I’ve had it.  I’m done.  Yes, the inter-porn has beaten Pearl. 

Coolwhippers’ spams in the last 4 months have increased 20 fold or so.  It all started with Uggs; horrible looking pull-on footwear.  They spammed us, we egged their Uggs, and they in turn spammed a lot.  A gross trail of hideous cyber spew followed.  And others joined the ugg wagon.  No matter how hard spammers try, they can't make me buy an Ugg.  The opposite effect takes place and I want something better, something different, something fucking fantastic.  This is not an Uggly shoe - the antithesis - Louboutin:

Spammers of late:  SepticCo is ‘Grateful and Proud’?  Wtf.  Royalessay said, “Great web-site. I like your placing comments system. I'm sorry for the off-topic post, yet I was very satisfied with Djokovic's play in the final of the Aussie OPen this yr. The man is simply unequalled.”  What?  Stay on topic, girl.  If you can’t, get a new job and a new blog to haunt.  Take your ugg-lovin' feet elsewhere.  Get out of the freaking house with your Gibber Jabber.

And A.Y. Jackson apparently likes coolwhippings.  Bullshit art rip off joint advert.  Someone fuck me hard with a Koon sculpture as fast as you can.  Jeezus.

The most recent spam gibberish from astropharm sealed the deal.  No more cans of super spam.  We’re shuttin’ ‘em down.  Bastards.  Who sits there and enters spam all day?  Who clicks into the URLs and buys shit from a spam turd?  Good gawd.  I guess there must be spam sandwich lovers out there.  It takes all kinds.  We’re prepared to be choosey.  Some call it censorship; we call it selectivity.

Noticeable by the lack of writing over the last while, Ms. Pearl has been breaking a bit, tired of the excess on the world wide web, wondering why the fuck our analytics show our greatest readership in India.  Tim Ferris - I don’t appreciate you farming out work.  If you can’t do the work yourself, give it to your neighbour, and pay fairly for it.  Don’t cheap out, Tim.  That is annoying.  

Taking a break and regrouping with Joey in Vegas is welcomed.  We’ll rethink what this is all about here at coolwhippings.  We’ll have decent beverages, see Garth Brooks, and eat well.  No doubt we'll do some choosing there as well.  Taking time to simmer and do some editing.  

Overdo.  Do over.  Over due.  Well, I'm off.  Adieu and adieu.

 I have come to public attention for my epic visual narratives that in one way or another centre around power and the struggle between good and evil. That’s a bit of an over simplified description but it’s what lies at the core of all my work. I won’t get into the details of my conceptual evolution of over two decades of creating and exhibiting. That literally would require a book. There have, though, been a few constants right from the beginning that would identify my particular an unique approach to this type of visual story telling.

The first is to engage both the global and the intimate at the same time. To depict society as it affects us in the moment politically, economically, dogmatically but simultaneously how it touches us personally through family, relationships, and the daily dramas that parallel the worldly dramas.

The second is to expose us as creative, passionate sexual beings. There is no other thing that links all human beings more directly than our desire for erotic human contact. 

Both of these things make my work what has been universally described as, “Difficult”. My read on that is not, “Banal”. Thomas Kinkade is not a difficult artist in the same way that, though annoying, muzak is not difficult.

One would think logically that I would be taken to task far more for my penchant to bring the dark and disturbing up to the surface with my work than what my Spanish dealer call’s, “Obras mas suave.” and my London dealer refers to as, “More family friendly works.” Not true. I get nothing but flak from my fans for selling out! Nobody has ever written an article about how I’ve tamed down my work, either. It seems that’s not as interesting as controversy. 

My career has been a series of long confrontational human narratives punctuated occasionally by small bodies of work that throw off the heavy cape of social consciousness to explore a smaller more personal idea. The Black Coat Project is one of those momentary glitches. 

The Black Coat Project spun itself off the long running Final Journey. A story about the transition between life and death and the journey of souls towards their final judgment. During the preparation for the chapter where the souls finally reach “The Gates Of Heaven” I had acquired several vintage overcoats to use as the costume device to identify these souls. As I was lifting one of these coats onto the shoulders of a model I became engaged with that particular coat. It is a 1950, Persian lamb with a mink collar. Feeling the weight and the luxury in that moment made me react in a completely sensory way. Later I examined the coat more closely. I found he hallmarks of genuine quality, detail and craftsmanship that made me appreciate this object that much more. There is a real sense of decadence that exists like an aura around this coat. By the way, decadence is not a filthy word in my vocabulary. 

