COCAINE VILLE

THE EXHIBITION Meeting the neon blond and hyperbolicley tanned man, in Milan, was obviously a miracle.

The star aligned meeting by few weeks preceded the invented date, I had promised to open exhibition in Mexico,to all who would listen , with all likelihood of it never happening, for there was absolutely no organisation behind my words, just a dream , a year long wish to do so.

Yet, this outrageously coloured galerist invited me to do exactly that. Wow. Would you believe that? He wanted to have me show in his gallery as soon as could be done . I had to come. He repeated teeth shining screaming neon violet, his clothes refleting road sign orange, in Milan's after hours club where after an art fair, we had been dancing.

His English was limited to Depache mode lyrics. Our communication was in style of NASA chatting to UFOs. Incomprehensible satellite ejaculations of sound pieces. White noise. words in codes , sequences of letters, something like bad English or terrible Spanish. Who will ever know what was said really.

The plane carrying my body did land on the strip of Monterrey airport. There was a fat little man waiting for me with a huge car. He did not know to to say my name, but I went with him all the same. We drove trough Batman city exhaust fume coloured sunset, roads lined with factories.

Night fell. Fat man drove around and around the same streets. I was on the edge inquietude when the car parked under a tree, by the door of a gallery. Paints where waiting. Aclochol and DJ where ready. A huge roll of paper waited for my installation guidance together with two assistants. My show opened as promised at midnight. The space was packed. The performance turned into a party. The party lasted all night. I felt like a super star.

Sometime deep in the night, the neon haired gallerist said its enough, wer going for an after party. Crowds packed off into cars, as did we , gallerist, assistant, and I. We stopped somewhere on a road. The neon man phoned a friend. A man gave him a something.I was observing the Monterrey sky line, until I heard a police car whine coming up from behind . The police stoped us. I had always been bad at maths but than jumbled images of the last few moments started too rewind and add up. I suddenly trough "shit". A classic American movie drug bust.

Where the hell am I? My brain finally tuned into the cliche tourist fears of Mexico. I am here just to paint, ah too fucking impulsive. Wer going to be arrested. The heart started pumping blood trough the veins in the rhythm of tragedy at the opera. The galerist opened his wallet and slipped the cop a few notes from it, the cop bartered for more, thanked him, walked away, and we drove off in to the night.

The after party was at the house of the gallerist. A strange modern architectural contraption surrounded by trees, decorated with retro glass surfaces, everything being hperbolicacly clean , yet the pervading smell of black shower mould filled the space like an air bag into which you kept hitting your head on, painfully.

The party was full of Monterrey night flies, girls and guys. Saying things which where drowned out by Depache Mode rendered out of a huge war technology stereo. I drunk rum. At some time I wanted to sleep. No one gave a shit. So I stayed awake. Asked for coffee before going back to paint at the gallery. When asking for coffee the only option there is in Monterrey is Starbucks, that surprised me.

THE CITY

Monterrey for the most part is a copy of some small town america, copy of the standard suburbia grid plan, fitted with replica American streets,divided by plastic surgeries and replica houses lived in by women with plastic replica breasts, noses, and teeth. I realised something is entirely amiss when asking for fresh squeased orange juice in a restaurant at breakfast , I got served fanta. There was no feeling of mexico.

The next day I spent in painting. Muses came and went. I drowened my fatigue in the rhythm of the stereo, vine, if the music so much as stoped I would have crumpled on to the floor and fell asleep. The paintings turned out enormous, following my dance moves.

I stoped painting for dinner, some old man with crazy eyes and dog came with us, it seemed all there was to eat in this city was chips of fired meat in tacos. Returning to the house of the gallerist, exhausted I was faced with another night of after party. The strange old man with crazy eyes and his dog stayed the night, even tough they did not have where to crash. I tired to sleep. Depache mode constantly played the kind of concert bass which mushes up the organs in the body. Gave up. Drunk rum with the old man, dog, and galerist who spent the night talking.

THE COLLECTORS/MUSES

MUSE 1 Spent the whole day in the shadows of the suburban gallery. Exhausted, keeping on dancing, painting to the rhythm, whiteout thought process, somnambulist style, paintings turned out amazing. Well until some rich collector, jabba-the-hut-toad woman came, like a devil, to screw with me. Lets face it who can paint a monster the way it really looks, when you know they will snap your spine and chew off your head if you dare.

Monster woman stayed for ages, I painted her swamp green eyes as pretty, diminished her nose, de-stretched her mouth, and ignored the third world war lard storage bags, hanging of the cheeks, chin and eyes than sent her away. She, thrilled at this mirror of her true soul which only I the artist could reach under tons of fat, farted magic powder ions approvingly like a witch, squealing how she will buy the work most definitely, kissed both me and galerist, for no image of her looked so good since her higschool picture at the age of sixteen.

