Merry Christmas in Rockaway Park!

"Boarding House Garbage Cans",
Rockaway Park, NYC, Christmas, 1995?

Was it Winter 2005? I was offered to spend the holidays with several of my friends around NYC. I declined and instead went to go down to Rockaway Park for Christmas. I have an objective, find my buddy Butch. I haven't seen in at least over a year. I miss the man with the scratchy drunken voice covering up a heart, so innocent and kind.

Butch was out of sight. No one seemed to know where he had been.

The last winter, he was staying in a smaller than small studio in a boarding house. They like to call this particular house, a crack house. I've seen a lot going on there from booze to heroin, but crack never passed my way. I wouldn't be surprised. Often, I walk through fire and don't feel flames scorching my flesh.

Back then Butchie's friend had bought him a new vinyl lazy boy, dark shiny brown with swerves of black almost like some mutant pit bull. He sat on that chaired and flipped through the basic channels. She had bought him a new bed since the last one he had stained in feces after a long binge alone behind the padlock on his door. She had made sure that "Meals on Wheels" came to his place seven days a week to feed him twice a day on the weekdays and once on each weekend day. I can't forget when he showed me the platter of food stored in Styrofoam. He removed it from the refrigerator and opened the lid and told me with pride ever item in the container.

This friend, this very kind woman--I never met--she died of walking pneumonia at, I believe, no more than 50 years old.

The evening, Butchie found out, he had vodka dripping from his mouth like a fountain. There was nothing, but a quart of Smirnoff that could make any sense to him. Between deep guttural moans of mourning and spewed anger to those around him--he was out of his mind.

Butchie Under Covers, Rockaway Park, NYC, 1995?

That night I came to visit , he was surrounded by the fly-by-nighters, the ones that came when they needed a bit of cash from Butch who would give them money from his disability and VA checks hidden in cash somewhere who knew expect the ones who stole it.

A circle of friends attempted to comfort him, as he flayed his body around, while legs shook unsteady beneath him. He is beginning to show the signs of some neurological disorder...years of drinking surely had made things easier to tolerate, but soon enough would make him bound to a wheel chair. The last gasps of unjust anger faded away and off, he fell asleep, an inebriated calm baby under a half made bed.

So, Christmas...2005. One of the regulars at the Kerry Hill Garden's told me that he was staying at the Peninsula Hospital. It was a frigid day, I walked under the A tracks towards the water and found the Peninsula. Charlie was going to meet me there outside of the building. My cell phone rang and it was my girlfriend's nieces wishing me a Merry Christmas.

"Why aren't you here?", they screamed in unison. "Where are you? We wish you were here!"

"I'm fine," I said. I'm photographing for my project."

..as I imagined them sitting in front of a fire in Narragansett, Rhode Island. They probably were wearing fleece tops, bottoms and footsies to keep warm. I kept a keen eye on any gang life. I held tightly onto two wrapped presents, one for Charlie and one for Butchie.

"Don't go down there!", they said to me before I left the pub. There are a lot of gangs down there. I walked swiftly looking into the interiors of busted car windows and walked quickly over chard's of glass.

Charlie was waiting outside of the Peninsula, smoking a cigarette. I had never seen him dressed so fine. A sports coat, covered with a wool winter coat past his knees. His hair was brushed to the side and brilliantined. He appeared as a ghost vision of my father, quiet, reserved and respectful.

Charlie at His Finest, Peninsula Hospital, Rockaways, NYC, 1995?

We went inside to the reception desk....

"Hello! We are looking for Edward McBride.", I ask. Charlie stands beside me.

Continued next week.

And for now, let me introduce you to a local Rockaway's Organization called "The Rockaway Jetty"

You can learn more about there group on Facebook. Her are some of the things they do:

SINCE ITS INCEPTION, THE ROCKAWAY JETTY'S MISSION HAS BEEN TO IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF LIVES OF CHILDREN IN THE ROCKAWAY COMMUNITY.

WE DO SO BY PROVIDING:

FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE FOR MEDICAL OR EDUCATIONAL NEEDS.

