Editor-in-Chief & Art Director Amanda Maciel Antunes Layout & Design Philip DuPertuis Copy Editors Miguel Miró-Quesada, Miriam Moser Contributing Editor Amanda Dugay Forrester Contributing Writers Mitch Hampton, Phoebe Wilson, J. A. Scott, Lindsay Ann-Thueme Naggie, Joshua Heerter, Cassie Pinner, Allison Vanouse Contributing Photographers Brendan David Coyne, Jessica Weiser, Bob Packert, Tim Renzi (Henebury), Asli Kolcu, Jackie Puwalski Contributing Artists Adam Paladino, Samantha Crain, Gregory Paul Contributing Talents Kathleen Schiffmann, Orla Roche, Rose Fortuna, Cynthia August, Ruah Bella, Ondi Gottesman, Kacie Corbelle, Holli Featherstone, Avion Pearce, Joseph Gordon Cleveland, Brigid Nastasia, Donna Hamilton, Dianna Scapicchio, Isabella Fernandez, Claire Leana, Matt Atwater, Mau Hardiman, Charlotte Kennett, Jay Marchand, Gulin Yolac, Monica Chamorro Special thanks to Joey Asal, Oona’s Boston, The Lily Pad, our parents, lovers and David Lynch. Contact: +1 617.8031454 firstname.lastname@example.org Facebook: Spirited Magazine Twitter: @spiritedmag Thank you everyone who influenced and inspired. www.spiritedmag.com
Noir as Ethic & Style Mitch Hampton
“The Nightmare of flawed souls with big dreams and the precise how and why of the all time sure thing that goes bad. Noir is Out Of The Past when Robert Mitchum takes one look at Jane Greer and knows he’s gonna throw his life away for her and he’s happy to do it”. James Ellroy
Noir is at once a cleanly distilled descriptive noun, and one of the most overused, exaggerated, and superficial epithets in modern culture. It is an elegant descriptor that is also used to indicate anything just slightly left of suburban banality, including narrative, psychological, and design details: lone detective in fedora and trenchcoat, unusually seductive femme fatale, underworld evils that must be ferreted out and defeated, and so on. Noir is also misread as a stylistic mode that is devoted to simple darkness - blanket cynicism, possibly dissolution.
Noir as a genre was created not by an artist, but a critic: one French critic Nino Frank, who in 1946 attempted to isolate some features common enough to qualify certain works as a genre. As James Ellroy remarked, there is indeed a fascination in Noir with and analysis of the subterranean and underlit aspects of the human soul. The sense of things gone bad, a world of anti-heroes facing conspiratorial and unrelenting evil: these are part of Noir. But a mere list of thematic elements might conflate Noir with the Gothic, which I believe to be at heart an adolescent mode, imposing simplistic dualities of good and evil, and abnegating any sense of human agency. Noir on the other hand is one of the great expressions of human maturity: romance, sexual difference, and profound questions of economic and political injustice are all brought to bear.
In the world of Noir - much like adulthood - you get on with life no matter how bad it gets, and preferably with biting wit. Noir is a mode of utmost maturity and moral seriousness, where issues are confronted naturally rather than evaded supernaturally. In this sense, noir is a misnomer. We are not facing blackness exactly, but the widest variety of grey.
Rather than acknowledge this subtlety, we often reach for misleading lessons. Take the concept of the Femme Fatale. Noir certainly includes a sexually alluring and powerful female figure; her power can certainly be exercised to negative effect upon male heroes. But if we look at Noir as an Ethic, as mature wisdom, the femme fatale is a red herring. Both man and woman give as good as they get, and the femme fatale achieves a remarkable balance. Her mutual dance or play with the male shows that sex differences are important, but cannot erase personhood or agency. Biological gender and cultural humanity form a symbiosis, for you cannot have sex appeal without intelligence and essential humanity, and vice versa. Though a man meets his ruin in the femme fatale, both parties experience extraordinary passion and equality of will along his descent. In The Big Sleep (Howard Hawks) the ongoing repartee between Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall is both sublime and astonishing. This sense of gendered relation - where biological difference holds actual value - is a lost art in many of today’s representations. Noir is an inquiry into that part of particular (and peculiar) male and female heterosexual relations that is, to use an unfashionable formulation, natural, even eternal. It is a compensatory reminder of the onesidedness of the more androgynous culture of today. The women of noir - Rita Hayworth, Gloria Grahame, Barbara Stanwyck, and Veronica Lake, to name but a few - are both powerful and sexy. But it is deeper still: such figures embody a kind of hybrid world, between icon and everywoman - a stylistic mode at once mythic and naturalistic.
Countering the Femme Fatale is the Private Investigator. He is, at base, a figure who seeks the Truth. Whether deeply flawed or idealistic and heroic, the P.I. offers a point of philosophic interest and identification for the audience, with inquiry into matters of social justice, for example. Glenn Ford in The Big Heat (Fritz Lang) Harry Moesby in Night Moves (Arthur Penn), and Jack Gittes in Chinatown (Roman Polanski) are all expressions of what may be called
positive alienation. In this concept (which I borrow from political philosopher George Kateb), an investigator is a kind of traveler. While conversant in the various language games of all the manifold, competing subcultures that comprise a complex Democracy, this figure is beholden to none of them. He can blend in, but remains outside: a continuation of eighteenth century disinterestedness into a post-Romantic age of rampant and consuming interests on all sides. Even when the investigator is a public figure representing Law, there is a sense that he wields the power of an outsider. Real evil is often battled here. In Chinatown, Jack Nicholson’s character fights both public corruption in the state of California and sexual abuse in the home. Only an alienated and disinterested figure could confront such evil.
