfed me with body and blanket, and together we shall wait for tomorrow.

"How can you make an action film in a country where acting is subversive?”

Why the fuck are you still trying to answer me? There is no answer. Well I’m lying. There’s too many answers, a thousand truths and you still pick to pray to one. The lights flood out the opening door,
out the hotel bed sheets,
out the limousines window rolling down,
out the open casket,
out all the holes,
bam.
BAM. Light floods out over us all, and how can you still hide in a place with no shadows but your own?

As part of a regular blog, waitress-turned-writer-turned-political-savant Floss Crossley responds to baiting questions from Editorial. Crossley mediates on political apathy, slacktivism, dictatorial boardgames and the continually futile philosophising of micro-trends. WE THANK HER.

I just invaded China by candlelight. The electricity has run out.
I lost my card again so I can’t take money out so I can’t top it up at the store.
But it’s ok we have some old wax burnt down to a height too ugly for
tomorrow’s restaurant guests. My ears are warmed by an aviator hat I refer to
as Russian and my boyfriend’s upset his new jacket will be my new jacket now because he
thought he was a woman’s small. His six silver buckles are
creaking out a whistle from any slight movement.

My friend L starts shouting at my friend M. M’s dressed like he’s a
young Sci-Fi concubine- loose twisting linens and high-laced
leather boots. L is in a tall Prussian Cavalry hat, black, red
lining, gold stitching. M rolled a six, as he always seems to
do, and now his two green men are a massive threat to L’s
five orange occupying Scandinavia. My friend E is bored
and wants to actually hang out and talk and things. She has a
weed leaf and a Jamaican flag on the camo jacket I gave her
that came in the post for me, but I couldn’t have ordered. I’m
in a coat that makes my shoulders extend to far greater
lengths than our grandmothers could have hoped for us in
the 70s when they burnt their bras.

Most of my legs are covered, but the last button is only nay heigh so the two parts of the
coat swing open to reveal my cute little brogues. They
ripped open on a job interview- but luckily the interviewer
was an artist, so I got the job and he taped them up, but the
only tape he had was for his artwork, which was real camo
tape from Operation Desert Storm, but then I’m not sure if
I’ve got the job anymore because this was six months ago and
it’s subject to funding. But now, if I take Russia, I’ll have the
whole of Asia, and I can expand west. I’ll let L and M shout
and I’ll laugh every time they emasculate each other so that
they will make rash competitive moves and not notice how I
benefit from a weakened Europe.

While L dramatically rolls his dice, I check the light box in my hand. I click “See Post Anyway” to a trigger warning on Instagram. I see a dead child. Their face is obscured by blood. Below reads “liked by my ex boyfriend and others”. I know he’s liking the journalism, not the content, but it still reads in bad taste. I look around at the kitchen. The room is foggy. E’s clothes dry dangled over the kitchen cabinets. She did not manage to get all the dog period out of her new Polish T-shirt so her Black Water merch really is stained in blood. The heat of the room - the wet smoker’s breath locked in to keep out the winter wind - causes the tape which held an old photo against the fridge to finally give up its last grip. The glue’s dried out. The paper floats calmly down - the space heater’s upwards breeze allowing it to fall in slow motion- turning seductively from a mysterious food-stained blank side to reveal to me a long enough flash of text and garment- Melania in Kakhi:

I DONT REALLY CARE DO YOU ###

When S. Sweeney asked me to discuss the correlation between my milieu’s habit of wearing military regalia and the current accelerating political climate, I have to admit I was a little defensive. My reasons to be so I think are summed up in that historic image of the First Lady climbing the steps of air force one.

1. I. Trendy Military jackets are nothing new, we’ve only just moved on from last decade’s olive green high street revolutionaries.
2. II. I’m forced to address or even allude to the Indie Sleaze revival, and in a worse extension, I’m forced to address that a notable response of my friends and I - in the wake of mass global horrors - is as immaterial as a mild change in style and self-imaging.