TUTORING

SCHOOL SUPPLIES

BOOKS

CLOTHING

VACATIONS/CAMPS/DAY TRIPS

TOYS.

ETC.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY RELIES ON THE INVOLVEMENT AND DEDICATION OF ITS MEMBERS AS WELL AS THE KINDNESS AND GENEROSITY OF THE COMMUNITY AND OTHER LOCAL ORGANIZATIONS.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY IS A TAX EXEMPT, NOT-FOR-PROFIT LOCALLY BASED ORGANIZATION THAT IS DEDICATED TO HELPING PEOPLE "ONE NEED AT A TIME."

Sante Fe Project Competition 2009

The word is out on the street. This week Sante Fe announced the winners!

Of course, I must admit, I had been waiting for their decisions with great hopes until the end of last week, when that special e-mail didn't come my ways.

I would like to highlight two winners, Brian Ulrich who was one of three in the category of honorable mentions and Micheal Christopher Brown . Micheal made it into the Juror's Choice Award. Both very different in their styles but both hard hitting in their metaphorical imagery. These are images that need no words. And however, different the work is of both of these artists, they manage to depict the lonely aftermath of two worlds, so very far apart.

Brian's work always amazes me with is iconographic simplicity and irony. He puts the pieces together like a detective playing with legos, building and putting the pieces together, into a seamless truth. Economic crisis equals photographs of an ATM machine that's been ripped off a wall. Circuit City is nothing but a big red shadow of a building, remnants of a logo ripped off the exterior, with an empty parking lot...who will buy this monstrosity? Will it become someday soon a homeless shelter for those employees who lost their jobs there?

Brian Ulrich, from Dark Stores, Ghost Boxes, and Dead Malls.

Brian Ulrich, from Dark Stores, Ghost Boxes, and Dead Malls.

Micheal, where hasn't he been? Inquiring minds need to know!

Micheal has the artistry to create not only meaningful documentary work, but work that feel like sad film stills, pockets of colors alive in the loneliness of desolate landscapes.

He takes us to the lonely and abandoned Russian Island of Sakhalin. Small figures are in a burrow of white. The people and interiors are smothered in snow. Glass shields them.When I look at Micheal's work, I feel like I am listening to a sweet shushed and eery lullaby.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Micheal Christopher Brown from series, Journey to Sakhalin.

Check out the others at the Sante Fe Project Competition Page:

http://www.visitcenter.org/programs.cfm?p=ProjectCompetition

And by the way, I found out today that I made it with "Last Stop: Rockaway Park" in the 25 finalist group. Check us out:

http://www.visitcenter.org/programs.cfm?p=Project09Finalists

Never keep trying!

A Little Bit of Meat!

Sorry folks...

It's been a long week, turning into another one. I so want to please you all with fabulous stories with many typos written from the heart, stories starting from photographs to memoir. I often don't have the time to sit down and write the goodness you deserve.

So, this might happen here....just turn off the brain and turn on the You Tube for some easy mindless gobbily gook!

In the meantime....here's a beef burger on me and Billy Mays, served up to the classic boy school way.

Enjoy!

I Want to Make You Smile!

"Smile!", My father in his kitchen in Philadelphia, 1979.

In 1979, I was on summer vacation at my father's house down in Phillie. He lived in the same house where I had spent the first six years of my life with him, my Mom, my sister, Eliza and our two dogs, Abygail and Maxine.

He never left and he died there. He worked less than two miles away, a morning walk in the summer months. He worked the same job for most of his 67 years. When he wasn't working, he was out in his urban garden, growing carrots, watermelons and his prized tomatoes. The cherry tree of my youth had lived and died and came back to live several generations. He taught me that birds ate the seeds of the cherries and then pooped them on the earth and so, began another tree.

He spent his free time alone, drinking and reading several pulp fiction books a week. He had a girlfriend who conveniently lived in California. His life was simple; some might say dysfunctional too.

That summer, we had gotten into a fight. I had teased him with what, I can't remember. I had taken the game too far. I pulled out my camera.