Yet the P.I. cannot be called a pure truth-seeker. My favorite “revisionist Noir” is Arthur Penn’s Night Moves (1975) with Gene Hackman, which pushes the boundaries of the conception. Hackman’s Harry Moesby is decent and ethical (he even refuses the advances of an underage and sexually precocious Melanie Griffith), but he is also insensitive, uncommunicative with his wife, overtly attached to football, and oblivious to obvious clues. The evil he confronts - (the case involves bringing a runaway girl back to her mother - shades of John Ford’s The Searchers) is borne out of the heart of the American family, and its Noir setting faces us with an uncomfortably intimate picture. Moseby is generous and decent, but an utter failure. Evil is not exteriorized as merely institutional but interiorized as a banal stain within the human soul itself. This is Noir stripped down – without stylization or glamour. It is Noir as John Cassavetes might render it. Illustration Amanda Maciel Antunes
Noir has great reach. From the great Pottersville/ Jimmy Stewart breakdown scene in Frank Capra classic It’s A Wonderful Life, to David Lynch’s unique fusion of Noir with the Gothic. Even Miles Davis created perhaps the greatest piece of Noir music ever in his score to Louis Malle’s From The Elevator to the Gallows.
All styles are codes and signs of meaning - sometimes of philosophy and Ethics as well. Noir is a way of understanding who we are; meeting ourselves as we are, free of illusions, and dogged in determination to find some scrap of Truth - even when it tells us that our best aspirations are marked with the dark limitations of human nature.
Photography Bob Packert Production Joseph Gordon Cleveland (CONTRA) Fashion Brigid Nastasia (CONTRA) Hair Donna Hamilton (The Loft) Make-Up Dianna Quagenti-Scapicchio Fashion Assistants Olivia Cartland and Daniel Sabau Models Isabella Fernandez (Dynasty Models), Claire Leana and Matt Atwater (Maggie Inc.) Wardrobe Louis Boston, Rescue, Stelâ€™s, Marc Jacobs, Riccardi
Who Done It J.A. Scott
What we are. 37, the slug swapped shells to empty his armory. In that cabin somewhere where the land was muted by the falling snow. The toe, unobserved, twitched, as the spray stretched into the dry wall, formed into stucco, around the frozen mouth, that dripped froths of dried cud, when the throes of wind bulged, lapping the brittle cavities, leaching in mounds of white. White, he was barred in white, until the ease of spring. His final word: Slug, printed in faded white, along the old shell's tubing, that notched the wood, with its heated brass. Reminding us of the Tuesdays he'd return home, renewed (twice nude) in the cities he called mountains, to weave hymns for the tacit, the malformed, wayward, with a patchwork of grayouts and gossip, divination in ashes, took form in sonnets and songs; that dried in letters on pages, moved friends; who worried, worried and did nothing but worry and offer him a drink. “limp dicked,” he confessed, between books, and women. Until he met her, and bought her a rock he couldn't afford. Which she kept when he returned, too blacked out to make out how the hymns had congealed into rough crumbs that bit the tongue, collected (in fits) in cans, in cities he called mountains, Whose alleys were streams, where women were women were awakened in poems, that he knew he had written by reading the name, which was repeated on the letter, that read in the end, “it wasn't worth it.”
Photography Henebury Fashion Amanda Maciel Antunes Hair&Make-Up Mau Hardiman Models Charlotte Kennett and Jay Marchand (Maggie inc.) Wardrobe Zara, Bobby from Boston, Artifaktori, stylistâ€™s own
Adam Paladino Artist Interview By Amanda Maciel Antunes
Under the influence of old Hollywood, Goya, and Kollwitz, Adam Paladino rebelled against his difficult youth with a visual explosion of exhilarating drawings, story telling and haunting dreams. He was born and raised in Boston, where he studied printmaking with Master Printer Antonio Frasconi, and graduated from Purchase College School of Visual Arts. Paladinoâ€™s work moves from tense and moody to stark and beautiful and weâ€™re delighted to reveal just a fraction of it here.
What do you like most about what you do?
I love your work and I think you perfectly use light and dark; they are immediate and enduring. How do you start a piece of work? How long does it take for you to complete one? The first part of my process is gathering images that inspire the drawing aspect. I would never have the audacity to call myself a photographer, but I can take pictures sufficient enough to help me set up the compositions. I try to set up little scenes like out of a play or stills from a film. When I get to the drawing part, I go nuts. Layers and layers of tone, rich blacks, accents of muted pastel, and the build-up of line. I will usually spend anywhere from five to ten days working on several drawings at a time. Each vary in how long they take to individually produce. In printmaking the process is much longer so I could spend anywhere from a few days to a few years developing pieces visually and conceptually. And how do you feel when someone approaches you to buy one? It is nice when people appreciate your work. Particularly, it is nice when someone makes a personal connection to something I’ve done. This Russian violin professor bought a large etching collage of mine. The image featured lots of broken violins aggressively moving through the space. For her it was a very personal piece. As I sat in her home having tea and apple cake, she told me that her violin saved her life in a car accident fifty years ago. She brought out the remains of the busted violin and case. It gave me chills. Tell me something that inspired you recently. I have always been inspired by other art forms such as dance and old Hollywood films. As a child, I was surrounded by such imagery. My grandmother and I watched a lot of films with such Hollywood stars as Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich, and Orson Wells. Getting lost in the moodiness of films like Mildred Pierce and Citizen Kane is still vivid in my mind. As a kid I was exposed to dance, as my mother and I volunteered at theaters in the area and my father was a concert violinist. Lately, I have been very inspired by people around me. I feel lucky to live in a city with such a diverse community of artists of so many different trades.
