Everyday I'm CHERYLIN'

I had heard of CHERYL before, while reading a New York Times article called "Going Gaga" in 2010, about the increase in highly costumed but punky downtown events happening in New York, but hadn’t been able to do anything about until last weekend. CHERYL, a performance art troupe based in Brooklyn, was written up on Time Out New York for hosting epic dance parties all over the world, featuring items like cat masks, fake blood, unitards, and glitter. I wanted to go almost instantly.

And then, while perusing information about the opening of the Cindy Sherman exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, I found a link: MoMA PopRally presents CHERYL, in celebration of the Sherman exhibition. So, not just CHERYL, but MoMA and access to the exhibit there. My brain began working. It would be the weekend while TDS was visiting. Did she want to go with me? The answer, to my delight, was yes. Happily, ALiCo, SC, JB and JT were able to join us as well. We bought our tickets online beforehand and it’s lucky we did—the day before the event, all the tickets were sold out.

TDS and I were too excited. Over dinner we watched CHERYL’s video on how to CHERYL—yes, there is a dance, and no, I won’t teach it to you, but you can watch it here and do it at the next CHERYL party you go to. It’ll be done at least once, I’ll promise you that.

We arrived early because we didn’t know what the line would be like to get in. Turns out a bunch of people had the same idea, but it wasn’t crowded at all yet. We sipped some wine and walked around the space, which had been filled with mannequins airbrushed with different shades of foundation makeup. I found out it was foundation when I touched it, thinking it was dry paint, and it got all over my fingers. Plus it smelled like flowers. We were able to write on the mannequins and take pictures with the disposable cameras tied to their wrists and necks.

Photo courtesy Sara Mingle via iPhone

A group of dancers wrapped in various forms of nude and/or white underwear, stockings, corsets, bald caps—which I would later find out were a ‘naked costume’—made their way to the dance floor, set up in the MoMA lobby in front of a DJ booth holding up a red and white CHERYL sign. They weren’t just ‘whatever’ dancers, either. Their movements were tight and sophisticated, like modern dancers let loose for the evening. They painted their faces with dark eyes, too-dark foundation, strange cheeks, and odd lips. They were fantastic.

Other CHERYL-ers were men and women decked in black with painted-on mustaches holding cameras or just flashbulbs they’d press every so often. Buttons pinned to their blouses read ‘DANCE’ and ‘CHERYL.’

TDS in cat mask
Photo courtesy Sara Mingle via iPhone

We made our way down a red carpet where we were able to get either face paint or cat masks from men and women wearing Crayon-red bobbed wigs, turtlenecks, and jeans. We opted for the masks, resting them atop our heads and walking around some more looking at the space. Not a lot of people had arrived yet, so we went upstairs to check out the exhibition. I think Cindy Sherman’s an evil genius, forming and photographing herself into different female tropes and bringing out the grotesque in all of us, but this blog post isn’t about that so it’ll have to wait for another time. It was interesting, though, to see how CHERYL had taken that grotesqueness and transformed it into something livable—foundation on the mannequins and strange makeup/gender-bending its staff.

Not too long after, though, we moved onto the dance floor and so did more people. And more people. And more and more and more until the entire lobby of MoMA was pumping with body heat, balloons, masking tape, tin foil and green fabric. One woman was topless. People were breakdancing. There was a girl wearing shiny green leggings with black leotards, some other people wearing hipster glasses they didn’t need, boys in skinny jeans, older men in button-down black shirts and greased-back hair, chicks in long black skirts and oxford shoes, cross-body bags slung across their bodies, a dude wearing a 1970s mesh jersey tank top with vintage brick red pants. Most of all, though, they were just people who liked to boogie.

Photo courtesy Sara Mingle via iPhone

The DJ played music I didn’t know for the most part and I didn’t care. There were sick beats we could all shake and stomp to, waving our hands in the air wildly as confetti fell from the sky and the room spun in a kaleidoscope of colored lights while CHERYL videos, with performers in the signature cat masks, played in the background. There was sweat and dance and boys kissing boys and girls kissing girls and boys kissing girls. There was a conga line. There was vogueing. There was even a kick line performed by my friends and I. And of course, there was CHERYL. At one point, all of the CHERYL staff moved to the lobby’s raised platform and began the dance. TDS and I did it along with them. “WE CHERYLED! WE CHERYLED!” we squealed afterward. I watched TDS’s eyes light up. “This is just...I can’t even…It’s so perfect.” It was.

