The Lapdancer Book Edition Now Available

I am presently selling Lapdancer, the book as part of an 85 collectible edition series on my website. With every signed book you will receive an 8X10" print(also editioned) of "Stalls", a favorite image of many.

I am selling the first 8 in the edition at $225. and then the prices will go up. Collectors this is your time to get in on it!

You can look through the gallery section of Lapdancer on my website to see other images in the book. Reviews are available on Amazon.

I work hard to make sure every signed book is personal addressed to the buyer.

Go to www.julianabeasley.com to buy.

A Little Help From Our Friends

This is one of my favorites. Smack Jack. I can't thank Nina Hagen enough for coming into my life by way of an ex-boyfriend named Christoph Gielen. Now, Christoph and I are best friends. Brother and sister for life. Back then, we were kids who idolized Nina...and bought all the exports we could get our hands on. The sacred ones of course, that came before I came into Christoph's life were not to be handled. I received my first German sex lessons by way of this ingenue. And maybe that was a blessing that I was to learn from an East German...thrown out of her country for her right to feminism manifested in the most ridiculous act of exhibitionism. Here she is on te fow(t.v.). Let's just say this was light years earlier than the clit is where is where it's at movement. Are you reading this Joerg? Do you remember the days?



No reason here for the Nina juncture at this moment except that she certainly, inspires transformation a.k.a. change. We are all capable of it! So, do something a little differently this week and see what you can make of it. Ride the wave or rather in some of our cases, the roller coaster.

You are Not Here But You Are In Me

I spoke to Peter on her birthday. I called him at the neuropathology lab at a hospital in Long Island. I found the phone number on-line at the hospital's site as well as a photograph of him on his staff page. He is 65 years old now, his hair early turned gray now snow white. No, longer the younger man who married my mother, my mother's second husband. It had been several years and several of her birthdays since I had last called him. I closed the door to my study while my intern worked in the other room.

Barbara And Julie(a.k.a. Juliana) Watching T.V., 1973

I am home. Saturday night. I had all the opportunities not to be alone or at least right now it seems that way. I canceled last minute with my dear friend, Jason who was going to make it all the way out to Jersey City to hang out. Not, exactly hang out but edit each others work in a friendly way. By midday, I was still under the covers. I had not accomplished enough to let go and enjoy human companionship.

I've set myself up to be a full time workaholic whether things are left undone or not. And there will also be those loathsome danglers like itchy wool sweaters that graze against innocent flesh. All this excitement and I am just a commonplace hermit, manning the keyboard around the clock. I sit in awe that I manage to play some strange balancing act, sitting on this old roller coaster I've been riding for way too long. It's easier to stay put, hold onto the metal rails than to free fall, the body supple and relaxed, into obscurity, outside of this catacomb I built for myself like some estranged Unibomber living in a shed.

"My Mom in Medical School", Philadelphia, PA., 1962? (My father, Andrew is center. He was my mother's Anatomy Professor). She is to the left of him.


I'm untouchable really. I'm lonely and yet, I want to be alone. I want every one to call me and leave a message on my land line, tell me that they are inviting me out, tell me that they miss me so much, tell me that life hasn't been the same since I stopped coming out or never came out with them. And then I want to swim in the recognition that there is a world out there that cares about me and needs me. And then I just want to stay home, coveting all of the ego boosting affirmations on the answering machine.

"My Mom on Her Wedding Day", at my our house in New Rochelle, New York, 1981? She is 42 in this photo. She loved Calla Lillies.

In the top image, she is dancing with a family friend, Nate at her wedding party reception. She has had too much to drink. I love this photo of her because it really shows her for the hungry child she really was.

I'm blasting a Tori Amos album right now. I feel like an adolescent milking every bit of pain with a pop song. My esophagus locks in as tight as a Pit Bull's bite.

I try to feel it and know it more than I can remember or touch it, more than the tightness in my chest. Instead every blow is accentuated with a shrill while a melancholic finger piano strikes irony.

This week one of my interns voiced his opinion. I'm disorganized. I know that. Welcome to my daily struggle and my nightmare. I never intended to push anyone in the paper pit with me.
"My Mother, My Greatgrandparents Lichtenstein and My Sister Eliza", 1963.


I live in chaos of to do lists scribbled on backs of envelopes, in 3 different binders, on my mirror, stickies posted to my computer, typed in 3 different programs. I'm multitasking like everyone else I know out there except I feel like I'm not keeping up with my side of the bargain.

"I know I have a problem", I said. "I've been trying to change this for a long time. I'm very right brained for better or worse". I started to sob and tears filled my eyes.

I try to explain that being overly creative and unfocused and having a mind that is firing off at all times with new ideas is the good part of this attention deficit, not only a defect. It sounds cutesy and like I am genetically flawed at no fault of my own. It sounds like I am some sort of spectacular idiot savant; some kind of "take the good with the worst of me."