   

One line of Research:

Vogue says:

Few garments better encapsulate the “I love typewriters and casual amphetamines” spirit of the indie sleaze than ornate martial jackets.

Even typing the words indie sleaze to say you don’t care about indie sleaze feels too much like an authorial legitimising of indie sleaze. (That's five
times I’ve said it now) I’ve always been
disgusted by the Hellp and the fit of their jeans. I
think it’s nice when my best friends waddle
around in tight denim and pointy sandals, but I
don’t want to see a plastic outline of what men
are lacking. I understand that the military jacket
is now often associated with the post-Celine
Opium for white boys vibe you see on evil “What
Are People At The X Gig Wearing” reels. And I
am uncomfortable with a restaurant coworker
assuming my association. But I do
own a typewriter and am prescribed
amphetamines. Separate to any contemporary
influence in this trend, there is definitely a bit of
newly or not-so-newly adults just dressing up as
what they thought a cool person looked like
when they were twelve. We have given up faith in new ideas of cool as they seem untrustworthy,
manipulated by all the microplastics and blue light rays we have since allowed to poison our imaginations.

There’s a very Gothic current to the English Memory of the World Wars. As a child on the 11th of November a melodramatic solemnness would take over me. In the shade of the town’s memorial monument, I’d display my plastic poppy on the square breast of my duffel coat with all the seriousness of a junior cadet. Staring up at the awesome obelisk, I would whisper a prayer for my troops and my country. The cold turning my little cheeks and fingers pink, I’d yearn for my father’s hand as he stood a foot behind me far away on the beaches of Normandy. I’d then wake up to shake my head at classmates slightly further along in puberty then I, their sweet perfumes smells and metallic crisp rattlings invading my total sensorial immersion in the still, calming fantasy of an old world war. At school, I took Evacuee Day so seriously that I was scouted by a teacher to play a sickly Victorian child in mortar and pestle workshops at the local community centre.

Maybe the hot nazis in New York think they’re being Libertines when they wear a trump hat and say retard. And the anorexic revival of this fashion is definitely not completely detached from their popularity. I do think, however, that a real fascist dress code is a lot more The Row than Slimane or Ali Express. People looked at Melania’s inauguration outfit and choked at the return to fascism. The Chanel style tailoring and colour scheme was certainly 1940s inspired, but I’d argue this is still cosplay over continuation. Georgia Meloni is a real fascist and she is one of the most normal looking people I have ever seen.

And, now, months after I began writing I’m still sitting around the table playing my board game. America and China are now in a trade war. Germany has promised to increase their military spending. I’m losing all of Europe, isolated in my island territory with a few guilty figures in the Middle East. They’re quietly well defended but unable to expand. It's Spring now so I wear a light Kakhi jacket I borrowed from L to dress as one of Gadaffi’s bodyguard for Halloween. I’ve paired it with a cute Glastonbury vibe dress just like TikTok showed me to. I want the white dress to feel like the end of the Hunger Games, I have my man and a child and a large expansive field with only birds over head. I'm not from District twelve, I'm from London and could probably do this all right now if I really wanted. But late at night I'd watch the Tesla satellites cross past the stars and know I’d still be in cosplay. The world is very loudly falling apart, and we know that we are not the real victims, nor the true perpetrators. We’re complicit through our impotency, we’re zombie soldiers dragged through comfortable trenches, hoping at least one of us could be a Sigfried Sasoon or Wilfred Owen.

Below are three accounts from the editorial team of their time at EU:RE/ London Woodstock/ Battle of the Bands. We hope that the multivalency of our narrative can put the ROCK back into baroque; as we shimmy up the Post-Drain pipe to the heavens of NEW BRITISH MUSIC. Here we are:

Cyberdog mini dress and over-the-knee black fishnet socks

The fever dream which was The Cause became a house party without a house and an afters before the gig had finished. The night was a mystical green room with a club attached underneath. In the upstairs bar people kept accidentally drinking the non-alcoholic strawberry cocktail puree, which looked like ketchup in a cup.

