Too Long at the Faire?

Last night I went to the Edwardian World's Faire with R. R and I dated back around the turn of the century, and I spent the night of 9/11 at his apartment atop Twin Peaks as we heard helicopters circling above. It seemed fitting to take him to an event celebrating another turn of the century, but it also reminded me of why we're no longer together. R is a good, sweet man, but innovative and curious are not exactly a part of his nature. He enjoyed it for a good 30 minutes or so and then excused himself.

If only San Francisco's Homosexual Community had as much innovation as the organizers of this little event. It had its fair share of homosexual in attendance, but it was a lot more fun than the vomit-enduing Folsom Street Fair or the snooze fests such as Pride and the Castro Street Fair.

My only complaint is that I was hoping for bit more Faire exhibits. Those on display were appropriately weird without being gross and icky and fey and whimsical without being cute or maudlin. Bizarre machines, costume masks, millinery and jewelry are fine, but I wanted more. The acts were reasonably entertaining and none went on too long.

The best part of the evening was seeing the revelers themselves decked out in Edwardian finery and oddities, including a good selection of young men wandering around on O'Farrell Street (just down the street from the Mitchell Brothers' strip joint) on stilts.

I only got tickets for the opening night faire, knowing that R would likely not be up for being a dance partner and tonight's grand ball or Sunday Gorey Sunday.

Those down south might be interested to know that the event will be at the American Legion Hall in November. Of course, it really wasn't a costume party for Junk Thief whose fashion sense has always been rather Edwardian.

I'm A Steampunk, How About You?

Junk Thief has slowly become aware that he's part of a subculture without intentionally joining it. There've been clues and mention of the Steampunk movement popping up lately, but he wasn't that clear on what it is. He remembered seeing this video on the Wall Street Journal site last summer and he certainly saw examples a couple of weeks ago at the Edwardian World's Faire which was referenced in an NPR piece this afternoon that put the whole thing in perspective. Surely that's what those mysterious but glorious inventions in the storefront near the 24/Mission BART -- such as the one on the right -- are. There are even Steampunk iPod skins out there. How typical of Junk Thief to be clueless as to what the kiddos are up to while being totally in sync with it. Maybe Junk Thief TV with its many references to the past qualifies as a Steampunk channel. That sure sounds a lot cooler than "retro".

This whole idea of turning backwards to go forwards is really central to the Junk Thief aesthetic that celebrates everything of the Beaux Arts/Modernisme/Edwardian area evidenced in his recent homages of the George Melies, Antoni Gaudi and Claude Debussy. And, honestly, isn't that computer at the top of this post a hell of a lot more attractive than those white laptops with glowing apples? Junk Thief just can't wait to see the reaction of the Geek Squad guy the next time he comes out and sees the laptop with wrought iron bear claw feet.

Interactive Monday: More Mocks, Faux and Fakes

An article in today's Times about the Tokyo Tower turning 50 got me to wondering how many homages to the Eiffel Tower there are in the world. I've seen and driven under Torre el Reformador (above) in Guatemala City, and I understand that there is one in Paris, Texas.

Do any of you know of others?

This summer a couple with a Nebraska twang walking behind me blurted out "San Francisco is just like Buenos Aires." When I turned and sneered back at them silently, the woman nearly gasped. Maybe that doesn't happen in Omaha, or at lest Lincoln. If Buenos Aires is a faux Paris, I'm not sure what that would make San Francisco. I just know San Francisco in no way resembles Buenos Aires. We can't even bury our dictators, members of the Doors and elite here.

The Eiffel Tower was greeted with the same disdain the Transamerica Pyramid received three decades ago. Simply surviving, however, is not a guarantee of gaining credibility, let alone gravitas. The San Francisco Marriott, for example, will be considered as hideous in the next Millennium as when it opened in the 1980s and brought Far North Dallas Gauche Faux Deco Baroque to South of Market. The fact that all of the glasses in the penthouse bar broke during the 1989 earthquake proves that there truly are acts of an angry god of art. The building itself, however, will probably still be standing after "The Big One".

Much of my life I've thought I was a fake but feel I've matured into being more mock or is it mawkish? Perhaps I need to go back to Guatemala City, sit under the tower and soak in the proper waves of falsiness.

UPDATE: If you look closely at the clouds to the left of Torre el Reformador, doesn't there appear to be a cowboy hat?

