Washington D.C. Sketchbook: January 2006

THE CONFESSIONS OF KIRSTEN,

NORWEGIAN PORN STAR

_____________________________________________________

PART ONE

Ilse Kronthaler: The Bitch

"If one eliminates, then eliminate with extreme prejudice."

-from: The Art of Spy Craft by Jodorowsky

_______________________________________________________

I believe in the rational mind. I believe in big data. So many assumptions are never met, so I don't sit and think I need all the data. Are all men evil? Maybe, but that won't give a quick win. So, starting small allows me to minimize risk. Value comes from combining sources. Someone might say I am the wild west, but I standardize what I have. Concepts are irrelevant. They represent wrong thinking. Love? I've never experienced it. Maybe it exists. Statistically I'd say it doesn't; just look around you at the porn, the abuse, the evil. But, what I know is that Ilse the Austrian has exploited men and women and children. The police and politicians are among her best customers. Her protectors. I don't need all the data to know that statistically, she won't stop. Statistically, she is evil. And I'm not a coward. Some assassins hate the wait before the hit.  Not me.  I love it. It's the part I live for, the anticipation.  It reaffirms that I've conquered my anxiety and panic. Santa (not that Santa) taught me that the fear that comes from severe trauma such as sexual abuse can impact a survivor's entire life. But Ellis taught me that something is only fearful if I obsess on it. So, I use the pause before the hit to think of other things. And, I feel other things. I feel God not as an external force but through my blood. My mother was a Jewish refugee from Dagestan. I was a refugee to America. And, from that I have learned that even if I have fear, I don't need to be a coward. That, to me, is God. And the devil? The devil exists as pure evil. Jung was mistaken when he said we are all capable of evil. Oh, we can all be petty, bitter, unfair and even cruel. But evil is a choice. The sociopath doesn't lack a conscience (as modern psychologists would tell us) they simply ignore it. What is evil? The indifferent infliction of pain on innocence. Ilse Kronathaler aka Ilse the Austrian aka Ilse the Bitch, is trafficking in flesh. And that's why I'm here, waiting. She is evil. And I? I am vengeance.

__________________________________________________________________

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CODE NAME: FAUST (C)

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE:

FAUST

My whole life I wanted to be liked.

And, now that it's over, I wonder why?

Why didn't I just accept myself as I am?

My theory is that people aren't hard to figure out if you know where to look.

And neither am I.

Remember your first love?

Oh sure, it ends.

Tragically sometimes.

But you haven't forgotten it because that first drink of emotion was the strongest.

So you want to know yourself?

You want to know me?

Easy.

What is the earliest emotion you felt in your life?

Wait, it's not that easy.

Are you blocking it out?

Well, it may be a mother's love or nanna fingering you.

And, I guarantee the world has plenty of sick mother fuckers, so the second is as likely as the first.

And, either way, the rest of your life you'll be reacting to that emotion.

Sure other things will come, maybe horrible traumas and such.

But everything will be seen through that first emotional prism you created.

And what was my first emotion?

Hell, what difference does it make to you?

It will either make you feel goddamned superior or patronizing.

See, another thing I know: no one cares.

So, I'm not telling this for you.

It's for me and for the Duke Ellington Bridge blues.

__________

Our society is mentally ill.

The surest sign of a person's mental illness is when they can't differentiate between groups and individuals.

"All women are this. All men are that. All [fill in the religions group] are such and such. All gays are...all straights are...."

Jodorowsky explained it to me: control creates mental illness.

We all know this: media, corporations, big brother, sociopaths, nature, God, whatever it is, something is always controlling people.

For a long time people make their way and believe that if they are part of the system they'll be okay.

This is the Joel Osteen school: God rewards those who are faithful.

Then there are those that rebel, but the fact is there's no escape, no complete freedom.

So, coping mechanisms develop. Thus a world saturate with drugs, alcohol and porn to give the illusion of control.

There's only one solution, Jodorowsky told me: create an alliance with those at the top of the pile.

And, that's why he joined the Company.

----------

"The feast of Saint Leslie Ann is celebrated in her birthplace in Geddes, Scotland, each year on December 10 because on December 10, 1478, Philotheus of Pskov, a monk in Saint Petersberg, Russia, wrote a letter of prophecy to Ivan III.

Among other things, he predicted that Russia would become "a Third Rome" when Saint Leslie Ann (of Geddes, Scotland) is restored to her "rightful" place in the Canon of Saints (more on this complicated tale later). The Knights of Saint Leslie Ann devoted their lives and fortunes to this mystical pursuit."

Excerpted with permission from: "The Legend of Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes and the Reality of the Muse Within the Hermeneutics of Roman Maps, and What it Means for International Relations Today in the Context of Russian-American Relations." (PhD. Thesis: -1926- Julie Doucet, Princeton University.)

----------

RULE #1:

I had been told that Jordorowsky was crazy and to avoid him.

I tried.

But that was what he told me.

And afterwards, I became involved in the great game too deeply to get out.

To understand you'll need to know the whole story, which I shall relate here.

It's Jordorowsky's story too.

The story revolves around the mystery of Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes.

Jordorowsky told me that finding the key would save the world.

He was obsessed with this seeming nonsense.

So, you can see why he was considered by others in the Company as being crazy: persecution complex, paranoia, delusions of grandeur, psychosis, or schizophrenia?

I would have thought so until...

Well, let me back up.

The first thing Jordorowsky told me is that her name was Leslie Geddeschelli and she moved to Washington, D.C. from a little town named Geddes in Scotland.

The town itself is supposed to be cold and grey and grim, but it's claim to fame is a huge feast that takes place each December.

This is the feast of Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes.

It is celebrated in Geddes, Scotland each year on December 10 because on that date in 1478, Philotheus of Pskov, a monk in Saint Petersburg, Russia, wrote a letter of prophecy to Ivan III.

Among other things, he predicted that Russia would become "a Third Rome" when Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes is restored to her "rightful" place in the Canon of Saints.

When that happens it will be World War Three, and the only safe place, said Jodorowsky, will be Feyling-Hanssenfjellet, Norway.

It's apparently a complicated and mystical tale full of contradictions and not much sense, but legend has it that the Knights of Saint Leslie Ann, who devoted their lives and fortunes to her, buried a huge treasure in Geddes, Scotland in the 1400’s.

