The Overexamined Life of A.V. Phibes

Some art I did recently: trying some new techniques

Occasionally I get hired to a project for the wrong reasons.  That is to say, I am clearly not the person who ought to be doing the job, but I'm still expected to do it and then watch the project fall apart or have me axed from it because I shouldn't have been on it in the first place.  At other points in my career, I found this very depressing as it tended to leave me with feelings of frustration and failure.  

So when I was offered the opportunity to present some ideas for an ad campaign, and I KNEW that it was not going to work out, I decided to find the positive in the situation and just look on it as an opportunity to play with some new techniques and try to expand my horizons.  They told me to do something "hip, edgy, urban, but whimsical and fun."  I pretty much knew my definition of that was not going to be what they wanted, but I was determined to do it anyway and try to enjoy it.

And so I did!  And, then, when I got axed from the project because it wasn't what they wanted (surprise!)  I was still happy that I got to push myself in other directions.  So here's what I presented:

 

My first and only tattoo: or "learn from my mistakes and don't get a tattoo of an obscure dadaist pun that only makes sense in French."

To this day, I still only have one tattoo.  I feel bad saying that I regret it, but...honestly... I often do.  This may seem a contradictory thing to say considering how much artwork I've done that's been tattooed on other people. The thing about tattooing, though, is that it requires a certain type of person to pull off successfully.  That person being, essentially, one that doesn't change their mind.  Trouble is, I'm definitely NOT that person and knowing that now doesn't really help.

I believe it was sometime in early 2000.  This was a particular time in my life that was kind of magical:  I had just transitioned over to doing art for a living and, because I was freelance, I didn't have to go to a "job" anymore.  I had more money and freedom than I'd ever had before.  I had also started performing and was still exhilarated by it. I was, in my small way, living the dream I had come to New York to live. The feeling was very emboldening. I felt like I could do anything. I had a sense of surety and power that imbued everything I did.  

And so, in this state of mind, I took my first trip to San Francisco. While getting silly with one of my good friends (who had many tattoos) she said "Let's go get tattoos together!" and I said "Yes!"  She was surprised and said "do you really mean it?" and when I said "yes" again, she grabbed my by the hand and said, "we have to go do it before you change your mind!"  

Now, it wasn't an entirely impromptu decision.  For over a year I had in my head the "tattoo that I would get if I ever got a tattoo," and that was what I intended to get.  Since I'd thought about it for over a year, I felt like I was making a good decision.  What I wanted was the letters L.H.O.O.Q tattooed on my lower back.  This was a reference to the art piece by Marcel Duchamp (right), which I thought was significant on multiple levels.  

First of all, Marcel Duchamp was a personal hero of mine, so the tattoo would be a tribute to that.  Secondly, the piece itself was an insouciant challenge to classical tradition which fit with my own sense of irreverence. And Thirdly, the whole joke of the piece lies in the fact that the phrase "L.H.O.O.Q." if pronounced in french sounds like the phrase "elle a chaud au cul" which means "she's got a hot ass"...and it's above my butt!  Haw!  So, really, I thought I was making a very sound choice.  I had this vision of sexy art history majors seeing it and falling in love with me.  It was going to be awesome.

But here we come to the whole "changing my mind" part...

So, it turns out that if you have a tattoo that is not immediately comprehensible (like say, a dragon or a butterfly) people expect you to explain it.  And after about the 100th time you explain it, you wish to god you hadn't had it put on your body permanently. During a romantic interlude, when a man would run his fingers over the letters and say "what does that mean?" my mind would heave a sigh: don't make me have to stop and explain this again.

 After a few years, when my shirt would creep up and someone would ask "what's your tattoo mean?" I'd just answer "It means 'don't ever get a tattoo.'"

The unfortunate part is that I didn't stop liking what my tattoo meant--I still love Marcel Duchamp and everything that's implied there--I just got tired of having this public statement that I had to explain.  

So, I guess that you have to be not only a person who doesn't change their mind, but a person who doesn't mind engaging with strangers via your body art.  Just a heads-up kids... give it some thought before you go under the needle.

Shedding the incognito: trying to come to terms with my own identity.

So, For the past two years or so, I've been trying to be "incognito."  Now I once again want to be incog-NEATO! (oh god, please make me stop!)  But seriously, identity can be a slippery eel that's hard to keep a grip on.  