THE OLD ALCOHOLIC AND HOUND The old man, still wearing the same tweed jacket and shirt from three days ago and increasingly smelling of alcohol, followed by his dog, went where ever the gallerist went. Talking incessantly , all day talking shit. I refused to paint until he was removed from the gallery.

However on the way to the house that evening, to rest, after 3 nights with no sleep, muscles aching, there he was, in the car, with us coming home. I protested about his gnarly presence which inspired his dog to puke on my shoe. He goes where ever i go said the galerist as if his life depended on this certainty. His chatting keeps me from feeling lonely.

The old drunk and the galerist spent the night talking. How they could remain awake, I could not understand. The living room was open plan divided from my bedroom by stereo speakers and a wardrobe. There was no magic word that would make the galerist turn off the stereo. I put pillows on my head and slept trough the same again and again and again depache mode album.

MUSE 2 The next day a young and rich industrialist's daughter came to be painted. Before painting though she took me out for my much needed coffee. We went into town, into a huge art museum, sat in the coffee shop empty other than us, and its 200 tables . The only drinking option of this canteen size bar was nesscaffe. Disgrace. I ordered. She did not drink coffee at all. She pulled out of her bra a tiny bag full of white lumps. They looked like stones. This is better than coffee. She said and broke one of the lumps into smaller bits with a key, and than with a wet finger picked them up and sucked them into the mouth. " Cocaine"

The 3 meeter wide picture of her turned out satisfyingly for both of us. She was a well established business woman and a passionate art collector. She decided to buy it immediately. After the painting session she wanted to show me where it will be hung in her house. We Rowe her fancy car into the yard of a large hacienda. Ah. Hope daddy is not home, she whispered.He does not know I went out and he would not approve if I had. It struck me as odd for someone in their mid thirties year to think like that. Passing a yard full of cars, we entered a kitchen full of maids, and children and snuck to her room. Room was huge, and the floor covered with the skins of 12 dead zebras. "Daddy knows I love the zebra pattern, he killed them for me. He can be so sweet some time. On one wall was a giant girlie pink metal art piece. I will put your painting above my head" And she pointed above a king side bed.

"Do you like the dress I bought for your exhibition opening tomorrow? And lifted a Yves st Laurent silver mini thing I too had noticed in the shop window in town" I needed the bathroom, and she apologised , for on the way I had to pass trough a clothes rack jungle inaccessible without a machete. Scratched and bleeding by a wardrobe of couture outfits I made it to a bathroom as big as the bedroom which was packed with plastic storage boxes full of top brands make up. There was more make up in that bathroom than at the back of any beauty rooms of any shop.

" Am i hungry?" I was for something home made and heathey. The maids brought lunch for me, and she again just ate cocaine. "I don't want to get any fatter." She explained. Every month I go for a little bit of lypo, but still its better to not to put on weight. What about the scars? I asked. Ah id rather have scars than be fat, she explained and proceeded to point out the spots on her corps from which she was lyposucked, as well as show me how her, lips and cheeks, and buttocks than where plumped up with the leg fat. " Ah. that's why I had liked her mouth whilst painting. She was a fake, together with silicone boobs. I felt cheated."

On the drive back to the gallery she pointed out a glass building ". That's where I want to buy an apartment, top floor. And its making daddy mad, he wants me to stay home." The galerist told me she directs two companies, I could not understand why she would still, live at home" I need an apartment soon you see, so i have somewhere to meet with my boyfriend. The car stereo was playing some Mexican rap music. "Do you like the music" She asked me. " This song is about my boyfriend" it was really aggressive. Than she slipped a newspaper cutting from her purse into my hand, a photograph of a dark unshaven man." Don't you think he is gorgeous? He is in prison. He killed two men. I saw his picture in the newspaper and immediately fell in love. " Do you know him" I asked. I wrote to him. And i visited him." So you did not know him before the murder?" No, she confessed without timidity,its the second boyfriend i met in this way, the fact he has killed someone don't you think is so manly, so sexy"?

MUSE 3 After her, I painted the owner of a paper factory. His portrait too turned out beautiful and he said he will buy it. As a thank you he invited me to his country house. The gallerist said it was a huge honour as he had not been invited ever before. The man lived outside of town, outside the suburban cauchmare where we left the gallery, outside the caged-in shanty city where we dropped of the gallery assistant, and off red dust roads with real proper tumble weeds and cactuses. He invited me to the post card mexico I wanted to see.

His house was a large blue and terracotta hacienda in a mud wall and dried grass pueblo full of lasey dogs and cricket bands. He lived with invisible servants,withing walled up lush green gardens, walls full of artwork, and socialised only with and an older dry woman he rented to keep his 4 identical gray hound dogs happy. His dogs where exactly the breed which was wowen into the 12 century european tapestries. Difficult to obtain in mexico. Very expensive. He had no girlfriend ,nor boyfriend. The dogs pooed all over the house where ever they wanted ,and the old woman ran about and collected the poo. The dogs sat on chairs, roled on carpets, ate out of plates, and where kissed by this man, all trough lunch.