I like being able to lose myself in it. Sometimes it feels almost like being a film director through the progression of pieces I make. I love to tell stories. And secretly, I really just love making pretty things. However, my version of pretty is a little grittier than most peoples’. I like having that quality though. It feels like there's a narrative to your pictures - do you have a story for each one? Where do your ideas usually come from? Absolutely! My work is primarily narrative. The works all tell a story in their own way. They are mostly based on life experience, dream, and memory. Art is also a way of expressing myself about tough issues I am dealing with. Whether revisiting childhood memories of my father aggressively playing the violin in a manic frenzy or creating a figure that reflects the solace of being a gay man in a dangerous world, my imagery strives to tell stories that work together to create one big narrative. The visual language or style lends itself to telling the story in a provocative way. There is a sense of despair yet grandeur in the figurative aspects, vacant environments, and moody lights and darks. Have you been insane before? Have you been in insane situations? Absolutely! There was a period in my life where I was so absorbed into grotesque styles of living, that I completely lost my grip on reality. I almost lost everything due to this. I’ve also dealt with chronic pain my entire life due to a series of orthopedic issues. Having surgeries and chunks of time of not being able to walk have definitely taken me to some dark places. I was insane during many of those times. I’ve been insane with lovers and in interacting in other relationships as well.
Do you have a favorite artist(s) and why? It’s difficult to choose only one. William Kentridge, Goya, Kathe Kollwitz. All of them manipulate line and space in a majestic way. They all make profound commentaries on life and their work focuses attention on issues that were relevant to them and their generations. Goya and Kollwitz really spoke to me while I was studying printmaking at SUNY Purchase. Kentridge completely changed the way I viewed drawing and I think that is huge for me since I work primarily in charcoal at this time. The cinematic quality of Kentridge’s work has always been magical for me. Are there any artists you think have sold themselves to the devil? Salvador Dali is the first one that I think of. What are you working on at the moment ? Right now I am creating album art for my dear and talented friend, Ruby Rose Fox who is making a record called Old Fashioned which will be released in February. She is a fantastic musician. I am also working on some very wild self portraits as well as gathering images for some future projects. I will be continuing doing some pieces with several of the same figures interacting in the same space. And what do you hope for? I hope to really dive back into etching when I have the proper studio space. I’ve been working mostly in charcoal in current stuff. Etching is the most stunning and complex medium in printmaking, and I am really passionate about it. The brilliant line quality! The velvety tones! The subtleties you can capture through organic textures! They excite me! I hope to find a space in the area that can be a new home for creating. Finally I have an intimate question that you don't have to answer if you don't want to: Would you tell us a secret? It can be dirty/silly/crazy/dreamy... I have a reoccurring dream that I am lost inside a strange house I’ve never actually seen in real life. It has Gothic architecture inside and it is always dark. I am desperately in search of someone or something that will help lead me out, but no one is ever there. It feels like I am trying to reach someone for hours and hours. I always wake up right before the dream version of me gives up on ever leaving the house. It is almost like there is a deep, mysterious force that has hold on me and I am giving up the will to survive. This dream throws me off every time it occurs.
GiGi & Gina Marie no. 1
GiGi & Gina Marie no. 2
In The Radiator Graveyard
The Violin Nightmare
Photography Brendan David Coyne Fashion & Production Amanda Maciel Antunes Hair & Make-Up Kacie Corbelle Models Holli Featherstone and Avion Pearce Wardrobe designer Gregory Paul and stylistâ€™s own
Choreography Cassie Pinner
Escaping their silent chambers to watch the final scene. The trees rotted with cramps; psychic since the beginning. Evicted from a fantasy, draped in the denial of death. Humans painted their faces with shiny black oils. Perfect petroleum. Costumes caught fire, distinct with streaks of soot. Jewels and gems melted down to viscous rocks. Skin like vanilla ice cream melted under the July sun. There had never been a mass sacrifice. A massacre by fire. Currency transformed into ash; a culture gone wrong. Twisted ropes. Flames making love in a violent choreographed trance, taunting the lonely North Star. Twinkling with a fairytale face scoring the implosion. An abyss of dense tar. An expedited deficit. A solid depletion. Dark moon. Deep sea.
Photography Jessica Weiser Fashion & Production Amanda Maciel Antunes Hair Kathleen Schiffmann Make-Up Rose Fortuna Model Orla Roche (Ford Models) Special Talent Mitch Hampton (pianist) Wardrobe Oonaâ€™s Boston
Gregory Paul Fashion Designer Interview by Amanda Maciel Antunes
Gregory Paul’s fashion journey started in his parent’s suburban house in Scarborough, Maine, when he was only 12. “I feel like I have been waiting to be a fashion designer since then,” he says. There’s a romantic feel to Paul’s work, as if designed by an old soul who has drifted through the decades smoking hand rolled cigarettes, and drinking red wine to the soundtrack of Serge Gainsbourg or some other debonair European gent. Paul’s wise and methodical mannerisms surprise in person, when you realize he’s still a young man with a very long and promising career ahead of him. He favors the conceptual as much as the comfortable, and every piece of his newest collection has an intimate quality that brings you inside his realm of beauty.
How did you figure out you wanted to be a fashion designer? I’ve always loved drawing and doodling, and at a certain point I started paying more attention and being more concerned with what the people in my sketches were wearing and what they looked like. I had books and books of those sketches in them but they were horrible! They were wearing capri pants and platform shoes [laughs]... but one day I let it go, I had to make those mistakes first. I love everything about fashion and what it has done and continues to do for civilization. What was it like telling your family that this is what you wanted to do? At first it was very awkward, I would hide my sketches from them... but at a certain point I couldn't hide the fact that all I was doing were drawings of dresses and clothing. When we started looking at colleges my family realized that that’s what I loved and what I wanted to focus on. And really what every good parent does is to try and support you to thrive, and to succeed with where your passion is. It’s been great. What was your favorite thing to draw? Oh, dresses. Always. I don’t make them as much as I draw them. But they are so much fun to draw! You can go completely off the wall or go simple and no matter what it’s going to look elegant. What drew you to women’s fashion? Have you ever thought about designing for men? I’ve thought about menswear. It seems that every time I tried it it just seemed so much more constricted, you couldn't be as vibrant and free with the design aspect. I guess the combinations and my love for dressing the female form has always driven me towards women’s clothing. Who is that woman? Who are you designing for? I want every women to feel beautiful and comfortable. It seems that there’s such a gap between what's comfortable or easy and [what is] elegant or beautiful, so I’ve always wanted to fill that gap. I’ve always been inspired by powerful women such as Cleopatra or the sirens of the 30s and 40s-- that they were able to hold their own in society that was very much dominated by men... the battle of gender roles and who holds the power in different situations... I guess I’ve always loved to give women that empowerment in dressing. What was the starting point for your latest collection? I went for very classic styles and ideas of silhouettes and tried to give [them] a twist and [also] make them modern.