I know the facts:

I have no recourse except years of counseling.

If it were as simple as pure genetics, all those pills I ingest might actually be more effective.

I am running as fast as I can.

I think that he already knows this.

By the end of our meeting, I can see that he too is very upset. Malaise and nausea on the high seas can be infectious.

It's a big Saturday night, I go through my stuffed half bathroom, now a depositary of boxes stuffed with what I can't remember and other floating odds and ends. I hang over on one foot, lift the other to balance myself as I grab in between a small space to leverage the box labeled "Personal Pictures". I'm on the way of creating more disorder in the disorder. I know what I am doing. I'm looking for something that has been on my mind the last two weeks.

I pick through the envelope that says "Family Pictures". I grab into the envelope with the greedy hands of a child. There she is--my Mom, Barbara. Her birthday was more than a week ago on January 29th. She died in 1997. Tonight I feel like I need to be close to someone who might profoundly understand me. A daughter like me who took more time and patience to understand her than she took in her life time to understand me.

Over the last couple of years, I have come to terms with all that of her that is me now...her laughter, her sobbing, her hysteria, her deviance, her addictions, her pills, her strange analogies, her body, her gestures, her humor, her face, her anger, her creativity, her grotesque ambition, her depression and her invincible smile.

Everything feels like it might be alright. After all, I found the photographs of my mother just where I thought they might be, clustered and sealed in a manila envelope scribbled with a Sharpie, "Family Photographs", in a box labeled "Personal Photographs." Maybe there is recovery for the chronically disordered or maybe my disorder truly is organized.

I leave the photographs in a pile scattered next to my Epson scanner, go to the kitchen and look for a clean cup and make myself a cup of coffee.

I know that by the time I finish this entry Saturday night with all it's youthful expectations will be done.


.
"My Mom at Medical School? or maybe Head Intern of Neurology?",1964? Philadelphia, PA.

Is This Just Purely Ridiculous or is This SEXISM?

Is this is just my poor taste or am I just another big fan of catheters? Hmm....

I found this little article on a fanciful website called Feministing. It is a joyful read for all of us post feminists to the post post feminists to the I hate feminists blog aficionados.

For whatever, it's worth, I wanted to show my dear readers the latest in stereo equipment.

I was amazed at the immense number of irate comments from Feministy readers. Indeed, the object maligns the female figure but at the same time, I couldn't stop placing the fem torso stereo sitting on top of a dusty receiver in some pimply teenage boys hideaway bedroom in the basement with walls dressed in glow in the dark decal stars. It felt hard to have a serious feminist opinion about something so ridiculous, pathetic and strangely nostalgic of decorative motifs from the seventies....

The Object Remix evokes a period in feminist history when Andrea Dworkin railed against imagery like the famous Larry Flynt Hustler cover where a woman's legs are dangling out of the top of a meat grinder while her upper half has already been ground into steak tartare.





Today even though these images are still anti-women, they seem to have taken on another meaning with the passing of time. They seem to have lost their power over women(or at least the young woman I once was who once went to Hampshire College and was immersed in Feminist Culture). We are now dealt with a new hand of more noxious and subversively sophisticated sexist imagery. Some are simply simple. These days it seems to reach even a much younger audience of adolescent girls who have not had the chance to form their own identities before being bombarded with the shows like the ones from the CW.

In all it's bad taste, the stereo reminds me of a mod figurine from Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange" or something with bit of panache which David Hemmings might have added to his photo studio in Antonioni's "Blow Up". Two famous British films where the characters like to call women, "Birds". Both men trapped in a voyeuristic realm of violence and objectification of women.

So, what's to make of this? We would love to know....

Winner!

Just last week, I got the great news! I am a 2009 recipient of a grant from the New Jersey Council of the Arts! This year they gave out 26 grants to artists from various art genres.

I am so honored. I would love to thank the council for giving me this grant, so that I can continue doing my work and starting new projects.

I'm ecstatic!

And if you have crossed the Hudson to the other side, take a look into applying for the next cycle.

http://njartscouncil.org./index.cfm

I am Your Biggest Fan!

"Self Portrait as Nico. Counting Money in Dressing Room", 1995

In the winter of 1995, I was sitting on the cold tile floor of the dressing room in a strip club in Rockland County. I was doing what I did every night--counting my money midway through my 4pm to 4am shift. I was tired. I needed a dancer's working vacation in the sun. I set my sights on Hawaii since my friend, Kaylani and a friend of hers named Bella were going out there anyway. I had my dark hair cut into a bob and had it perfectly tinted a shade of blond that realistically matched the color of my olive skin or at least I thought so. I decided to go from the harsh east coast stage name of "Nico" to the softer and more cutesy name "Jesse" to fit my new hairdo.