"Dad, please smile! I'm taking your picture."

Once, my camera had the power to my father and everyone else smile.

There is so much to say about the relationship between my father and me, a far distant relationship, from New Rochelle, New York to Philadelphia, sheltering me with a sense of security, one of which I did not feel or share in my mother's home. There is so much to say...

I loved him. I loved him across, a cheap kitchen table, me on one side reading the comics and him on the other reading and smoking Pall Malls.

And I wonder why now, I have decided to write about it. Is it because I found a photograph of my father, scowling with arms crossed, in a manila envelope or is it because on the opening of my group show at Mazzeo Gallery, my mother's second husband, Peter arrived.

There is so much to say between these empty spaces between words. There are thousands of unsaid words. This is a bookmark in storage which these days is a receptacle of stuttered and garrulous words streaming through my brain rapid fire. I could write for days on end if I let myself. I could divulge ever pathology. But, not tonight.

I hadn't seen Peter in 12 years since my mother's funeral. Before that I hadn't seen him for another 12 years.

At the funeral, I remember him well-dressed and poised. My friend's mother remarked later that my own father appeared tired and gray. I wanted to shoot her in the head for her insensitivity.

Peter got up in front of the mourners and spoke an reverent eulogy...still strong in my memory and weak in this shell of a recount.

Thank you Peter for coming to my show. Thank you for your recognition. I always wanted that. God bless you too.

A Little Inspiration from My Heroes, An Ongoing Soap Opera!

Charice Pempengco

True genius! If you haven't seen these lovely girl belt it out....I'm begging you to do so! She has been a complete inspiration to me; even if, the media has picked her up as a pure oddity. Charice Pempengco is from the the Phillipines and made it all the way to the Ellen Degeneres Show.

How long will she last once she goes into puberty and loses her girlish supernatural voice?
Wouldn't it be great if she could sing a little Courtney Love?

Keep coming back for more inspiration from fabulous women and other gender types!

"Juliana's Secret Stash"

ART FAIR! A Group Show At Micheal Mazzeo Gallery.
Opening, March 4th from 6-9.

Come See Me at Micheal Mazzeo Gallery!

"Juliana as Amanda with Anonymous Customer", Naked City, Queens, N.Y., 1993?

This series of Polaroid’s is lovingly called, “Juliana’s Secret Stash”. I have kept this work hidden in a shoebox away from light and away from sight of others—except the occasional friend—for over almost two decades, until now. I will show part of this collection, in the form of larger sized scans of the Polaroid’s, for the first time at the Micheal Mazzeo Gallery from March 4th through April 11th 2009.

Other fabulous artists include:

Yong Hee Kim
Sebastian Lemm
Chris McCaw
Will Steacy
Leah Oates
Cara Phillips
F&D Cartier
Josh Quigley
Robin Schwartz
Rachael Dunville
Lucas Foglia
Timothy Eugene O’Tower
Lacey Terrell
Christopher Rauschenber


For more info on the show go to: http://www.michaelmazzeo.com/

What is "Juliana's Secret Stash About?"

"Juliana as Nico with the Ray Sisters", Naked City, Queens, N.Y., 1993?

During the 1990s, I was dancing and photographing in strip clubs in the tri-state area and around the USA, paving the way to completion of my book Lapdancer. Stuffed away into my duffle bag of g-strips and spandex costumes, I also toted along the SX-70 and Joy Cam Polaroid cameras to photograph dancers, take portraits of myself with other dancers and self-portraits.

"Juliana as Nico in Bathroom Stall, Self-Portrait", Naked City, Queens, N.Y. 1993?

Throughout my career as a dancer, I often took the opportunity to be photographed with well known and not so well known feature dancers and porn stars. Feature dancers are performers who come to the gentlemen’s club for the week to perform a "special" routine on stage, bringing in elated customers.

