Amid all the rage and dread, my friend Dr. LaRue relayed the news that Pantone has come out with a new color called Period! Not as in punctuation but as in menstrual period…”an original shade of red that represents a steady flow during menstruation.”

How empowering, right ladies?

I’m going to say that this red, described by Pantone as “an active and adventurous red hue,” is not the color I associate with menstruation. Maybe the first day? You tell me.

Pantone goes on to say that

‘period’ emboldens people who menstruate* to feel proud of who they are. To own their period with self-assurance; to stand up and passionately celebrate the exciting and powerful life force they are born with; to urge everyone regardless of gender to feel comfortable to talk spontaneously and openly about this pure and natural bodily function.”

Well, good! I know that I personally was proud to menstruate, and enjoyed clearing a room of men simply by bringing up the subject. I liked brandishing a tampon instead of hiding it discreetly. I almost threw one at a bad opening act at the Palladium or somewhere, hoping to hit the lead singer in the face, to register my displeasure. Doubting my aim, I changed my mind at the last moment.

Years ago I wrote about menstruation here, and I recall the incredible sense of female community that arose from the discussion! It was really wonderful. (Go read the comments if you’re a *Person Who Menstruates, or was one formerly.)

As an old bag, I miss my periods. I loved everything about them. Now, it seems crazy that in 2020, women and girls sill need prodding to feel okay with menstruation. If men had periods…well, you know what Gloria Steinem said! Periods are great but not as art, imo. I’m thinking of icky feminist “art” centered on used Tampax or whatever. They are great, but you don’t deserve a medal for having them. Let’s stop at the new Pantone color.

Will Pantone develop a color for menopause?? I want them to. What would that look like, do you think? The color of autumn leaves mixed with the steel grey of Accidental Icon’s hair? What color is estrogen, anyway?

As we ponder Period red, lets list all the reds we can think of, quick!

Scarlet, ruby, rose, brick, cardinal, blood (not menstrual), vermilion, garnet, and cherry! Somehow I doubt that Crayola will give us a period red. As we lean into our female power, I think we’ll be okay without it.

There is now a deep indentation where I sit on the couch, not the shape of my ass but a big amorphous blob, almost a sinkhole. I can sit there for six hours if there’s enough TV to watch. I actually hate to get up and my partner enables this behavior by periodically asking if there’s anything he can get me, like cookies or chips or a hit of weed.

“Use it or lose it” is great advice for somebody else. This inertia or paralysis or whatever we want to call it has a silver lining though: my discovery of Money Heist on Netflix. It’s a Spanish series whose real title is La Casa de Papel, referring to The Royal Mint of Spain, the site of a brazen heist designed by a criminal genius called The Professor.

The Professor and the eight desperadoes he’s recruited for the heist will become your own beloved family as the show goes on for 30 addictive episodes. It’s easily the most addictive series I’ve experienced, topping Breaking Bad, with which it shares a certain perverse sensibility. Each episode ends with a cliffhanger that is fucking unbearable. You have to watch the next one, even if it’s 3 a.m.

Trying to avoid spoilers, I’ll just say that this series has EVERYTHING! Suspense, drama, romance, heartbreak, humor, politics, philosophy, art direction, heroes and villains who morph into their opposites, and plot twists that will thrill and confound you. Don’t watch a dubbed version or you’ll miss the actors’ seductive voices and those beautiful Spanish S’s. Thank god it’s been renewed for season 4!

Just to balance the enthusiasm here, let me complain about Sunday night TV,  which has turned into a wasteland of awfulness with the season finale of Succession. Just when I survived the last dregs of The Affair, which was torture, I’m now stuck with Ray Donovan and Shameless. Both of these shows have outlasted any pretense of being watchable tripe. Everyone involved with them needs to die, asap. While watching them, I feel like I’m doing penance for some obscure crime in a past life, but my husband is committed to seeing them through, so I consider it part of my wifely duties.

Plus I hate to get up.

What about you guys, recommendations or complaints?

After all the fuss over Vantablack, and the artist who managed to get exclusive access to it, there’s a new blackety-black paint that is virtually the same, and this one’s available to the public.

Called Singularity, the new paint was developed for NASA, just like Vantablack, but the company that developed it (NanoLab) is making it available to all artists, starting at only $30 for a nail-polish sized bottle.

In an interview with Hyperallergic, a NanoLab scientist says:

NanoLab offers a coating service to anyone interested in sending us pieces that can withstand the processing conditions for our experienced staff to coat at our lab facility, but we are open to sharing this entire process with any artist that wants to use Singularity Black in their own studio.

I’d like to coat everything in this velvety matte super-anti-reflective black, just as I used to spray-paint everything gold. It was just a phase, but it seemed like gold made everything better, especially things that aren’t supposed to be gold. Unfortunately, Singularity is kind of hard to work with.

Artist Jason Chase is the first artist to incorporate the paint into a piece of art. Titled Black Iron Ursa, it’s a cast-iron gummy bear that Chase has painted black, atop a rainbow hued circular thing. It’s kitsch, in my opinion, but it makes the point that a really fucking black object can be uniquely compelling.

Just to be perfectly clear, Vantablack exhibits lower reflectance in the visible range — about 0.2% total hemispherical reflectance (THR) at 700 nm — and Singularity Black exhibits about 1.15% THR at 700 nm, according to Hyperallergic.

