Give a man a power tool, feed him for a day. *Teach* a man to power tool and he’ll disassemble everything within reach. And build you a dinosaur.
“Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fever’d the progress of these years,
Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem
The recollection of a dream.”
More movement, stripping my sense of self away from the physical space I inhabit. Forcing me to examine what is ‘me’ and what is merely the stuff surrounding me. Holding a mirror to the ego without the protection of familiarity and comfort we tend to create in our nesting habits.
It’s very jarring, this process of intentional displacement. Shakes you up from the inside. It is, in every sense of the word, disturbing.
I don’t mind it too much. Instead, I take an almost perverse pleasure in exploring the spaces that others create for themselves. You can learn a lot about someone by the way they fill the space they dwell within. Give me an hour to explore your home and I can learn more about you than you could ever know. Home decor is the art of hiding your personality in plain sight. I am an explorer. An observer.
This is what I do.
My latest dwelling is a place of peace. Serenity. Sanctuary. Soft tones, gently executed, but very deliberately so. This was crafted with a purpose, like a modern Zen garden.
Trinkets, memories, are scattered among the metaphorical lines in the sand, bringing the self into that space. A physical signature, denoting its creator.
Miniature redwoods reach towards the sky as the light fades, the sole sign of organic life here. Their presence is refreshing, a beautiful counterbalance to the soft whites and creams that dominate.
Coming here after a weekend of camping, training, and arduous debauchery has been a welcome time of recovery.
Dan Deacon filling our eyes and minds with beats and lasers. The image of that green skull strobe burns into my retinas as I lose myself in the crush of humanity. Deafening and glorious, if a bit reserved for a Dan Deacon show.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was looking forward to relay races in that cramped tent.
Spank Rock blowing it up at Beauty Bar last night.
With a set sandwiched between Dan Deacon and Andrew WK these guys still managed to put out more energy than both of them combined. Hands down the best show I’ve seen all week.
“The role of art is to make a world which can be inhabited.”
The Pink Palace is a house…well, half of a house…a communal space, a legend, a state of mind, an art project, an expression of love and mischief and whatever else the people here decide it should be. It’s a curious beast full of treasures and jokes, order and chaos. Strict house rules exist alongside seemingly complete and utter pandemonium.
Remnants of last night’s party are strewn about. Furniture still out on the porch, an armful of feathers swept into a puddle of red and black fluff, a lonely PA system in the drawing room. The house is quiet, almost serene. The visual cacophony of objects d’art plays against the old wood and Victorian architecture, like a sleepy explosion.
It’s a feast for someone like me. I devour every inch of it, drinking it all in with my eyes and ears. I could spend days photographing this house, but we’re on a schedule. I’ll have to come back another day. Really sink my teeth into the place. Coax the secrets from these old walls.
I want to hear their stories.
Maybe we’ll share.
Fauxhawks, wine, sunshine and porch-lounging. Welcome to Sunday at the Pink Palace.