So, the legend lives on and each year thousands gather on December 10 to pay homage to the Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes before getting rip-roaring drunk and going out into the bogs on a treasure hunt.

So far, not a candlestick has been found. But the treasure hunters keep coming back for the ale, the fellowship and the dream of easy riches.

The treasure, said, Jodorwosky, holds the key.

And he believes it has been moved from Geddes to Feyling-Hanssenfjellet, Norway.

But to me that was all nonsense.

From a practical standpoint, what affected my life was that Jordorowsky sent me to her.

To Leslie Geddeschelli.

It was another of his crazy schemes, but the Company was too scared to get rid of him.

He had too much information on them.

Jodorowsky said I'd be code named Faust.

She called herself Leslie Ann Geddeschelli.

Jodorowsky called her Saint Leslie Ann.

I called her my grecos girl.

There's a reason why, but like everything to do with her, it was complicated.

She sat next to me in my European Political Economy class at George Washington University taught by Professor Harvey Feignbaum back in the Fall of 2007.

But, I didn't meet her in class. She always arrived late and departed early.

The first time I spoke to her was at the National Gallery of Art.

That's where Jodorowsky sent me.

I was getting a PhD in political economy (or at least was in the program) and worked during the day down by the National Mall.

Most lunch hours I'd walk across the street to the National Gallery and wander aimlessly; I loved art but knew nothing about it and had no way to put into context what I was seeing.

Anyway, one lunchhour I was standing in front of Da Vinci's"Ginevra de'Benci" having no clue about what I was looking at when I saw her - my grecos girl.

She had brown hair sternly pulled back, pointy rimmed glasses, wide hips and a wider smile.

She exuded freshness and innocence and a need to be loved. But, a maturity beyond her years also reflected from her eyes.

I'm balding and gangly, not ugly but not cute.

We both turned and looked at each other in front to Leonardo's Ginevra, and she smiled.

I knew from her eyes that she recognized me from class.

I was surprised at how friendly she was. "Ciao," she said.

"This is better than class, no?" She was making more of a statement than a question.

I agreed and asked her what she thought of Ginevra.

"I see myself in her," she sighed.

I knew she was right - a wistfulness, a longing, a radiance was in both of them.

She abruptly turned and I found myself following her as we wandered through the galleries. I asked her about herself.

She had gotten her undergraduate degree in art history at Princeton and it turned out was just auditing classes in DC to pass time (until what I was never sure).

She gave me a tour of the entire gallery and spoke at length about both the history of many artists and their particular techniques.

She especially loved showing me Dali's The Last Supper, which used to hang in the stair well of the entrance that connected the East and West wings.

She had written her dissertation on Baroque maps and also shared her lengthy thesis on why Pollack's drip paintings were derivative of them.

After that initial encounter,we ended up spending almost everyday together for the next year-and-a-half, or at least when she was in town.

As I got to know her she told me that her mother had been a model from Scotland (so that's where she got the cheekbones) and her father was a diplomat from Brazil.

At first I was never sure if her stories were true, but then she gave enough glimpses of her life that I never questioned her.

She needed someone to talk to and I've always been good at listening (even if not trusting).

For instance, she told me that her father ran Brazil's intelligence operations in the U.S.

That sounded completely far-fetched (why would she even tell me that?) until one day she said she needed to go by the embassy to see her father and that I could come along.

We took a taxi there and were let in through a back entrance; the security guards all obviously knew her and let her right in.

They photocopied my ID but otherwise eerily already seemed to know me and my background.

She told me to wait in a reception area while she went to see her father.

After about one-half hour he came out and said hello, that he liked to meet his daughter's friends. He asked me what I was interested in, and of course I said "art."

It turned out that his wife - her mother - had died when my grecosgirl was quite young. Her mother had been an avid art collector.

"Let me show you my favorite drawing, then" he said, and pointed to a framed drawing of a line hanging on the wall over his secretary's desk.

He then shared the story of how he and his wife met Oscar Niemeyer(a famous Brazilian artist) at a party and his wife had asked if he would make a drawing specifically for her.

Later Niemeyer presented her with that framed drawing of a line.

"But its just a line," she said.

"Ah, but its taken me a lifetime to know how to draw it," Niemeyer answered.

At the time I didn't understand the story, but it became clear later.

From time to time my grecos girl would disappear for a week or two.

I knew that she was extremely wealthy and hated living in DC, but her father wanted her close-by.

When she could take it no longer she would leave for a week at a time, usually to London, sometimes Florence, where her father owned flats.

I knew she was having an affair with some aging has been who used to be famous in a band, but that meant nothing to me at the time as I consciously avoided mainstream pop music and celebrity news.

I only followed punk groups at that time, so when she talked about him I was relatively ignorant of what it signified - that she travelled in elite circles and I was the exception to her letting me into her life.

She told me one day over coffee in the National Gallery cafe that the singer kept telling her that he was deeply in love with her, but he was in a "committed" relationship.

I only figured it out in bits and pieces, as she would start talking then abruptly change the subject, until one day she showed me a photo of them together in London.

One phrase my grecos girl said over and over was that she wished she could live in "an ordinary world". Much, much later I heard a song on the radio and then I knew the whole story.

And there is more to the story. But, in time our friendship came to an end; what I didn't understand at the time was that she was having a breakdown.

Her life was such a mix of secrecy and the mundane with glamour that reality lost all context. But apparently it ran in her family too.

Almost a year passed of not hearing from her. I called to find her number disconnected and I never saw her around school.

It somehow wasn't surprising to me, given the nature of our relationship. It hurt and I mourned, but I accepted it and didn't hold it against her.

At the time I was getting into Tibetan art and it just seemed like a mandala - here today, gone tomorrow, I would go with the flow.

I meditated happiness to her, wherever she was.

I did avoid the National Gallery, however.

And then out of nowhere I received a call from the Washington D.C. police. I guess my meditation wasn't completely effective.

They told me that she had been found wandering in Anacostia with just a bathrobe on, totally incoherent. But bizarrely she had a piece of paper with my phone number and name on it.

I don't flatter myself that she had it; one late night I had stayed at her apartment on Pennsylvania avenue - on the couch - but I had just gotten a new phone number so I wrote it down for her. I remember her sticking that scrap of paper into her bathrobe pocket.