I wondered if an entire project could be built from this one artifact and my sensual response to it. As always, I decided to dissect the notion in order to arrive at the core of it’s viability. I knew already I could place a beautiful woman inside the coat and paint her. That doesn’t constitute an idea let alone a concept. It’s what it is. A painting. Obviously I required something a bit more substantial to justify creating a body of work with just one coat. 

I had used the overcoats in my previous project as a type of uniform that identified a species of character. That idea of uniform and individuality provoked me to wonder if I could make a series of pictures where the inanimate objects remained completely consistent yet the personalities of each woman who wore the coat would be amplified. Not an earth shattering question but a sufficient enough grain of sand for me to try to build a pearl around. What I also wanted to know was if this simple premise could inspire another epic  social narrative.

I laid out the project with the help of a couple of wonderful and pretty women here in the isolation of the prairies. I’ve managed to overcome almost all of the difficulties of making art in a small city far, far away from any metropolis. One that I haven’t been able to resolve is populating my pictures. As a figurative artist I need bodies. 

Nevertheless I managed get an insight into how I wanted to approach the project and create a format within which I could work. I then took the coat on the road. It spent a month in New York where I knew without a doubt I could find the women I needed to complete the fist phase of the process. I placed an advertisement on Craigslist and received more than 250 responses. Though the casting closed at the beginning of July I still get inquiries from women almost every day. I narrowed the applicants down to 35 which I interviewed in person. At first I thought that it would be a good idea to look for visibly diverse women but in the end decided that was too artificial and just elected to work with the ten women that interested me the most.  

Once all of the women had worn the Black Coat I realized that indeed they all were very different and my response to each of them was also very different. The real challenge for me would be to portray those differences in a way that went beyond the superficiality of a picture. All of these women are very pretty. I’d had the opportunity to spend time with them and get to know them a little. There were quite a few surprises from the initial interviews to the completion of the process. 

At the same time as I was engaged in the daily ritual of doing precisely the same thing with each individual in an intense and highly concentrated environment I was still wondering in the back of my mind if the creative spark would arrive from this pared down concept that would ignite a much larger body of work. It happened on the second day of the second week. The 7th woman to wear the Black Coat in NYC.

Rachel is a young actress like so many others trying to make her way in New York. Inspiration is never a simple thing. It is inevitably a result of a myriad of micro stimuli that happen to collect themselves in just the right way at just the right time. Then they instantly disperse into the chaos that is life. To have the skill and the instinct to capture that spark when it appears is what makes an artist an artist. There were a lot of things going on in the background that day. Most of them were very unpleasant and much too personal to reveal. They had nothing to do with Rachel nor our mission that day to make beautiful pictures but it would be ignorant to say that it was all kept outside of the time we spent together in the studio. Her interpretation of the Black Coat moved me in a way that none of the others had. Not necessarily better or worse but her passion in that moment amidst the chaos outside of the studio created a perfect storm of creativity.

There is a flush of emotional reaction when the blindfold is taken off and for a brief moment you can see the truth. It’s all there in perfect harmony for an instant and then hidden once more. You scramble to retain some feeble impression in a notebook but it’s not the detail but the sensation and excitement that tells you it can be created.

There are people that are excited about the Black Coat Project the way it exists right now. Ten beautiful women interpreting the sensation of the garment. I’m enjoying it myself. Each painting is an extension of a very intimate experience I’ve shared with each woman. Each painting is a commitment to their individual beauty. Some are nonplussed by gorgeous women being, well, gorgeous. They want more attack from me because they know I have a history. They won’t be disappointed. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut. Respond to what’s there in the moment even if it seems completely out of character. As long as you keep your mind open there is potential for something new and better. 

Of course no one can imagine the darkness lurking just beneath the surface of these pictures. Approaching like an ominous thunderstorm in the distance. I can and it’s ferocity builds day by day. 

I don’t think the Black Coat paintings are banal. I don’t even think they’re not provocative. It's all in how you look at them.

Charles Malinsky (Packing for another trip to the underworld.)  

