Blabberque at Sugar Space

A band of artists from BBQLA rode through Indianapolis on the last leg of their Fool's Journey, a migrating yearlong exhibition.
The show, staged at Sugar Space, was accompanied by a performance dinner informally referred to as Blabberque IN.
Borrowing from the concept of the Jeffersonian Dinner, the performance assembled eight artists to parse a term of art jargon in whatever medium they saw fit.
The event lifted two main aspects from the Jeffersonian formula-- uniting deliberately selected guests invested in a common mission, and holding the floor for presentation on a single topic at a time.



As moderator, I (Erin K Drew) introduced the concept by acknowledging Thomas Jefferson's fucked legacy as imperialist slave owner, and stating an intention to downplay his contributions to the evening. I conducted the night dressed as a more benign Jefferson-- a Jefferson Airplane. Operating under the maxim that If You're Not Uncomfortable You're Not Doing Performance Art, I attempted to enjoy a slaw dog prepared by guest chef, artist Tre Reising, and multiple glasses of wine.



Presentations were given by:
Matthew Batty on Transcendence
Lisa Berlin Jackson on Problematic
A Bowden on Actuality
Bryn Jackson on Institutional Critique
Anna Martinez on Built Environment
Ben Martinkus on Appropriation
Breanne Trammel on Casual Institutions



Performance mediums ran the gamut from slideshow to sound performance, publication + Q&A (Martinez) to play (Martinkus).
Trammel distributed certificates of casual authenticity, inviting participants to forge credentials for their own areas of expertise.



Bryn Jackson, an IMA employee, acknowledged the tension of his role in absentia; a tv set stand-in sped through his selfies taken with the contemporary collection. While Berlin Jackson recited a nursery rhyme recounting fraught dynamics at the 2018 Whitney Biennial ("Dana Schutz for solemn thrill/appropriating Mamie Till") and beyond, Bowden confronted BBQLA's own problematic past, performing a text that referenced artistic intruders with "good intentions."

"I like to take a walk after dinner," Matthew Batty stated before leading participants on a meandering walk around the neighborhood. Strapped with a small amplifier which blasted mysterious audio into the dark, Batty tested a trio of places to lean an aluminum ladder before resting it in a patch of the Sugar Space garden bed.

Putty Online

It has been sweet of you to literally hold your breath for months but you don't have to any more because every episode of Putty, my live art talk show, is now ONLINE and I am growing concerned for your health.

*Exhale*
...........
In your viewing adventures you may some things and people that look like this:


-Anne Laker led us through a Mad Lib in October!

-Likeable Local Man Michael Runge joined me for our Cultural Calendar "What'll We Do???" for 4 of 5 episodes before being savagely and unexpectedly replaced by Duncan Kissinger! (spot the difference!)

-In November I had brutal period cramps and was basically a folk hero for just being there!

-Brian James Priest announced plans to build an abortion clinic in his home in December!
-We played an art-generating game and A. Bowden maybe won!

-My level of alcohol consumption had dynamic effects on each episode's pacing! (unpictured)
-And MORE!

******
Season 2 starts in April; this will have to tide you over for now.

Putty Progress

Putty, a live art chat show, PROCEEDS- establishing precedents, consuming and metabolizing the restless creative influence of its guests and audience members, and coagulating into something greater than the sum of its stylish parts.

Last episode shed light on the curatorial philosophies of IMOCA's executive director Paula Katz, let the B-town beat...mm drop with the poets of Monster House Press, illuminated Anna Martinez's aesthetic and spiritual debts to Catholicism and Pinterest, and connected lines between Mike "Process my Office" Moskaliuk's modular knob twiddling and stone carving personae (hint: it's texture and presence).



It was an evening of material and materiality, rooted in the staggeringly literal (house rule- no metpahors).
Also there were games, an Object Report, and an existential cultural calendar called WHAT'LL WE DO?? with man on the street Michael Runge.



The next episode, Wednesday, October 4, will feature interviews with poet, provocateur and daily diarist Anne Laker, video artist and grad school denier Nick Witten, an exit interview with curatorial duo A\M, and music by Casey No of Spandrels, all housed within the confines of State Street Pub, the Midwest's emerging destination for postdramatic theater. Doors at 7pm, show at 7:30, $2 admission.

PUTTY

I've embarked on a new series.
PUTTY is a live art interview programme that appropriates and distorts the chat show medium.



Putty pulls its inspiration from the qualities of two materials:

Museum Putty--a utilitarian substance, defined by its relationship to the institution it supports.
-adheres art objects to pedestals, props them up but is rarely visible.
-is malleable, ready to use, and works on almost any surface, occupying a low role in high art.