I had many chances to have my portrait taken with these weekly performers. When I worked in Honolulu for half a year, I found a club where porn stars and features were a common part of the program, night and day. They would fly in just to parade their specialty, whether it was grotesquely large implants, the size of three human heads smushed together in one globule, or a bubble bath on stage. They performed several times during a shift. In one week, they definitely earned more money than I did, or at least, this is what I heard from other dancers who estimated that in a year’s worth of work, they grossed 200K and more.

Between stage shows and meeting with adoring groupies, they hid in their personal dressing rooms. The “house” club dancers wondered what they did in there? I imagine apply more make-up upon sweaty made-up faces and calculate the day’s earnings with their traveling managers.

They were the rock stars of the business. We were the supporting actresses.

"Celeste", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002.

Part of the fanfare was not only an effort to promote their unique performance, but also to sell their fanzines and offer a lasting memory to the customers in return for a nominal fee. After a performance, the male fans would line up in a corner of the club and pay to have a Polaroid taken of themselves and their favorite glamour queen. Instant gratification before the days of digital! The adult starlet would then scribble the customary signature on the Polaroid with something brazen such as the classic "Cum See Me". Sometimes, when they had the time, they would write something more original and address it to the customer.

I often went and took my place at the end of the cue to pleasantly ask the performer, “Can I have my photo taken with you?” Whatever they thought of me, I always walked away charmed and delighted with my new possession. All I wanted was a bit of nostalgia from my dancer days in the form of a celluloid Polaroid to hold onto for future days and laughs.

During the final years of working on Lapdancer, I was no longer dancing myself and traveled the United States simply to photograph. I went to Colorado, Las Vegas, Tampa, Ft. Myers and Miami. I began shooting “house” dancers with my newly bought Polaroid Joy Cam. I had an idea: I would photograph a dancer and ask her to sign the bottom of her portrait with a Sharpie just like the feature and porn actresses had done, elevating her to a higher level of stardom. Instead of the formulaic one-liners, I asked them to write what they were really thinking at that very moment while working a night’s shift at the club.

Many of the dancers wrote the ubiquitous “I want to make lots of MONEY” or something close to it. However, sometimes a dancer would write very personal ironic or sad one-lined commentaries. An older dancer from Ft. Myers named Pennie wrote under her portrait, “Thanks for seeing something in me that I no longer see”.

My concept was a simple. I wanted to create a visual pun mimicking the feature dancers’ flagrant self-presentation, a juxtaposition of fantasy in relation to reality. I knew from personal experience that behind every dancer’s smile and agreeable affect are thoughts far from the external trimmings.

I am intrigued with this frank inner monologue within each dancer and how it compares to that of the feature dancers’ contrived scribblings upon the Polaroid’s white edges.

This dichotomy is not singular, nor a detached phenomenon existing only within strip clubs. We are all tempted to pass through life euphorically embracing the consumption of fantasy, rather than facing not only simple joys, but also the reality of pain.

Eyes of Salamanca Work in Bridge Art Fair, March 5-March 8

"Maria and Two Friends", Mexico, 2007.

This year during the Armory Art week in NYC, I will be showing my work at the fabulous Bridge Art Fair with the group Station Independent Projects. This is the first year Bridge, the ever growing popular art fair will settle in at the historic Waterfront Building, located in Manhattan’s Chelsea’s Gallery District. Bridge has already shown in Basel, London and Miami.

The eclectic and fabulous and always on the move Leah Oates is not only partaking in the fair with Station Independent Projects, but is the curator as well.

The following are a list of the other participants in my group:

Iris Klein, Photography

Miles Ladin, Photography

Yeni Mao, Collage

Leah Oates, Photography

Pierre St- Jacques, Video Installation

(Please, note that due to technical difficulties at the moment, I was unable to create links to each of the artists sites. Hopefully in a day they will be posted.)

I will be showing works from my project "Eyes of Salamanca". And a great preview and omen because I fly off to live on the farm community with my friend the Schmitts in Mennonite country in April!

"Blonde Braids", Mexico 2007.