Photography Brendan David Coyne
I looked at a 60s woman and adapted her to [show] how she could be forward thinking. When is your collection debuting? Early 2012. I'm showing a 19 piece collection in New York during Fashion Week. It's about my ideal woman from the beginning to the end of her day. Do you collect anything? I collect a variety of things. I like to have things in groups in the sense of being a ‘collection.’ I collect magazines for inspiration purposes and Magic: The Gathering cards which is my only hobby besides design. It’s funny because [design] feels like a hobby even knowing it’s a job in the sense that I feel like I'm really just having fun. It's great! If you could own a piece of fine art what would it be? The Venus de Milo and the statue of Adam because I like the perfect ideal of the perfect man and the perfect woman. What is your idea of beauty? Comfort, both with yourself and in what you are wearing-- [that] makes someone beautiful. I’d say that crossing the line with sweat pants and sweat shirts is definitely not beautiful. When someone feels comfortable with themselves when they are walking down the street and when someone is content in themselves, that I think comes across as the most attractive thing in the world. I mean why step outside and join the hordes of uninterested, clone-like adults when there are so many delights to explore with your clothes? Who do you look up to? My favorite designer be-all and end-all was Alexander McQueen. His eye and his design never wavered and that I admire. What he did for fashion and art has been the most inspiring thing in the world for me. Beyond belief. I totally agree, the theater and movement. He was a true artist. Yeah. And so many have tried to reproduce that. It’s not gonna happen. Is there anything you like most or least? The thing I like least is the tedium... especially with a collection [because] each step can take a long time. I get tired of doing the same thing for so long, but that’s when I'm able to get a chance to do a different part of the project... my favorite part is when I see all the pieces together, it becomes so much more real and driven. But to get to that point I have to muscle through. Thank god for Magic cards and cartoons and CSI [laughs]! Everyone is gonna learn that I'm a complete nerd-- but I can make a damn good dress sometimes! Thank you Gregory. I, like many others, look forward to what will come from the fruition of your ideas! You’re welcome. Thank you.
Photography Jackie Puwalski Fashion Cynthia August Hair Ruah Bella Make-Up Rose Fortuna Model Ondi Gottesman Wardrobe Nordstrom, Target, stylistâ€™s own and vintage
Projection A short play for three people and a film.
By Allison Vanouse
The action takes place simultaneous or responding to the classic film noir THE MALTESE FALCON, which plays sometimes with sound, sometimes silently, and is sometimes left in still image. It could work on a laptop, on multiple television sets, and/or a large screen suspended behind the action. At some moments, actors respond to the dialogue in the movie. This is indicated by offset dialogue in the script. Apart from these interjections, you ought to imagine the film as a constant presence as you readâ€”it is another character onstage. Placement & use of the footage is up to the designer, but it should all be from THE MALTESE FALCON, or its original trailer footage.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: SAM – a sort of reincarnation of Dashiell Hammet’s Samuel Spade, brought to life in a 20-something with devil-may-care preoccupations through the immortal magic of cinema & its effect on self-perception. He is self-consciously tough, sharp, and smart – often at the expense of his own happiness – with almost irritating, affected 1940s speech patterns. THE GIRL – A sort of self-conscious inhabiteuse of the femme fatale trope, she is perhaps more innocent and deep than she wants to tell anybody, and also more easily wounded. Caddy Compson is a good touchstone, if you’ve read The Sound & the Fury. EFFIE – A David Lynchian image; Effie is a spectral secretary of Bogart’s era. You can think of her as a slightly aged Lee Patrick, called into being by Sam’s tough guy manner, and forced to witness his mistakes. Her scene with Sam at the end of the play was the original, scripted ending of THE MALTESE FALCON, but was omitted in production in favor of Bogart’s snappy line, “the, uh, stuff that dreams are made of”. Perhaps Effie relives this wrenching, unfulfilled scene again and again. She is a surreal contrapuntal to the naturalism of the rest of the play - the other two characters operate in a nervous, high-strung kind of time. Time for her is more, shall we say, glacial.
Illustrations by Amanda Maciel Antunes
There is a bed, a desk chair with wheels, a couple of desk lamps (on the floor), tobacco & papers & matches & maybe some cheap cigars. Disarray. All of the light should come from the prop lights and the film -- our world here is fairly dark. House lights go out. Film is playing. Over this, THE GIRL enters, almost silently. SAM notices. She, feeling his gaze, undresses coquettishly, and goes to tackle him,
SAM I don’t like the way I look in color. THE GIRL Hm. Well, the world is in color, so I get that for free. Black & white is more dreamlike, more timeless. You’re like an uh, a stylistic alternative. Beat – she’s doing something self-demonstrating
SAM Lay off, will you, I’m watching something She tries again, maybe more self-consciously bothering him, sits on his back or pokes him with her feet, or or or. SAM Fuck off! Come on, angel, gimme a second.
SAM You’re not exactly the sort of person you pretend to be, are you? THE GIRL How do you mean? SAM Just like that.