And here is the tower of Paris, Tennessee, that is five feet shorter than the one in Texas.

UPDATE: Oh, and lest I forget, we have this lovely eight inch Eiffel Tower in the mini-Edwardian greenhouse right here at the Junkplex.

The Illustrated Adventures of Louis Sullivan

On the snowy afternoon of January 5, 1890, beloved local architect Louis Sullivan is having his portrait made at the photographic studio of Hesler and Associates of Chicago. Not only is Sullivan America's greatest architect, he has also been described as the windy city's most "bewitchingly bewildering bachelors".

He is noted for his beautifully twinkling dark eyes and a beard that the notorious tabloid Bachelor Boys Bonanza describes as being "pleasantly plush and pliant."

Suddenly the photographic session is interrupted by the entrance of a breathless, half naked bike messenger dressed as Mercury who announces, "Mr. Sullivan, I have been instructed to invite you 120 years into the future to the grand opening of the great-great-great-grandchild of your magnificent contribution to modernism, the Auditorium Building."

Though initially perplexed, Sullivan is too easily seduced by adventure not to respond and is soon on the Trans-Arabian Zephyr racing into the future and the Mideast.Sullivan, who 12 decades earlier created the tallest building in the world, has been asked to share his opinion of the latest holder of this somewhat dubious title casting its long shadow over Dubai. Just as Robert Oppenheimer came to regret his best known invention, Sullivan's eyes swell with tears and he coughs as he chokes back a hearty sob. Finally, as the architectural tabloids press him for an opinion on the Burj Khalifa, formerly known as the Burj Dubai, Sullivan finally offers succinctly but honestly, "Well, it's clearly of very juicy proportions."
The master architect is soon whisked to the building's elegantly appointed penthouse where Lulu Brobstein, the reported Perle Mesta of the Gulf is hosting one of her notorious parties filled with "perennial bachelors" who banter about art, politics and the latest innovations in shoe cream. Lulu's wrap around balcony boasts views of both the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman. "On a clear day you can see from Dubai to Mumbai," Lulu cackles. Sullivan also notes that on a windy day, the top floor sways a good five feet in each direction, a clear reminder to him that any structure taller than the Woolworth Building is obscene excess. Though no stranger to such parties in 1890s Chicago and able to carry on an enlightened conversation about art and the grammar of ornamentation, Sullivan feels quite uncomfortable in this bevy of constructed socialites. He pretends not to hear comments about his "Edwardian ball pinching garb" and resists snarking back about how their suits remind him of elephantine drapes floating around the bloated torsos of unenlightened Buddhas.
This stale atmosphere soon tires Sullivan and he retreats to a notorious, abandoned mosque near the darkened waterfront. Here he encounters gentlemen more suiting to his taste and temperament, but he soon realizes their "gentlemanly" hesitation and inability to articulate the obvious is both tedious and fruitless.
Finally before making his way back to the Trans-Arabian Zephyr, Sullivan saunters into a waterfront saloon where the drinks and men are of more than juicy proportions. He admires the seamless towers of glass, thinking of structures devoid of a steel skeleton and able to enjoy their cool refreshment and intoxication yet still unable to embrace that towering monstrosity he was dragged here to pay homage to. Finishing his last drink and bidding adieu to his fellow bachelors, Sullivan realizes his proper place is back in the twilight of the 19th century,where he can peer ahead into the possibilities of modernism without having the endure all of its detours and mis-steps.Midway through the journey backwards, the Zephyr stops to refuel and offer figs and chai to its passengers. Sullivan spies something curious outside the window and then steps out to more closely examine this curious ritual. Why it is our own Junk Thief executive committee, worshiping a golden pig in front of an ornate Indochinese pagan shrine. At first a bit disturbed by such idolatry, Sullivan is soon struck by the elegant beauty of the shrine itself and joins the trio in their worship. But his prayer is soon interrupted as the Zephyr whistle blows and he is transported back to 1890 yet mildly aware of the impending arrival of the shattering of time.

Know Your Necessities

"Take care of the luxuries, and the necessities will take care of themselves," a certain, fey friend told me once. She also spoke of the "conspiracy of the weak over the strong." I'll lead it to you to ferret out her alleged source of those quotes and determine if you agree.