Silly Putty--a novelty product without a clear function that bounces off and sticks across surfaces.
-pilfers Marmaduke's image from the Sunday comics and stretches it into new pooch mutations.




Putty plans to stick together disparate bits of the Indianapolis art scene, connecting artists as it connects audiences, growing as it rolls.
It hopes to shift the focus to under-recognized members of the community, challenging creative misuse and different looking, curating fascinating aesthetic conversations through best case scenario bar chatter, gossip and games.

Episode one at State Street Pub featured Rad Wytch writer Bree Jo'Ann, interdisciplinary reality fiddler Carla Knopp, painter and punk historian Becky Wilson, and musical guest Hen.
It boasted a kitschy set designed by Cinnamon Rose and Jessica Dunn of Brain Twins and styling (of yrs truly) by Geraldine Lee's Vintage.



Episode two airs Wednesday, September 13 at 8PM and features IMOCA curator Paula Katz, avant-bland installation impresario Anna Martinez, Indiana poetry imprint Monster House Press and musical guest Process My Office.
I will be your host, gleefully facilitating conversation while exercising discrete aesthetic control--deciding who you look at and where and when and how.
I've prepared for this role my entire life!

Poetry Recaps

So, a few weeks ago I was supposed to perform some of my favorite Classic Poems for a show at General Public Collective but I forgot my notes!!
Luckily I was familiar enough with the basic content that I was able to offer highlights of all the important parts.
All signs point to my memory getting better and better!



Many thanks to my favorite Hoosier-poet-turned-expat James Payne for documentation and support.

What were Difficult Women?

A few months ago I put together a little showcase to toast my old friend Jail Flanagan as she passed through town with her one-woman baroque no wave act, Forced into Femininity, accompanied by LA noise artists Dawn Raid and Some Pepper.
I approached the show as I have many-- hoping to create the illusion of my city as a feminist art utopia, even if it was only for a night. To pull off this con I called upon Hen, bootleg cheerleaders and purveyors of dance academy recital punk (The Only Band I Like), to round out the bill. Not finding any other immediately suitable acts, I solicited artist friends with interesting and challenging taste--Copy Culture. Taryn facilitated meetings for a group called Cream Team over the winter and wore cool handmade jewelry and liked the band Kleenex. Anna was a painter with a website called ihatepainters.com. and had awesome eyebrows.
Did they ever think about doing performance?



I titled the night Difficult Women-- a soft understatement, and made a Facebook event with a stunning picture from one of Jail's recent shows.
Within 24 hours 100+ people had RSVP'ed, an abnormal feat for a noise show.
Something had aligned just right, and this night of Difficult Women seemed to be resonating with certain Indianapolis residents.



The show went well. Copy Culture's video "Consolation Prize" was hilarious and brilliant, and Forced Into Femininity hosted a Q&A for viewers mid-performance.

When Berlin-based theatrical chanteuse Mary Ocher contacted me about setting up a show in Indy, I decided to make it a series.

Much has been written about the stark class divide in art, and in Indianapolis specifically.
So often there are the people who make art and then there are the people who consume in.
Artists make work for whomever is willing to pay them, often censoring their own vision, sacrificing spontaneity and criticality along the way. Meanwhile, peers expect them to give their own art away for free, "for exposure," or for the sake of the scene, ultimately cheapening the specialness of their expression or the hours devoted to it.
It's a sticky situation, a capitalist vicious circle and the crux of plenty of existential strife.
It seems to me deeply ethical that artists receive fair pay for the strange mental work they are uniquely suited to do, that makes living in a city richer, that makes the human experience more fascinating.
So
it was important to me that as an organizer and artist/advocate, I could meet and exceed Mary Ocher's touring guarantee. This was not something I could expect to do with the traditional "passed hat" of DIY basement shows, and as a working artist, I clearly couldn't do it on my own.
But it became essential to me that it happen.
I was bewitched by her rawness, her unusual humor, her stunning aesthetic presence. (After viewing her videos, Youtube suggested I watch vids by Kate Bush and Werner Herzog, putting a finer point on this intoxicating combination of favorite elements.)



Her show became a jumping off point for thinking about the vitality of enticing unusual artists, particularly women, non male, and queer performers to come to Indianapolis. There seemed to be a void of venues specifically suited for this type of act, gay bars mostly giving billing to high ticket drag queens, DIY shows still representing the interests of Bands with Songs (with occasional notable exceptions). Yet the people who came to the first Difficult Women show or saw the Mary Ocher videos we circulated on social media were inspired and excited for more. Maybe the project of creating a temporary feminist art utopia was more important and timely than I expected.

