By JO SMITTY
“There should be a lot of new girls in town, and there always are.” –Andy Warhol, 1975
Vaguely Jock Sturges but done by girls, not to them/ a smidge of David Hamilton but as Ice Cube said “With no Vaseline”
pink frames, a few echoes of Ryan McGinnley, in a very fine way
When Larry Clark’s early books were sealed in plastic bags by hobo/sellers on the streets on NYC in the early ‘90s
I’m pretty sure River Phoenix was still alive and Gus Van Sant was making those shorts where his cat , uh never mind…but by girls, not alone sort of together. It’s their call, back when people made phone calls, back to Sally Mann, (flash) forward to Madison Gilbert (Neverland) but that’s another picture.
“Ashley Armitage” sounds rather like a character out of Trollope’s “The Way We Live Now,” consorting w/ Augustus Melmotte and Lady Carburor/ perhaps a pal of Ronald Firbank or a peer of Alexander McQueen/ or maybe a louche coke pal of Kate Moss 15 years ago in ‘ole Blighty
Twink-Think Pink! Doris Day Judy Holliday Madonna in that wedding dress
or even Hemingway’s Lady Brett Ashley/by the way, which one’s Pink?/Ariel Pink drank/
cough syrup/When I was a child, I had a fever (yeah and it was all down hill from there, eh Rog? )
Blank pink slate
tabula rasa Pink; is there even a word for that?
…narrows down to one, the pink bathtub w/ warm water flowing into soapy suds
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I replaced the pale blue tiles
with Ashley’s pink tiles. Time Travel can, supposedly, work, i.e., you can really travel back in time and change things, fix events by literally smushing in better (wrong?) puzzle pieces, maybe even if they don’t really fit
“To a girl with a pink hammer, every problem looks like a pink nail,” paraphrase of Charlie Munger’s bromide
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I am gluing in the happy, gay pink tiles and tub over the sad one in Bellevue and sadder one that hill (massive TRIGGER), now both gone but still stuck in my mind.
When I was a child, in the ‘60s, I was somehow briefly a hairdresser, an amateur one at least. I have no idea how I figured it out, as I’m certain I wasn’t 10, and no one in my family had any style. Yet there I was, in the ‘40s bathroom, teasing girls’ hair and offering make up tips. Ah, thee fuzzy sands of time; do they act as a lineage exfoliant?
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…and after I’ve dutifully glued the pink fixtures into my childhood bathroom, and carefully let it set, will thee magick be strong enough to keep them and me happy & pink?
Q. How do I make my magick strong enough to blot out the sun-sized sadness that rules said epoch, beaming its awful over cast gray rays directly into every nook and cranny of that evil-packed and insanity-stuffed abode?
(Aside: I realize that is an awful lot to ask of a photograph. Yet somehow I’m certain it’s up to it. Fairly bristling with good, clean, open “pink magick,” this picture extolls the virtues of bathing (as WET:The Magazine of Gourmet Bathing, an odd sort of Slash/Vice morph did in the ‘70s) as cleaning, healing, restorative. It’s easy to imagine it expanding its virtues 1,000,000,000 times its normal size, like extreme close ups of water bears where they are every bit Godzilla’s equal, totally ready to munch Tokyo. I hope this muncher is hungry for Bellevue.)
Ashley Armitage Postscript: Like Henry Miller’s little book on Arthur Rimbaud, this has been more about me than about Ashley, that happens sometimes. (full pause) A safe place is not equal to home. Rebecca Warner really wanted those 1940’s art deco bathroom lights but I think they went to the landfill.
Goal: Replace fear, panic, pain, guilt, proximity to madness with warmth, comfort, uh, no inner shopping list…No, STOP. “Only” HOT, clean, soapy water is more than ample for this task, thank you.