The website for CHERYL is cherylwillruinyourlife.info, but I think they say that because every day that you don’t CHERYL will never be the same. CHERYL will make you wish every day was a wild, crazy, weird, artsy, naked, loud, sweaty dance party with a trembling, writhing mass of bodies. So maybe you won’t CHERYL all the time, but you can rest assured that whenever you do CHERYL, it will be perfect.

Moon Over New Jersey

Sure, I’m no Betty Grable (well, okay, maybe I am…), and this certainly isn’t Moon over Miami, but as Spring Breakers embark on their  academic-less trips southward like tanning oil-covered moths to a flame, it was nice, even as a “real” person to get away for a while and see someplace different. And maybe ‘awhile’ was only six hours or so one evening this week, but even in that short period of time it felt like a different planet.

CH, Lady B, BR and I headed out to the house of divine hostess N in a far off land called Metuchen, New Jersey, for dinner and discussion of very exciting events to come (my lips are sealed! But trust me, it’ll be awesome). Leaving CH’s home in Brooklyn, our Zipcar inched through the borough, providing a stop-and-go scenic (is there such a thing?) route westward. We wound our way around the base of Manhattan, which is in and of itself a constellation of lights, the windows of massive buildings turning on and off as employees leave for the day. Curling our way through Staten Island, Lady Libs says hey and bids adieu for the evening.

Then, over the Verrazano Bridge. Driving across it is like driving through a black and white photograph and, even though there was tremendous traffic up to that point, I wondered what it must look like during the daytime. After that, it’s smooth sailing and we enter New Jersey. First, Secaucus, a maze of factory/plant-looking constructions spewing smoke into the air, thick and orange in the blackness. Then, uh, the rest of New Jersey.

Strip malls. A giant Kmart. Dunkin’ Donuts, Target, Sonic, Uno, Houlihans, and the list goes on. Every franchise possible stuffed into a long stretch of drive that reminds me of long road trips from South Florida to Pennsylvania. The sky is black in front of us and the franchises reach out for miles. Eventually, there is darkness and paneled houses and bushes and we make a right and there is N’s house. It has a lawn. I step onto it and laugh, “What is this strange substance? We don’t have this in New York!” All kidding aside, it feels strange under my feet, in a good way. It’s cushy, like walking on a comforter. It occurs to me the last time I walked on grass was months ago, when I was home in Florida. Even when I’m in Central Park I walk on the paved sidewalks.  

And despite my not-so-secret distaste for suburbia, I am delighted to be here, invited into N’s home with the rest of the crew for a real home-cooked meal. Something else I have not had in months. We sit down to dinner and I almost cry—I warmed up some frozen broccoli for dinner the night before—at the sheer spread. Curry chicken, daal, raita, chutneys, rice, potatoes. “I am so happy!” I say, covering my eyes in delight. I cannot ease my cheeks into a neutral facial formation because they are stuck in smile mode. I missed being part of a family, I missed Florida, and I missed driving up A1A with the windows down, letting the salty, warm March air kiss my face and hands. It was, I think, only the third time I’ve been homesick while I’ve lived in New York, but it was a powerful feeling nonetheless.

We all had a lovely evening, planning, laughing, chatting and, of course, eating. (OH AND THE PIE. There was pie. Banoffee pie, made of toffee and bananas and fluffy goodness and chocolate, I think? I believe my exact words were, “It’s like a carnival in my mouth.”) We left and gave kisses and hugs, and went back out to the car.

High overhead was a full moon, a bright silver polka dot in the navy sky. Standing underneath it felt like standing in a spotlight. I stared up at it and wondered when the last time was that I saw the moon; rather, not only saw it, but felt as though I may get a moon burn from standing beneath it. The moon peeked over N’s house from the back, shining light onto the car, onto all of us. I remembered what it felt like to be home. Because, yes, New York is where I live, and I love it here terribly, but home will always be South Florida.

