and in this corner...

Please don't judge, but while I do subscribe (in the receive in my inbox sense) to Rob Breszny's Free Will Astrology horoscopes, I don't necessarily subscribe to astrology on deeper level, than, say, a little chuckle at the familiarity of matters mentioned. Little did I know that when I received my last fateful horoscope, exactly HOW freakishly accurate it would be.

And I quote:

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): Mangosteens and rambutans are exotic fruits
that grow in faraway places. The mangosteen is creamy and purple, with a
peachy citrus taste, while the rambutan is like a big hairy red grape. This
is a perfect moment, astrologically speaking, to invite them into your
mouth. Likewise, the time is right for you to consider welcoming other
colorful, striking, and foreign elements into your life. So maybe consider
making friends with a Paraguayan acrobat. Sing Vietnamese folk songs.
Read the memoirs of an Iranian exile. Exchange conspiracy theories with
an Icelandic fairy.

Bear in mind, that I kept this particular horoscope because I thought that it was cute to liken my Swedish Adventure to eating hairy rambutans. And he mentioned Icelandic fairies there at the end! And boy, do I like Iceland! When I relayed the content of this horoscope to Sexy Swedish Sandra she thought it boded well for our forthcoming adventures together and then went on to tell me how she has been listening to Jónsi's new album on repeat and recommended I do the same.

Since I saw Sigur Ros' Heima a little over a year ago, I have developed a deep soft spot for their music. Even though I had decided to go to Iceland already, the combination of the music and the visuals along with their celebration of nature and repurposing abandoned structures as places for performances - gave me an Epiphany of Icelandic Rightness. I knew. Jónsi, lead singer of Sigur Ros, recently released his first solo album and there was a whole lot of hubbub over the insane-awesomeness of the production of his live show. And if you can't be bothered to watch that stuff, bottom line: they were inspired by a. the song's connection to animals themes b. photographs they had seen of a famous Parisian taxidermy shop after if BURNED DOWN.

Holy dreaminess!

Goldberg mentioned that Jónsi was coming to town and he would try to get us tickets. I haven't been to a show in nearly two years on account of the vast contingent of drunk, violent idiots with free-flying elbows and an overdeveloped sense of entitlement. I love rubbing up against sweaty teens as much as the next girl, so unless you are gonna really attempt to knock me out, I'll stay home. No I don't care that you can get tickets! Really!

Though it seemed really tempting (despite being at my least favorite venue ever), it wasn't looking likely anyway. So I shrugged. Both Sandra and Goldberg said to me, you should really just find a way to give Jónsi your book... blah blah blah, you were inspired by Heima, it is a book about Iceland and places they played, they thought he'd like it. I thought: silly! And nerdy! I'm not some crazed fan girl. Still they pressed, despite it looking like only Goldberg going.

And then by some mystery of fate, I got picked up and escorted to the door, handed a ticket....

And an Aftershow Pass.

I still did not find attempting to go and present Jónsi with the gift of my book a very good idea, though the door had been opened. There was much hemming and hawing. Goldberg and I entered the Electric Factory to find a very small crowd - apparently they had capped ticket sales at 1,000 - though the venue at capacity holds more than 3,000. It was rather easy to slip straight to the front, stage left, just below a broken, charred glass 'display case' which was a surface for later projections. The crowd was clearly pumped and pleasant - thankfully a bit older, mellower and nerdier than the audience cross-section I had been dreading.

The show started almost a bit too mellow, on an acoustic note, that felt a lot like Sufjan Stevens. The scrims that draped the back had old engravings of animals projected on them and by the end of the song, projected flames had engulfed them, and almost magically they disappeared to reveal a twisted framework of charred and broken industrial warehouse windows, with more scrims beyond. Networks of butterflies, swirls of fireflies, a floe of lava, animated predators and their prey, armies of ants carrying victorian trophies, a burst of fiery trumpet vines with hummingbirds hovering... all while being lulled by his angelic falsetto, against a swirl of sometimes unidentifiable instruments. Including something completely hidden that was being played from above with two violin bows as well as something that sounded like metal being scratched on a chalkboard.

(Aside: It was fairly early on in the show I saw an FB note from Lovely Eva - one of the owners of the beloved Hotel Djupávík in Iceland, where both Sigur Ros played (in the adjacent abandoned factory) and I later stayed with Sandra. Eva had written how wonderful it was that I was getting to see Jónsi's show and that her husband had become friends with him while they were playing the show in 2006 and they both adore him. And there the book I had brought with me, on the cover! Eva, in the factory where they played in Heima! It was RIGHT! I should give it to him!)

The show was so vibrant and exciting, it lifted you and brought you down gently and then it made every hair on your body vibrate. Both of us got a little emotional. Ok, I wept a little, people. I ain't ashamed! They seemed so JOYFUL up there playing. You couldn't help but feeeeeel it.