The downstairs was an apocalyptic onslaught of what I’ve started describing as ‘Post Drain’. I’ve noticed a scene of kids, maybe 5 years younger than me, glorifying what my early teen years were. They are a mismatch of drainer sensibilities, Sherlock fanfic era tumblr, proto influencer-Charlie Barker mixed with early 2000s; emo, mallgoth, gyaru, grime, Lolita and e-girl.

This is what I imagine all those magazines are constantly trying to coin as the godforsaken term Indie Sleeze. I fear they have it all wrong. Yes, these guys are wearing Isabel Marant sneaker wedges - but - they aren’t trying to glorify the downtown Hipster scene of the 2010s or the indie aesthetic; it’s a much more nuanced amalgamation of internet-core. They’re fans of the ”UK underground”, they listen to BassVictim, Fakemink, Fimi, Feng, with their forefathers being Lancey, Yung Lean, Lil B and Imogen Heap. It’s heavily attached to the music being made now, not just a replica of past counterculture-turned-aesthetic.

The atmosphere of the club, despite making me feel fucking old at the age of 23, was good. I had begun worrying that Covid had fucked up the 18 year olds ability to party, but, as I danced (pressed up against the security guards trying to control Maria’s quirked-up crowd) my faith was restored. They happily partied to Leo’s 10-piece hippie band WPDMT complete with Effie’s hand-knit headbands, bongos and a whistle, and I have to say I’m walking away glad the scene isn’t all Hedi Slimane and no fun.

DSquared dress. Chie Mihara heeled pumps. Sheer white knee socks
I was in the Green Room when someone turned to me to ask if I had a filter. “Wait”, she said, “You actually don’t look like the kind of girl who would have a filter”. This was my evening at EU:RE at The Cause.

The green room is filled with people one could categorise in a high-school-cafeteria fashion. There are jocks, geeks, nerds, indie twee revivalists, myspace-emos, dolls and hot-quasi emo cheerleaders, clean-girl goths and warring ex-girlfriend vinted warriors. This may be a Jaded London culture grab visuals factory. I’m failing the micro-trend test, but winning the battle of sobriety, stepping over the vomit-caked shower in the toilets.

WPDMT, led by WPDMT (original member) and Rowan Miles. She sang like an angel and dressed like one of the nubile young women in the cult from Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. I respected the female-to-male ratio in this band, having spent a substantial amount of time watching all-male bands perform music to kill yourself to. WPDMT had the cadence of a sugary-sweet edible - it made the sweaty pit of the crowd feel like a shroom trip at a millennial Greenpeace festival. Think the scene needs more of that.

Bassvictim starts, and half the venue turns on their heels toward the stage. Maria’s ethereal: sitting on her knees (thigh socks are taped up with double-sided tape), hands outstretched into the crowd like she’s Mother Teresa. I have an image of her in my mind like this from a couple of shows, a baroque painting, where she leans toward the crowd while everyone’s trying to get a piece.

When Ike and Maria play, it's a mix between this heady, sweaty mosh pit and moments of absolute introspection and quiet; you're getting flung into someone, and the next moment you’re alone listening to Wooden Girl with your eyes closed.

Blue latex corset. White t-shirt. Vintage a-symmetrical skirt. Blue fishnet socks

I saw the most fragile minds of my generation grabbing at greenroom wristbands like they were the last helicopters out of Saigon
And the Viet cong was an endless flow of 18 year old emos
The mature emos (Mitsubishi Suicide) were upstairs
And so was all 300 members of Worldpeace DMT (and counting)

This is like my fyp in real life, but that’s not what I said, Issey K said that

Yung Lean saw my friend Fleur playing the whistle for WPDMT and asked her to go on tour
With him I was like damn that’s crazy.
When I say damn that’s crazy that’s when I know
my beer to coke ratio was completely off
And that I could neither smile nor laugh
Only agree. That
my corset had been squashing up my internal organs, I was like oh fuck
don’t puke on Young Lean’s bodyguards.

