Happy Monday

Every Monday I post photos of guys smiling.

Five Words in Orange Neon

Just for the air conditioning, more or less, I began to volunteer at the Portland Art Museum some time around last July. Every Friday, I had to iron a white dress shirt, fold it neatly with my black dress pants, Argyll socks, and square toe slip-on loafers. Then I would assemble it very carefully in my messenger bag, sling it on my back, and bike downtown in the summer heat to unpack and change into it all for my shift. Despite my efforts, I was always noticeably disheveled.

And it was all for nothing, really. I would sit for an hour at the coat check desk staring into space (did I mention it was summer?) then walk around the museum for two hours looking at the art. That part was nice. That part was why I wanted to volunteer, but there’s only so much browsing you can do in PAM’s very limited collection. Still, I had my favorite galleries, and the works gave me a lot of ideas.

There’s no reason anyone should know it, but I am an inveterate sketcher. I make little drawings and schematics constantly. Often as not, I will even sketch things I need to buy rather than write them down. There are little pictures floating around every horizontal surface in my bedroom and office, and they’re stuffed in between the pages of my real sketchbooks too. I can’t get an idea out of my head until it’s on paper; so after a few weeks at the museum, I bought a small Moleskin notebook (at the gift shop) to carry in my back pocket while I wandered.

What flashes of brilliance did I capture? Well, Five Words in Orange Neon for one. (See above.) My planned artistic response will be called “Six Words in Orange Neon.”

Two things got me thinking about all my little sketches. First, I saw a documentary about the artist Andy Goldsworthy, much of whose work simply disappears and exists solely in photographs or video of the process of making it. In a sense, the documentation itself is the work. (A similar phenomenon is practically the norm in architecture, where very few of the imagined projects ever get realized, yet certain architects become known for the presentation of their often unbuildable ideas.) Process is part of the art these days, and thus doodling may actually have some value beyond the mere practical.

The other thing that made me think about my sketches was a fashion article in the New York Times on the recent popularity of antler imagery. That rang a bell for me because I had sketched out an idea for a craftsy project back in my museum days. Specifically, I wanted to make wall-mounted “antlers” out of bike rims and old stripped down seats, similar to Picasso’s bike seat bull’s head (and to this person’s idea, which I just now discovered).

It was interesting that the sneaky antler meme had gotten into my head too, and it made me want to more fully realize the whole project; unfortunately, I can’t weld. But whatever. The point for me was that I should have a more public process; it’s part of the art, as I said before, and most of the labor. Besides, the (theoretical) interest of others is a good prod. So I think I’m going to start a projects in progress blog, or maybe just make static pages at my personal website, where there are already some snapshots of finished work.

I’ve read that it’s actually beneficial to be braggadocious. So I think it’s time for me to stop hiding my light under a bushel. As the song goes, “I’m gonna let is shine.”

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Here are a few more random sketches that I’ll probably never use for anything:

Left to right above:
-My foot from when I was sitting in the park with Michael
-Roughing out some sculpture ideas
-Planning to rearrange the furniture in my Savannah apartment

Left to right above:
-Figuring out Mt Tabor’s streets, trails, and access points
-Just working out some quilt patterns

Happy Monday

Every Monday I post photos of guys smiling.

Oh, Portland.

Head of the Chattahoochee

During the mid-to-late eighties when I used to row, I was constantly surrounded by painfully goodlooking guys. And whenever there was a regatta, thousands of genetically perfect men — tall, handsome, muscular — would come from far and wide to compete. (There were probably women too, but I have absolutely no recollection of them.) My eyes were in a state of permanent ecstasy. Unfortunately, the rest of me was usually miserable with anxious longing for something I could never have.

As I was throwing out photos this week, I came across lots and lots of pictures from those race days. Most of them did not feature my teammates, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to get rid of them. I mean, obviously I should; it’s not like there’s a shortage of beefcake shots out there. But then if I had to choose something to remember in my old age, I would certainly prefer that it involve hot guys.