They returned after the final song for two encores. The final song was so raucous, much like Sigur Ros' signature closer, but this time accompanied by effects so realistic and stirring, I literally felt like I was stuck in the middle of a wild, musical-thunderstorm - so much did I expect to feel the wetness of the rain I was seeing projected before me, the bolts of lightning, the winds, the steam rising off an imagined warm street - I was surprised I wasn't soaked at the end. The crowd went insane after this. Incredibly intense all the way around. Far and away my best show-going experience ever.

(Since I did not have a photo pass, I will just post one of Goldberg's photos from last night, though it is difficult to do justice to the amazingness of what we witnessed in one still - plus Jónsi has posted the whole series of them on his tour journal.)


Jónsi 11 © Michael Alan Goldberg



Post-show, feeling a bit spent, we hung out until we were escorted to the green room where approximately 25ish other people were waiting. Jónsi made quite an entrance and was immediately ensconced in people who he seemed to know rather well. Goldberg and I lingered awkwardly behind a piano for quite some time, attempting to judge the best moment to make The Move. When he broke away to refill his champagne I made a beeline for him. Awkwardly. Introduced myself, and in quick succession told him how my having seen Heima had moved me so much I knew I had to go to Iceland and I wanted to give him my book of photographs that I made while I was there. And I went to Djúpavík and I met Eva while I was there and she says hello! And my boyfriend interviewed you for Philly Weekly last week and that is him over there, come meet him and what an amazing show. Congratulations! Then he started to look at the book, congratulating me on releasing a book and telling me I had to have it in bookstores! In Iceland! Then he starts massaging the book cloth. And then while congratulating me again, he alternately starts beating me and then Goldberg on the arms with the book. Repeatedly. Excitedly and cheerfully so. Laughing maniacally. And thanking me profusely. And we laugh and cower. And he smacks us a bit more. Then he reaches for some champagne and he goes looking for his cup. And we run away. Not sure if he intended to come back. But we stumbled out asking each other what had just happened.

And therein, my horoscope had just become a bit more real. One of the most surreal experiences of my life. I am trying to picture him in the tour bus with his cute little Alex sipping tea the next morning, looking it over. But I cannot be sure it didn't end up in some corner of the Electric Factory, hidden by empties. Not in a million years what I would have expected such a whirlwind of a night.

Let me tell you Rob Breszny: I have tasted mangosteens already, but nothing could prepare me for the punch that Icelandic Jónsis pack.

pressing

This past week, Lifestyle sent me on a fantastic photographic mission in the wilder corners of Durham Township, PA. It was refreshing to get out shooting assignment work again, and even better to be in the company of some great artists in the gorgeous (read: abandoned/run-down house-dappled) countryside. I must revisit the area immediately if not sooner. The results of the shoot were pretty exciting and I cannot wait to share them here.


the rosebuds @ johnny brendas © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

In other news Michael took me to see The Rosebuds (again, had not been familiar with them) at Johnny Brendas on Friday night, which he was covering for Pitchfork. We ran out of steam before British Sea Power came on but had ourselves a fine time. The opening act, Jeffrey Lewis Band was unexpectedly charming and rather hilarious. He showed two of his 'low budget movies' which were presented in the form of oversized comic books.


the jeffrey lewis band @ johnny brendas © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

the prometheus panel

This has gone on so long now I feel like a 7-year-old who has decided to see how many grapes they can fit in their mouth without out choking on them or spitting them out. Time to launch them across the room before my face gets stuck this way, that is, silent/blogless.

The weekend prior to the most major surgery to date, Michael wanted to take us out for some explorings as it seemed unlikely I would be very mobile for some weeks to come. Unfortunately it was a rather dismal and drizzly day but we sallied forth towards the mecca of oddities that is Delaware. Revisiting some of the places Apricot Nancy had taken Shanners and myself some months before. We were on the hunt for a new untouched abandonedments, passing on quite a few that were out in the open. The daylight was waning and the weather had just cleared when on a whim we turned down a side road. And only a moment's drive down the road, we found IT.


pastoral © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

There is a long, organic list of conditions that need to be met in order to follow through with infiltration once a site has been located. It was immediately obvious that this house totally fit the bill. The smidgen of light left in the day helped guide the old man mobile down the drive and behind the house. There was an occupied house next door but the trees and outbuildings created a sufficient screen. We crept in through the open back door, met with piles of furniture, animal feces, papers, books, tools and mysterious scraps.
It appeared to have been abandoned in the early 80s.


tidal pool © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

The growing dark and insurmountable mountains of stuff made it impossible to get a better picture of why it had been abandoned. The upstairs was fairly barren. We meandered around the outside a bit and Michael wandered off to the side of the house nearest the residence next door.


hibiscus tea © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

I cringed as I heard a distant kid's voice saying '...man taking photos over there...' followed by the sudden reappearance of Michael making a beeline for the car. Hurriedly we drove off, hearts racing, into the dreary Felton sunset.


thrush © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Having just returned from a nearly three hour consultation with my now seventh doctor, I am feeling a bit weak of body and spirit. The last month has been filled with so much hope, disappointment and anxiety, it seems I am running out of room. I'm managed to avoid documenting this all photographically for the most part, and while it feels unnatural to not do so, there is nothing beautiful about this process. I don't want to be reminded of it when I don't have to be. And I don't want to hold on to it for posterity. There is something to be said for knowing and experiencing these particular pains and heartbreaks, but honestly I wouldn't want to share them with anyone, not even my worst enemy.