Here is the schedule for Bridge:

SCHEDULE ::

March 5 7 pm-10 pm Opening-Night Vernissage March 6
12 pm-8 pm General Admission Fair Hours March 7
12 pm-8 pm General Admission Fair Hours
March 8
12 pm-7 pm General Admission Fair Hours

For further info and tickets: go to Bridge Art Fair

http://www.bridgeartfair.com/newyorkindex.html

The Million Dollar Question

"All Nude Shows", Tampa, 2002.

The following interview with John, a manager from T&A's Club in New York is excerpted from my book, "Lapdancer" published in 2003 with powerHouse Books.


“I started out working as a bouncer at a place called Erotique back in the early '80s. It was the first big club to come into the area, big strip club. And it was not nude. It was just topless and there was no alcohol and no lapdancing. Then I went to another club called Pleasure Palace. Again, it was alcohol, no lapdancing. I came here in the early '90s and it was totally nude. And so the girls were up on the bar getting their money and stuff. And then one girl came up to me and said: "A guy wants a lapdance." I had never heard of it. So I went back to my boss and he knew less than I did. And so what we did, we put about six chairs towards the back of the club and we said: "These are chairs you can lapdance in." And at that time we told the girls to charge 10 bucks per song, and we would get three bucks out of it.

They were fully nude lapdances. Yes, they were. No, I'm sorry, excuse me. They had the G-string on, yes, they did. And it got so popular, it was like a mad house; a line to get to sit on these chairs. And the funny thing was, they did it in front of everybody else. Nobody got shy, nobody was embarrassed. I would have been embarrassed with an erection with a pretty girl sitting on me and everybody else gawking. Because at that time you did have people leaning against the posts or whatever just looking at the customers. And the girls didn't seem to mind, and they were pretty girls.

Eventually my boss, he got this idea. We took out part of the kitchen and we turned that into a lapdance room. We put like little cubicles up, with no doors because we wanted to see what was going on; and made like eight to nine stools. And then the girls were charging 25 bucks and we would charge the customers five dollars just to get into the room. It just took off. People were coming here not to see the girls on stage, but would come to do the lapdances. And I always said lapdancing is probably going to put prostitution out of business. And what I mean by that is: If a guy comes and gets a lapdance and he puts on a condom and if he does spill a little bit, it's not going to get on his clothes. Now there's a plus, you call that safe sex. I think that's what a lot of men look at it as. They're not going to take any disease home. They're going to come to a place like this and if it happens, it happens -- you know, if they have an orgasm. Then they go home to their wives.

"Jillian and Customer", Tampa, 2001.

I'd never heard of it until we started doing it about nine years ago. I'm sure it happened before. But I think since we started doing it, word of mouth got around and now all the other clubs around here are doing it. And we advertise: “The best lapdance around.” And that's what really works for us. We're known as the club with the lapdance. We used to be called "Up Close And Personal" -- the way the girls got on stage and got up in front of the guy. Believe it or not, some of these guys spend thousands of dollars a day on getting lapdances -- a day.

Now we've even got V.I.P rooms, where the guy can go back there in a little private room. There's cameras in there. And these guys are paying a buck and a quarter for a half hour, so they can get a private lap with a girl. It's amazing. It really is.

They don't know I have cameras back there. I have two different cameras. I have a camera that they think if they turn the lights off I can't see them. I have infra red cameras back there. Because let's face it, I got to support my wife and kids. And knock on wood, I've never been shut down or raided. And a lot of clubs that have total nudity and the lapdances and whatever and they have the private rooms, they've been shut down several times. And we haven't because of that security system.

The girls go back there. The guys tell them stories about how they like their wives, the position of them when they're making love. Because I have sound too on the cameras. And the guy will say: "You know, my wife likes it when she gets on her knees and this and that." And the girls, you know, they talk back to the guys. Some of the guys like to be insulted. They like to have a girl put their high heel in their balls, you know, inside the pants, of course. Some guys are just really weird. They don't want to get off where other people can just walk by them or whatever. So it's worth it to these guys. And some of these guys are like bankers, or big shots in computers and chemists and all this. They come in, they have women's clothes beneath their own clothes. So they undress; they got a woman's bra on or whatever. And the girls spank them a little bit on their rear end. Things like that. But no sex goes on. Some guys don't even want sex.