Anyway, she was being held at St. Elizabeth's. I came down and identified her and of course called her father.

It was a total nightmare.

Because of his work he was on travel in Asia and difficult to get in touch with.

I saw her over the next few weeks as a visitor. She was put on medication, transferred to a private facility and became her former self.

She was also profusely apologetic over our falling out, saying her medications had gotten out of balance (I hadn't even known she was taking them at the time).

But, after that, I never saw her again.

She went to London and committed suicide there. I never knew the exact circumstances, but this time it was her father who called me.

He flew me over to attend her funeral. We were the only two people there besides the Minister, the chauffeur and two people I assumed were bodyguards.

As it turned out, her brother had killed himself as a teenager. Her father told me that over dinner as he reminisced. She had never even told me that she had a brother.

The whole experience was so painful to me (in truth, now I know that I had been in love with her all long) that I kept all the photos of her in a box pushed under a bookcase.

But I recently learned that her father died.

After the funeral I lost touch with him.

Apparently a lot of his wealth was based on illicit arms dealing, and the politics of Brazil turned against him.

He died mentally and financially broken.

With his death I pulled out the photos of my grecos girl, and remembered.

__________

Jodorowsky found me standing on the Duke Ellington Bridge.

It's named after the jazz legend. It crosses Rock Creek Parkway. It plays the blues.

The Duke Ellington Bridge is 135 feet high.

The view is hypnotic, into a jungle of trees in one direction, and towards the Taft Bridge in the other.

So peaceful that it is one of the top suicide bridges in the country.

I stood there.

Leslie was gone.

My career was in shambles.

My trust destroyed.

But, a car pulled up and let Jodorowsky out. He walked over.

"It's not your time," he said. "The Company still needs you."

He sent me to the Dogan where Saint Leslie Ann resides.

She would cure me, he said.

She told me to take 144 memories of Leslie and to convert them into 144 meditations.

From love, to pain to love.

And, that is what Saint Leslie Ann taught me, among the Dogan.

__________

"Begin at the beginning," the King said very gravely, "and go on until you come to the end, then stop."

And so I shall, so here is my story.

My father married an Austrian whore named Ilse Kronthaler.

He met her in a brothel in Berlin.

By that time I was eleven years old.

He left his family.

He left the Company.

He left me.

I came home to a note: "Faust, I've married Ilse. I love you."

Ny name isn't Faust but that's what he called me.

Before my father joined the Company he got a PhD in German literature.

He was obsessed with Faust.

So, when I was born, that's what he called me.

And, even though it's not my name, it caught on.

Every birthday my father sent me a different edition of Faust.

The last one he mailed (no return address) was Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann.

By then I had twenty editions of Faust.

When I heard he died I threw them all out, unread.

I hate possessions, and memories are the worst clutter.

Anyway, my taste runs towards comic books (I refuse to use the term "graphic novel").

But, I don't mean the superhero shit.

Although I did go through that phase.

At age eleven the Fantastic Four were my surrogate family.

I identified with the alienation of The Thing.

And I had a crush on The Invisible Woman.

But, my introduction to comics was high class: the European "Bande Designe".

When I was six years old my father became Station Chief with the Company in Switzerland.

We relocated from Toronto (where he was Deputy Station Chief, the youngest ever at age 26).

We moved into a Chateau in a Geneva suburb on Vendeuvre Street.

The previous family of the US Cultural Attache vacated the house but left behind a stack of Tintin books.

I fell in love.

When I read the note from my father I had no one else to call but Jodorowsky.

He was my father's colleague.

He picked me up and took me to the embassy.

The only thing I brought with me was my copy of Tintin in Tibet.

I stayed for a month with Jodorowsky and his family.

Then I was sent to boarding school, paid for by my grandfather's trust.

I was there through twelfth grade.

CHAPTER TWO:

THE CONFESSIONS OF KIRSTEN,
NORWEGIAN PORN STAR

I believe in the rational mind. I believe in big data.

So many assumptions are never met, so I don't sit and think I need all the data.

Are all men evil?

Maybe, but that won't give a quick win.

So, starting small allows me to minimize risk.

Value comes from combining sources.

Someone might say I am the wild west, but I standardize what I have.

Concepts are irrelevant.

They represent wrong thinking.

Love?

I've never experienced it.

Maybe it exists.

Statistically I'd say it doesn't; just look around you at the porn, the abuse, the evil.

But, what I know is that Ilse the Austrian has exploited men and women and children.

The police and politicians are among her best customers.

Her protectors.

I don't need all the data to know that statistically, she won't stop.

Statistically, she is evil.

And I'm not a coward.

Some assassins hate the wait before the hit.

Not me.

I love it.

It's the part I live for, the anticipation.

It reaffirms that I've conquered my anxiety and panic.

Santa (not that Santa) taught me that the fear that comes from severe trauma such as sexual abuse can impact a survivor's entire life.

But Ellis taught me that something is only fearful if I obsess on it.

So, I use the pause before the hit to think of other things.

And, I feel other things.

I feel God not as an external force but through my blood.

My mother was a Jewish refugee from Dagestan.

I was a refugee to America.

And, from that I have learned that even if I have fear, I don't need to be a coward.

That, to me, is God.

And the devil?

The devil exists as pure evil.

Jung was mistaken when he said we are all capable of evil.

Oh, we can all be petty, bitter, unfair and even cruel.

But evil is a choice.

The sociopath doesn't lack a conscience (as modern psychologists would tell us) they simply ignore it.

What is evil?

The indifferent infliction of pain on innocence.

Ilse the Austrian is trafficking in flesh.

And that's why I'm here, waiting.

She is evil.

And I?

I am vengeance.

When the hit is moments away, I give my ritual thanks to my patron saint: 'Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes, for you, everything for nothing,' I repeat three times.

I then meditate on receiving the wisdom of my guru, the Durga Lama.

And then, I put on lipstick. I

t's time.

3:00 AM.

Statistically, all other variables being equal, a hit in the early morning hours has a 95% success rate because at that time targets have slower reflexes and there are few people around to interfere.

I stood in the alley directly outside the Floating Happy Hands Spa on upper Wisconsin Avenue.