Well, I've never written these thoughts down before - I had a really great day thinking about him though!  A hot man - a man who is confident, but not overly so.  A man who is taller than I and has broader shoulders than I have.  A man who touches my shoulder, arm, back regularly and holds doors, offers to carry stuff, and who buys me coffee in the morning, or makes me an espresso, a man who refills my water glass.  A man who knows what he likes and is a clear communicator and who can accept my touch and praise with thanks.  A smart man who treats me well but doesn't put me on a pedestal else I fall down.  A man who likes to talk about Trudeau's 'shit' remark in Parliament and which piece at MoMA grabbed his attention the most.  A man who likes to learn about other people and holds the door for the old man down the hall bringing in his groceries.  Hot.  Smart.  I guess that is about it.  Oh, and a snappy dresser is hot and smart, too.  I bet Anderson holds doors open...and knows answers to odd questions...

 

Art makes you think.  

Art - a small yet controversial word encompassing and running the gamut. 

There are two main types:  capital A ‘Art’ and lower case a ‘art’.  Small a art is more the mass produced type aka the decorative arts.  Giclees and posters; that is decorative ‘art’.  It’s decoration, costs $1,000 instead of $15,000 for the original or $20 vs. 2.5 million.  Klimt's 'Hope, II' - art poster vs. the piece in real time at MoMA.  

Giclees should be banned; I haven’t seen one that doesn’t make me cry a little - in the bad-cry way.

If you got your art at IKEA or Homesense, it’s decorative art with a bit of a cringe attached to it.  Let’s face it really, it’s a poster, it’s a ‘pretty’ picture, it matches the drapery.

Does it make you think - Hhm, who am I going to give this to when I move to Oman or when I die?  

Does it make you think of Portuguese Fado about absolute yearning being sung with emotions dripping from crimson lips?

Does it make you think about the balance of freedom, ebbing and flowing on the shore of fairness, power, and equality?

Big Art often makes one stop for a moment.  It isn't easy to ignore.  Jackson Pollock’s ‘One: Number 31’, 1950 makes me cry in a good way.  It makes me think of the scale of someone’s passion and what it takes to do something really fucking fantastic in this life that lasts past one’s death; to think off of the damned stretcher bar of the parameters of one’s life.

There is some big A Art out there that I couldn’t give a second look to, especially in my town where poorly painted pictures of ponies can fetch the same lump of cash I paid for my car. 

So what is the difference?  If it makes you think and look at it in wonder, it’s Art.  If you put it on your wall because it matches the drapes, it’s decoration and it’s minimalized to a ‘complimentary’ piece which is limited to the timeline of the colour of your cushions - the limey green is going out of favour in about 4 years.  Small a art has a shelf life depending on your decor and inevitably it ends up in the dumpster or at Goodwill or a college dorm wall.  

Big A Art is timeless and goes with anything.  It’s almost as if big A Art chooses it’s owner.  It can be seductive  Once you get into it, you might not want to stop.  No calories nor ill health effects - sounds like a healthy enough addiction; I'm in.

Is it Art?:  Jeff Koons

Click here and check his piece called 'Butter'...you'll have to click Easyfun/Ethereal to get to Butter...

Long, lean female in black leggings, skirt and hugging sweater, arms crossed, waiting for her take-out breakfast order at the local kawfee house.  She’s getting impatient, it’s taking a bit of time.  He strolls by, realizes her attractive beauty.  Her long, dark hair, elongated features are coveted.

He walks past her and pauses to look at the newspapers, she sideways glances at him, up, down, assessment for potential.  She smiles at him on his way back even though she was pissed about the late breakfast panini a moment ago.  They slightly smile at one another.  

He circles around the pillar and the center bar.  He stands and leans at the bar along the window, behind her, grabs a copy of BC Musician, and pretends to be interested in the print.  He gets a good gawp since she’s facing the baristas waiting for morning grub, getting impatient again but adding a pleasingly pitched semi-laugh and a flip of her hair when asking ‘Is it going to be soon?’  

He stares at her long hair and neck, checks out her legs under the bar, follows along her lines, still 5’ behind her.  She glances back, he smiles but doesn’t show his teeth.  

A  second male shows up, gets his quick order of a regular, drip coffee, does the same glances at her but exchanges no silly smiles, mixes sugar in his coffee 4’ to her left, and  turns to assess Male #1.  He catches Male #1‘s eye, looks pointedly at her and then back at him.  She is oblivious to the exchange between males.  Male #2 has ‘called off’ Male #1 with a single glance, held strong and confident. It took 3 seconds to deliver this look.  It is a look like, ‘Hey, you bastard, get the fuck off of her.  Now.’  And Male #1 does; he retreats.  

But none of them seemingly know one another.