I was not alone in thinking and talking about these issues. Lisa Berlin of Hen and General Public Collective played a particularly integral role in cultivating this idea. My own membership at General Public Collective added to the urgency and possibility of this project. GPC was the perfect place for Difficult Women showcases-- more visible than a basement, but scrappier than a venue, modular and mutating based on which of the collective members was organizing an event. Its doors are kept open (at erratic and unposted hours) with pledges from the individual members, who pay for their use of the space, or pay because they recognize the importance of the project.

Taking a page from this unusual manual for underwriting, Lisa and I looked for ways to make sure we could meet Mary's guarantee.
Naturally, we started puff painting sports bras.



I'd worked with this material in the past (as a pre-adolescent and beyond) and found it hilariously sloppy but also versatile and gratifying. We set to work with Aimee Brown (the other half of Hen), decorating bras and tote bags with images of phallic objects in peril and icons of Difficulty, like Miss Piggy, Patty and Selma from the Simpsons, Dolly Parton, and Divine.







Our efforts culminated in a photo shoot employing the talents of some of Indianapolis' most active badasses and restless intellects. Rachel Enneking wielded the camera and coached us through the shoot. Jessica Dunn of Brain Twins edited the photos and worked magic behind the scenes, even with a fucked up foot. Cinnamon Coleman, Joey Morrow, Abby Goldsmith, Rachel Peacock, Lisa Berlin and I donned power suits, fruit hats, and body paint and channeled the spirits of Difficult Women past-- John Waters' Provincetown group, Amy Sedaris, Tom Rubnitz's "Pickle Surprise" video (starring a young Rupaul and Lady Bunny), and Cindy Sherman's creepy later oeuvre were all on my vision board.







We premiered our photos and garments at a one night pop-up show at GPC. Garment displays for the show were assembled by Copy Culture--Anna and Taryn, who have both moonlighted in apparel merchandising and have amassed for their own artistic pursuits an array of sheets of colored plexiglass, mannequins in many textures, and mirrors. As our final touch, Taryn, Anna, Lisa, and I obscured the looming leftover graffiti mural from a previous pop-up with giant headless women, T.rexes with genitalia, shoes, and boobs. An enormous stylized vagina was exposed to Virigina Avenue passers-by but for a boudoir-style curtain hung in the front window.



The opening was well attended and we sold out of tote bags in the first couple hours. DJ Miss Alicia played electro pop singles to strut to and I ate a couple croissants. We were able to raise Mary Ocher's guarantee and create a buzz about our project. Nobody's parents came and I didn't have to talk to any local alt-weekly art critics about the vagina or give a broad operational definition of feminism so the night was full of successes, mostly on account of the pure collaboration that it had become.







Mary Ocher played at General Public Collective on Sunday, September 13 with Hen, a new video from Copy Culture, and a trio of videos from Bad Psychic-- Liv Mershon's Bloomington-based lofi goth project. The shop was packed with difficult women of various genders from near and far, and kind of had that feminist utopia vibe.



This project is not over.
Expect more Difficult Women showcases and pop-up shops in the future as we fund our endeavors through this ongoing experiment.
An altered incarnation of our pop up will be happening in Chicago at The Egg on Saturday, September 26!
https://www.facebook.com/events/1589592261301699/

The Taco Bell Jar

The first similarity I noticed was the typography—tall, narrow seventies letters with curlicuing flourishes at their otherwise hard edges. Davida font against a flat colored background. The second similarity that struck me was the shame.
I’ve always had a weakness for wordplay. I explained to my co-worker that if I ever got married I’d want to have an Otis Wedding.
“It would be on the dock of the bay,” I gushed, “and the procession would enter to a chorus of whistlers who’d move from Motown tunes to more complicated baroque arrangements.”
“You want one if the most significant events in your life to be based on a weak pun?” He asked.
“Yes,” I gurgled, tears forming in my eyes as I clasped my hands across my heart. “I do.”
So when I divined the similarities between the classic cover of Sylvia Plath’s proto-feminist novel The Bell Jar and the old Taco Bell logo, and I realized they were unified by the best kind of pun—one that marries high and low culture—I was beyond inspired. I realized immediately that I must do a performance.
I’m moved and impressed by the old school strain of performance art that hinges on acts of endurance. In 1974, Marina Abramovic wrote these instructions for a performance called Freeing the Voice:
“I lie on the floor with my head tilted backwards.
I scream until I lose my voice.”
My deep-seeded authority problems, bolstered through years of exposure to punk rock and Catholic education, have rendered me hopelessly irreverent, so I also think this classic type of art performance is a fair target for parody. I’d sit at Taco Bell, in its gaudy plastic “dining room” where no one besides the staff spends more than twenty minutes and read The Bell Jar from cover to cover in one sitting, and I’d make a video of the whole thing.




