On the underground train above ground the whole carriage overheard two rather stoned young dudes speaking about Art, that is, themselves. As we unzipped the treetops people glanced at them, glanced away, smiled. One dude had a wry American accent and the upper hand. The other dude was Persian and explained at some length that his name is traditional, it means (if I heard right) secret treasure. What do you do, man, you must be an Artist? he asked. Yeah, American wry dude allowed. But like, what kind of Art, what do you Make? Well, mostly drawings and…. tattooing.
Instant rapture. Oh, wow, I should show you this tattoo I want, it’s like, I’ll have to show it to you, it’s so beautiful, man. There’s this guy and he’s smoking. And then there’s this girl. She’s, like, smokeface, like, she IS the SMOKE.
I remember that feeling, I thought: BEING the SMOKE. By the indulgent expressions on other passengers here and there in the cabin I thought that other people might once have experienced this, too. Persian dude said, you could like, do me with this drawing and then I could like, show everybody and make you totally famous.
God, I loved them. Their fatuous fellowship and impulse-buy tattoos. Just type my name into facebook, American dude promised, you will find me. Out in the strangely humid night there was a high round moon barrelled way up into the still-blue sky like cannonshot; people crossing the crowded railway bridge seemed to me ceremonial and slow. A tall princely man with Ethiopian features walked by in state, pushing a wire shopping trolley with five empty bottles in it.
9 years ago in Berlin, I lived this tiny story.
Tag: fashion
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be the big smoke
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we call it Berlin snout
In a second hand shop I tried on the superlong pair of creamy trousers that had had to be hung twice over the pavement rack. They were pearl coloured Thai silk and so long in the calf you could ruche them up tight, and then the bloomer shaped waistband region ballooned like a flower in water.
For a while I stood considering myself in the old gilt mirror. Old guilt is a standard fitting in most of Germany. I took them off and hung them up and carried them back outside to where the shop owner, studded with piercings, was lounging in the sunshine with his two hairy mates.
“Leider nicht,” I said, sadly, no, and handed the pants back to him. Berliners pride themselves on their snouty grouchiness and he pretended that he didn’t know why I was handing them over. “Was soll ich mit den?” What am I supposed to do with these?
Oh, I said, I can easily hang them back on the rack myself, if you prefer.
He gave a gusty sigh. No, no, he would do it. “But what’s wrong with them?”
I plucked at the fabric to show him. “They’re beautiful. They would make a great performance outfit, I was thinking.”
His mate reached past us to take hold of the nearer silken leg and stroked the sheer fabric, thoughtfully.
“Totally transparent of course,” I pointed out. “It’s just one of those garments you would have to spend the whole evening organising. I’m too lazy.”
“It takes a special kind of person to wear these,” the owner said, and I laughed.
“All of my specialness is used up in other areas,” I said, spreading my hands. A crooked smile crept into the hang of his long mouth. “Oh, well,” he said, consolingly, stroking the pants as he hung them back up and draped the extra length over the rail. “Next time, we’ll have something for you, for sure.”
These old punks with their 1980s businesses. Berlin brims with rebels who pierced their noses in 1976 and have held fast to their philosophy of DIY and punk ever since. Some of them collect bottles for a living. Some run resourceful squats. Some of these host outdoor cinema and restaurant venues in the summer and some are barred to visitors and spend all their energy, so I hear from my few resident friends, holding endless rounds of meetings to adjust the way the household is run. I got on my bike and swooped across the deep tram lines where a bicycle wheel can very easily get lodged. I live alone and have no piercings, not even in my earlobes. I have left the man who adorably called these his ‘earlimbs’ and now I make my way into the world again alone, greeting you, Berlin, willing to be shown what’s up, willing to cycle across town and see what’s going down, willing to stay home for days on end concentrating hard and then suddenly spring outdoors into the unexpected sunshine, willing to be across it all and to put up with all your crossness and snooty snoutiness. I know the smile that lies behind the sneer. The pink within punk.
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the wrong underpants
Walking home we were following a guy who could not stop fiddling with his own underpants. They were clearly intensely uncomfortable and as he walked, he plucked at them, front and back. It was amusing because he was so beautifully dressed, with a calculated insouciance that, as it turns out, requires constant upkeep. He plucked at his undies from behind. He tried lifting his belt away from his lean belly in front to sort of tug from inside. With pinched fingertips he took another slurp at the back end. Finally in desperation he started shoving his hand down the front of his trousers to rearrange everything for comfort.
We were in stitches. My companion kept up a running commentary, gravely observing in an undertone as though reporting a flock of seagulls on the pitch during a slow game of cricket. The guy was in an agony of discomfort and we were in an agony of suppressed gales of laughter. It was just too picturesque. The long-legged boy and his long-legged friend had identical sloping gaits. They were tall and stooped forward as they walked, curving their shoulders, wearing a uniform of sorts: black stovepipe jeans. Leather jackets. Wide belts. Greased hair and sunglasses propped up in the slew. All of this grooming and devil may care was undermined by the incessant twitching and plucking. They reached a bench facing the water and plonked themselves down. We drew level with them. I was carrying a metre-wide loop of rusted metal I had found in the street and when I picked it up, saying, Oh! isn’t this beautiful! my companion said: so long as it doesn’t end up in my apartment – it’s lovely.