Waiting.

Ilse aka Ilse the Austrian, aka Ilse the Bitch had left the spa every night for the past month at 3:00 AM.

She left her heavies inside guarding the new product that was to be transported up and down the northeast corridor.

Statistically, I knew she'd walk out this night as well.

Her ferrari was parked at the corner.

That was her pet.

Mine is my Mark II.

Ilse the Austrian, opened the door.

She had a withered leg and I heard the distinctive clacking of her cane and shuffling of her right foot.

"For the sins of our fathers," I thought to myself as I inched out of the alley.

I held the Mark II with both hands.

This would be my lucky 13 kill.

"Our lives are like water spilled out to the ground which cannot be gathered up again."

As Ilse the Bitch stepped away from the Happy Hands Spa and into the darkness, I moved out of the alley and took aim.

One exploding bullet into the head of this piece of human waste and the world be be safer.

"And Bingo was his name-o!"

SPLAT!

"And your sons and daughters will be killed, your land divided up, and you yourself will die in a foreign land."
-Amos 7-18

"Take the purse, take the key...so it looks like a robbery...and..."

Bada boom, bada bing! Take the Ferrari!

I figured a car like this would have Lojack/GPS, so I tuned on the GPS scrambler I carry with me.

I headed to Uncle Sam's Garage at H & 2nd NE, Washington, DC.

With luck, the body of Ilse the bitch wouldn't be found before I got there.

____________________

CHAPTER THREE:

VISIONS OF SAINT LESLIE ANN OF GEDDES

1:1

After the crucifixion and resurrection, which has already been told of by my brothers and sisters, Jesus appeared to the Apostles which included Mary, who replaced Judas the Martyr. And we disrobed to be as were Adam and Eve and we levitated. And Jesus said: “Be not afraid for I shall provide each of you with the key to heaven and to great miracles on this earth.”

1:2

And Jesus said, “I have taught you to pray, ‘God’s will be done.’ But know this; God’s will can only be done through people while Beelzebub lives in this world and cries havoc through her disciples. Therefore, to teach God’s will is to counter Beelzebub on this earth.”

1:3

And Jesus said, “Beelzebub has many disciples who will shadow each of you on your journeys, their seeking to bring evil in your path.” Jesus then told each of the twelve the names of the twelve devil’s disciples that would seek to bring evil to the twelve apostles, so that they could recite mantras of protection against them.

1:4

And Jesus told Thomas that the name of Mara’s disciple who would seek to destroy him was Ilse, from the country of Siemens and that the mantra to use against Ilse, from the country of Siemens is: ‘om hrih ha ha hum hum phat.”

2:1

And Jesus said, “You have heard it said that in the beginning was the word. That is true. But who here can truly understand the word? And if you can’t, who can? When I said the only way to salvation is through me, dunderheads and the dimwitted would say that means that believing in me is salvation. But do you think the pious Jew who doesn’t know me is not saved? Do you think the pious man and woman who have never heard of the Torah shall be cast into hell? Who could believe such a thing but a dunderhead? This is not what I have said, but words fall short for many.”

2:2

“Similarly, there will be those who will be consumed with anger at those men who cleave to men and those women who cleave to women. Have I not said that it is better to cleave to no person? But if one acts piously and faithfully and out of love then only a dunderhead would be consumed with anger over the actions of those from Lesbos and Greece as a means to distract from their own evil nature, which is in alliance with Mara.”

2:3

“Similarly, I have said ‘Love God with all your heart.’ The dimwitted and dunderheads would say then, ‘do not love yourself’ and that, ‘to love yourself is not righteous’. But I say, ‘fools!’ If you do not love yourself you can’t love God.” Understand this then, that God is within you, the light is within you, and the church is within you. Love yourself and you love God.”

2:4

“But the wise person will ask, ‘Lord, how should I love myself?’ And, this is the most important question of all. Love is an art, not a feeling. Let me thus tell you how to love yourself, by which I mean, value your self.”

2:5

“What matters most is not how you feel or what others think but what you believe about your own value. Therefore, show yourself respect in what you eat, in what you spend, in what you wear and in what you say and do. Take these actions even when you don’t wish to, as a sign of confidence, which is the same as faith in God.”

2:6

“But the wise person says, ‘Lord I have tried but I take actions that do not respect my self. And I say, all lack of respect for self results from power against you. A power imbalance triggers actions that show a lack of respect. And, there are three types of power imbalances."

2:7

"The first is external, such as the power of money. All power is trade, and all trade is money. Even Caesar is subject to this external force, the power of money. When a trader cheats a merchant in a country far away do you think this won’t affect Caesar? And if it affects Caesar that it won’t affect you? All is cause and effect. Money is limited and so it is craved. The limitation of money causes the craving. The craving causes external imbalance in the world system. The external imbalance causes sickness."

2:8

"The second imbalance is internal. This is the pain you carry from a childhood injustice. All have sufferings too painful to acknowledge. Many are greater than others but to each they cause an internal imbalance so do not judge another’s internal suffering; a prophet in the future will ask you: ‘how can you know the grief’s that are inside of me and how can I know yours?' and this is the question you should ask one another. This is the cause of internal, emotional imbalance."

2:9

"The third imbalance is caused by Mara who is looking to place temptation and misfortune in your thoughts and actions and who will create misfortune to harm you."

2:10

“Therefore know this: those that permit power imbalances are doing the work of Mara. And any person who harms a child is in alliance with Mara. And any person who is not with me – by which I mean the pious - is with Mara."

2:11

“But the wise person says, ‘Lord, I understand the power imbalances but still I take actions that show a lack of respect of self, and therefore a lack of faith in God. Help me.’ And, I say, it is not wrong that you don’t understand because in the beginning was the word, but the word can’t be understood by all people and even if it is understood in the head it is not understood in the heart. This is why there is the method and the method shall lead to the Awakening.”

2:12

And Jesus then taught the 144 meditations, twelve sets named for each Apostle.

2:13

And the twelve meditations of Thomas that Jesus taught were these forms of meditation:

1. Breath

2. Mindfulness

3. Respect of Self

4. Mind – physical

5. Posture

6. Walking

7. Drawing

8. Imagination

9. Breaking of Concepts

10. Mantra

11. Dahkini Tantra

12. Compassion

2:14

And Jesus transmitted the 144 meditations to each of the Apostles. And to Thomas he transmitted the first form of the twelve meditations of Thomas, which is the meditation on breath. And Jesus said: “Breath is life".

