Things Fall Apart at Pool Gallery in Berlin!

Hello All!

I want to announce the opening of the show "Things Fall Apart" at Pool Gallery in Berlin.

I am proud to be of a part a show with so many great American women photographers. It is truly an honor. And an honor to be in a show curated by Amy Stein. Here is the press release! If you are in the neighborhood, please check it and take some snaps of the opening night or of yourself in your favorite piece of lingerie.

The show includes the work of Lisa Kereszi , Stacy Mehrfar , Justine Reyes, Robin Schwartz , Zoe Strauss and Amy Stein . And me too.

Miss Stein and Miss Reyes will be in attendance for the vernissage!

There is one battle, and it is epic. It is the only

battle there has ever been; it is the only battle

there ever will be. It has consumed every last

human being that has ever lived; it is the battle

between Order and Chaos.

Grounded in faith, it is a holy war. Yes, it is the

fight for everything we believe in; the fight for

everything we are; the fight for a reason to get out

of bed in the morning.

Humans naturally side with order, likening it to

survival, yearning for predictability and control.

Over the millennia, we have come up with a range

of ammunition against the great Evil, the great

Darkness - the Chaos. Politics, alien abductions,

savings accounts, religion,

environmental protection, space shuttle

expeditions, hollywood fame, nuclear bombs - it

is a seemingly never-ending roster of human

creations, ideas, practices and bad habits that,

in essence, address this single and only conflict,

attempting to construct a semblance of

permanent order, to grasp some comfort and

stability amidst the chaos.

THINGS FALL APART, curated by American

photographer and pool gallery artist Amy Stein,

presents us with a wise, yet rather distressing,

understanding. It is a coming to terms with our

collective sentence, the hand we, humans, were

dealt; it is the realization that, at the end of the

proverbial day, the chaos prevails.

Stein has selected the works of seven American

female photographers; works that approach this

grand conflict from a humanistic and personal

standpoint. These artists dissect the human

desire to construct our systems of order, and

accentuate the inevitable disillusionment when

© Robin Schwartz

those very systems collapse. The works are more than a record of decay - they are, rather, an examination of loss, as the transition

from the ephemeral to the immutable reveals a cruel affirmation of our temporal existence.

This selection of works simultaneously tells one story: the story of any one life. Lisa Kereszi‘s works serve to highlight the beginning,

the plan-making that excites us in our naive youth and adolescence; Stacy Mehrfar continues from there, capturing the foundationlaying

and construction of our aspirations; Amy Stein‘s own works capture that dreaded moment, that turning point, when chaos first

comes calling, casting our plans off course; the descent from thereon is slow and spiked with flusters, trips and falls apart - a process

illustrated by the works of Justine Reyes, Juliana Beasley and Zoe Strauss; and finally, Robin Schwartz‘ Dead Deer is the summation

of the grand arc, a totem for the constant cycle of dissolution and change in the natural world.

Structuring all facets of our existence is an effort that requires trust in these structures‘ continuation; this trust forms the foundation

of faith. This faith surpasses religious faith; it is the faith that every human being requires to go on living, the most basic and inherent

faith - the faith that what we‘re doing, what we are, is not for nothing. It is the faith that gives us the stamina to go on fighting against

the Chaos.

THINGS FALL APART is Amy Stein‘s first curatorial project at pool gallery, where her work has been exhibited since 2008. She lives

and works in New York, NY.

Thanks Amy Stein! You CAT CRAZY!

Yes, I took this from Amy's very important FACEBOOK posting. Yes, I am a thief too. And anything right now, silly, stupid could help my cascade into the hinterlands. Or the nausea side effects of my new medication.

BTW, as you well know I am a dog lover, hence, Moishe and Howard. But, if there was a cat out there half as bright as this one, I'd snatch him/her up immediately. We need more cat activists out there!

Hard Heels Meet Hard Times

"It's really hard for me right now."

"Yes, it's hard for everyone right now," she said. I nodded slowly like a sprouting kvetch.

"Dancer in Manager's Office at Runway 69", NYC, 1993. Juliana Beasley.
Notice money safe in background.

Last night, Amy and I met a the Singe Vert , one of my favorite French restaurants. I rarely eat there, with my tight wallet, I just can't spring for pommes frites like I once could, but I always manage to lubricate or drown--depending on the mood--my taste buds with a dry white wine or two. That's less costly than a meal in than any place in NYC with nice faux French caffe posters and no more than 5-6 points on the Weight Watcher's rector scale.

I can always depend on banter and a cackle with the stunning and down to earth, Maia, a bartender with lovely Caribbean curls surrounding her delicate face. For that moment, that first sip, I am in heaven, and the lure of a drink seems healthier than daydreaming about future negative predictions of me rolled in a sleeping bag on the streets of NYC next winter. I hope, at least, I will take the Greyhound out to the Cali coast before I tank, jump on a plane to Honolulu and go couch surf at my friend, Debbie's apartment.