THE SHOW OPENING The exhibition re opened when i had completed the perfomative painting. 10 muses turned up, dressed for the oscars and feeling like super stars as they where recognisable in artworks. Generally they where all thrilled, all but the fat jabba the hut woman, who on entering and looking for her meaty loaf at the centrepiece of my exhibition could not fail to notice that she had been exterminated, or rather after much effort, sweat and mockery between self and assistants, she was glued ower, and replaced with a portrait of a man who would not destroy my entire exhibition with ugliness. Loosing money did not matter to me so much as the work it self, and the women having turned green said to the galerist she will never buy anything from him agian, and stormed out of the gallery. All the hotshots guys and girls turned up again dressed spick and spam and after the opeing we went into town for yet another afterparty.

All the girls who came with us, where ex pretty girlfirends of the gallerist. I could not understand why for he was not very good looking, if anything he looked like a cartoon character and had an odd personality. His life oriented towards imitating the singer of depache mode, and he had been dresing in the style of depache mode, and listening to depache mode since he saw a concert in England at the age of 16, yet now he was 33. He collected used woodoo dolls from islands in the carribian until he started to be folowed everywhere by polter-ghosts and than sold the antiquarian shop and started dealing contemporary art. .

Apart from the many male artists who he worked with ,i was the first girl artist to show in his gallery. We celebrated, drunk margeritas in some cool sky bar in centre of town, I, the galerist, old man his dog and the ex girlfirends. I felt relif ,for my work was finaly fhinished, several works where sold as soon as they where created ,so i was going to have money, and i relaxed into enjoying this last after party.But the night lead us from one house party to the next. Very often we stoped in converted garages as these thirty year old women all still lived with theri parents. Nobody but me and the dirty old man and his dog ever got hungrey, the rest shared cocaine about as if it was candy.

MORE AFTERPARTY Day after exhibition, we went to the seaside.Mexican comerical beaches are all about mariachi, food, margaritas arriving at your bedside and none of the weight loosing activites which sea meant to me. The night we went aobut town, i wanted to experience a cumbia dance bar. We asked a taxi where it was and just as he arrived in front of a club, the gallerist said something incomprehensible to the driwer who swung the car elwse where. We drowe along the lit high ways, and than up hill to some residential parts, than further into very shabby part of town, with broken glass, and not many street lights. I starated to get afriad. Where are we going i asked. We will be just a minute he replied. The driwer too got nervous he said he is not driving any further than that. That it is dangerous. I was afraid agian. Galerist insisted. I begged to leave, dread filling me. He told me to be quiet, not panick. A man watched us from across the road. It all lasted ten minutes or so. He had his hand on something that looked like a gun. Than aonther came ower, galerist gave him money and the other gave him a tiny packet. Taxi drowe on. You fucking bastard I screamed at him. You took me there for that shit? We could have got shot. There are many murders in that area said the taxi diver as we retuned to the lit part of town.

He parked by the cumbia bar. Insides of a huge hall where filled with 80'style neon lights, and douzens of 80 and 70 year old grandmothers dancing. An extreme atmospheric difference. But among these old ladies at least i felt safe. I ordered rum. Galerist had his white shit. I dared the dance floor and the old grandmas who where all dancing in hpyer groove, felt sorry for my western ways and taught me how to move. I spent the night dancing eaglery, finding it tough to keep up with the fit cumbia old ladies.

It would have been best if thats where the afteparty ended. But it did not. The galerist refused to pay for my work so i kind of stayed around in Montrray a week too long. I felt like a fly who had flown into a jam pot, stuck, unable to get away. He would not give me the money we agreed upon. He kept promising it , later , later, soon, tomorrow. And thats how the date for my aeroplane ticket to euroupe dawned. I had almost got acustomed to this delirium place, where the norm was this common psychosis. They where all rich, all lived with parents until the day they would get married, but they would not for they where too fucked up, they where adults who lived like children, and so took cocaine all the time to easape. I started to recive new work offers, i was asked to participate a work for a sothebies charrity auction, and to do an exhibition in the monterray museum. I started to plan it. Huge enormous paintings of egoes of these cocaine maniacs. I would install the biggest paintings on huge white painfuly clean backgrounds. And i would have the exhibition invitations printed on tiny sugar packets to draw them ,remind them, mock them. But as soon as i made it on to the plane out of town, I felt so relived, like i had woken up out of a bad dream, and i dropped the concept complealteay. I never returned to do a second exhibition in monterrey , and for the first one, I never actualy got paid.