I Died and Went to Rock 'n' Roll Heaven

Let me be clear about one thing: I hate jam bands.  

Well, at least I thought I did.

I thought jam bands played pseudo-Grateful Dead covers and plucked a lot of bass while audience members with varying degrees of dreadlocks spun in circles and stared toward the sky (sorry JAL, I still love you). It’s not so much a roller coaster as, unsurprisingly, an acid trip. One drop and you’re off on the music’s whim. Not to get dark, but it makes me feel trapped: WHEN WILL THIS SONG END ALREADY?!?

My best friend, JAL, mentioned above, has taken me to a few of these kinds of shows before. (Though, to be fair, she is not so much a dirty hippie as a clean one. That is, she is happiest barefoot but still shaves her armpits.) But my tuneage is more than a little different.

Like many angst-ridden youths, I began raising myself on punk in middle school. Not thrashy, yell-y kinds of things, but loud, fast guitars purred over by deep-voiced men. Old school goodness like The New York Dolls, the Ramones, and The Velvet Underground; new school stuff like The Pink Spiders. Then there was also my never-ending love for The Rolling Stones, instilled in me by my father. To this music, there was a reckless abandon that I so desperately wanted to duplicate in myself. It was the sound of streaking, of making out in the backseat of cars, driving really fast, and smoking cigarettes, all of which were deliciously taboo to me as an adolescent. In punk and in good old blues-infused rock and roll, I was able to liberate myself from myself and pretend that I was just a little bit dangerous. You know, like Sandy at the end of Grease.

I went out of my way to learn a lot about my music, but JAL’s I have not really touched too much—it was too soft, too smooth. It was not until two weekends ago, actually, that I realized all jam bands do not fit the aforementioned description and perhaps I just dislike endless funk. I learned that it is, in fact, possible to jam and simultaneously rock your face off.

Photo by Carlos Henriquez, www.chenriphoto.com

Enter Iced Ink, the brainchild of St. Paul, MN native Mike Krenner. Krenner has spiky dark hair with matching beardy business and thick, goggle-like (but in a cool way) black-framed glasses. Krenner writes in the band’s biography that the idea for Iced Ink arose when:

“Suffering from severe M.A.D.D. (not the moms/drunk driving one but the Musical Attention Defecit Disorder one), he wanted to be in too many different styles of bands at once – metal, funk, surf, pop, rock, jazz, rockabilly…. It was decided that in the interest of time and not lugging guitars and amps all over the Twin Cities that it would be most efficient to just cram all of his desired genres into one sole cohesive glob of sound.”

Iced Ink has gone through a few lineups since it began in 1998, along with a move from the chilly depths of Minnesota to the mostly less chilly Brooklyn in 2009. Krenner (guitar) found his two current bandmates, Gregg Mitchell (bass guitar) and Ethan Meyer (drums), in Spring 2011. Fast forward to February 2012, when CH invited me to see them them play in a small, two-room bar on the Lower East Side.

The fellas picked up their instruments and I realized there would be no singing. Oh no, I thought. Is this really going to be another of JAL’s bands? But then…the thrilling squeal of electric guitar, the thumping crash of drums, the heat of a perfectly necessary bass. My feet started moving independently of themselves, followed by my hips, my arms, and my neck. B, Mike’s delightful pixie wife (who also makes the band’s gig buttons…I now have a full set proudly tacked onto my bulletin boards) grabbed my hand. “Come on!” she said. “Let’s go dance!” To the front of the room we went, and everything but sound fell away.

My body followed the band’s fantastic lack of pattern, a surprise in every new and different chord.  I didn’t know when it would end, but I didn’t care; I didn’t want it to. My feet stomped, my hair flicked back and forth; it was like I had been possessed and dear god if this is what the devil felt like then please let me go to hell.

Iced Ink was all of the things Mike had wanted it to be. It was rockabilly, it was surf, it was punk, it was rock and roll. I heard all of these familiar twangs and beats from my adolescence—Brian Setzer Orchestra, Dick Dale, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC—but all smushed together in an incredible music sandwich—it was like when you don’t think a Fluffernutter will be the most amazing thing ever but then you eat it and you can’t imagine your life without it.

