On May Day morning, I woke up to the puzzling combination of an onerous jet lag and a blog post bouncing at my fingertips. In various ways I’m beginning a different chapter, including a new iteration of the Alien Botany art series gestating after a period of recalibration. Plus, this quarter positively brimmed, and in these increasingly unsettled days it’s worth commemorating while I can. The result is this Postus colossus, illustrated with images entirely from my phone; I’m hardly on social media these days and the captures do pile up.
In January, Gašper and I celebrated ten years of conjugal euphoria. If you’ve ever wondered how someone managed to tame me, it’s by not taming me. Rather, he managed it by accepting me exactly as I am, heavens help him, and by letting me live without ever needing to second-guess his devotion, among countless other things I won’t expound on today. Suffice to say our story is a well-researched novel I want to read forever. A decade of marriage is something to muse on indeed, and the decade we’ve shared has been sensational. I won’t deny that these years of unexpected happiness and safety have changed me on a near-molecular level, so maybe I have been tamed a little, after all.
My familiar of seventeen years, Micron, departed this mortal coil soon after the anniversary, as if she was finally satisfied I’d be alright. Without exaggeration, I don’t think I’ve ever felt pain this immense, and if you know me well, you know that’s a Significant Statement. Micron’s absence is felt every day, but I won’t be bringing another dog into my life any time soon. However, a semi-feral cat assigned itself to me last summer and spends a lot of time in the garden, coming inside only to eat and receive a daily brushing.
Before I could finish mourning, it was time to visit my old strand, Los Angeles, for the first time in something like eight years. Post-pandemic West Coast is fairly bleak at the moment, but I saw much-missed comrades and showed G my old sanctuaries in the great Angel City desert. Back in 2008, I wrote a snarky guide to LA for the second issue of my old magazine, Coilhouse, called “Oases Between the Freeways” (complete with a fold-out map of my favourite hideaways), and the sentiment remains, now emphasised by stretches of the city standing vacant even as more new luxury highrises swell over the horizon. I doubt I’ll ever find a way to get along with that place, but I treasure its magical and secret places; they kept me sane during my reluctant stay.
The chief reason for this journey was the wedding of my old chum Clint and his hot tamale, Vinnie, at the Madonna Inn in scenic San Luis Obispo. It was the iconic hotel’s first-ever gay, goth, drag-queen-officiated union. The theme was “funerary chic”, and it brought together a congregation of distinguished angelenos I hadn’t seen since making my escape eleven years ago. I looked hot in Mugler while weeping with (mostly) joy; the event itself and the surrounding nature (where I managed a hike and snagged a juicy prickly pear from an unsuspecting cactus) were a salve for my aching heart. In a welcome, if alarming, turn of events, it rained nearly the entire time. We might get that drenched Blade Runner LA yet.
Because most people in London refuse to wear masks when sick, I caught some kind of bug on public transit upon my return, which triggered my long-C-19 symptoms and set recovery back at least several months. Western individualism doesn’t seem as appealing when public health is concerned. Nonetheless, it was Lunar New Year shortly after, and that’s always a good time. I managed to squeeze in a few concerts, film screenings, and art exhibitions, heard ghost stories read out loud, and witnessed a disconcertingly timely production of Macbeth. I doubt Ralph Fiennes in the titular role meant to embody a certain power-crazed Vladimir, but that’s certainly who I saw on that stage. I was invited to take part in a group show, where I presented large-format drawings and my book, Chimeric Herbarium. We celebrated G’s birthday and finished a few small house-renovation projects before it was time to fly again. And, just before we left, I cut off most of my hair, having reached my length goal a while ago and seeing no reason to keep up the charade.
At some point in recent history, baby internet discovered photos from my old style columns. My 2000s spectre now haunts a new generation of fashion hooligans, devoid of context or connection to my present-day incarnation, and that’s a rather cute mid-life legacy experience. Although I’d like my art to be as pervasive as my style, I know that’s a significantly bigger job, and much of that work lies ahead. Meanwhile, I’d gleefully roll my eyes at certain sours who were determined to devalue and discount what I do with fashion back then, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere.
In late March we returned to Japan, where I got to see fantastic humans and popped so many cherries, my brain is still a veritable compote of blossoms, onsen, ryokan, traditional tattoos, latex, sex dolls, curious club nights, rope, festival food, and hanami, despite my body being an utter shambles thanks to ye olde longe covide.
I left my small camera at home (the big one came along, but I only used it for special occasions, I’ll share those shots separately) as part of my ongoing effort to experience rather than document. My phone seems to have amassed quite a stockpile, nonetheless. Here is some of it:
I wrote about the singular experience of visiting and photographing a traditional tattoo artist in his den here, and have since finished a sketch of that glowing afternoon.
I returned to London just as our own hanami got underway – perfect time for taking very long walks to regain strength and ingesting a comically dreadful audiobook rendition of Mishima’s “The Temple of the Golden Pavilion”. I don’t know how widely London’s spectacular cherry blossom season is appreciated, but it certainly deserves to be.
In late April, I spent a week in NYC for the first time since the lockdowns. Central Park happened to be in full bloom, too, and made a resplendent backdrop for Eugene Vodolazkin’s time-bending epic, “Laurus”. I picked up a mysterious bookplate at my favourite antiquarian book store, caught up with friends, finally made it to The House of Yes, where Underworld put on quite a spectacle, and saw lots of other good art, including Beatrix Potter: Drawn to Nature (on till June 9th, go go go), and, for the first time, Lady Liberty. People still ask me for directions in New York City and it’s still my favourite in the whole of America.
My body started rebelling again around the halfway point in the trip; I’m back in London now, but my head hasn’t stopped spinning. I’ve taken the previous week to get back to myself and absorb this whirlwind while writing this before getting back to the studio.
That’s just some of my 2024 so far; a grand anniversary, a death, a marriage, illness, several oceans crossed, and that’s to say nothing of the chaos swirling across this planet. It’s been a jerky joyride, literally dizzying highs punctuated by dips into cavernous despair. In a barely believable display of generosity, this spring gave me three blossom seasons: Japan, London and NYC. I’m going to remember The Great Hanami of 2024 as a parting gift from Micron. Long may she feast in the great halls, and occasionally send a gust of petals through the aether to her eternal human ward.