I said to the beautiful young man as he lounged there, “Du sollst diesen Slip wegwerfen, er ist offensichtlich total unbequem.” I saw him turn to his friend to say, “I have no idea what that…” So I turned back. “You should throw those underpants away. Clearly they’re just completely uncomfortable.”
His face broadened to a smile. He said, with a lilting whinge, “I want to put them in my friend’s bag but my friend won’t let me.” Australian. The friend rolled his eyes. We were all grinning like maniacs. “You should put them in the bin,” I said, pointing to the scuffed receptacle standing by them, surrounded by its usual audience of open-mouthed beer bottles like a choir of baby penguins. He said, “Just they’re these really nice underpants…” “No,” I told him, “No. They’re not for you.” “Ahhh,” he said, lying back in his splendour in the sunshine by the sparkling water, the summer of his life he bought a leather and went to Berlin.
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rainy childs
Berlin children are adorable when it rains. I came upon a flock of them, holding hands in pairs and stopped dead at a cobbled intersection wearing bright and varied rainslicks and little hoods. In the winter one sees them bundled in snowsuits, a hundred cossetted little snowmen. Their mamas and papas dress them in primary colours, bold patterns, polka dots. I drew myself and my wet bicycle relictantly away from the tiny plastic-coated crowd and found on the next street a tiny boy doused in yellow mackintosh and giant green boots, wheeling very carefully his wooden walk-bike through every single puddle.
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eBaying at the moon
Hooray, I just perfected a new & absolutely unexpected skill. You know when you have to write blurb for a festival or a book release and it is so so painful to describe Oneself, One’s Own Work, argh, and you end up with something stilted, awkward, embarrassed & bland…. Well I just listed some old fur coats & suede jackets on eBay for the first time, cos I’m living in the tropics and will never get to wear their sweet soft savoury selves again. Wahh. I put it off and put it off and put it off again. Then tonight I opened an account and did them all in a rush & I’m so proud! Turns out I have a flair for cheery & honest descriptions of old clothes. How bizarre. Check em out:
* This inimitable jacket saw me through a freezing February in New York City. Recording my album I felt I was channeling Janice Joplin. People came up to me in the street to talk about the jacket! New York men adored it. Wild and hairy, from real sheepskin, unlined, undyed, hand sewn, raw and untamed. It is open down the front and in great condition. Hip length on me and I’m 6 foot tall.
* I love this little cape. It fastens snugly round your neck and hangs free over the shoulders. Lovingly hand sewn by some 1960s fashionista and aspiring superhero who just loved sequins. Splashed across the lower back is a spray of gleaming flowers in crimson and cream sequins. It is dashing. And no matter how far you look, you’ll never find one like it. Ooh la la!
* Probably made for a man but it looks ravishing on cool girls, this suede jacket in rich cinnamon was styled by the then no doubt famous Simon Kessel Australian Design Collection. Gorgeous labels in good condition still stitched into the nutmeg satin lining. Handstitched pockets with a faintly cowboy feel are perfect for slouching about it. This baby will take you places. Grab your fedora and shine up your Cuban heels: when you slip this on it’s gonna feel like you’ve worn it forever.
I had put off dealing with this pile of clothes for I dunno, maybe two months. To have done them, and to feel I have done right by them, gives me the most luminescent feeling.
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true dat
I saw a gorgeous black girl climbing off the train yesterday in this heatwave, her hair was intricately braided in pulpy masses and then the braids woven into a long plait, her cork soles were three inches high and a tiny skirt swished around her legs. Her shoulder bag said in huge letters, AFRICA IS THE FUTURE.
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exact same clothes
Landsakes, do I feel cute. I helped someone out with some really boring writing work and feel all neighbourly & useful. We decided to celebrate with a beer. I had opened my two storage boxes (for posting back to Australia) and after months of wearing the exact same clothes ~ same jeans, same orange jumper, same ratty old Tom Waits~as~Jesus t-shirt ~ had dug out my ugg boots: ugg boots! And also a pair of huge dungarees: dungarees! So me and Tom Waits and the dungarees and ugg boots set off for the beer shop. Berlin is twilit. The streets are damp and swishy. Two guys were arguing at an Indian restaurant trestle and the end of their table said, in thick black marker pen, I love you. I loaded up four pockets with beers and came back with my friend’s dog whom he had dressed in honour of my new old clothes in a natty neckerchief. We were the wild West. Which is tame in this town. This looping, roaring, sprawling, sunbathing, dog-loving six-storey city.