sunday dub club

late sunday avo in sydney park. it's sunday dub club. from our position abreast the hill kate watches the sunset to the west.

frisbee throwers emulating maui valiantly try to snare the sun. we don't want the day to end either.

dogs play while humans make smoke signals. they have no blankets. or smallpox.

shadowy figures behind us sway to the bass as it beats its way up to us.

and others huddle admiring the spectacle as day gives way to night. we drink more cider & contemplate perfection.

giles tells us a story about his friends who climbed up to the top of the tower & had sex up there. 

on the tallest tower. of course.

this makes emma smile a lot. there's such a wonderful vibe. we are the poster kids for chillax.

the music ends. and it instantly gets colder. we migrate shivering with the last motion blurs released from the park onto king street for the next installment of our adventure. it's only dusk & there's a whole night ahead of us.

sunday dub club is the first sunday of each month

sydney park

cnr sydney park rd & princess highway

st peters, sydney

11:00 till dusk

crees free

secret wars - round 4: shannon crees vs vars one.

in the beginning there were two blank canvases. and a shitload of roaring peeps. hardcore graf artists, paste-up kids & hipsters & wannabes rubbing shoulders with groupies, corporate cling-ons & the curious who just heard that graffiti got cool.

the rules: one massive artistic diss off. in ninety minutes. use your black posca pen or paint to pimp your talent with the objective of winning the crowd noisemeter. and the judges. take no prisoners.

inside jokes & popular culture references rule.

a crowd of almost 500 drink & watch nouveaux rock stars reign supreme onstage. it's a good time to flash your backpack spray can in a flourish to wouldbe converts & get laid. electricity mounts.

the artist visions come to fruition as the clock ticks. some disrespectful bitches get in our way & we stomp all over their asses. respect your elders. and we are so much older... they move on.

the paint flies on deftly wielded brushes. can you tell shannon [this season's sole femme] has my vote?

she finishes after pulling a couple of last minute swifties. see mars to vars et al. and then watches vars apply the finishing touches to his masterpiece.

the crowd heaves & hos like a rhythmic football crowd. thankfully the music is better than ricky martin, with considerably less brawn & more brain. for some more than others. 

we meet a 21 year old who is having his birthday. he thinks i am swedish. i casually destroy his fantasy. he showers us in beer & moves on. everything is OK. but the old school crowd is in transition as accessibility of the art increases. secret wars is getting successful. this commercial ascension is often problematic.

but the art is still fucking great [and shannon wins].

flightless black dove

the aging burlesque star... 

paloma negra's [chavela vargas' classic black dove] depiction of this tangible tragedy is nothing short of poignant & powerful poetry. her performance was breathtakingly beautiful at the supper club this weekend past, courtesy of the cohesively choreographed anything goes cabaret showcase. 

the calibre of performers & the journey of the show were crafted like an exceptionally well produced album or film. the beginning flowed like a meandering river into the middle & end. 

reality lurked hidden in curtain shadows, temporarily suspended as the audience were enveloped into dark mystical worlds which overlapped each preceding one.

over the years i've experienced many performances through film & theatre addressing this ubiquitous & heartfelt theme: the demise of the star. the appearance based use-by date of women a societal conundrum experiencing increased velocity, compounded in this case beyond belief. 

how can one retire gracefully into the wings when eternally destined for centre stage?

the ghosts of memories past still bind the flesh to the present.

even if unwilling or in/unfirm. oh how the mighty have fallen.

silver screen icon jane russell when asked, once retorted "why did i quit movies? because i was getting too old. you couldn't go on acting in those years if you were an actress over 30." 

nor was she able to have children of her own later through a range of back street abortions she endured throughout her career as pregnancy was not an option. the silver lining of the screen/stage has sharp edges.

but it is mercilessly hard to let go of the compulsion to fly, especially having once felt the wind beneath your wings. stage left & stage right.

another day, another muse

this is venus vamp. i'm in love with her.

we officially met friday night when i ventured off into the night to shoot anything goes cabaret. a dark burlesque event which hearkens to old school roots which she runs & features in.

we've got so much in common. we both love fake blood...

have full back tattoo fetishes...

love subversive erotica, gorgeous women, dramatic performance & fake blood... oh did i mention that already?

we're making a film together in the next two weeks! where there's a will, there's definitely a way. then we can consolidate our new love affair by swapping recipes. for fake blood.

by jove, i think she's got it!

the normally impeccable miss audrey hepburn becomes undone...

quite undone indeed.

and she's covered in.. SPAIN. like any fair lady requiring decent elocution guidance.

clearly she needs her mouth, if not her entire body, washed out.

very fun minnie moonshine was audrey hepburn at doppelganger dames at tone, sydney where other femme fatales came out to play in the guise of favored counterparts. 

for more voyeurism bites stay tuned but even better soak up burlesque in the city direct. there's a delightfully decadent junket of eye candy meets visceral experience with attitude out there.

three bound mice

running the gauntlet in newtown: luke, kelly & i. will this relationship work? we're out to explore it & play. there are several jokes made through the evening about our polyamorous relationship on this experimental intiation rite. 

we're pretty chilled, leave freaky tiki, arrive at our second designated spot, make introductions & start tying up the waitresses...

a delightful handful of like-minded fetishized souls. we like to create our own entertainment. it's a perfectly good arrangement.

besides it's my friend steven's birthday & what better way to celebrate his burgeoning shibari skills than bind beautiful women to him over a bottle or two of red wine?

this seems to make sense to everyone. resistance is futile. steven's rather a dab hand with that specially hand-hewn softened rope. we like to watch. or be tied up. and vice versa.

steven & i have been in secret shibari talks for awhile. i've moved from model to filmmaker. although there's no reason not to do both. but i've already been naked in my own film, it's someone else's turn. self-voyeurism isn't really my thing. masturbation is better with friends.

cue photo of friends. 

the gauntlet successfully negotiated with flagellation through the laying of rope survived, we cut loose hitting successive locations thereafter under a cloud of more red wine with friendships more taut than the day before. and one happy birthday boy.

i wake up in the morning fully dressed, make-up smeared, blonde hair everywhere from the night before after the other two late night amorous mice have quietly tip-toed tailless out the door. see how they run. back.