Despite the twenty-ish years that have passed, when I look over the photos, I am right back on the banks of the river, swooning over an infinity of unattainable men. The feelings are exactly the same, and unfortunately that includes all of the insecurity and self-loathing. Nonetheless, I’m still pretty glad to have had the experience. It really is — most of it — something to look back on fondly.

Oddly enough, the fact that I couldn’t have gotten those hunks in the sack is something of a comfort to me these days. I’ve known gay guys who bitterly mourn the loss of their youthful good looks, and if I had had them to lose, I might feel the same way. Instead, when I see a beautiful young god in the prime of his life, I often console myself with the thought that I couldn’t have landed him when I was twenty-two either. Believe it or not, that actually keeps me from feeling old or like I’ve deteriorated. It’s more like I’m holding steady, which is, you know, something.

So for now, I’m hanging on to at least a few of the rowing pictures. Why not? I’ve got my whole life to throw them away, and maybe someday I’ll be really glad that I never did.

The photos in this post were all taken at the Head of the Chattahoochee Regatta in Roswell, Georgia around 1989.

Museum of John

Back in 1981, I went on my first big trip to Europe, which was a real eye opener for a fourteen year-old kid from rural Georgia. At the time, Belgium seemed no less exotic than, say, Kuala Lumpur for me. When I got home, I found some currency that I had forgotten to spend, and to remind myself of the trip, I began to use the bills as bookmarks. It’s a habit I still maintain, and in fact, I have all the francs and guilders I brought back from that vacation. So I’ve been using the same bookmarks for twenty-six years now.

 A twenty franc note from Belgium that I’ve had since ‘81

Slowly but surely, for the last year at least, but especially the last few months, I’ve been trying to unburden myself of meaningless posessions, or in some cases, very meaningful posessions. As I go, I keep hitting these little emotional roadblocks. Do I really need to keep this old currency? How about the army boots I’ve had since 1985? …or the embossed leather passport cover from Mark Cross? It’s still unused after more than two decades, but I can’t bring myself to toss it because it’s monogrammed for goodness sake.

And what about pictures? God, I have so many picutres. Even after scanning and throwing away stacks of them, there’s still a whole crate left. I hate looking back at my past because so much of it was unpleasant, yet I can’t bring myself to get rid of the evidence. After all, how do you decide whose face you never want to see again?

Selecting memories — choosing which object stays and which goes — makes me feel very much like a curator, like I’m honing the collection of the Museum of John.

You’re Only as Old as Your Underwear

It’s “Fashion Week” here on Caruthers Street. What that really means is that I came up with a “fun” theme as inspriation to finally go through some old clothes and throw stuff away. More importantly, I am hoping to make some much needed alterations and maybe even sew another bag for myself. You know, gotta stay fresh. Can’t disappoint my public.

Even though I seem to wear the same thing every day, I actually have a surprisingly extensive wardrobe, accumulated mostly in the last year, and I kind of need to get rid of some stuff. So a couple of weeks ago, when Andy was over hanging out, I conscripted him as my queer eye, and one by one, I tried on all of my little plaid shirts to get his opinion. At one point, he actually winced. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he told me cautiously, “… but… it makes you look… old.” So that shirt when right into the “free box” pile.

Over the last few years I’ve been getting older, of course, but also thinner and more fit. So I’ve had the weird experience of becoming a man “of a certain age” yet generally looking better in tighter clothes. (Half the time I need a size small.) I never know what’s right for me these days, not quite sure where to draw the line, and it changes constantly anyway. Playing dress-up for a gentleman caller has become my way of figuring it out.

(Seats for the upcoming boxer-brief show now available at participating Ticketmaster locations.)

With perfect timing, the Mercury’s fashion issue came out two days ago, and an article about the new life in men’s underwear appeared in the New York Times. (Quote: “You are only as old as your underwear.”) Must be mating season, ’cause everybody’s thinking about how they look lately — with and without clothes.

At YMA MLP: Read the underwear article “But What if You Get Hit by a Taxi?“