I am queasy. I've been stuffing my face with bread all day...my first excuse to go to the restaurant and gobble down two baskets of French bread. I arrive at Singe Vert, sit on the bar stool near the open door, and take off my jacket.

"I can't drink," I say as if I am walking around with a gaping bleeding wound.

Maia offers a wonderful potion of seltzer, fresh ground ginger and the bitter stuff in the small bottle. With ice. I sip away and gorge myself away to the other place--Land of Carb Denial. Anything to fill that wound. By the time, Amy (yes, the Miss Amy Stein) has arrived, I have started to rock back and forth on my stool to build up some heat in my body. I'm chilled. It's the first signs of spring and people are sitting outside and the door is wide open. I think it must be 57 degrees out there.

"Jessica and Her Boyfriend", Jersey Shore, 1995?, Juliana Beasley

"We gotta' get out of here. I'm freezing."

She suggests the perfect anecdote, sake in a Japanese restaurant nearby and happiness, it's empty. Empty enough for my nauseous stomach. And better yet, happy hour--sake at half price.

After a couple of petite ceramic bottles of sake and the gush of my latest drama, my stomach feels a lot more basic than caustic. I tell Amy, that just last night, I went to the bathroom half asleep, then fell asleep on the toilet and awoke bruised on the tile floor. I'm really proud of this...that I fell asleep on the toilet; despite the probable indecencies, most nights, I can't find a reason to sleep.

John, her super duper husband (no, it's just not fair and accept it) arrives, we have gone through so many little bottles that we forget how many. One thing is certain, we feel a little giddy--that's normal in each others company--but, not in the least bit stoned. Yep, for $2.50, no matter how many thimbles, we drink, we still sit straight up in cushioned hideaway lounge in the back corner. I, however, now have a headache, rumble through my bag of notebooks, prints and pharmaceuticals and grab for those fast acting liquid Motrin.

John is hungry. Outside, we say good-bye.

"I miss you guys", I say. They walk away and I walk towards the Path.

As I walk away, I remember, I didn't bother to tell her, I chipped an important and private tooth that day while eating a bagel with tofu vegetable spread. I had already sent out the alarms to Tia. She suggests the cheapest place in town to go to have it repaired. NO INSURANCE.

I'm home. I turn on my non digital t.v. with the bent rabbit ears, go into the bathroom and fill it with a think layer of hot water to soak the feet. I have learned how to give myself a pedicure at home. One evening, the kundalini teacher named Gurmukh Khalsa at Golden Bridge Yoga inspired the class to massage and give love to your feet at the end of the day. She and her husband do it together, so, I begin to think I should start doing it to myself. I doubt it's the same as incense burning and lovingly looking into a partners eyes and chanting "Sat Nam", but this is all I might get for a while.
Days past of trolloping off to the East Village nail salon for a mani/pedi. Dancer days done, of scooping hands into a sock drawer reaching for crumpled twenties and dollar bills. Dancer days done, of never having to visit the ATM. Done.

"Dancer Sitting on Customer's Lap", Runway 69, NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.

I sit up on the coach. A towel lays beneath my tender freshly soaked feet. I grab for that callous razor, I bought the other day at Duane Reade. I teased and flirted with the cute boy with acne who led me to the foot section.

Yes, I had arrived. I am in the old foot person's section. My pedestrial future ahead of me. Callouses, corns, genetic features of bunions from mother, falling arches, in grown nails. The day will come when I will be a Sleestack.

"If I can't put this razor together, I'm going to come back and you can teach me," I said.

He smiled, said he would be there to help and actually, I thought he looked as if I had brightened his boring evening of stocking adult diapers and tampons, side by side.

April 3rd, 2009. The latest news. Senseless maniacal murders in Binghamton. How many of these murders happen a year in this country, I wonder.

I've done it again. I've applied too much pressure on the handle and the razor shaves off too much. In any case, I'm enjoying this, watching the slivers of flesh fall onto the towel in little perfect Parmesan shavings.

I wake up this morning, a dream fresh in my mind...I will go to esthetician school. I need a job. And in hard times, everyone needs their feet to be groped and coddled.

**I took the above B&W photographs in a NYC club called "Runway 69" back in 1993. I knew one of the dancers from the Paradise Club on 33rd St., also in NYC. I was still shooting in black and white before I moved over to color. I actually photographed very little over the beginning years of making "Lapdancer". I feel inspired to scan some of these negatives from the past.

I want to mention that I put these 5X7's up and 11X14's up for sale at Melanie Flood Projects for meager prices. No one bought anything.

Alas, the other night at the wonderful opening of Shen Wei's opening of the "Almost Naked" show (more to come on that....), dear Rubin Natal-San Miguel of the fab Artmostfierce bought two of the 5X7's that I toted along with me that evening to Randall Scott's Gallery, newly opened in Dumbo. And he has preordered another.

"Three Dancers in Dressing Room at Runway 69", NYC, 1993, Juliana Beasley.