Giving up, she turns to the audience. Putting on a pair of GrouchoMarx-style glasses. She speaks to the audience.
THE GIRL Well. I am a liar. I’ve always been a liar.
THE GIRL I need a man.
SAM And that’s double deception. Refusing to presume that your opponent is an idiot, you incorporate a default level of skepticism, an impulse to automatically disbelieve everything. whoever must be deceived in order for the plot to proceed is already suspected of being suspicious, thus leaving the deceiver with only one option: telling the truth.
I need a man good-looking enough to pick up a dame who has a sense of class, but he's got to be tough enough to swap punches with a power shovel. I need a guy who can act like a bar lizard and backchat like Fred Allen, only better, and get hit on the head with a beer truck and think some cutie in the leg-line topped him with a breadstick. He is behind his cheap office desk, back to the window. His jaw is long and bony, his chin a jutting V under the more flexible V of his mouth. Thickish brows rising upward from twin creases above a hooked nose. His dark hair grows to a point on his forehead. He looks rather pleasantly like Satan. He is rolling a cigarette. He does not look up. He is barefoot in checked pajamas sitting on the side of his bed. He pours a drink, drinks it standing, pours another. His face is stupid in its calmness. The room is in complete darkness save for a pale rectangle that is the window. A dark sedan is parked directly in front of the entrance. He looks at me with eyes that glitter between narrow lids. He leaves me standing in the center of the floor looking after him with dazed blue eyes. SAM Ah. So Ryan Gosling? THE GIRL You’ll do, in a pinch. SAM Yeah, well, I don’t come out well on video. THE GIRL Sure you do. On film anyway. Everybody looks cheap in video.
THE GIRL Well, as a criminal in a world full of criminals, I can only assume that my opponent will assume I am lying, and if I indeed lie, any skeptic will immediately see through the deception; second, on the other hand, if I presume that my opponent is a sucker and go about my business without trying to deceive anyone, you will surely surprise me by being smarter than you appear; and finally, since neither of these techniques will work, the only viable strategy is to point the finger back at myself, but in a veiled way, deliberately forcing you to see the illusion, but allowing you to see through it, effectively snaring the skeptic in his own circular reasoning. SAM Well, you know angel, if one's opponent is inclined to believe that you are going to lie, then one possible recourse in deception (indeed perhaps one’s best recourse) is to tell the truth, thus leading your opponent in the wrong direction.
THE GIRL In Groucho Marx impression This man looks like an idiot and acts like an idiot--but this should in no way deceive you: he IS an idiot! Laughter I love you.
THE GIRL Oh, I see. Well, your friends then? SAM Well, friends isn’t something I have any particular experience with.
She waits for a response, but there is none. He turns from her, or fucks up his rolly.
THE GIRL Your ideals?
THE GIRL I have so much love for you I’d like to wear it out to dinner.
SAM Oh yeah? What’s it look like? THE GIRL Shiny. Black as coal. SAM Ha THE GIRL The muscles holding your smile stand out like walls. SAM The better to hang your picture on, angel THE GIRL I think Love’s better than logic. SAM Ha Softer anyway. Til you’re up against the wall. THE GIRL The better to hang my picture on. The musclesSAM Shh. He’s playing the movie. THE GIRL They’re like tumors under your ears. Who do you love most? SAM What? It’s a stupid question. He’s lighting a cigarette, or maybe trying to re-roll it THE GIRL What do you love most? You wild unpredictable man. Your father, your mother, your sister, your brother SAM I haven’t got any. no father no mother no sister no brother.
THE GIRL the Great State of Massachusetts** or wherever you happen to be at the time of production, put in the terminology of jingoistic pomposity SAM Ha. THE GIRL Beauty SAM I’d like to love beauty. Ask all the women I mistake her for. THE GIRL Money. SAM I hate money like you hate God. Get over here, slut (This is playful, not vicious – maybe he’s tickling her) THE GIRL Hey! So what do you love then, Sam? SAM I like.. I don’t know, I like the clouds and shit. He rolls the opening of THE MALTESE FALCON, and stands up to speak over the music, addressing the audience as well as and her. SAM I like, you know, …train stations, airports, Matisse, Rossini, roses, the Marx brothers, tigers, waiting for appointments hoping that the other won’t show up (even if she is a gorgeous woman), not having been there, Piero della Francesca, anything belonging to a beautiful woman that’s beautiful, Homer, Joan Blondell, September, girls’ rear ends on bicycles, trains, Ariosto, Toto and dogs in general, the odor of wet earth, cypresses, the sea in winter, people who don’t talk too
much, James Bond, empty places, deserted restaurants, squalor, empty churches, silences, the sound of bells, being alone in Urbino on a Sunday afternoon, Bologna, Venice, all of Italy, Raymond Chandler, Simenon, Kafka, Dickens, London, gates, roasted chestnuts, taking buses, high beds, Vienna (though I have never been there), stationery shops, No. 2 Faber pencils, variety shows, bitter and semisweet chocolate, waking up, going to sleep, secrets, dawn, night, Lana Turner, actresses, ballerinas…
An elegant older woman, very prim, in 1940s ensemble, passes through. She is EFFIE. Noticing everything, listening carefully, she picks up the girl’s scattered clothes, slowly and deliberately folding each piece. She should look a little like Naomi Watts at the end of that J Edgar Hoover movie, or any number of aging politicians’ wives. She either walks off stage or stays in one place upstage, silently, watching. In any case, the lovers are slowly emerging, saying
THE GIRL I put my sunglasses on so you couldn’t see my eyes. SAM Why’d you take them off? THE GIRL So you wouldn’t wonder why I wore them. Who’s that bitch? It is Lee Patrick as Effie Perine, in the movie. SAM Effie. The trusty girl Friday. THE GIRL Who’s that bitch? It is Gladys George as Iva Archer, in the movie
THE GIRL I just think the Hollywood sign is the ugliest example of graffiti on the North American continent. And it’s unfair, I think, how it’s the man’s face that becomes sort of immortal. The woman’s interchangeable, you know? Another narrow waist for him to drape his arm around nonchalantly. Another thing to come in and say two-bit lines without any bite. You know what I mean. Totally unconsidered. And the minute a lady star got old, a little wrinkly, a little flabby, you just pick one of the lineup and bam, you’ve got another. Pluck her browline, dye her hair, bam. Acres of beautiful, disposable women for every menial private detective. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the movies, but I wouldn’t want to be on the set. It all sounds like a fucked up sort of primitive pussy fantasy.
