We currently have a best seller on our hands. Someone who says the days that were a source of melancholy for the pomos exploring a new ironic sensibility were an anomaly of history. An anomaly reaping off an economic structure undone with the cool rationalization that a return to a set of values would stem their decay – a chance for counter, tragedy for busted up polemics, barriers came down to mosh in atomic charged fields.
Promised sunrise and some lost helicopters in a desert, a course got charted that brought one tremendous innovation to the wider world, irking those keeping track and personifying the amorphous – capital flight tilting the axis.
On Chelsea walls the cramped basement and bone littered back garden of ABCNoRio turns warehouse, the broken psyches of Wardance now cinemascope as homoerotic prole rubbings, oozing pointillist acrylics.
A Voice photographer, now based in Jersey City, counting herself lucky having spent a semester abroad in London, snapped the guests. Dutifully asking permission each time, desperate to move back to the city, when detecting an accent inquiring the heritage and pressing the case for providence, punishing the coy ones in the edit. The gallery offers the pleasure of taking Rivington to Prince – distilled mosh pit to militarized street art – arming iconography for proper measure nostalgia trippin’, packaging like fine Tetra Pak wine on boards with no trucks. The Native New Yorker moniker now sweeping such polite inquiry, germinating from formerly derided Bridge-and-Tunnel culture no longer relegated to the outer boroughs. Much talk of hipsterism invading these conclaves of Juicy. Irony is landlords are much more attuned to the long form trade winds blowing stretch limo bottle culture that distilled clubs of broken beats for the gambit of incessant speculation turned gleeful corruption.
The city is empty nest now – an exclusive destination for inhabitants of elite bubbles maintained by legions of servants back home in last third of the world conclaves. Some technoutopic apps can pick up the slack, fostering just the right amount of distance from the rabble, the taxi driver, the short order cook, the culture provider, stepping on the regulation fray of bought off inspectors and handed down medallions. No bulwark to stand in the they-ok-now-OTB repatriating capital, broken window theories as cartoonish sheen guarding the rental bubble, DNA labs in the petty art crime business, reiterating the parroted fact that there is no message, simply breach.
Overheard banter in a Chelsea elevator –
Sorry I don’t speak French.
Cuban. We’re Cuban.
[ romance ]
Cuban first off the boat.
First off the plane.
[ entitlement ]
You wouldn’t go back then?
[ affirmation ]
Such a shame.
Such a beautiful place.
Even if he were gone.
[ mourning ]
It’s starting again.
[ glance ]
The sack of Rome, after all, isn’t due to the churning import of a warrior class. Instead a sweet combination Moët Hennessy heart flush comeuppance and a periphery bathed by a little molecule stilling critical barbarian faculties. Meanwhile years of relentless pat downs and good will compensation represents the double rainbow triumph of Like over grit. Marking this triumph, the very same day, not very far removed, managed chaos breaks out in the newly renovated rotunda. The assembled super nest crunch. We ask who do we do. We do who we did. Marvel at the bed spread. Cotton candy at the banquet. Cages for the zones of elemental chaos, now bathed in sunshine. Sweeping the stuffing past the shuffling ministers in blue.