__________________________

CHAPTER FOUR:

FAUST

I was formed by my discussions with Jodorowsky.

My first summer after my father left I spent with Jodorowsky.

He was still posted in Geneva.

My last week at boarding school I received a note to stop by the office of secretary to the Headmaster, Mr. Harlow.

Mrs. Hanson always looked at me with pitying eyes.

I hated it.

She told me that after the last day of school I was to pack my bags and a car would take me to the airport.

She gave me a ticket for Geneva.

"Jodorwsky will be there to meet you," she said.

And so I went.

A car picked me up in Geneva and took me to his apartment.

A housekeeper opened the door.

She introduced herself as Matilda.

Jodorowsky was traveling but would be back in a week, she said.

Meanwhile, I was to make myself comfortable and wait.

She fed me with cheese sandwiches.

And I looked at his art.

Covering the walls, oil paintings that fascinated.

That turned me on.

When Jodorwosky returned he opened the living room door to find me sitting in front of a small oil painting of a woman holding a polar bear up by the scruff of its neck.

I had heard him opening the front door, and Matilda greeting him, but I didn't want to greet him at the door.

I was too nervous and unsure and awkward.

Instead, I deliberately set myself in front of the pin-up staring intently.

I thought if he found me that way he would notice me.

Otherwise, I was afraid I'd be invisible to him, my only connection to my past and to a family.

"Faust," he said when he saw me.

I turned and blushed an looked down.

"You have good taste, that an original Enoch Bolles, cost me a fortune," he said.

It worked; he saw me.

And thus began my introduction to art.

Jodorwosky laid out his theory of art that summer, and each successive summer that I saw him.

I was so quiet that I almost never spoke, and he, having so much to say, beamed at having a captive and virgin mind.

"For art ot be successful, it should give the viewer a sense of power," he said.

"Look at this pin up art," he said, gesturing across his living room at the two dozen oil nudes.

"Does it tun you on?" he asked

"Well, if you are gay or straight it will. Gay men love the style, the sensuousness, and fantasize themselves in it.

Straight men see an object of desire that they wish to possess.

But pin up art that is successful goes beyond the sexual, the flash, the flesh, the cheese.

Take a look at this," he said, making a triangle with his fingers under the girl's legs.

"Interesting negative shapes are the secret of successful art.

And triangles are the most powerful, they exhibit tension.

Michaelangelo discovered this and perfected this.

This was called mannerism."

Jodorowsky too off his shelf a book of Michaelangelo's drawings and opened at random.

"Look at this," he said, holding up the book open to a torso twisting with the arms outstretched.

"Now count the triangles," he said.

"Three," I responded.

"Actually eight, look," he showed me.

"Now you tell me which piece is more powerful, the Michaelangelo or Bolles, and why..." he directed.

"Well...I can look longer at the the Bolles..." I responded, unsure why.

"Exactly, and look at this...nine triangles", he demonstrated.

"Pin-up art works because it takes Michaelangelo, a definite genius, to an extreme.

And, people will put down pin-up art, but like everything, always remember there is art and good art and pin-up art and good pin-up art.

Why did they put it down?

Well, it sells a commodity, sex and manipulates people into buying all sorts of junk.

Pin-up is on magazines that non-one would by except for the unconscious tugging in their mind created by the cover art.

And then Bolles was on everything, lighters, ties, all sorts of advertisements.

But, separate him from the commodification of sex and the subtle infantilization of women, which are important to be aware of, and look at him just in terms of what he is doing to achieve his affect, at his technique and why it works better than any pin-up artist before of since, and you've got an insight into what makes art work."

"Triangles?" I asked.

"Well it sounds silly, but no one has noticed that.

And why it works is that it speaks to our unconscious mind.

Our brain is split into two hemispheres and the result is we are continually looking to become whole.

The triangle speaks to our unconscious sense of tension and our desire for completeness.

And that speaks to the viewer's sense of power, of feeling complete.

But, let's not ignore that our man Bolles knew his art history.

Bolles didn't come out of anywhere.

John Singer Sargent was an esteemed portrait painter who set the template for sensual female form.

But, with him it became rote, a money machine.

Illustrators like Howard Pyle and Anders Zorn took up the cause, but became limited by their need to satisfy cliches of the stories they were illustrating.

Then fine art in America in the 1900s led by Robert Henri sought to show life as it is: the ash can school.

Henri and Bellows delighted in the female form as a product of commercialization.

So, Bolles had all of this history to work with and absorbed it and took it to extremes in color and form.

Yes, one can call it cheesy, but when they do so they are really speaking of the genre and not comprehending the art on it's own terms.

Later illustrators followed him and could be termed pin-up artists, like maybe J. C. Leyendecker, Walter Biggs and Sorolia.

Then glamour pin-up took off with Elvgren, Ballantyne, Moore, and another whole second generation that are largely forgotten.

These pin-up artists after Bolles watered down his inventions to satisfy the bourgeois masses.

People are willing to be manipulated, but want it to be done subtly, and with a veneer of class and respectablility.

Bolles set people's mouths watering and drove them nuts without understanding why.

He was too radical and couldn't be sustained.

He came as a logical consequence of what came before him but was a genius who understood what came before him and so could apply it.

After him, the rest is commentary."

CHAPTER FIVE:

VISIONS OF SAINT LESLIE ANN OF GEDDES

My memories of Leslie Geddes are my visions.

I met her shortly after I returned from Africa at the lowest point of my life. She saved me. Not intentionally. Nothing is. It's all statistics.

What if I hadn't lost my job that day?

What if I hadn't discovered that love doesn't exist at just that hour when the mail was delivered?

So, I didn't choose the path less taken but headed over from Columbia Heights to the Duke Ellington Bridge. Who knows how it all would have ended?

But instead it began when I saw her sitting on the bench at the corner, crying.

She was impossibly beautiful, wearing a hot pink cocktail dress to boot.

I knew from experience that this type of woman hated being approached by my type: a middle aged, be-speckled pasty baldy.

