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Saturday, February 5, 2011

Warrior Princess

My friend Kitt just sent me this link on Model Andrej Pejic, androgenous model and babe to boot. Very inspiring. Check it out. It makes perfect sense to me that people with a tad more XY than XX would make excellent models because they often naturally have the long, slightly spindly, or at least the ultra shapely legs required for looking painfully gorgeous in clothes. Why not leave the modeling to those with the natural bone structure?

My ideal runway show would feature all androgenous people, and no one in the audience would be able to tell, or care, what was under the skirts or in the pants of my models. That's also how I plan my future wedding. And my future post-apocalyptic commune, for that matter.

I had an artistic revelation last week. Pink Belly Dancer was in town and for her birthday, we perused Melrose Avenue with avengence, she acquiring tiny dress after tiny dress, our heads all buzzing with the clothes and the people and the weather and the friendship and the frantic fun of it all. I managed to get my ear pierced again, forgetting completely that body art inflicts a certain amount of trauma, on so many levels, to the wearer. My brain slowly congealed at the combination of (window) shopping and pierced adrenaline, eventually finding it rather hard to think, but suddenly bursting into tears over "it all!" when Poni and I finally made it home. Sweetness listened and cooked for us while I let out a slew of worries, most of them my being concerned over lack of inspiration. But the sensation of having my thoughts cancelled out by opposing experiences helped me get to the root of the matter. I had, for a brief window, insight into this very intensely awesome part of myself; the deep, gutteral artist, the cleverest me, the most sensitive to my powers.

I have since felt incredibly tapped into my "art crazy" as I like to think of it. I have been thinking of words that go well with art, like ART FOOD, or ART TART, or (as a reference to a brand my friend Biff invented in our early twenties) ART CRUSH. My theory in this is that in doing simple exercises to think of things in a creative context, even if it's a little tick-lick habit as such simple poetry, will bring me back into the moment and think for myself. Creatively. Melrose Ave. gave me an extra juicy shot of what I find so subtly overwhelming about Los Angeles, all in one not-so-subtle go. It helped me to feel more clearly how senstive I can be to it's influence, and it had started to cloud my own instincts. I should be free.

I feel a bit more liscence to do as I please, and my art projects have been wildly passionate deepening affairs in my head. I am in love with my work, and that feels amazing. The other day I imagined myself a dancing warrior princess while practicing yoga to Lorena McKennit. And you know what? I f*cking felt like a real warrior princess when I was done, having turned on my magical powers.

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