“Yes, I’m alive!” I heard my brain say. “Please never stop lusting for life!” All of the recklessness I wanted as a teenager I heard in this music and for once I was able to cut myself loose. In Iced Ink, there was electricity and life and energy and bright red blood bleeding from rock and roll hearts onto dirty punk shoes and it was one of the most beautiful things I had heard in a long time.

I left, converted. 

facebook.com/icedink

icedink.com

Beauty Behind the Scenes

Hands-down, my favorite thing about Fashion Week is going behind the scenes at the shows and seeing them all get put together. One dresser lacing up a model's Doc Martens for the runway while the model reads War and Peace, another dresser lint-rolling a model while she stands texting backstage. A designer adjusting a model's belt so it hits just the right spot, a hairdresser making a hairstyle just messy enough. Then, the show goes on and the models strut their stuff, their hair falling perfectly (or purposely imperfectly) on their shoulders for a mere 15-30 minutes for a runway, much longer if it's a presentation.

Incidentally, while models are standing for presentations they, understandably, do some of the most mundane things, like scratch their hair or their noses that are just so much funnier because they're giant Barbie dolls doing it.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to capture these little moments, and wanted to share some of my favorites from the week.

One Day You're In...

From February 9 to 16 is New York Fashion Week, and that means I’m running around in a swirl of models, dresses, makeup and god knows what else taking pictures and writing about what I see. And as strange as it may seem, I absolutely love the hours I spend on my feet snapping away for just the right shot, the crowds that show up at some of these events in impossibly high heels (men and women), and the nervous energy of designers hoping to make a good impression. The pressure is high—what editors, buyers, and whoever else sees at these runway shows and presentations affects what happens to the designers next. Sometimes designers have one bad collection after another and they fall off the planet, never to be heard from again.

I saw this play out on a much smaller scale at a show I went to last night. It was at a gallery in Chelsea, as so many shows are. To get to the presentation, one had to alight in the passenger elevator which really looked like the freight entrance just next to it.

“Who are you here with?”

A cleanly bald man in a blue velvet jacket with seafoam green pocket square looked at me inquiringly as I moved past him. “I’m with the PR company,” I said, as I made my way inside. What’s interesting is that even the smallest designers’ shows will have a very strict guest list, as if to say, no, not just anyone can come inside. But then you confidently say your name or what brings you there and move past the entrance without a pause and people let you go.

I was expecting a typical evening of shooting, models, clothes, socializing, etc., without any fireworks. People were swishing their wine glasses, staring at the models on display occasionally, chatting with the designers—it was really just a cocktail party overseen by models on raised white platforms.

One woman seemed a little out of place. She wore an acid-washed denim dress that went down to her shins worn over black leggings fringed with stones. The dress was belted with a magenta patent leather belt and on her feet were carnation pink heels encrusted with various kinds of stones. She walked around with one of those large, plastic-looking totebags given out by some grocery stores. There was no sense of irony in her look though, as is common with the somewhat questionable fashion choices people make today. “Can I take a picture of you for my blog?” she asked a young girl sporting patterned pants and a tan jacket.

More power to you, I thought to myself. It’s about time one of these industry events got a little shaken up, made a little uncomfortable. There was a brightness to her that seemed just a bit off—she was not one of these cold fashion girls who look you up and down before looking you in the eye. It’s sad that being a happy girl made her not fit in. I felt people looking at her and judging. I couldn’t watch it happen, so I just turned back to taking pictures, making my way through the room to do my job.

I continued on my way for a while, squeezing past the row of other photographers who had set themselves up in one location with their tripods and other accoutrements. About a half hour later, I heard a crash behind me. Trying to squeeze between a model on a platform and that same row of photographers, the woman in the denim dress had tripped and fallen, crashing to the floor with her wine glass still in her hand, the stones on her heels scattering. Someone helped her up quickly, I’m sure, but others gasped and stood around her, staring. What was scary is that I saw less concern in their eyes than a kind of twisted voyeurism, almost like they were laughing at her. I still couldn’t watch.