I think that’s a minute enough disparity that it’s safe to say, NAH NAH, ANISH KAPOOR!

Learn more about Singularity, and even order some here.

Black Iron Ursa (c) Jason Chase, 2017
El Niño Malo (c) Sister Wolf

I have been too sad lately. Too sad to stay awake and too sad to live. It comes and goes. When it doesn’t go, I get worried and even more despondent.

It’s something to do with my genes and my early childhood and my recurring depressions which make my brain more susceptible to triggers and don’t forget my PTSD.

I miss my children and wonder what the point is. I feel exhausted and worthless. I imagine the horror of whoever would find my dead body and decide, “Never mind. I can go on.”

So when I read about a designer who turned teddy bears into art, I was inspired to try this myself. It would be better than “add Abilify.” It would be like occupational therapy.

It would give my hands something to do late at night when I decide to start picking the little scabs on my legs that I get from picking the little scabs on my legs. This leg thing has now gone on intermittently for several years. (See here.) It is comforting in the moment but disappointing afterward.

I got a used teddy bear and bought some embroidery thread. I can’t remember how to embroider but that’s okay.

I’ve been working on my poor little bear, who is not only willing to undergo my pain for me, he is glad to be of service. I can tell when I look in his eyes. He is offering Himself up like Jesus Christ, suffering on my behalf with endless compassion.

I am mostly maiming him with unneeded surgery. I’m throwing in some decorative touches like sequins but mostly I’m fixing his wounds, that is to say my wounds. There is a lot of work to do.

My heart is so broken but the poor little bear understands. He might never be art but who among us really is, right?  He feels my love, even as I torture him.

Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Before today, I have felt offended by images of prosthetic limbs that seemed to fetishize amputees.

Even though it’s none of my business what people fetishize, I will always remember the doctor who told Max to consider having his leg amputated. Max was visibly upset, but somewhat resigned. Everything was as bad as it could be for him, so why not this new development, too. As it turned out, his surgeon disagreed. Further surgery and physical therapy could save the leg. But pictures of prosthetic legs continued to fill me with anger and despair.

Losing a leg seemed indescribably horrible and unfair. But it happens. And clearly there are plenty of people who cope with this loss and don’t let it ruin their lives.

Kiera Roche is a strong-willed amputee who has challenged herself with cycling and hiking. She has struggled with ideas of ‘normal’ and looking different. She loves her beautiful new floral leg, and I love it too.

Keira and her beautiful leg have changed my thinking about amputees. I am grateful to have come across The Alternative Limb Project. I feel enlightened on a subject where my mind was once closed.

~

photos (c) the alternative limb project

Matjames Metson is a self-taught artist whose work needs to be seen in person to be fully appreciated.

Each piece is complicated but deliberate, and full of hidden delights. His art is personal but resonates with wonder and mystery.

I met him at his studio and fell in love with him, as did my companions. Matjames is fucking adorable. He told us about his experience of Hurricane Katrina, and showed us the graphic novel he is working on. Each page is a mini-masterpiece of emotion, beautifully crafted with a black Sharpie. He told us about the Sharpies he acquired in the chaos of Katina, when he walked through a looted store where everything was gone but the school supplies.

I can’t wait for his book to be published. Meanwhile, his art is available for sale right now, and will be on exhibit next year at the Fowler Museum in Los Angeles.

Here is a video where you can see Matjames in his studio. Here is an album of his work on Facebook. Here is his website.

If you collect art or know someone who does, a piece by Matjames Metson will be something to treasure. I really believe that art elevates the soul. My soul was enriched by the radiant sweetness of this talented artist and yours can be too!

(c) Matjames Metson

Martine Roch is pure delight. Let’s love her!

*Picasso

Today we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art to see an exhibit of graffiti and street art. Little did I know it was The Place to Be, with a long line of hipsters waiting to get inside the museum.   My husband and I thought “Fuck this” and decided to leave , just as we saw my adopted son Chris and his girlfriend Ada walking toward us.

It was wonderful to realize that we crypto-hipsters all gravitate to the same places. Ada became a museum member to help us avoid the long line for non-members.   The guy who helped her had 14 piercings in his face.

The exhibit was crawling with people who could each qualify as a piece of graffiti art. The was no air inside, where the temperature hovered near boiling point. Everyone was madly taking pictures of the art and each other. You had to dodge the  iPhone  flashes as you tried to avoid screwing up someone’s photo op.

I complained to my husband in a non-stop whine, but he’s learned to live with this. I objected aloud to a wall of Shepard Fairy crap, noting “Shepard Fairey is a fucking punk!” and thereby quoting my own self. I loved the cars and some black and white photos of Chicano homies. But most of it seemed boring and outdated, like break-dancing only less dimensional. Shuffling along the narrow passages between makeshift rooms, I felt like a character in “Hi, Mom.”

I wondered what would happen if someone broke out a can of spray pain and graffiti’d the graffiti.

Out in the street, an even longer line of hipters stood sweltering. I said to my husband: Haha, look at them. We walked to a Yogurtland, where a pretty girl sitting next to me blabbed about her reality show and insisted to her morbidly obese friend that what she really wanted to do was “make art.”

I don’t know where I’d be without it.   I found this here.

And you can still find me here.