She radiated a 'fuck you' attitude which would have kept me away anyway.

But when I saw what lay beyond her - the Duke Ellington Bridge beckoning - I thought to delay my fate.

"Hi" I said.

"Fuck off," she said.

I've never known the best response to that reply that I was so familiar with hearing.

"Look, I was on my way to jump off the bridge. Maybe you can give me a reason not to."

I instantly regretted saying that.

It seemed like unfair pressure to put on her.

But, on the other hand, I've always found that honesty can be an ice-breaker.

Leslie looked up at me. Her mascara was stained.

"Sit down," she said. She looked at me and gave me a big eyed smile, the type that I never believed for sincerity.

"Why do you want to kill yourself?" she asked, wiping away a tear.

"Pain I can't get rid of," I said. Damn, I hadn't meant for the conversation to turn to me. I hate talking about myself.

She looked at me with a deep look. Like I was a sap. But I'd take it, nobody ever looked at me.

"What do you like? I mean what gives you real happiness?" she asked.

"I dont' know. Nothing really."

"Do you like art?" she asked.

"I read comics. Tintin, Asterix, Moebius, Jodorowsky. Nobody really reads those here. I'm alone."

"I like comics. I love art."

"I always wanted to learn about art. But I don't know where to start."

Leslie sat up straight as if struck by insight.

"How about this: you don't kill yourself until I teach you everything there is to know about art. Until you can answer the question, 'what is art?'"

"Uhn, well I'm jobless and sort of bankrupt right now, and will probably lose my apartment in foreclosure in a few months, so I can't pay you."

"Oh, we'll figure it out. In act there's somebody, something I mean, you could take care of for me in exchange. But we'll talk about that later. Don't kill yourself. I love art."

Life is strange but the alternative seemed messy. I always felt guilty about those guys who have to clean up splattered bodies. It seemed an imposition on them.

"Okay, well let's give it a few months then reassess."

Leslie jumped up and clapped like a little girl. Now I had seen this act by women before. It meant they wanted something. But what the hell, it was getting a bit chilly.

"Come back to my place - and don't get any ideas or you will die. But I've got a great art library. Let's start now."

She reached out for me and I stood up. We walked back to her place at 15th and Harvard. It was almost like it had been planned. Here I was, alive. Fate, or rather statistics, had intervened once again.

__________

Leslie and I walked back to her apartment at 15th and Harvard in silence. It seemed unreal that a middle aged sap and loser like me would be walking with a twenty something dish in a hot pink cocktail dress and leather jacket. She oozed vulnerability and toughness, and brains.

Her efficiency apartment was lined with books on art with small paintings and cards and photos. One large photo stood out. She saw me looking at it, a photo of a mousey brunette with a hateful glare.

"My partner Alice," she said. "Okay, green tea and two hours intro. I'll give you homework and we meet everyday until you have the answer. And don't get any ideas for funny business or you get iced."

"Iced?" I thought. "How much film noir has she been watching?" But, still, I got the message: they shoot horses, don't they? I wanted to live.

Leslie pulled a book off her shelf: Criticism in Focus.

"Now when we think of art we have to understand first that your interest - our interest - is in defining it in terms of the visual arts of painting and drawing. But, theater and literature are - or can be - art.

Even war can be art. Ever hear of Sun-Tzu? The Art of War. So, art can be generally thought of something that is excellent or successful. After all, Sun-Tzu certainly wouldn't have written a book about how to lose at battle and call it The Art of War.

But, in the visual arts, the ideas of beauty and success may not apply. I was at an exhibit at The Whitney and it was of a stool overturned with fake flowers strewn about. Is that art because the museum says so? And were they even calling it that? There is a famous story of a janitor who went in to a gallery and threw out the entire exhibit because he thought it was trash to be disposed of. In fact, the crumpled papers he tossed were part of a multi-million dollar exhibit."

Also, we need to consider that to answer the question of 'what is art' is to deal with concepts that have changed over time. There are any number of theories of art. A fascinating study exists on the history of art books. People were pretty sure they 'knew' what art was until some new movement came along.

Critics hated it, the public was appalled but some were won over and now that movement, whatever it was, has a name - like impressionism or post-impressionism, or what not.

One critic referred to what we call Modernism as The Shock of the New. Now we yawn at Picasso because we realize he ripped off the Africans, masturbated over his paintings, and he made so many of them that they are common.

But, to get back to the question at hand, almost everyone would call Picasso's paintings art even if they are common rip-offs and seamen stained, but why?

I have the answer but books fake it and mislead and critics are generally asses.

"So, let's look at this."

She opened the book in her hands by John Mepham.

"See, he was writing about Virginia Woolf, undoubtedly a genius in observation. And he discusses, let's see, here on page 38, the theories of Roger Fry and Clive Bell, two blowhard critics on aesthetics.

Fry was famous for bringing impressionism and post-impressionism to the masses and was hot for Cezanne, probably jerking off over his paintings. Bell, it says here, came up with the hoighty term 'significant form' to describe what it is about a work of art that gives it value and appeals to aesthetic sense.

His thought was that the value of art is separate from its moralistic message. And in this regard he thought this applied to both literature and to the visual arts.

In this regard, he thought that the value of art was that it gave order and coherence to reality. Since life is confusing, this is, in their view, I mean Fry and Bell, the purpose of art.

And so art became something to pursue to show refinement. Many women were pushed to study art around this time because it would mean they would bring refinement into their homes, while the man brought home the money, the women would know how to spend it.

Fry was a bit less intense than Bell but if you can think of the effect of their ideas, it was ultimately to promote abstraction, to get rid of the clutter of moralizing Victorian art and move to the essence of form.

One irony today is that feminists, or those who identify themselves as such, claim an identity with Woolf. But, Woolf subscribed to Fry's perspective and feminism, or indeed any 'ism' was completely removed from her motivation.

She would be appalled at the very concept of feminism as it is a concept used to stunt free thought as is every 'ism' or defined ideology. But, there I'm editorializing a bit.

Here I like this quote:

'As Fry asserted, the point of art is not to copy or imitate reality but to create other realities, of color or words, within which forms or patterns not otherwise open to contemplation become visible or audible.'

So, this is done through a system of relationships. And in her writing Woolf uses color the way the post impressionist do.