When she fell, her wine glass broke in her hand and spattered some blood on the floor. As soon as she was helped up and taken to the makeup room, people with the designer instantly rushed over to wipe up the blood. A circle of onlookers had formed around them, and as soon as the blood was gone, they filled up the space and continued socializing. It was like nothing had happened, that people just wanted to forget the incident as soon as it was over. It was almost startling. Time passed and more people filled the room.

For me, the situation held up a mirror to the industry. It highlighted those certain somethings that we all choose to ignore—the classism, the status battles, the creative frustration—and instead embrace only the things we like about it—the glamour, the artistry, the exclusivity. Not only that, but it showed me how quickly one fall can make someone—a designer, a model, a blogger at a party—disappear forever.

*

Eventually the women reemerged, her thumb wrapped up tight with makeshift bandages. The designer went up to the woman to make sure she was okay. The woman drank another glass of wine and continued with her evening.

恭禧發財!

It means 'Happy New Year' in Chinese! And this past weekend in Chinatown was the annual Chinese New Year parade. Small children threw firecrackers on the ground from thin plastic bags, confetti burst into the air, and red and gold dragons abound all over the streets. This year is the year of the dragon, my year, the luckiest year. Elderly women wave their hands, trying to touch the dragon for luck. They smile and their thin, wrinkled hands twinkle with delight. Even with the cold gripping my hands, their happiness is catching.

Shaking it Off

There are days when, after sitting put as the brilliant community manager I am, I simply need to get up and shake off the last few hours. I need to feel like I have moved my bones across this great city and taken advantage of this strange, 50-degree “winter” weather we’ve been having, eschewing the sluggish, Jabba the Hut feeling that plagues me when I sit for too long. Sunlight beams onto the building across the street and I begin to itch, like a dog who needs a walk. And as soon as I finish my hours for the day, I am off, headed toward Central Park with my camera at my side.

I think about nothing but the pursuit of concrete under my feet and the last few hours wither away slowly. I am moving again like I used to when I had my “real” job, to the subway and back twice a day at least, if I didn’t go out at night or if my boss didn’t have some wild errands for me to run around midtown (“Go to Chanel,” she said one day. And do what? “Nothing, just go.” Fine by me). I need to start using the main library as my workspace like I used to, since the train is, I think, over a mile walk from my house. I love walking around the city, rain or shine, snow or slush, because I love the hum it puts in my blood. It’s a hum that starts slow, but gets faster once it begins synching with the fast pace of the nameless and driven others around me.

And it’s funny, that even at 3pm on a Tuesday, the city still hums with life. Maybe quieter in my neighborhood than most, but a hum nonetheless. I walk up Fifth Avenue and the sun greets me at every intersection. I cross the street to be on the side of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Met as it’s known in these parts, and admire the wares (some faux and some not faux) of the merchants who have set themselves up on the cobbled path punctuated by the occasional tree leading up to the museum. Some of them sell Breakfast at Tiffany’s posters framed in black plastic they probably printed off the internet. One stands covered in colored dots behind canvases of small square faces he’s painted. A sign reading $50 that’s been scrawled with paint-doused fingers stands in front of him. I admire his gumption.

My next stop is the steps of the Met, those infamous steps where tourist upon tourist has sat and taken that signature picture. Their friend stands at the base of the steps and the subject sits in the middle for just the right angle where you get the widest expanse of the building behind you. As I sit there, at least four of said picture are taken, usually as the photographer stands in front of the USMC vet’s hot dog and pretzel truck. Sitting on the steps as non-tourist is less interesting because all you see are the backs of heads, so I move on.

Into Central Park I go, passing private school children and their parents as they make their way to the nearby playground. I swerve on a path I’ve never taken before and wind up at the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. The sign for it is covered in bars like a jail cell and I can’t help but be saddened by the irony. My feet sink a bit into the mud created by snow that has since melted and my feet squish on the path. I sit on a bench nearby and schoolchildren go by with their parents. Tree branches are grey and deadened by winter, reaching out into the air like skeletons grasping for life. The sun is setting and I have to be getting home.