SAM Iva. The partner’s wife who he fucked a few times. The partner’s dead, the widow’s obnoxious.
SAM He’s been giggling throughout this Hey, how many girls does it take to screw a guy named Sam?
THE GIRL Iva. What a name. Iva. Iva. Iva.
THE GIRL Shut up.
SAM Yeah, pretty fucking obnoxious.
SAM I don’t know, but it’s sure more fun than a lightbulb! he laughs at his own joke, as emphatically and tastelessly as Jake does in that scene in Chinatown.
THE GIRL Would you fuck Iva? SAM Eh, not so much the face. The body’s ok I guess. I could always put a bag over her head. Iva bag. THE GIRL A plastic bag? SAM Right. THE GIRL You murderer. MURDERER! MURDERE- She screams, maybe he covers her mouth. In any case, a chase scene/wrestling match ensues across the furniture while the movie plays. There are moments when the chase seems almost earnestly violent, as with all couples. They should end up behind the bed, indisposed & making soft noises, snippets of laffs & snarky-sexual comments to each other.
THE GIRL Cute. SAM Suddenly serious, attacking Well, how many dicks does it take for you angel? THE GIRL You might be surprised. SAM I know I would be. THE GIRL I’m not exactly the sort of person I pretend to be SAM Ok, well, sure. Just don’t start defending your honor now, angel, it’s embarrassing in your particular uh, position.
THE GIRL Fine SAM How many people have you fucked. THE GIRL What kind of a question isSAM An honest one. What kind of a girl are you? An honest one? THE GIRL Just stop Sam. SAM See? Unwilling to play. Unwilling to talk. Honesty, huh? And you expect me toTHE GIRL I don’t expect anything. I’m not refusing because I want to keep it from you,I’m refusing because of the way you say it. You’re putting me in a trap. what would you even want with an honest girl? SAM Maybe nothing. Maybe the privilege of being ashamed of myself. THE GIRL And maybe I’m not giving you that. Maybe I had in mind to be ready for you there. Maybe SAM Maybe you’ve been waiting for me in a tall white tower. But I’ll never make it if I’ve gotta go climbing up your hair, precious. Peroxide makes it brittle or uh, so I hear. THE GIRL Funny. You’re a laugh a minute, here. SAM Of course I am, angel. I cling to my sanity in the face of certain death. You see the way we have it worked out now, you don’t have to trust me as long as you can persuade me to trust you. It’s a neat little trap. You keep everything that’s important to you – I mean the truth about, ah, various parts of your character – and you get out of me everything that’s important to me – I mean certain admissions that I’ll soften mine up for your sake. So it looks like you’re vulnerable here, sister, but I know you. You are good, you’re very good. You hold out this great big carrot that says “LOVE CONQUERS ALL” in great big letters, knowing that we’re both too cynical to really believe in it, and knowing that I know that, and thinking that I just might fall for it because it
seems so wacky coming from you that it has to be genuine. But you and I both know you’re still holding all the cards, and if I give you one more who knows what you’re going to do. Who knows how you’ll play it, and to whom. I need you to throw something down without a trick, angel - you gotta convince me you know what this is all about and you’re not just fiddling around with me hoping it’ll all come out in the end. Beat. He breaks from her, chuckling Well, I never said I expected anything less. You’re something, you’re really something. THE GIRL Just drop it, Sam, it isn’t fun any more. SAM Well, fuck it then. That’s OK with me. He turns the movie on SPADE We’ve got all night before us. I’ll put some coffee on and we’ll try again. BRIGID Oh—I’m so tired. So tired…of lying and thinking up lies and not knowing what is a lie and what is the truth. I wish I… THE GIRL I believe her. SAM You’re not supposed to believe her, she’s a phony. THE GIRL Still. I believe the idea of it. SAM Now you’re just being stupid, angel. THE GIRL Don’t call me stupid. SAM And I love a stupid woman who says don’t call me stupid. SHE evades a kiss from him. He belly-laughs. OK! Ok, Jesus. Be reasonable.
He starts the movie again. This time, it is slower than real time – I like the playback of the movie at about 30%, where Bogart sounds pisseddrunk & ugly as he curses out Mary Astor in their last scene together in the movie. Throughout the following, THE GIRL has a long movement sequence, slowly getting out of the bed, moving away from SAM, climbing the walls… Think of this as a Francesca Woodman sequence – full of strange angles, rhythms and relations to the architecture of the space. SPADE Listen..This won’t do any good. You’ll never understand me but I’ll try once and then give it up. Listen…When a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it. Then it happens we’re in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it’s bad business to let the killer get away with it – bad all around – bad for every detective everywhere… Wait till I’m through. Then you can talk. Third. I’ve no earthly reason to think I can trust you and if I did this and got away with it, you’d have something on me you could use whenever you wanted to. Next: since I’ve got something on you, I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t decide to put a hole in me some day. Fifth. I wouldn’t even like the idea of thinking that there might be one chance in a hundred that you’d played me for a sucker. And sixth: But that’s enough. All those are on one side. Maybe some of them are unimportant. I won’t argue about that. But look at the number of them. Now, on the other side we’ve got what? All we’ve got is that maybe you love me and maybe I love you. THE GIRL Alright The torturous sound of slow motion film scoring stops. So does the picture on the screen. A moment later the screen goes blank – no more input. I’m going home SAM Fine. Go.