The curse of the cause was lifted at an undisclosed afters location
Which went on for the rest of the night and day and then some night again
Everybody gives a glimpse of their personal internal hell in these situations,
apart from Chill Chris who does Atomiser.
A tenacious doll (banned from Fold)
told me she was impressed, like damn, I didn’t know straight people
got down like this.

Everybody wants a British invasion,
recession historians aren't stuck for a reason
sensitive yanks come over
just to go back.

After Amy, Chess Club Hamburg 18.04. - 10.05. 2025

A few months ago I started turning my back on Contemporary Art. I had entered what I imagined to be a major phase in my early adult art/life in which I’d reject other people’s artworks and records of my own and affirm my recently acquired and self-proclaimed writer status through negation. It was dumb and after some weeks I realized that not looking at things worsened my eyesight, dropping from a Mild correction to a Moderate one.

Anyway, this text isn’t about me but After Amy, an exhibition of Jasia Rabiej and Ant Łakomsk’s works at chess club in Hamburg (18.04. – 10.05. 2025). I think there’s something great about experiencing prints/paintings/pictures (in this case I’m not sure how and if one should categorize them. 'Pictures' in the early 20th Century Gertrude Stein sense of the word seems to be the most fitting) that reveal more of their layers the more time you spend with them.

At first only formalist observations came to my mind and I couldn't tell if I liked the pictures or if I could even write about them. Though I wasn’t sure I found the work boring, something initially left me hanging on its surface. And then I met the girls. Jasia and Ant are definitely not just a surface but actually bright and funny women. Like, really clever and fun and a bit neurotic too. And that made me like the work more. When we went to have drinks on the rooftop terrace of the Radisson Blu —there aren’t many options to elevate yourself in Hamburg— they told us about J’s meme page that got taken down and Ant lectured us about the Polish Pope Jan Paweł II (RIP!).

I had conversations with Amanda, the Chess Club founder. Can one experience an artwork in its fullness if the artwork isn’t discussed or carried out with visitors, friends, and if one’s lucky, the artists themselves? I don’t think there is a way to know if you really liked something without talking or writing about it. Even when it strikes you like love at first sight, you still need to unfold what happened because it is so interesting to discuss what you love in an artwork. I guess it is difficult for me now not to see them in their art. You know when they say dog owners look like their dogs? Well, the girls definitely resemble their art.

Ant’s paintings are elongated and wear dark, washed oil colors clouded in a white veil like in Silke Otto Knapp’s work. They’re reserved and subdued at first, but not evasive. I think they know what they’re stating. When I look at them, especially Living Room and After Amanda (named after Amanda Weimer—or Amy?), I can’t help but think of 19th-century French painting. The undertones could belong to the German or Dutch traditions—maybe that’s the Polishness piercing through?—The light shrouding the silhouettes, even in the rock concert one— the rose garden setting and the bourgeois living room—I don’t know, something of the model placidness reminds me of Olympia. Maybe it is too easy to refer to French painting. Again I am not much of a critic and am not even a visual art enjoyer anymore. Jasia's work on the other hand, while also working within the realm of girlhood, depicts figures and objects tied to the register of lower-middle-class taste, even though the girls in Jasia’s pictures don’t even appear to have jobs. They’re lounging around carefree, they have time to watch Trisha Paytas videos, dabble in arts and crafts attend birthday parties, etc. We assume they are girls, not because of any clear anatomical detail but because of surrounding cultural cues — bright frosted cakes, glimmering bokeh and TV glow, souvenir snow globes, long hair, handbags, and other ephemera of soft domestic excess — all familiar signifiers in the staging of girlhood.