I had a dream when I was a young whippersnapper that my life would be interesting and exciting.  The price one pays for this is facing a greater number of challenges, both internal and external.  When I was younger, my battles always seemed to be external:  Me vs. the world and other people.  With age, the battles became more internal: me vs. me vs. me.  The downside of an "interesting" life is that it has to change all the time and you have to change with it. 

Often, when I'm in transition between one "self" and another, I withdraw into a sort of neutral place and re-emerge when I feel like I'm on steady footing.  Often the transition involves rejecting the past self.  Sometimes I have this visual picture of myself from one year to the next, all the me's standing side by side, then I see all the me's make a 45 degree turn to the right and slap the preceding one upside the head.  And so I rejected the past self.

Only problem is: then I started thinking "but wait!  my past self DID have so much fun!  I STILL WANT THAT!" and so, in the process of rejection, there was a sort of re-integration.  Thank god, because this "neutral" phase has gone on for almost three damned years.  

Much of my problem stemmed from placing my "self" out there for public consumption. I made myself a "brand;" and not only my social life, but my career was tied to it. I chafe under the pressure of having to behave a certain way and live up to specific expectations and when I perceived the "expectation" as coming from some anonymous consciousness in the outside world, I started hiding inside.

Now, being "incognito" has been kind of a lovely learning experience in itself. When I was a kid, I felt like an outsider involuntarily... I was "different" and didn't want to be.  When I was a young adult, I decided to be "different" on purpose.  It became very important to me to be seen and to express myself in everything I did.  Once that became a duty instead of a privilege, it just wasn't as fun anymore.  It felt burdensome. I didn't want other people to be telling me who "myself" was. I went from "freedom" meaning being able to express myself to meaning I didn't have to express myself.

These incognito years were my chance to feel what it's like to be "normal."  I mean, there's only so "normal" a person can be in New York, but I just tried to be as neutral as possible. I still have a certain "physical expressiveness" (aka: awkward nerdiness) that gives me away, but if I dressed normal, I could get away with it.  It was nice not to be pre-judged. It was nice to be able to conceal or reveal myself willfully.  It was nice to feel invisible. It was nice to be happy letting other people shine instead of clamoring for the spotlight.  It was nice to watch from the outside for awhile.

Now I'm trying to take the timeline of my life and take all the disparate parts and re-assemble them into some integrated whole of who I am now.  I'm also trying to balance the negative and the positive.  I've always veered between either extreme.  Either from the egotistical "I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW HOW GREAT MY LIFE IS!" to the paranoid: "Oh god...everyone just thinks I'm a name-dropping attention whore! Maybe I'm giving the wrong impression!"  And the problem when you "put yourself  out there" is that people will confirm both sides.  Trouble was, I was at the point where I was like "I CAN'T BE WHAT YOU WANT ME TO BE! I WILL ONLY DISAPPOINT YOU! I CAN'T TAKE THE PRESSURE!"  

So, yeah, self-re-assembly.  Stay tuned.

Andrew W.K.'s japan covers may be the greatest thing ever.

This is from an AMAZING album of japanese covers by Andrew W.K. I think the fact that I've been listening to this on repeat for three days proves that my inner 15 year old boy is alive and well.

From the vault: The world's saddest lollipop

So I've been going through my old files and occasionally unearthing some forgotten gems.  This picture transpired because someone told me that they had drawn the world's saddest lollipop and I bet them that I could draw an even sadder lollipop.  I won.

 

The controversial Ralph Lauren ads: Unrealistic standards of beauty don't bother me, but bad photoshop does.

So these Ralph Lauren ads depicting "emaciated" models have been causing outrage on the internets and I wanted to throw my 2 cents into the mix...

  

So my first reaction was "What? That's so photoshopped it's ludicrous!"  my next reaction, however, was anger.  No, not anger at how Ralph Lauren was presenting unrealistic body images and turning the youth of America into a pack of eating-disordered self-loathers.  No, I was pissed because somebody got paid to do that photoshop...AND IT'S SHIT!

Look, pictures are photoshopped.  I know this.  I accept this. It's not like I've never photoshopped a picture.  Sometimes I've nipped in a waist or a thigh or erased some zits without even telling people. Hell, I've even photoshopped skinny women's asses bigger so their curves would look good.  People like to look good in pictures. And "posed" pictures are supposed to be a fantasy.  Might as well make everyone look their best, right?

But here's the deal:  These pictures almost make me crack up because they look SO RIDICULOUS.  These women don't look more beautiful, they look like they've been badly photoshopped by someone with a mortal fear of hips.  Look, maybe hips killed their parents or touched them in the bathing suit area.  I don't know.  All I know is that when you're supposed to photoshop a girl to look good, you are not supposed to make them look like Gumby in drag.  If your photoshop is that obvious, guess what?  IT'S SHITTY PHOTOSHOP.