Downstage, SAM is oblivious, though (in the huge budget version of this) maybe an outrageously enormous puddle of blood advances from the body toward his shoes. EFFIE comes out of the shadows, or speaks from them: EFFIE There was a movie theater here once. It played silent films. It was like watching the world through dark glasses on a rainy evening. One night the piano player mysteriously disappeared. We were left with a storming sea that made no sound, and a beautiful woman on a long, empty beach whose tears rolled down silently as she watched me falling asleep in my mother’s arms. I thought it would go on forever. SAM Yeah. Well, so much for your woman’s intuition. EFFIE You did that Sam, to her? SAM Your Sam’s a detective. EFFIE Don’t, please…I know you’re right… but anyway. She exits. SAM sits with the makings of his cigarette, and lets them fall to the ground. EFFIE enters again. EFFIE Iva is here. SAM Yes… Well…send her in. END.
She exits downstage. We next see her at a distance, maybe upstage, as if leaving the building, throwing on a coat against the cold with indignation &c. A sudden gunshot. She falls gracelessly & immediately to the floor. She is unnoticed, at least by SAM, and she is dead.
Blue Ghost Phoebe Wilson
His body was relaxed as it glided into the water, as if he were asleep. The water was dark and smooth in the night; his entry caused hardly a ripple. One of his friends would have pulled him out, they would have continued home. But he was very much alone and very much submerged. His lungs slowly filled with water--he had been unconscious for some time--and quietness closed in. After a passage of time Ethan awoke. Cool air kissed his face. It was daytime. He found himself lying in warm mud. Cool water crawled his skin. The warmth of the sun felt nice and he wondered how long he had been there. Unperturbed, he stood up and began to walk home. Feeling the crunch of leaves underfoot, he noticed he had lost his shoes. He found his house empty. These were the last lingering autumn days. His sister must have been out exploring. It was a Saturday. His parents were busy people with lots of engagements he knew little about; their absence didn't strike him as peculiar. His doze at the lake's edge hadn't done much to rest him, and he climbed the stairs to his room to sleep. He was wandering down a long cold hallway. He saw people in rooms with doors that all seemed closed. The rooms were dimly lit and the people all were somber. No one noticed him walk by, and he preferred that. Not thinking to glance behind him for a way out, he continued down the hallway. Eventually reaching a door to a room that was warm and bright; through a small window he could see her face. Even in his dreams he saw her. She was not intolerably vain or inexplicably cold, as the beautiful often are. She was not a stereotype from a dated romantic comedy, and you wouldn't find a trail of shallow friends eagerly praising her in return for scant attention. She was Olivia, and deserving of reverence.
They had known each other for almost a decade. He watched her date other boys, some easy to hate, others his friends, all lucky to have her. But he kept her away with a stone exterior, heavy with sarcasm and feigned indifference. And he held to a hope that she would never abandon him, sensed sometimes that she needed him as he needed her. When he awoke it was dark. He wondered what his friends were doing. It was a Saturday, not to be wasted. His phone was nowhere to be found. He did not worry. He drove to his friends' houses, found only dark and empty driveways. He caught sight of an old white BMW. It belonged to Brett, his best and oldest friend, and driving awfully fast though the liquor stores didn't close for a few hours. Ethan followed. The car wound through suburban streets, farther and farther from where he expected it to go. It left the city roads, for a field with an unexpected glow. He parked and followed Brett. He saw more cars, a gathering of people, mostly in silence, facing a row of candles. Not wanting to disturb, he walked to the side and sat behind. He assumed Brett would do the same, but watched him walk to the front of the crowd. Turning to face everyone, Brett looked pained, but determined. What could have brought everyone here when there was plenty of beer to drink? It was their last few months of high school. They hardly had time for serious things. “It's hard to believe I'm standing up here. Even driving over I considered turning back several times. I brought you all here but I have great doubt that I can give this situation the respect or significance it deserves.” Brett paused, exhausted. Ethan was alarmed. Why was everyone upset? He heard his name. He approached the front, and spotted Olivia in the front row. He softened a little, and tried not to show it. As he looked he saw her weeping. He had never seen her fragile. She was always charming and clever and effortlessly gorgeous. He suppressed an instinct to wrap her in his arms, got lost thinking about her brown eyes and how he felt when she laughed. But Brett had resumed his speech. “Everyone tries to live life without regrets, including me. We make choices that take us down paths that lead to other decisions, and so the course of our life is determined. There is no destiny or fate and we cannot attribute our journey to any greater force or being. But I will regret the events of yesterday, every single day for the rest of my life. If I could go back and take his last few drinks away, I would. I would call someone to drive him home, and I would fall asleep knowing I did the right thing. But instead I will fall asleep knowing I can never go back and he will never return to us. He is gone forever. He will be so sorely missed that I cannot express it. But I know somehow he understands.” It was all too morbid, too realistic. He looked around at the familiar, candlelit faces, for answers. He looked to Olivia, but her face was hidden beneath waves of dark hair, and she was shaking. He knew every single person in the crowd, and not one of them would look at him. He was suddenly freezing. His hands felt the sting of cold and he stuffed them into his pockets. His fingers touched a piece of paper he had forgotten was there. He pulled it out, curiously. It was crumpled up and still damp, but he read what he could make out. He felt hot wet tears trailing down his face. He used the little strength he had to settle himself onto the earth. He sat in silence and thought about the cruelty of eternity.