I pulled into the Taco Bell parking lot on Saturday night as dusk fell. I was already violating one of my personal life rules: Only eat Taco Bell under cloak of night. Why? Because of shame. I was uncomfortably aware of my body, clad in a peach cashmere sweater and pencil skirt borrowed from a friend’s vintage store. I also, as a rule, don’t wear peach, but I was committed to approaching shame from all sides, and the element of costume took me out of myself. I smoothed my hair into a makeshift French twist, and with paperback under my arm entered the taco complex.
I ordered some hot garbage from the helpful young man behind the register and slid into a hard plastic booth, trying to make myself comfortable. I was in it for the long haul. And, as it turned out, this franchise was a hot spot for loitering. A crew of college-age Dungeons and Dragons players and a boisterous group of transients rounded out the dining room crowd. Their conversations provided the ambient soundtrack that I’d alternately eavesdrop on and try to ignore over the course of my sitting.
The Bell Jar, Chapter One: Sensitive young writer Esther Greenwood has been offered a dream job doing temporary writing for a women’s magazine, but her experiences in the big city lead to her psychological unraveling. Esther spends most of chapter one getting drunk:
“I began to think vodka was my drink at last…It went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike” (10).
This plot element underscores another one of my personal roles I was breaking in the service of this performance: Never eat Taco Bell sober. Heretoforth, I’d only ever experienced the Crispy Potato Soft Taco, the Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito through an alcoholic fog. Sobriety did the food no favors, but Fire Sauce did, so I smothered my bean blobs with it, trying to be conscientious of my borrowed cashmere.
“I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I’d been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet…” (1).
One Doritos Tacos Loco down, one chapter under my belt.
A half hour into my performance, the conversation between the transient-types at the table next to me got a little louder and harder to ignore. As I ran my eyes across Plath’s hefty metaphors, attempting to absorb their content, I simultaneously absorbed the details of some drifter drama.
“She’s beautiful!” a craggy man behind me hollered to his companions about some unsuspecting diner. “Too bad she’s not twenty years older! Shit, another seven!”
Here the rattle of his plastic dice across the tabletop entwined with Plath’s narrative like a thorny bramble. I took a pull from a massive cup of Baja Blast and worked on comprehending.
Esther spends Chapter 3 of The Bell Jar feeling like the black sheep at an upscale banquet for the journalist girls sharing her ranks. She watches a centerpiece of marzipan fruits melt as she shovels avocado, crab salad, and caviar in to her mouth. She sips an unadorned glass of vodka and entertains herself by lying to strangers.
I was lying to strangers too! I nibbled at my taco in a mannered way, fingering my out-of-place pearl necklace. I was also freezing. Taco Bell seemed to maintain a chilly temperature to discourage this type of long-term stay. It also neglected to provide electrical outlets for weirdos making videos. I thought when I was here, I was family. Or is that the Fazoli’s slogan?
The Taco Bell slogan emblazoned on my giant cup was “Live Mas.” This is a fittingly clunky juxtaposition of English and conversational Spanish, and there’s probably a suicide joke teed up there, but I’ll avoid it. Despite Plath’s morbid reputation garnered from her grim poetic imagery and dramatic death, The Bell Jar is a book that feels very alive. Esther feels everything strongly, and the book is dense with raw, sensory experiences that she is ill-equipped to process. Maybe amidst the Taco Bell crowd, my transient tablemates were the ones who were truly alive. Maybe they were the real endurance artists. All I can say for sure, is that one hour into my reading they drove me out. The reviews of girls’ bodies and the rattle of the incessant dice became more than I could withstand, and I broke from my prim pastel character to fling the book across the booth.
“I can’t fucking deal!” I announced to the camera, then laughed and laughed like Marina Abramovic never would.

Mental Health Value Assessment/Art Action

My Therapist (I start sentences that way now) suggested I do an activity where I write down my values then physically plot out how they rank in relation to one another.
Thanks are due to Ian and Catherine for helping me tease out some of the most glistening threads of life's rich tapestry and for providing documentation and perfumed pink notebook paper.









Now that I know, for example, how much higher I prioritize soymilk/read book over ultraviolence I can conduct my affairs with a newfound intentionality.
I'm...cured! (??)