That second photo hurts my soul.  Dude...(or chick, I shouldn't be sexist)...if you're going to photoshop someone to be that skinny, SIZE ADJUST THEIR HEAD TO MATCH.  I mean, come on.  How did this ever get approval?  The art director should be fired.  

Okay, okay... I know I'm supposed to be all "But think of the children!" but I think it's time the children faced facts:  

Fact 1:  Models are a very specific body type.  You can starve yourself until the cows come home and it won't magically make you 5'11" if you're 5'3"

Fact 2:  Pictures are photoshopped.  Maybe instead of eating nothing but a raisin all day, you should just learn photoshop.

Fact 3:  If looking good isn't your job, don't sweat it.  Okay, if you're a model or an actress or a stripper or a trophy wife and your livelihood depends on looking a certain way, well, sorry, but you're gonna have to take those lumps.  If you're not, well consider yourself lucky!  You are officially not required to give a damn!  Sure, we all want to look nice, but there's no need to torture yourself over it. Just call a spade a spade and play the hand you're dealt. Also, feel free to gloat over the fact that you'll still have a job after you're 30.

And so, I would urge the youth of America to look at these pictures and laugh, because they are silly...or...if you are like me, get pissed off that such crappy workmanship made it into a national ad campaign. 

In which I try to prove I am smart by taking the Mensa test...

I believe I got the idea around the time that I was called in for a legal deposition by the defense lawyers in my ongoing copyright infringement case.  The lawyer for the defense seemed to be building his entire case around the hope, or perhaps the assumption, that I am an idiot.  His arrogant attempts at semantic intimidation were, at the very least, misguided, but, personally, I found them to be horribly insulting.  The reason being: I hate people assuming that I'm dumb.  This, then, prompted the thought:  "I need to prove that I'm smart!"

Give me a Fucking Break: Tea Tree Australian Chewing Sticks, get real...you're a toothpick.

 So I saw this box of toothpicks laying on the table and noticed something:  These toothpicks were calling themselves "chewing sticks."  I guess being called a toothpick isn't good enough for these pretentious assholes, they have to be "chewing sticks."  Oh, hello chewing stick.  Would you like some champagne and caviar?  May I take your top hat?  How about I roll out a fucking red carpet for you?

Look, give it up.  You're a toothpick.  Why do you have to play games?  Do you think that just because you have tea tree oil, you're  better than everyone else?  Oh, excuse me... you're "impregnated" with tea tree oil.  La-dee-fucking-da.  Don't expect me to give you my seat on the bus. You're not impressing me with your fancy vocabulary, toothpick, you're just making yourself look like a douche.  

Oh, and where did you get the idea that you could impress people by saying you're australian?  This just shows that you are totally fucking clueless.  What?  Did you think we would think you were "exotic."  Did you think you would conjure up images of the Sydney Opera House and crystal goblets of robust Shiraz?  News Flash:  here in America, when we hear "australian" we just think of Crocodile Dundee throwing shrimps on the barbie while he gets drunk on Fosters.   Maybe you should grab your digeridoo and your Kylie Minogue CDs and fuck off before a dingo eats your baby.

Okay, so you're a stick and maybe people chew on you, but you know what other sticks people chew on?  That's right:  TOOTHPICKS.  Some of them are even minty, and you don't see them putting on airs.  Seriously, get over yourself.

Manhattan's secret Chick-Fil-A: Yes, there is one Chick-Fil-A in New York City and this is where it is:

 

I first heard about it around two years ago.  It was my boyfriend, formerly from Atlanta, who had discovered it and he was spreading the word to his other southern-transplant friends:  "There's a secret Chick-Fil-A in Manhattan!"  

People in New York know it, people not in New York are surprised, but there is no Chick-Fil-A in either restaurant or mall food court form in the entire city of New York.  There is, however, a Chick-Fil-A express hidden away in the dining hall of an NYU dorm near Washington Square Park.  For the layperson, if you didn't know where to look, you'd never find it.  Even if you look it up on Yelp, the map directions are fairly inaccurate.  Hence our calling it "The secret Chick-Fil-A."

The A.V. Phibes business philosophy...simplified!

I just found this in one of my old work notebooks.  I think I drew it around the time that I realized I hate customer service.  I find it both funny and TOTALLY TRUE!