Art

Best of ART: Art Pussy (Motherly Love)

Art Pussy is an art and film collective comprised of four like-minded mad men who love their mothers. They are Brooklyn based artists and CBK loves to follow their performances. This article was written for their first New York public venue and is one of our readers favorites

By Teo J. Babini - teo@citizenbrooklyn.com Photos ©Andrew Rodriguez

From Cover 8

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Art Pussy: Motherly Love. It was only our second show. I had been away in Egypt for a week, and so I missed most of the pre-production, which according to the crew was much more challenging than last time. I arrived at the venue bearing gifts: honey turkey and cheese for all, plus a bagel and bottle of seltzer for Ol’ Smoke from the bible. The tension was there, Art Pussy was anxious and it was my first time seeing the crew since stateside. But the show must go on, and go on it did.

Art Pussy by Jake Remington photo©Andrew Rodriguez

Smoke brought the noise with the ceremonial opening monologue, I was on door duty. Drink ticket spent and Irish nectar in pocket, I stood at the door pouring my shirtless little soul out to strangers. My goal: just a name and email, and the band they came to see scrawled on the page. Plus I figured I’d do my best to extend our collective thanks to the attendees, sharing the love from our collective heart pussy. I did a little filming with the go pro when bands played next to my bird’s nest and held some hot spot lights, but mostly stood in mental solitude. Luckily, I could see the blessed projections like old black and white silent films full of strange and wonderful life.

Deadbeat photo©Andrew Rodriguez

The girl I was seeing showed up around the same time as my ex of many moons. The former kept me company when I wasn’t running around; the latter expressed her dislike  of my 70’s Spring mustache. They talked and were civil, they had a mutual friend. Things turned tipsy when it was my time to perform, I had trouble finding a mic and Smoke ‘n’ I couldn’t position ourselves as we had intended, but I was genuinely surprised at the lack of interest, attention, and, dare I say, respect people showed towards our secret poems. Even as I listened to my own voice booming through the PA, it felt like whispering into walls in empty rooms. Negativity is incendiary, all it takes is a little spark and a gentle breeze, next thing you know the whole fuckin’ forest burns into black ash. The seed had been planted, and just when my little camp fire was burning out a monumental miscommunication occurred.

DJ T*O*N*Y photo©Andrew Rodriguez

In short, I misunderstood the severity of a request for assistance. When I responded in an unintentionally dismissive manor, I was met with a baby bark. Still not understanding, I jabbed playfully and the bark grew into a snap. Caught completely off guard, I launched into a full offensive. A little spilled beer and a lot of screaming later, I was doing my best to rectify the situation while drowning my troubled mind. I helped with the closing scene playing a waiter and again noticed the lack of manners shown to the performers.

Clouder photo©Andrew Rodriguez

At the end of the day, the show was successful with good attendance and a positive response. And so I succumbed to my jet lag sleeping standing with my chin on a speaker and eventually dragged my body down the street for sweet dreams. I just can’t help but question why people would come to an inter-disciplinary, multi-media art show and completely disregard some of the performances. But then again, I guess it’s a waste of time to meditate on the culture that spawned Justin Bieber, Twilight, and still hasn’t legalized gay marriage.

Deadbeat photo©Andrew Rodriguez

And, for whatever it’s worth it, here is my poem:

 Monday Whiskey

I’ve seen all the devils dancing,

Short skirt and liquid lip action to pose for fiends dreamin’ satanic gesture,

A felony for the birds on a Tuesday night scaling buildings,

Just another day in bookings with a nasty holding cell hangover and raw peanut butter sewage scent,

Drippin’ the venom of a lifelong drunk habit posting in the corner puking out the last straw,

It’s all melted butter when I roast that ass and burn houses down,

But who could blame an unleashed wild dog with no sense and a stomach full o’ gunpowder,

Hot damn the weather’s brewin’ again,

Civilization is sick with rot gut whiskey and four pints of Jesus blood on a stick,

Eula photo©Andrew Rodriguez

Standing in the midst of blind orphan ocean,

The whole sea wants to swallow me but my ideas are too large,

And I got enough sailors knots in my back to choke a kraken,

Spittin’ teeth like yesterday’s newspaper cleans up dog shit,

And everybody stares cuz I’m the only one laughin’ at the funeral,

Black tie occasion,

Fuck everyone who picks pennies off the floor in a casual way,

Rueben of Afuche photo©Andrew Rodriguez

Splittin’ fiber like the church of murderous intent,

All the blood flows south in winter and the fiddle plays to the beat of stomach slashing,

Trashed and believing in god in the gutters of small town Philly,

It’s all because they move too fast these days,

No one can see a shadow at that speed,

So I’ll spend my time in alleys sharpening knives,

Twice as long as limo tint,

Visions of a poisonous mind,

If anybody in the room could count,

They’d see I alone outnumber the whole lot.

Sex Animal photo©Andrew Rodriguez

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