Amanda tells me that Jasia finds her pictorial material online when she doesn’t take her own photographs. She sources images for D&R and sometimes sends Ant a selection to portray. Jasia’s prints, without ever being too obvious or obnoxious, could pass as AI-generated — but if you look at them closely, you understand they aren’t. So instead of looking at something and asking yourself if it's real and then finding out that it’s AI, you do the opposite: you look at something that you think is AI, but it’s not. It’s real. And there’s even a layer of makeup on the surface. Notice how the artist’s mixing plate is a palette is a makeup palette.

At times I tell myself Jasia’s pictures look even more like paintings than Ant’s paintings. I’m not sure about Jasia’s small altar display sculptures though but that’s ok because I think Jasia wasn’t entirely sold on them either. They work as a nice complement to the rest of the show. They ornament and display ornaments, luring us in with a shop window logic, e.g. dried seahorses laying on Bobbi Brown lipstick cases, a set of keys, coins stacked next to a carved and stylized ‘One Love’ inscription. They work great as set design elements or aesthetic bait but maybe that’s the point. I loved the rest of the show so I don’t really care.

Virus Studios, 6-9 Timber St, London.

Virus, Virus, Virus…

5/5 stars (if you have over 20k on Instagram)
3/5 stars if you aren’t

The first Virus event I attended took place in the AV room inside W1 Curates. A sweatbox with digital screens for walls and a single air purifier in the corner screaming for its life. A few were partying inside and a queue was waiting patiently to get in; ketamine fiends who look as though they have just come from school, wannabe fashion heads and a few creatives all chomping at the bit to get a piece of the action. Overall, the vibes are up. But, the management is a letdown. The owners were “operating the doors” - a shallow excuse to profile those with the highest follower count or let in groups of 16-year-old girls with fake IDs. It's a muddled system where no one really knows who is in the smoking area, and who is queuing, but no one really gives a fuck as everyone is high on various research chemicals.

If you are currently a chronically online music head, in or around London, you have probably been to a Virus event (or attempted to get in). Brainchild of nepo-demon duo Oliver Ashley, son of billionaire sports direct owner Mike Ashley and Tom Burkitt, legendary HFT Ian Connor meat rider (probably the first time it has been consensual), it has come to dominate the UK music scene. Here is your definitive shitpost summarising "Virus":

While many think of it as a club night, it all stems from a studio near Old Street. Buried in the dark corridors of W1 Curates lies ‘Virus Studios’ an unofficial rebrand of the basement recording space which hosts each and every popular electronic and underground musician you could name. From Rainy Miller to Plaqueboymax - hell - even Felix Lee strumming himself off, this is the go to spot for creating music when you are in London. If you aren’t in the studios themselves, you might bump into Ecco2K eating a Chinese takeaway in the kitchen. The reason Virus works is because they exchange studio time for performances at their events, packing their lineups with all those who happen to be about at the time, keeping the budget below an eye-watering amount. The real strides are made in selling the extra studio time itself. The events are always guaranteed to lose money, especially since they offer them for free. This screams London. It seems there are a number of events disguising themselves under the mantra of giving back to the community while simultaneously trying to use their resources to dominate the nightlife scene, leaving grassroots venues and events struggling to catch up outlined in Phin Jenning's recent Guardian article.

Fast forward a few months from the first event and we are at Venue MOT. This time it is out of their hands for the security and infrastructure, a positive departure from the system at the first few events, however they still managed to fuck up the entry. Tom is on the doors again, giving out wristbands to those coming in, and supposedly checking who has RSVP’d, but spending more time trying to chat up girls in the queue. However, when inside, the music blurs all negative connotations, and the sets are back to back to back bangers. Highlights included Wraith9 and Lancer, who are mainly focused on for their production for other artists. Their live sets are always the pinnacle of Virus nights. This is where the true gems of Virus lie, the team behind the scenes making real artistry, not the vapid slop of names, with a secret set by Luka Sabbat and Filthy. (It honestly would be more entertaining to watch both of them toss off into their own mouths than hear Luka clang for the 5th time in a row).