There was this guy named Charles Mauron who wrote a book called 'The Nature of Beauty in Art and Literature' way back in 1927 and he said that, 'color is used to establish psychological volume.'

Wow, I love that.

All this is interesting, but I guarantee you that everyone who has thought about it has a variation of thought or just a different theory all together.

These dudes Fry and Bell were products of their time and working in a limited perspective with all the motivations and prejudices of their times and the resulting subjective interpretations.

Where does this leave us? Well, it is to get you thinking. prompted by some big thinkers. We can take another view here..."

Leslie reached to her shelf for another book and took down,
'What Art Is, the Esthetic Theory of Ayn Rand,' by Louis Torres and Michelle Kamhi.

"Now," Leslie continued, "I guarantee you won't find a more polarizing figure than Rand. You've probably heard of her theory of objectivism, which is pretty much a ripoff of Nietzsche, and she is hilarious to bring up on youtube.

For a chick who believed in the rational mind she is as emotional and prickly as they come. She was completely amoral, destroyed marriages with self-absorbed affairs, lacked any sense of self-awareness or consideration. She was a bitch.

But, she's provocative because she is a counter to Christian dogma which we are so used to. Be great, Rand said, think of yourself, and why not?

I guarantee you I love her view of the rational mind and her perspective that most people are nuts and assholes to be avoided.

To betray your mind is a great betrayal. That's a valuable message from Ayn Rand.

But, let's see what she has to say about art."

I sat back and starred at Leslie Geddes. I was in love with a beautiful mind.

_______________________

Leslie Geddes sat on her couch. She held in her hands a book on the aesthetic theory of Ayn Rand.

Leslie paused and looked up in thought, and then said, "Like a bowl of roses a poem shouldn't need to be explained."

"That's a paraphrase of Ferlingetti. Ever hear of him?"

I shook my head.

"Okay", Leslie said. "Well you'll need to read Bukowski and at some point we'll get to that. He was the poet everyone loved except for the critics. And he saved Ferlinghetti from obscurity. He was a brilliant poet too."

"So, the question is: does art need to be explained and thus defined? Ferlinghetti would seem to say not.

"Rand didn't write a lot on the visual arts but in contrast seemed to think so. Let's find out why.

In a nutshell, Rand continued the elitist tradition of Fry and Bell, that art needs to be understood and taught to be appreciated. But for different reasons.

Rand was an elitist. There are the ordinary people then the few creators. And the ordinary people may create something, but Rand is talking about going beyond the mechanical process of making something to making something worthwhile.

And that's why she thinks art needs to be defined.

Warhol? Possibly the most idolized artist of our time in the US at least. Rand never directly wrote about him, I don't think, but all indications are she thought he was crap, a poseur, the worst kind of art. A dupe, a fool, a user of resources and air.

Pretty harsh, right? Well, not to Rand.

To Rand modern art was vulgar. And what she would especially hate is any government funding to support it.

Government grants to support piss in a jar with a cross? That has happened and Rand would be 100% against it. And in that regard, don't you think most of the public would be with her?

No one wants to offend anyone today. So, by Rand pretty much raising the question, "is it art?" she is breaking with political correctness, the idea that art is what you call it, or what you want it to be which is very popular today.

That approach, by the way is connected to what is called post-modernism. We'll get to that.

Rand doesn't care about beauty, which was one standard for judging art. Remember her philosophy is objectivism. Not to get into all of its nuances here, let's just say that for Rand art served to objectify man's basic sense of self.

This purpose for art is both cognitive and emotional. Rand was a rationalist but that doesn't mean she didn't value emotions. Man is an emotional being, and by the way I use the term 'man' to mean people, as Rand used it.

Rand's aesthetic theory is essentially that the art that survives as great art, not the fads of the day which will be forgotten or which are merely commercial, is the art that objectifies man's sense of self on a universal level, that raises us up.

Sort of noble, right? By the way, this would be considered a neo-Aristotelian view, a view of the individual versus Plato's view on art which was that man is flawed and the image should be an attempt to mirror the unreachable perfection. For Rand, men, or some men, were perfect and that should be celebrated through objective creation reflecting reality, not idealization.

Well, what does that mean but that abstraction was anathema to Rand. Rand liked figurative art. One might mistakenly draw the inference that she would like the massive idealized totalitarian sculptures in Russia that glorify men, but she hated that as state created mind think.

That art didn't glorify the individual but collectivism, which she despised.

So for Rand, esthetics doesn't mean the study of beauty as it is frequently used. For Rand esthetics is really the philosophy of art which encompassed a code of conduct, politics and morality culminating in individualism.

Hegel pretty much said the same thing but in a much more jargon filled and impenetrable way. So, at it's core Rand is asking, 'what is knowledge?' when she is asking 'what is art?'

And that is why the question for Rand as to what art is, is relevant. And that's why it may be relevant to you to.
_______________

Leslie opened the book on her lap.

"Here, listen to this", she said:

"Rand emphasizes that art is profoundly related to human life. In her view, art is 'an end in itself' only in the sense that its primary purpose is not 'practical' or material but spiritual. Art is not utilitarian but has an important psychological function."

"That's from page 24 of 'What Art Is'. And isn't it interesting that Torres writes that Rand found art 'spiritual', considering Rand was an atheist.

"I'm guessing Torres used that word 'spiritual' because Rand felt that the most important value judgments a person can make are metaphysical. That means the big questions like: "is man good?" and "can we know the universe?"

"So, Torres is using the word spiritual to get at the sense of metaphysical, not to indicate anything religious.

"And, Rand would suppose that good art reflects where man stands on these metaphysical questions. I'm guessing she'd think that most of the modern art of today says very little and thus reflects a lack of spirit of man. But, in some architecture she might find the greatness of man's spirit.

"For Rand, there is most definitely 'good' art and 'bad' art. Good art is linked to her realist epistemology (again citing to Torres) in that knowledge for her is based on sensory experience.

"And the sensory experience causes one to create concepts. For Rand what she would call art (meaning good art) is concerned with the "basic value judgments about reality that bear upon an individual's life." (That's Torres on page 27).

"Art then makes concepts concrete. Good art, or art of value, or what she would deem to call art, creates awareness in man of his spirit.

