Rules: Do I even have to explain this? 140 characters. The subjects should be insulting, egomaniacal, unconstitutional or downright crazy. How To Submit: Write us your best Trump tweets in an email at firstname.lastname@example.org
Childhood is weird. Not exactly a deeply analytical statement, I know, but it’s true. It’s hard to put a finger on childhood–that amorphous, scattershot of memories we form mainly as adults, adding meaning to the various stages of our development. In her book The Queer Child, or Growing Sideways in the Twentieth Century, Kathryn Bond …
I’m a sucker for disco balls. There, I said it. If anywhere or anything includes a mirror ball, I’m immediately a fan. I’m like a moth to a shimmering, glittering flame.
But beyond my lizard brain fixation with shiny objects, disco balls can be harnessed as a complex symbol–a metaphor for community, excess, escapism, utopia, self-fashioned identity and even, safety in nightlife.
Park Chanwook’s latest masterpiece The Handmaiden is a wonderfully claustrophobic, seductive thriller set in 1930s Korea, without any white persons appearing to save the day or infiltrating the plot. The film has received resounding praise from critics and audiences alike, proving once and for all that despite having no literal projection of themselves within the storyline, white audiences can find an all-Asian movie both entertaining and valuable. The film’s lucrative success condemns any excuses for whitewashing in order to appeal to Western audiences, which was most recently used by Chinese director Zhang Yimou in his film The Great Wall.
“If you don’t have a merry little Christmas, you might as well kill yourself. Every waking second should be spent in Christmas compulsion; career, love affairs, marriages and all the other clutter of daily life must take a back seat to this holiday of holidays,” writes John Waters in his psychotic Christmas classic Why I Love Christmas (130). Well, if it’s good enough for our preeminent filth elder John Waters, it’s good enough for us. Christmas is truly the best time of the year.
I drool when I nap. Yep. It’s not pretty, dearest Filthy Dreams readers, but as Mariah Carey slurred in her New Year’s eve performance/art/train wreck, “it is what it is.”
Yesterday, that over-salivation both almost killed me and gave me inspiration. I dreamed I was drowning. While I couldn’t breathe in reality, in my mind, I was immersed underwater with a slow, rhythmic, Rorschach-like imagery. A bikini-sporting body appeared and disappeared in spurts of bubbles, a beaded heart sank to the bottom of the sea and a childlike voice, reminiscent of Björk, crooned Chris Isaak’s heartbroken “Wicked Game.”
Well, I know I promised days ago, faithful Filthy Dreams readers, that I wasn’t going to do a tired old best of list, but Filthy Dreams is nothing if not inconsistent and unpredictable. While I was going to write another “making up for lost time” review of Jordan Wolfson’s show at David Zwirner, I decided …
Following yesterday’s first post of the shows we missed reviewing in 2016 due to being forced to work on other projects for cash before the windfall of the Arts Writers Grant, I’m returning to a show from much earlier this year–Mx Justin Vivian Bond’s My Model/My Self at Participant Inc. “Explain what? A role model?” exclaims …