Several times I have caught a man taking out his penis. And I have a buzzer back there. I hit the buzzer. I send the bouncer back there and he tells the guy the dance is over, and the guy has to leave. I tell the guy he can come back another day. But if I catch again -- which has never happened -- he's out for life.

Don't forget, I used to bounce before I became a manager. I was a bouncer out there for about three years. And what that means is, I was right next to the customers. So I had relationships with customers coming in and talking about sports, about wives, kids, work, etcetera. And a lot of guys that came in, I got to be close with, to talk to like once or twice a week. Some guys even come in three or four times a week. A lot of guys just like to come here to get away. By that I mean -- I've been married 17 years myself and I can understand -- well, I can't understand to spend that kind of money on these girls, but I can understand when they say they want to get away for a while.

"Jets", Monsey, New York. 2000.

I get to see and hear why they really come here. A lot of guys get in an argument with their wives; they walk out and they go to a bar and drink. The next thing you know, they get drunk, they go home, they're having violence or whatever. Here, it's a juice bar. So when some guys get in arguments with their wives or whatever, they come here; they see a pretty girl. They know they're not taking a girl home. The girl will make the guy feel like he is royalty. You know: "Hi, honey. How are you doing?" A guy could be a fat slob with no teeth in his mouth, which a girl wouldn't take a second look at. But if he came in here and he spent a couple of dollars on a soda and paid the admission to get in at the door and tipped the girl a couple of dollars, the guy would be treated like he was Brad Pitt.

And so he spends a couple of hours in here. And when he goes home, he feels like he's took 10, 20 pounds off his shoulders. He comes home and he's in a much better mood. He speaks to his wife in a much different tone. He probably makes love with his wife that night because he came here and got aroused by the pretty women. And he doesn't tell his wife where he was. Because if he ever told his wife, his wife would call him all kinds of names and think he was coming here and whoring around and whatever.

A small percentage of them do release; the most of the other ones, they come here just to get away. It's just to get away where nobody else knows you -- not your boss, not your wife or anything. And you come here and because you have a couple dollars in your pocket, you get treated like you're the boss. You know: "Could I get you a soda?" "Hi, honey. Can I get you a match?" "What's your name?" Every girl comes around to you asking your name. You know, they'll listen to your story about what's going on. And even if it sounds like you're completely wrong, the girl's going to tell you you're completely right. And that's what you really want to hear. It's sort of a therapy. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a psychologist. But you know what? I would think, let's say people that rape girls; I'd rather have a guy come into a strip bar and get a couple lapdances and whatever and go home than go out looking for a pretty woman and raping her. You understand what I'm saying? That could help them also. There's a whole bunch of really good reasons why clubs like this should be allowed open and lapdances are going on. Because there's some guys, let's face it, there's some ugly guys out there ... their grooming is not ... they smell or whatever. And these guys can come here and get a beautiful woman that would never give them a second look, that give them a lapdance, wrap their arms around their neck and whisper in their ear. It's almost like a date.

"Lipstick", Tampa, Florida, 2002.

Don't forget, some of these guys are not married. They will probably lay in bed for weeks at a time while they save up their money and think about: "Wow, I know Vanessa's going to be there on a Wednesday. I'm working overtime this week. Let me go there and see my baby." They call them regulars.

I don't think guys comes here because they're going to come here and have sex and all that stuff. It's not like that. These guys think that they're the only guys in these girls lives. You know what I mean? They send them flowers, candies, Christmas gifts, all that sort of stuff.

I sit back here with my two bosses and sometimes we'll see a girl in the lapdance room with a guy, and he'll get put like $1,200. on his credit card. And our question will be: “Well, Jesus, he's back there for all this while, why don't he just go down to Atlantic City and get an escort?” I don't have the answer to that. That’s the million dollar question. Maybe the answer is: He does not want get laid. Maybe the answer is that in his mind he really likes this girl and he'll go home maybe and give better sex to his wife.