I was gonna talk about one of the nights at Ormside here but lowkey I can’t be fucked…

It’s one big rinse. There is a lot of money going around, but you're just another number to them. They will revel in your escalating attempts to wow them (unless you are Ship Sket, who they rightfully worship, love that don). Realistically, it’s another attempt to buy up the UK music scene, disguised under the mantra of ‘giving back’ through the non-existent entry fee. This isn’t for your benefit. Why would they do this if there wasn’t a gain from the reach? This is nothing new, yet another blow to artists who don’t have the insane capital to throw at growing their following.

At the end of the day, none of this shit matters, we are all still going to turn up to the next one. We will probably contract some new strain of avian flu from the sickly children in the smoking area, so I’ll see you at the next one, and you will probs catch me leaving with a bottle of Belvedere vodka that I stole from behind the bar (again).

Much love,

Alan_Bumbaclart_Partridge

Dana Dawud’s Open Secret is a psychological operation with Buddhism in its heart. The primary body of the O.S orbital system is Monad (2024-), recut for every screening- so far it has evolved across 20 countries, conjuring the angelic aliens of the New New international style in film. Dana’s ambient theory podcast Pleasurehelmet and her writing series Interview with an Artist are on Soundcloud and Substack. Here is her "Artist Take" with Hollywood Superstar.

Open Secret x Hollywood Superstar at Sands Cinema on 14/4/25, 6pm.

"Internet cinema is waiting for something to happen altogether".

Liza Tegel, choreographer, poet, dancer, internet poet, internet dancer.

Exceptional presence and so important to the movement of my thought is Liza Tegel, I just revisited the pleasurehelmet episode she did and she says that her work is defined by the phrase “I live to get away from which I lived”. I have always been really into Swedish art/poetry and when I found Liza Tegel https://on.soundcloud.com/eNZYwRSyLxCjjLxs9 Elis Burrau, Jonathan Brott of L’Amour La Mort, Albin Duvkar and others, I was in a way reunited with a scene that somehow I always ready knew and didn’t know and what connects us is understanding that internet poetry is real. She says “Posting is a platform which directs me where I don’t have to be physically present”. In a way posting becomes this movement that carries into these different lines of thought and intersections of subcultures, and Liza’s posting/writing and her dance practice embodies that and more. She is the contemporary to me. The Swedish internet is 10000 years ahead of the west.

Helen Cioux’s on Rembrant’s Slaughtered Ox, from her essay ‘Bathsheba or the Interior Bible’ (1993)

Bataille argued that the slaughterhouse and the museum share a strange intimacy; this closeness is often expressed in the historical development of both spaces and how the objects in the museum function as the skeletal remains of death and violence, or event the fruits of it. However, Helene Cixous’ reading of the Slaughtered Ox turns the slaughterhouse/the painting into a church, the Ox is crucified and the space of the painting creates the space of that possibility.

Helene Cixous has been very important to me as a writer/painter; her essays, specifically in that book where Rembrandt’s painting is featured, attend to writing/drawing/painting and how the possibility/impossibility of their convergence create new meanings and textures. Typing this on my phone right now makes my thought run differently than typing it on my computer; the screen's smoothness and the touchscreen's intimacy make me feel stronger about every word. I actually started answering these questions on my computer, but I would write only the first sentence. The rest flows better from my fingers into my phone.

Monadology, Deleuze’s take on the Monad, as inspired by these two pictures.

What interests me the most in Deleuze’s take on Leibniz is the POV of the subject/object and the idea of Baroque perspective. And that is what I’ve been exploring in my film, a baroque perspective in cinema, with folds and unfolds of memetic references, digital imagery and multitudes of iterations from cinematographies from all corners of the planet. The seriality and the iterative with each cut function as an unfolding/folding that takes us closer to the Baroque.

