Rotterdam Corridor

Dear sisters,

Hope S3 arrived safely in SF, I am waiting for your reports. The Project(or) fair in Rotterdam I was participating in was a jolly good thing. Not only did I have some works in it, I also went along to help install the shows and look after the stand. After hanging not one but two booths of art (oh joy to see the colour) the organisations involved had a nice dinner and then wine was drunk copiously. So much so in fact that the cigarette burning my hand was but vaguely noticed by me and ignored until the next day when I discovered I had a blister on the back of my hand. Pro Secco with Aperol is obviously a killer cocktail.

I remember walking back to my car to get my luggage and taking a long time since I was doing loop the loops with my feet patterns on the pavement. I don't remember behaving this way since I was a teenager. Luckily I slept very soundly and the next day was harmless and spent in a comfortable woolly if slightly dithery hangover blanket. The next day I wrapped the hangover of the previous day in a new one, which was milder and therefore my senses were sharper still.

Rotterdam is really okay. We were in the old Art Deco post office, which is beautiful. There were arts organisations from all over the world. I was working with a curator who kept saying "curation is a process of slow starvation" even though I kept giving him sandwiches to eat and feeding him lattes. We stayed at Bazar which is a great hotel (see photo) and gives amazingly restorative breakfasts...

Fast forward a few days to London; the Pakistani boy in the bag shop where I buy a yellow seventies wrist purse for 4 pounds to take with me to the Wound magazine second issue launch party (you guessed my last post about it was not just a distant appreciation thing) at Selfridges, to go with my bright red silk Dirk Van Saene dress, red tights and my blue platform cork sole sandals...this boy asked me if I was a nun because I was wearing an orange/pink scarf covering my hair, which I sometimes do cos it helps me think straight and it also means I'm not all in black.. I told him no, and then he asked me how I got my wound on my hand and I told him and then I said so now you know I'm not a nun.

The party was good and the people were really nice. I met some lovely people including an icon (when I told him that he loved me) and some other people who were really friendly. The art people stood out rather nicely. My friend the starving curator wore opposite colours to me: blue lufthansa blanket pants by Bruno Pieters and a blue Vivienne Westwood Tshirt with...pointy red lacquer shoes, so he said we were the Mondrian brothers since we were planning to boogie. Before leaving the house when we were busy matching our outfits we had some Cava and when I almost fell off my platform shoes like Naomi Campbell once did, he generously said I should blame it on the slanting Georgian floors.

Outside the party there was a plague of strange luminous red jelly fish floating above the streets. And then we did some dancing although it must be said the company I was in outshone anyone on the dancefloor, self included, with their at times avantgardist, clearly formerly of a contemporary dance company or something to do with being a DJ called Kinky in a former life, moves.





Love from S2!