"Gary and Porshe", T&A's, Monsey, New York, 2000.

The million dollar question. We often wonder about that around here. Because I can speak for myself. If I was not married or I had problems with my wife, instead of coming here and spending four or $500. and then go home with a big old hard on; I would probably go somewhere, down to Atlantic City or to New York City, so that I can get an escort that's kind of classy and pay the $500. for I don't know how long. And then I'm definitely going to get what I came there for.

I've seen some of the girls that travel around here in the local little towns, that stand by bus stops and taxi stations. They have no teeth in their mouth. They look like they've been smoking crack for the last two months. What guy'd want to get something ... like that in his car? Or a guy might be afraid if he goes with this girl to release himself, he's going to get knocked over his head and get his wallet stolen. You get AIDS if the condom bursts or something like that.

It could be a safety factor, a feeling of being safe in a place like this. You know there's a bouncer here. You know the girl's not going to reach down and take all your money. You understand what I'm saying? A guy can come here with a $1,500. suit on, with a $100,000.-a-year job and feel safe here, and come and get himself a lapdance and not look like he's weird and not be gawked at by everybody.

Maybe a guy doesn't want to have an orgasm. And maybe another reason is because he is a masochist-- I'm not talking about masochism like sado masochism; I'm just talking about psychological masochism. Maybe his big thing is to come to a place and get abused, verbally abused by a girl or get pampered by a girl and then go home and masturbate to the memory of it.
Or they probably go home and screw their wife, because they're not too appealing to them. I'm a guy, I can speak from experience. I would argue with my wife; sometimes I would go out in a bar and I would get drunk and them come home and try to make love or whatever. Guys just want different ways of getting frustration out of some sort. You know what I mean?

If I was stressed out one day and I road by and said: "There's that place. Let me just stop in there and see what's going on." And all of a sudden I meet this girl. Let's say her name is Girl X. And I talk to her for about maybe an hour and I spend maybe 50, 60 bucks tipping her for an hour. And I really think that I have a chance with this girl. I'll come back and I'll probably come back and back and back and back. And you know, you don't know the kind of games these girls run on guys. Some of these girls can tell guys that: "Yes, I really do like you. I'm in an abusive relationship. Can you help me out? I wish I could live with you." It's all a big game here. The guy plays a game because he's telling the girl: "Yes, you could probably live with me and I'll take care of you," because he wants to get in her pants. And the girl plays the game with the guy because she wants to get into his wallet. Most of the time the girl gets in the wallet but the guy never gets in the pants.”

Go Tema! Go Francesca!

Work from Francesca Romeo

Work from Tema Stauffer

Tomorrow evening is the opening of the fabulous Tema Stauffer and Francesca Romeo at the Daniel Cooney Gallery.


I must admit, I am excited to finally meet Tema and see her work. Within the last weeks she has become a wonderful e-mail companion. I have admired her work from afar before our exchanges and now, I'm curious to meet the woman behind the photographs and words.

Her work is not only compelling with gutsy fast curves but with an unspoken serenity weaving throughout. I believe when she makes an edit and puts one image next to another, her photographs move figuratively as if they were a quiet poem speaking the language of a life understood, acknowledged and accepted.

I am thrilled to see the work of Francesca Romeo on the wall...even though her work is new to me, I am ready to move into the shadows of her of subjects submerged in a diaphanous sheath of burnt colors.

Come join the colorful fiesta tomorrow night from 6pm to 8pm!

Wow, Juliana is getting out of the house!

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.

A Tell All On NYMPHOTO!

What made me do it?

Check out a slice of my childhood memories, not to mention, the early influences of photography which led me down the road to a life of a destitution.

It's all up on NYMPHOTO,
a place where the other photo gender (yep, we are still around dammit') has the place to show off her work and talk about it! The list of fabulous and talented photographers whom have talked about their work is daunting...and personally, I find them really inspiring and hopeful as a W-O-M-Y-N!

Support the women who support wayward PhotoWomen such as myself.

Thanks, to the women of NYMPHOTO for giving me the space to speak!