All I can say as that one of the obvious, positive balancing acts that comes with the passage of a certain number of years is the reversal of defined and attainable and valued necessities. Booze, boys, fast cars and other fleeting pleasures seem to be replaced by increasingly extravagances that were once defined as bland and assumed presences that now have greater nuance and price tags -- shelter, clothing, food, even water that comes in its many variations.

Shelter, in fact, can take on such a starring role as I've enjoyed Alain de Botton describe in his book The Architecture of Happiness, its title suggesting that design and form extend to far more abstract and defining aspects of life than just four walls and a roof.

He takes time to wax poetic on Casa Malaparte in Capri, a structure that in Godard's Contempt some might argue upstaged Bardot who is now a 70-something, wrinkled, hobbling racist while the villa has far outlived its Fascist creator, Curzio Malaparte. It stands today, looking ever youthful and pristine, apolitical and in harmony with the Meditteranean.

As Botton explains:

With its proud isolation, its juxtapositioning of ruggedness and refinement its unblinking, hardy defiance of the elements, and the aesthetic debt it owed to Ancient Rome on the one hand and Italian modernism on the other, the house did indeed pick up on key traits of Malaparte's character. Fortunately for visitors, however, it turned out not to be a slavishly faithful portait of its owner in all of his faces -- a difficult prospect for any house, certainly, but particularly so in Malaparte's case, for that would have necessitated the inclusion of pretentious furnishings, dead-end corridors, perhaps a shooting range (he was a Facisct until 1943) and a few broken windows (he liekd a drink and then a fight). Rather than reflecting the author's many foibles, Casa Malaparte, like all effective works of idealisation, assisted its gifted yet flawed proprietor in orienting himself towards the noblest sides of his personality."

Is it telling that I live in a long, skinny Edwardian with rich-hued rooms filled with remnants of travels and past lives in other parts of the world, anchored by two rooms with a wall of curving windows as their centerpieces -- one looking out on the bustling, sometimes tawdry corner of urban life, the other glimpsing onto a pristine garden filled with lilies, sterling silver roses and succulents.

Got Plans for January?

Now that I've decided the Inaugural is probably out of my budget, I wonder if anyone would like to join me at one of the events at the Edwardian Weekend January 23-25, 2009. It was pretty cool this year. I even have some bowler, waistcoats and Chesterfields that I can loan you. Sorry, not many petticoats or corsets in my closets these days.

Sullivan's Travels

As our carriage arrived at San Francisco International Airport, and we stepped out to the terminal I had my doubts about the wisdom of allowing Louis Sullivan to join me on this short trip. But he knows how to be most persuasive.

Much to my surprise, this 19th Century architect breezed through the security screening and we were soon strolling leisurely through the terminal.An unexpected perk of traveling with a man of the Edwardian era and one who is an artist and poet is that he looks at small details. He was immediately drawn to the display of "antique" gambling machines in the United terminal.We opted not to walk along the mechanical sidewalk and instead observed these varying pre-Vegas mechanical oddities."Very steam punk," I observed. He stared back at me, clueless of what I was referring to, and I didn't bother trying to explain.
"Ah, many a penny lost with that one..." His head hung low, and it started coming together that these machines may have played some role in his financial demise.

"Alas, much in life is an endless gamble, is it not Mr. Junk Thief?" he queried.
He brushed his hands against each box, examining it closely until we reached the food court. "Might I find fish and chips or refreshing aspic?" he asked. I assured him that we'd have fuller fare once reaching Denver and steered him over to have a little snack of red bean ice cream and Oi Ocha green tea. "You know, Frank Lloyd Wright introduced me to these in the pre-teens," he said. I patted a bit of ice cream that had dripped onto his beard. "That was before our parting of the ways..." He stared off into the crowd, not exactly sullen but clearly not as refreshed by our snack as I had been.

Noticing there was a bit of ice cream on his hands, I took Mr. Sullivan to the men's room to wash up. You've really not lived until you've shown a 19th century architect how to use a Dyson hand dryer. After I explained who Mr. Dyson is and his passion for design, Mr. Sullivan asked, "Will we meet him in Denver?"

Since I Know You're All Dying of Curiosity

Here's the current status of my mini-conservatory/solarium/greenhouse. Thanks for all the tips. I hope to get more ideas next weekend at the Edwardian World's Faire.