Driving your car in Dubai

Those who know me (specifically my online friends) know that I’m always sending voicenotes while driving my car. Driving, walking or being in any other vehicle while moving through a city is such an immersive experience, there’s always something to look at that passes you by faster than your ability to capture it. The temporality of how things pass you by is always faster than the duration you need to take a photo on your phone; the car is anti-photography. I find that poetic. In Dubai, you have to drive faster than in other places, and the highways are vast and open. My favorite moments are when light refracts off glass skyscrapers.

The Cross Versus The Circle

Spinning the cross quickly creates a circle, and parts of the longer line of the cross can make a tangent while the small one can create a chord. If the cross had equal sides, then it could be a diameter. The cross and the circle are too intimate, like the museum and the slaughterhouse.

Alien subjectivity in internet Cinema

Going back to perspectivism and thinking about the alien as subject, the alien as the main subject or feminine hero, following Chris Kraus's Alien’s and Anorexia. The image dictates the cut and acts as the alien subjectivity. Internet cinema acts as a space or an environment where alien encounters are expected to happen. It’s like in Chris Kraus’ Gravity and Grace where the group waited for the mystical experience to occur and realised it had already happened because now they are all together waiting for something. Internet cinema is waiting for something to happen together.

A Rrose By Any Other Name, Hans Goodrich

I appreciate the opportunity to see work by celebrity artists where that celebr(ity)ation is usually local, or confined to spaces such as Gray, Corbett vs. Dempsey, the museums, the Ren, etc. So - how the hell did this lineup get into a space that’s only held three shows? The duo are clearly connected — unsurprising, given the directors’ previous tenures at various spaces in Chicago and beyond, one of which was called Hans Gallery. Hans Goodrich is a name that, according to the show’s accompanying text, originates in an alias. In 1948, Hugh de Verteuil chose it for the name of his Trinidadian restaurant in the greater Chicago area "although none of his relatives were named Hans, nor carried the surname Goodrich".

This string of nomenclature functions as the lore for the gallery, and it creates an odd relationship to the thematic of the show itself: ‘the malleable nature of identity’. The lore is an anecdote within the text, and so these constructed and referential actions are not only bound by the limits of the show and what’s in it, but the gallery apparatus that puts it on. Is this actually an interesting gesture? I think so, but I don’t think you have to read too much into it as I have - if anything, it allows you to have an ‘aha’ moment of connecting the conceptual space bounded by the show to something more informal and exterior to it.

Genesis Breyer P-Orridge and Pippa Garner’s inclusions are probably my favourites in the show - I feel like there is less setup in how the work meshes with theme, and even outside of any ‘does this piece fit in the show’ problematics Breyer’s Shoe Horn #9 (2016) is a hilariously alluring amalgam of mentally, physically and interpersonally preserved objects. If the show’s position is indeed ‘the malleable nature of identity’, the flipside of the viewer’s position is that of untangling it, being a sleuth. Cursory Google searches will give you some, but not all, answers. I find that this resulting subterfuge around gleaning the truth contained within each work is best when the trail runs cold, or at least gets muddy: Vern Blosum is forever a mystery, as per his wishes, and his painting A Rose (2016) is an identity matrix, with no way out, yet even the name can only function as a descriptor of the initial oeuvre: “vernal blossom”. Karen Kilimnik’s Kate Moss at the Beginning (1996) is a deadpan de/reconstruction of early Kate Moss footage, to make as many Kate Moss-es as there are interpellations of her character: it’s Re-materialised lore (it’s actually available to watch on this random youtube upload).

You could say that a symptom of this kind of thematically organised show is an attraction to answers over reflection, which I think holds true for A Rrose… but is not constraining. Even the more direct ‘constructions’ of identity - (Lynn Hershman Leeson’s video work and Larry Johnson’s instructive Untitled (How To Draw Chelsea Manning) (2023), for example - ) hold their own. Its big names with a reasonably high level of quality are installed in an unobtrusive, slightly predictable setup. Leaving with answers is leaving educated, knowing John Dogg is Richard Prince with/and/for Colin de Land, and knowing about J.T. LeRoy and Roberta Breitmore. We’re supposed to leave with something, right?`