“My idea of a good picture is one that’s in focus and of a famous person.”
I want to be the next Andy Warhol.
I’m not kidding; I’m dying to dip my fingers into every proverbial inkpot of the artistic world: photography, painting, acting, singing, dancing, you name it. I want to be at the head of it all, behind big sunglasses. I want to be surrounded by beautiful people--not beautiful in the average sense of the word, but beautiful by my definition.
Definition (from Jessica’s “this is how Jessica thinks” dictionary).
Beautiful, adj. An adjective used to describe people who possess an inside-out glow from the happiness they get from doing what they love—a smoldering beauty, really, usually concentrated in the eyes, mouth, or hands. Exacerbated by a smoking habit, carrying a dog-eared, underlined book or wearing a scarf.
Examples: Cate Blanchett, Ryan Gosling, Elizabeth Peyton, John Lennon, David Lynch, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Hillary Clinton, Lee Miller, Ian McEwan
Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to the distinct realization that I am obsessed with beauty.
Exhibit A: In Williamsburg I walk down the street gawking at the rare species that is “Brooklyn indie white hotness,” manifested in both male and female form—some of the most stylish people you will EVER see, prancing around in their converse and ankle boots as if today were the last day on earth before the government imposes a strict dress code on all of us—-the last day of freedom! Everyone, wear jumpers! Cut your hair using only a bowl and scissors. Pierce your nose! This it it!
Exhibit B: I’m addicted to Vogue. I once had a subscription but cancelled it due to the fact that I couldn’t stand the Norwich notes (old school monied society is a layer on the cake of superficiality that I never really tapped into), but just Tuesday I realized—I’ve been going through Vogue withdraw. The checklist! The models! The Ads! The glossiness of their paper, laced with coke, seeping into my flesh and destroying all of my feminist beliefs! A $1000 plastic bangle from Chanel.
Exhibit C: myspace. There are some gorgeous people on myspace! The best thing about it is that if you find one, you have access to all of their friends, who are usually just as hot, if not hotter. I’ve recently been stalking this couple that appear to be friends of friends—she’s changed her status to “swinger” while he’s “still in a relationship.” What’s going on?! I’m dying to know. Their pictures together are like something out of a Sophia Coppola movie. They’re like two swans….I want to meet them, make friends with them, and spend all my time taking gorgeous photographs of them, writing songs about them, and throwing parties in their honor.
I work literally less than a block from the building that houses the famous loft that was once Andy Warhol’s “factory.” I walk past it on my way to Starbucks, thinking, why can’t I pull this off? I want a salon. I want people to come to my apartment and drink tea (or booze) and talk to me about their passions. I want to tell aspiring Hemingways that they “need work,” or that their writing is “too simple.” Maybe I could convince my roommate to be my Alice B. Tolklas. I want to see a beautiful girl in Williamsburg at some party and make her my muse, follow her around with a video camera and see what happens. I want her to have long skinny legs and wear liquid black eyeliner. I want to date a painter who insists on painting my portrait day and night, so by the end of a month our apartment is filled with canvases.
Most of all, I want fresh flowers for my room every day and a writing desk. I want a cup of coffee in the morning and I want to live in London. I want to walk past Westminster Abbey on my way to work. I want rain. And roses. And god dammit, I want that purple Burberry coat I saw in London in 2003 that cost 2000 pounds.
So I figure, all I have to do is turn my apartment into some sort of commune, provide music (somehow I’ve got to get Dylan to make an appearance), drugs, Campbell soup, and lots of cameras. Calling all artists—come live the beautiful life, avec moi. We’ll do it Andy style.
Just don’t expect me to dye my hair grey.