Photography&Fashion Asli Kolcu Hair&Make-Up Gulin Yolac Assistant Mehmet Yavuz Aslan Models Joana, Tina and Pascale (Ice Model Mgmt) Retouch Monica Chamorro Wardrobe Asos, Topshop, Divaresse, Zara, George Hogg, Nine West Boutique
A Towline Joshua Heerter
A towline shoots across the bay To a leaking schooner .
Single women in their thirties
Ignore each other on the shore In dress boutiques. A woman combs her straight hair Upturned eyes in the kitchen.
Donâ€™t touch the little smiles The lies told looking down, On the beach the way I joined you Leave them with the bowl of cream and raspberries and joining will occur, and it is an unknown.
Photography Dakota Lewallen
Samantha Crain Musician Interview By Amanda Maciel Antunes
In the industry since her teenage years, 25-year-old Oklahoma-based folk musician Samantha Crain has made song-writing and performance her way of life. Her sounds suit her spontaneous lifestyle and eclectic musical talents. We caught Samantha taking a break from tour and asked her what it is like to be on the road, her future and going insane. Although she says that the touring life is not for everyone, it seems to suit her just fine.
So...what are you up to right now? Tell me something that inspired you recently. I am currently in Shawnee, back home with family. I am taking time to write for a couple weeks between tours. Then I'll be back on the road heading to the Eastern US and then back over to Europe for a short tour with First Aid Kit. I also just released a new 7" single that John Vanderslice produced called A Simple Jungle. The first time I heard your voice I was listening to Devil’s in Boston and couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had a serious obsession with that song for months. I'm always interested in the process of songwriting. Tell me a little bit about your process and what sparks your creative writing and story telling. My process varies with different periods of my life. When I'm on the go a lot and living a more social existence, creativity seems to come from the people and places around me and my songs become more like stories and narratives. When I am leading a more quiet life, my songs tend to take a more introspective and thoughtful turn and sometimes they can be more abstract. Traveling really plays a huge role in inspiring me. It has become my rhythm and without that rhythm I feel a bit lost. You’re obviously a very busy woman and you’re on the road a lot. It’s quite common for artists to let other parts of life take a back seat with their hectic schedules. Is there something you don’t do that you wish you had the time for, like reading books or keeping in touch with your family? I am a very family oriented person so I do keep in touch with my family on a regular basis. I read a lot when I'm not on the road but I do wish I had more time to just be quiet and still. Actually this is something I get to tap into when I'm touring in Europe and UK because I take the train everywhere and I tour alone overseas. So I have all day to think and be quiet and then I can play at night, but touring with a band over here in US and Canada can be quite the party and there is a lot of social interaction that goes along with the touring. I know a lot of my friendships have suffered because of my schedule and I do wish I could focus on that more. I have made attempts to do that as I get older and realize their importance. Are there certain places you prefer touring or certain cities you really love? I really love touring in Europe and UK right now, mainly because it’s still new and exciting for me. I love the US but I've been everywhere so many times! But when we are touring the US and Canada, I really love the Northwest, British Columbia, Washington, Oregon; it’s such beautiful scenery and great weather. I also really like touring through the Northeast because I get to experience that itinerant urban quality of traveling and living which can be really blood-pumping!
My boyfriend picked up these old postcards at an estate sale from the early part of the 20th century. Most of them had already been written on and sent and we just sat around and read them out loud to each other. We only had little snapshots of these lives but it was really fun to imagine what they looked like or sounded like or what the rest of their life was like. Have you been insane before? Have you been in insane situations? I feel like for a few years I was very hedonistic and allowed myself to do whatever I wanted to do, and I think that sort of behavior gave me a skewed view of personal consequence and I probably acted pretty insane. I probably didn't have a lot of regard for myself or for the people around me. During that time I found myself in a lot of insane situations. I was lucky nothing too bad happened. Are there any artists you think have sold themselves to the devil? I think everyone sells a little bit of themselves to the devil. It isn't necessarily a bad thing either; it’s part of changing as a person. Your moral compass changes because of your experiences. In order to empathize with your fellow humans and survive in a brutal world, I find it’s best to be mostly good but a little evil. When it comes to music, the music part of it isn't necessarily the part that people sell to the devil, it’s the business front of things and that's just part of living in a capitalistic society. You can be a part of it or not, you can thrive or fail, but you can always make music and art no matter which path you choose. What is the future like? I hope for happiness for myself and the people I love. It’s really the only thing I can try and hope for these days. And not just happiness in a sense of "elation" and "joy" but happiness more in a sense of contentment and fulfillment. I also hope I can keep making a living playing music until I die, or until my fingers and voice give out. Would you tell us a secret? I spend way too much money on scratch off lottery tickets.
As an artist do you draw a line between music, singing, or is the line blurred for you? I consider my voice my most fluent instrument so music and singing go hand and hand for me. If I can't find a way to express myself on guitar or banjo or piano, I know I can always find the way to express myself through my voice.
Photography Dakota Lewallen
Catastrophe Lindsay Ann-Thueme
I have never watched floodwaters encroach my cellar door, not felt the earth tremble underfoot. I have not witnessed devastation of any magnitude or biblical proportion except for my own transgressions. Yet, I know the cold seduction of a .22 rifle shouldered and barrel-cocked, expectantly; the enticement to throw open the throttle of a candy-red mustang on blind curved, back roads; the grotesque curiosity to step off rainbow-hued shale cliffs into the unforgivable waters of Lake Superior far below. I know I am too eagerly drawn to the pulse quickened glitter of danger and too often I have known: vanity, vengeance, avarice, malice, rage, deceit, discontent, that simmers just below this benign smile I deal you now. Thus, I need not todayâ€™s headlines nor this poetry 101 lecture
on how to artistically acknowledge despair For, I am quite knowledgeable on how to be a one-woman catastrophe.
The secret days, the nothingness, nocturnal, inner sanctuary, our stone eyes, rescue. It’s as dark as a shadow but it has substance that is...