"Again not in the religious sense but in the sense of man's ultimate greatness and driving force, in the Hegelian sense.

"This sense means the highest form of reality in terms of self awareness. She rejects, by the way, the Hegelian notion of spirit as stages of historical development.

"I'm not aware that Rand ever pointed to specific painters she felt achieved this ideal of reflecting the greatness of man's spirit. She did discuss many authors who she felt created works of art.

"Another thing to keep in mind is that Rand's discussion of art becomes confusing because she uses the terms romanticism and naturalism in ways contrary to how they are commonly used.

"Rand liked art that showed man was the creator of his destiny and she defined this as romantic. Standard art history uses the terms in reverse of how Rand applies them. In art history, romantic art generally shows that power of nature determining man's fate.

"I'm taking a guess here but I believe Rand would have like Rembrandt and much of the Northern Renaissance art that showed merchants and men who made something of their lives through their own industry.

"But Rand didn't just like imitation and pure portraiture would like not appeal to her, so I'm not quite sure.

"I suppose one thing to consider is that Rand wouldn't just focus on the subject but the technique as reflective of the greatness of the artist.

"For instance, certainly she would respect Michelangelo and Da Vinci and geniuses for their achievements and in this regard Rand would believe their art was great because it shows man's greatness in that it could be done at all. The actual paintings she may not spend much time considering."

Leslie paused and I sat back to take it in.

_______________

Leslie pulled a book off her shelf, "Miotte" by Chester Himes.

"Familiar with Chester Himes?" she asked.

Nope.

"Okay, well Himes' real importance is that he was at the forefront of Black (he would have said Negro) crime writers. He was an absolute asshole in real life, a total woman hater. But, let's put that aside for a moment, because this book has to do with his favorite artist, Miotte.

And, the reason I'm showing it to you is to give you a sense of what type of art would Ayn Rand hate? I think Miotte would qualify.

If we look on page 8, here, Himes writes: 'I like abstract painting. I like it well, because it means something to me, something more than painting a tree or much more natural than just painting nature, but you cannot compare your paintings with natural life. Your paintings are abstact drawings with a meaning, but not all people can see it. Yes, some don't see it because their brains have not progressed to a point where they can see meanings.'

So, look at this artwor of Miotte, what do you think?"

She passed the book to me and I flipped through. Blobs and swaths or paint on canvas.

"Ah, like a child's painting," I said.

"Exactly!" Leslie said.

"Now," she continued, "Himes would say, no you don't get it, this is high intellectual work. A child might make the same pattern but without meaning, here Miotte puts meaning into it, you just haven't developed the brain to comprehend. Absolute and total bullshit. And what does that remind you of? Don't answer, rhetorical question. Religion."

Leslie continued to flip through the book. "See, people need something outside of themselves to get a sense of wholeness. And they choose all sorts of things, religions, cults, material goods, food, exercise, whatever. Some of it may be good for them some not, but they are creating a sense of self. And the abstract art of Miott is perfect for that because it creates a sense of elitism, a sense of 'I'm smarter than you.' Think how many religions people have the same approach. It creates a sense of exclusivity, and that is a method of creating a sense of self. If Himes took the time to figure out what an asshole he is, he'd probably have a breakdown. This promotion of Miott, which he claims to get while, he says, the masses don't, allows him to avoid looking into himself."

Now, some abstract art creates wonderful emotional resonance without claiming, as does Miott, to be representative. I'd say Rothko, and we'll discuss him later. But, the real power of abstract art was in propaganda, the Soviets hated it because it is made by and for the individual, and the elite who understand it. So the Soviets basically banned it while the Americans promoted it as a Cold War strategy. Pretty awesome, right, the power of art to win the Cold War.

So, given that Rand hated Communism, why do I think she'd hate Miotte? Well, maybe hate is strong but ask, does it in anyway show the greatness of man? Individualism and the resultant consumerism, yes. But, as you can see there is nothing great about it since a child could create it and the meaning is projected on it.

In fact, a key here is that while Himes was American, Miotte was French. God forbid, this was not representative of American greatness, so Rand would see it as representative of European pretentiousness. If were going to consider a genuine American abstract artist, we'll have to talk about Rothko and of Rand feels about him. But hold on before we get there.

_________________________________________________________________________________

PART TWO

The Meditations of Saint Leslie Ann of Geddes

01.

Meditation on the question: "who am I";

02.

Meditation on one's true core nature;

03.

Meditation on the feeling of compassion for my worst enemy;

04.

Meditation on the emotional feeling of happiness;

05.

Meditation on the feeling of positive energy overcoming emotional pain;

06.

Meditation on the feeling of compassion for the emotionally sick and mentally ill;

07.

Meditation on mindfulness on each part of my brain;

08.

Meditation on the feeling of empathy being given to my wounded self;

09.

Meditation on the feeling of compassion for those who lack self-awareness;

10.

Meditation on the triggers that cause me stress;

11.

Meditation on the feeling of having a positive purpose in life;

12.

Meditation on cause and effect;

13.

Meditation on the feeling created by an inspiring person;

14.

Meditation on the feelings that arise by writing poetry;

15.

Meditation on unchallenged concepts and the release of them;

16.

Meditation on releasing all concepts of love;

17.

Meditation on the physical feelings caused by my meditation practice;

18.

Meditation on emptiness;

19.

Meditation on releasing desire;

20.

Meditation on releasing an object I love;

21.

Meditation on my personal mission statement;

22.

Meditation on non-attachment to personalization;

23.

Meditation on releasing the concept of happiness;

24.

Meditation on the transitory nature of relationships;

25.

Meditation on the release of expectations;

26.

Meditation on releasing the past;

27.

Meditation on the existence of evil;

28.

Meditation on introspection;

29.

Meditation on ritual formula;

30.

Meditation on a monotheistic universe

Breath

Mindfulness

Respect of Self

Mind- physical

Posture

Walking

Drawing

Imagination

Breaking of Concepts

Mantra

Dahkini Tantra

Compassion

NOTES:

Washington D.C. Sketchbook

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Doodling

Doodling Leslie Geddes Princeton

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Doodling

Saturday, January 7, 2006

Deep Thoughts

Monday, January 2, 2006

Me and Leslie

Sunday, January 1, 2006

Doodling

Deep Thoughts

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