Over the next 10 months, I flew back and forth from NYC to Honolulu about 3 times, breaking up my time between the two cities as if I was living between two neighboring states. For months at a time, I lived out of an inexpensive high rise hotel with a weekly rate on the less touristy side of Waikiki.

It was sunny everyday in Hawaii with the classic rainbow over beautifully volcanic chiseled mountains and yet, my mood remained as sallow as the color of the room where I lived. With or without my dangling chili pepper lights, candles, incense and the magazine cut outs, that I had plastered all over the walls to make it feel more homey, my days before running off to work felt like I was living in solitary. In a room, full of beige and orange interwoven cushions on furniture to match the variant bedspread, I felt the lingering presence of some malicious hotel interior designer who thought it would be the most practical to maintain an aura of hideous ennui for many many years to come.

The following Polaroids are bits of my personal treasure-trove, memories of working in a "theatre" strip club in a strip mall on Kapiolani.

Two of the photos are from Queens and New Jersey, but all have one theme in common. I decided to have a "fan photo" taken with various feature dancers as a mimicry of customers who often paid for the same service, in order to take a token of the nights evening, and the dancer, away and home with them.

"Nico and Scandalous in New Jersey", 2006.

"Jesse and Minka", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse, Braven and Unknown Feature Dancer", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #2", Hawaii, 1995.

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #3", Hawaii, 1995.

"Nico and the Ray Sisters", Queens, NYC, (1993?).

"Jesse with Unknown Feature Dancer #4", 1995.

The following is an excerpt from my book, "Lapdancer" from powerHouse Books, 2003.

"The stripper lifestyle has its own comforting and predictable routine. Sleeping until 11:00 a.m. (or later, as the week progresses), I drag my tired body out of bed across my studio apartment. A sore body is a reminder of a night well spent, money made, counted, and stashed in forever changing hiding places. Mysteriously browned and callused knees and elbows offer further evidence of my nightly pursuits. Some mornings, I awake still brooding over a night when I have fallen below my average, and berate myself for my lack of motivation on the job or some other possible personal defect that might explain falling short of my quota.


A shower would follow, then a walk into the daylight to a local restaurant where I would sit alone, ponder my future, and reward myself with a sensible non-fattening meal in my trendy Manhattan neighborhood. I hardly had time to hand wash my costumes. They smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the sweet perfumes customers complement me on. Instead I opt for a nap, awake, pop three Advil, and an hour later pick up a double espresso on the run, toting my work duffel bag filled with my best moneymakers—a tight leopard-print dress, a silver Brazilian bikini, a sequined mini, and stiletto heels. One might have thought I was just another ballet dancer running off to a class in the middle of the day.

At first it was buses, trains, and taxis; then later, private drivers like Aman, the yellow cabbie who doubled as my therapist, forever bolstering my spirits like a trainer with his boxer before entering the ring. We would make the usual stops: coffees, brownies, bottles of Jack Daniels. Several blocks before arriving at the designated club, I would let out a sigh. No, I don’t want to go. I’m too tired. I’m sick of the men and I’m even sick of the girls.

He teases me, “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I reply.

Next came Aramis, the crazy-eyed driver from Uruguay who charged less than Aman, but with him there would always be the risk of getting into some sort of collision, like the time we hydroplaned across three lanes on the Westside Highway, hit a marker on the side of the road, and flipped his Suburban. But the price was right and I was determined to keep expenses low, even at the risk of dying next to a man whose conversational skills consisted of “Hi, Nico.”
The structure I’d created for myself was satisfying for the most part because I immediately saw the results of my hard labor. Here I was, an unskilled worker, earning double what my friends in “straight” jobs were making.


I loved the music, dancing on stage, and the instant connections I made with fellow dancers—and at times, even with customers. For eight hours on nights I danced, I was taking a break from my own complex and contradictory life. In reality I rarely dreaded going to work, unlike with other jobs I had had in the past. Dancing felt emotionally cathartic, empowering, and at times just like another creative extension of myself. I developed my dancing style partially by mimicking other dancers and partly through trial and error. I performed five days a week to a normally adoring public. Sometimes it felt like being a rock star, or what I imagined being a rock star might feel like: discounts on hotels, personal drivers, and makeup."

Victoria Number 1

I Miss You Victoria Blue

You let me tie you up in
spaghetti strap camisoles
and buy you a flowery dress.

Except for that once,
I promised
to sit and stay besides you
at the hairdresser.
Your hair cropped in layers
every four months.

"Victoria on My Parents Couch", 2008.

Not even a year ago
you lay rigid and softly
upon my parents divan
I steadied the strobe light
above you.

You are regal white,
shockingly blue.
What makes you look like this?
You didn't know what to say.

Sweet fragility
found a new home
only three blocks away.

I held on
behind my new camera
with no more secrets
left to tell you.