A moment later, every one disperses.  Male #1 is called off and retreats to his seat a bit sheepish, she grabs her ‘to go’ order and leaves the building through the center door between Male #1 and Male #2, Male #2 is cool, takes a slow sip of his coffee, and departs in the opposite direction.  

Fascinating.  

A few minutes later, Male #1’s gal arrives, he pops up all smiles, big teeth, greets her, they order their beverages, and they sit together.  Another oblivious female - maybe, maybe not - only if she wants to be.

Wild morning - living and moving in not so domesticated terrain.  This was perhaps the most primal threesome I have witnessed.  

Maybe JH was right; the kawfee house is a bit of a wild kingdom.

Thumbnail photo of horses:  Dutesco's Sable Island series

A lot in NYC to be gobsmacked by:  last weekend’s marathon was won by breaking records - 26.2 miles in 2h5m and a few seconds, watching two friends find their names engraved in a subway wall, red velvet walls at the Met Opera house having a 226 million annual operating budget, gilt ceilings and crystal chandeliers:

A hand-made American picture frame circa 1942 - 8x10 - for $12,000, too many Manhattans in Manhattan, the Japanese flag ship store Uniqlo, an 8' wide coffee shop, named Sugar, along the entire side of a building, Cattelan’s ‘All’ exhibit in the Guggenheim foyer:

A huge hole being re-constructed, concrete, steel, and a few fucking fantastic restaurants.

Mary’s Fish Camp in the West Village:  It seats about 25 people, about 9 at the curvy stainless bar overlooking the kitchen, and has a wait list of about 1.5 hours if you don’t get there when the doors open.  In true NYC style, the host, Jonathan, broke rules to get us in a bit earlier; I said we were flexible, would sit in 2s instead of a 4, I leaned in, spoke in earnest, and he obliged and said my name on his list was ‘Meredith’.  While we happily waited snugly by the front desk, he answered calls and inquiries, and told one grand asshole to get the fuck out of the restaurant.  He can choose his diners; the food is that good.  It is in demand and damned succulent.  We dined on conch, polenta with gruyere, scallops, Gobi shrimp with crispy-coated cauliflower with spicy bite - I guess anything on the menu is superb; the lobster roll has garnered repetitive, raving reviews.  Highly recommended.  Wait for 1.5 hours in a nearby bar if you have to; it’s very worth your while.

Fatty Crab on the Upper West Side:  They take reservations which is good for post-marathon planning.  The menu is made for sharing and the waiter was happy to recommend the itinerary for our eating feast.  We got started with crab salad and chicken satay, then the Nasi Lemak (chicken curry, coconut rice, otak otak, slow poached egg) which begs to be mixedup into a frenzied plate of goodness. 

Fatty duck followed.  One wouldn’t expect that ‘Fatty’ anything would be appealing, but it all was very delicious.  I didn’t see too many fatty people in Manhattan; I guess they live in excess in ventures other than food - maybe because there is a shit load to see and do and great places and neighbourhoods to walk around in NYC.

New York City - truly an excessive experience.

On Sunday, November 6th I'm running the New York City marathon.  It will be exciting, inspirational, and grueling.  Most of my heart, mind, and body are ready and really fucking pumped.  I'm also paranoid and nervous.  One week to go and sidewalk curbs look like dark-alley menaces that are waiting to knock me down, break my ankle, and steal my aspirations.  Stairs now seem like gangs of indoor sidewalk curbs just quietly hanging around my house waiting to fuck me up and pitch me face forward.  The plot forming against me by the bathtub chills my blood.

Sounds pleasurable, no?  No. Not very.

So what's all this nervous energy doing here at coolwhippings, the interweb home of Pearl, Charlie's, and my pleasure?  Let me 'splain.

About two months ago at an excessively food and wine fueled dinner on the closing night of the Toronto Film Fest I was invited to join an eclectic group of people for their monthly Art House film nights.  Since the newest guest gets to choose the film of the first evening they attend, I was in.  In mid-November I was in, that is.  I explained my marathon aspirations and that, until 06/11/11 has come and gone in NYC, I would be living an austere existence.  Lots of sleep, little to no booze, near daily training runs, endless cups of water and tea every day, and a diet devoid of indulgence.  As I explained the self-imposed sentence looming for the next few months it didn't illicit a lot of enthusiastic responses.  Least of all in me.  It all sounded really dull and more than a little self-righteous.

Here's the thing, the austerity I described on that night of wine and cheese and risotto and wine has shaped the most unexpectedly pleasurable couple of months in recent memory.

