a is for arbus

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

wild night storms swirling around the entire metro but meteorology be dammed we’re on an art quest driving through downpour after downpour going first to the phipps in hudson wi crossing the state line the rain disappears there’s a big shindig in the park across the street with a band and beer and brats it is WI after all then into the exhibit where large format guy will agar is showing some very classy photos part of a six person show browse at the skimpy food table then top it off at the dq with something more substantial for the drive back into mn and the rain begins again by the time we hit st. paul it is like being in a continuous waterfall all the way into minneapolis exit downtown the road are blocked for some rained out celebration IT'S STILL POURING get turned around end up going in circles dodging police cars with sirens and lights am never going downtown again finally escape the maze of one-ways and end up at the walker art center for the diane arbus opening party drive into the new parking facility go round and round find a place to park no sense of where we are and see a sign: P2 the scene is like the parking ramp episode of seinfeld and i have to pee too through a long corridor the rain is coming in there as well get into the museum proper there are THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE milling about arty and beautiful a big buffet and $8 drink tickets go up to the show and see nicole and kip and kali at the entrance chat a bit go into the gallery lots of early arbus rooms of her personal effects: nikon rollei notes work prints and then more stuff the famous images are all there some prints by her some newly printed all dark to the point of murkiness but moving nonetheless topped of with her institutional shots untitled series made just before her suicide yeah she had it going all right we take a breather in the matthew barney room before heading home and the rain had finally stopped

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

                       THEN (2000):                                           NOW (2025):

When I went to Iceland in 2000 the first “Temple of Icelandic Culture” I visited was the Icelandic Phallological Museum. It has moved around a bit since then: from a funky backstreet storefront to a small town and now into a basement of the glitzy new commercial buildings near the waterfront. It is professionally curated, with lots of displays and factual information about penises of all sorts of animals:

There is a very nice (and evidently popular) bistro there, along with a message board in the gift shop that was popular with some of the younger patrons:

By all standards, it is a rousing (arousing?) success. It features specimens from all branches of the animal kingdom, including plaster casts of human notables:

And the pièce de résistance: the original Cynthia Plaster Caster capture of Jimi Hendrix:

Porter House Flashback

Decorah, Iowa, 2023:

The Porter House was built in 1867 for the merchant Dighton B. Ellsworth (1822–1896), an English immigrant who had come to Decorah from New York in 1855. After his death, the Ellsworth family sold the house to Francis and Emma Young whose daughter Grace married Adelbert Field Porter (known as "Bert" who had been raised in the house across the street) in 1904. The Young residence became the home of Bert and Grace (and her parents, until their deaths.)

Bert and Grace Porter had an interest in travel and Bert developed a natural history collection from his trips through North America, South America, and Asia. His collection, which includes blue morpho butterflies from South America, also includes this spectacular rock wall surrounding the property as well as the family's personal effects, including papers, books, furniture, and china. The house became a museum in 1969 and is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Bert and Grace had no children.

pohm about wine

Twenty Years Ago on FITK:

pohm about wine

we drank cheap wine in glorified swallows...

like the grape rinds still covered the bottoms of our feet
like seeds caught in between the middle toes that nobody ever notices.

lost for a moment and then caught again in shower drains that nobody ever notices

the water relearning the shape of 20 toes while
the drunk touch wrinkled fingers in the 20 minute half-life of hot water
in low-income housing.

as the water goes cold
we drink warm wine
and it spills everywhere.

~RS

Reposted

Point Lobos Flashback

March, 2022:

For sheer variety of subject matter, it is hard to beat the Carmel/Point Lobos/Monterey area in California.

Animal life is remarkably diverse in such a populated area, I even spotted a Condor. Seals bask in protected coves:

Edward Weston I ain’t, but I still think that they are pretty pictures.

Frisco Flashback

Batty’s the name, private investigations are my game…

In SF each street is an invitation to danger.

The night has a thousand eyes, mine are private…

I’m the star in my own film noir…

San Francisco by night, March, 2018

Lover’s Lane

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

We had driven out of the city and found a side road in the country, away from lights and traffic.

The moon was setting, the noises of the night had diminished.

I moved closer to her, this was hardly the first time for either of us, but tonight she seemed tense and distant.

“What is it? There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?”

“I heard about a couple that was attacked in their car, it was out west here somewhere… ”

Now I was the one feeling tense.

Suddenly, it got very quiet.

“OK, let’s get out of here…”

“Thanks.”

I took her home without speaking.

The dark side won that night.

There would be other nights, however…

Lost and Found

While working up some scans from some old negatives I came across an image of a young woman.

A portrait of a cousin of mine, the picture was taken at a family gathering at my Grandparent’s farm in 1969. She was the daughter of my mother’s oldest brother but I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember her name. My connection with that branch of my relations was never very strong, even though they lived in the same city I did when I was growing up. I knew the names of her older siblings—my sister was close to the eldest daughter—but, for some reason, this person never really made much of a impression on me. Part of that was my own cluelessness. I was only 18 when I took this picture and she was three years older, a bigger gulf between our ages then than it seems to be now. She was nice and must have felt comfortable enough to let a gangly teen take her picture. Her parents liked to take an occasional drink (or three, or more) and I sensed that there was a rift between her father and my mother that may have been based in childhood.

I did a Google search for her parents and sister, plus the city they lived in, and “obit.” Her obituary came right up. She had lived a good life: a professional woman and a beloved step-mother and grandmother. She died at 73 during the height of the Covid pandemic.

Rest in peace Joanie, I’m sorry I missed knowing you…

Mulder’s Kitchen

Abandoned farm house, Deuel County, South Dakota, c.1995:

More from Mulder’s farm…

Where Will My Eden Be?

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Hi you, two booths down
Would you like to join me?
You see
It's been years
since I've had a man
You know.
To slap me around.

I would love to
But I have weak wrists
Can't make a fist, he sighed
I can only kiss you
violently to show you
You know.
Who is boss.



Conversations at a breakfast table, my impending doom.

As I handed over breakfast to my father yesterday morning, he looked at me and said, "You're getting married at 29." I stared at him and then began railing. It was a rant of denial, my friends, and although I'm not too sure I remember, I might have sounded something like this -

"Twenty-nine? So soon? Are you sure? Who told you?
That's like, three years away. So soon? I haven't had enough relationships yet.
So soon? Who told you, Baba, who told you?
I should really speed up my moves now. If my marriage is three years away, I need to have as many affairs as possible before that. So many men, so little time!"

So then my pater brings out this yellowed scroll that is my first horoscope, made at the time I was born, and showed me that the stars indeed had predicted a late marriage for me. The chances of me tying the knot (or noose, if you please) are very high when I am twenty nine. Only now, the late marriage does not look so *late* anymore.

Oh, and to think that of all the guys I know already, not ONE is marriage material ...yeah, that knowledge helps a lot. So it should basically be someone who is going to materialize out of nowhere in the next three years, fit the *husband* bill as I see it, and make me fall in love with him (because arranged marriage remains a no-no), like me back in equal measure, AND be ready for commitment and marriage.

Hah! Like Charles Dickens said, "Great Expectations!"

Anyways, I will be off tomorrow for the land of Robbie T (Rabindranath Tagore for the uninitiated) - Shantiniketan, where I shall listen to the songs of the bauls - the traveling bards, and watch the dark tribal girls sway to the rhythm of mohua, the local liquor made from fermented dates.

It's as much Hedonism that I can work up at short notice. If I am indeed to be married within the next three years, I'm making sure I live the high life before I fall to my grave.

~ RS

Video and re-post