I won't say I've never felt better, but I definitely haven't felt this good for years.

I've lost about 19 Kilograms (40 and change in American weight), I have vitality of a Mexican jumping bean on meth, I sleep like whatever it is that gets nine hours of uninterrupted sleep each night, and I smile at the world in general all the bloody time.  That last one could get me a court date if I overdo it, but that falls under 'acceptable risk' in my eyes.  The point being, I have found a new version of excess and pleasure in what I generally regarded as the 'end of fun'.  It feels so good to live this way.  Healthy and balanced and aware.  I'm doing yoga on a regular basis for Jeebus's Sake!

I'm addicted to feelin' this fine.

And with that last statement, things centre themselves in the frame.  I've not become used to austerity, I've invented a new version of excess.

Here are my top 8 of late:

8.  espresso con panna

7.  a sapphire blue, felt, short blazer jacket (sounds odd, but it does remind me of Jackie O!)

 6.  seeing a few Alex Janvier pieces up close (they make me so happy)

5.  an Afgani woman's smile

4.  thoughts of going to MoMA and the Frick and the Met and Broadway

3.  soon to have dinner with friends in NYC and watch a couple of them run a marathon (!)

2.  a friend's squeeze of encouragement (on the shoulder!)

1.  trying my damnest to separate my fantasy from my reality

"While I'm down there It might be nice to see a hint of pubus.  I'm not talking about a huge 70s Playboy bush or anything, just something that reminds me I'm performing cunnilingus on an adult.  But I guess the larger question is --- Why is the City of Angels so hell bent on destorying its female population."

And...why the hell are L.A. women falling for it?

"Good morning L.A. - the land of the lotus eaters.  Time plays tricks on you.  One day you're dreaming, the next your dream has become your reality.  It was the best of times.  If only someone had told me.  Mistakes were made, hearts were broken, harsh lessons learned.  My family goes on without me while I drown in a sea of pointless pussy.  I don't know how I got here, but here I am.  Rotting away in the warm California sun."

Great writing from Californication.  Not difficult to watch Duchovny deliver the lines either.

She:  "What is your issue with LOL?"

He: " I don't have an issue unless you count the fact that everytime you say it, you are contributing to the death of the English language."

She:  "So, let me get this straight.  You don't like the fact that I just said LOL.  But, you don't mind me giving you the best BJ of your life?"

He:  "Not when you put it that way."

She goes down on He.

He:  "I'm not the biggest fan of the term BJ either."

Dear L.A. --- Could everyone stop getting labiaplasty, start laughing out loud for real, and giving blow jobs instead of BJs?  Thanks, Pearl Whirl

Joey and I stepped out on the weekend after having a pretty well balanced week.  Two yoga classes, a 7 km walk walk together, and a couple of runs for Joey D kept us semi-in-check.  We enjoyed a limited amount of Manhattans mid-week and poured it on at the weekend.  

Actually, Travis, the bar artist at Jaroblue in Calgary, Canada poured them for us.  Jaroblue is one of the sexiest places in town to have a cocktail - no doubt.  The interior is plush, the photography by Dutesco fantastic, and the staff welcoming and relaxed.  And the Manhattans are stellar.  Travis has a special cherry that makes these the best Manhattans Joey has ever tasted, and he has indeed tasted around the globe.  I concur.  Travis makes these with fine ingredients and love.  It makes one think; how we treat ourself and others in the moment - it makes a difference in food and drink, and our body and life.

What are your daily treatments? 

Eat a chicken that is too fat from hormones, perhaps depressed or crazy, and has claws locked around a cage, or search out a farmer nearby, an ethical source that raises chicken that have a bit more of a life?  

Drink copious amounts of alcohol and soda, or filtered water and chilled Rooibos tea?

Treat your loved one like a punching bag, or hug them up because the 9-5’s are long enough?

Eat processed non-food for dinner, or steamed kale with egg and sesame oil with a heap of real veg?

Slug on the sofa 5 nights a week, or do some Restorative Yoga classes?

Ignore the peeps in your daily life, or make good eye contact and some meaningful discourse?

Luxuries lie in our choices.  

I’m choosing not to have another Manhattan til I get to NYC in November and watch Joey run the marathon.  Maybe after our night out at the Metropolitan Opera.  It might make me gush.

Cheers and bottoms up!  I mean downward facing dog.  It really is a nice position.  Do it with legwarmers on; it's getting chilly.