Tax day, 2008. Michael came to collect me, weary and hungry, for the surgery that was to fix me, in one month's time. It was to be the biologic cork in my hole. It is unsettling when you arrive at the hospital and not only do you recognize the nurses and staff, but they recognize you and they can say without uncertainty, well you know the drill. Some fears were brewing over the new approach to anaesthesia - the spinal. Especially after the Nurse Anaesthetist had to try 3 or 4 times to just get my IV started... the idea of someone poking an uncertain needle in my spine coiled me into a tight ball of nerves I did my best not to show. The Butcher was his usual jovial, hopefully self even as I turned his handshake into a stressball while being unsuccessfully stabbed in the opposite hand.

The last thing I recall was wheeling into the OR, chatting with the nurses and assistants, being leaned over a pillow and injected in the back. They said I would have to lay down but I don't remember that at all. When I came to, I heard nurses talking about Vegas and I started to talk about going to Vegas in March and how nice it was. And I looked up and saw The Butcher with his chile pepper surgical cap on and started asking him about spicy food and where he likes to eat Korean cos there is a good one in North Wales. He prefers Thai.

Sitting in recovery, I snarfed massive quantities of saltines and ginger ale and wondered at the logistics of how my feet felt like they itched when they felt nothing at all. The nurse would periodically come over and poke me in the stomach and legs to see how much of my feeling was returning. I had the overwhelming urge to prop my knees up for quite some time, but was unable to move or feel anything from the waist down. In turn I would rub my legs to see if I felt anything. After an hour I rub my left lef with my knuckles and bizarrely my right leg spasmed. And again. It was terrifying, frustrating and oddly exciting. The feeling returning was prickly, tight and completely alien. Apparently the hips feeling returns even after the toes, so while I could move and feel my feet and legs, I wasn't allowed to stand up for quite some time. It took some three hours before I was walkable and released into the strong arms of The Michael.

We pranced around Rite Aid, me still post-op giddy, collecting high fiber nibbles and painkillers and antiobiotics. Michael had arranged for my mostly immobilized self to spend the next day and a half in his bed. Fulfilling my every whim and craving for Fluffy brand buttered egg noodles. Though we ended up talking too much to sleep, I managed to avoid the post-operative fanatic weepies and barfing for quite some time. When I was finally feeling strong enough the evening of the day following surgery... I was craving something other than cheerios and saltines... we made the ill-advised decision to drive to South Philly for some falafel. My stomach's ease had been waxing and waning all day but somehow this seemed like a good idea. Approximately 2 minutes after consuming the falafel, sitting in the car, I knew this would not end well. Attempting to race against my stomach, hurtling down 76, the falafel returned in its full glory, not 15 minutes after I put it away.

With this glowing testimonial, I can say Bitar's, you suck and you make me puke. Maoz, however has AMAZING falafel and an impressive pickly-salady-fixins bar that makes mouths happy. That came later.

The Butcher gave me a timeline of about four weeks of being gentle, no acrobatics, exercise or exertion so I wouldn't bust my cork out. This seemed manageable. The drugs were working to knock out the pain for the most part. I went back to work and didn't have any embarrassing events including but not limited to falling asleep in inappropriate places. I was uncertain, however, that it would work. I followed the rules laid out... despite the threats made by the Butcher that I shouldn't return to work at all that week. I felt pretty good... considering.

The following week I had a bit of a freak out and visited the Butcher... who still seemed optimistic despite my concerns and what seemed like stitches coming loose....



hungers © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

In an attempt to get out for an airing two weeks after surgery, Michael drove us to Quakertown to visit Qmart and browse. Afterwards, while attempting to get lost in Bucks county/find abandoned houses, we stumbled upon Henry Mercer's architectural oddity, The Moravian Tile Works in Doylestown. We half-assedly took the tour, dispensing with guides and videos, in order to to free ourselves of tour group photo-obstructions. It was right around this time that something inside fully gave way.



kiln © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Over the next five days I became increasingly certain that the surgery had failed. The signs were all too clear for me to ignore. My next follow up with the Butcher confirmed my fear and he admitted that when he saw me last he thought it was going to fail as well. He said he had consulted with a gastroenterologist colleague of his and Dr. GE said that he has never seen this sort of persistence of this condition without the presence of Crohn's, especially someone at my age. Butcher said he wanted me to go see Dr. GE, who would run some blood tests and possibly have me swallow a little pill camera, which in all honesty is about the most exciting thing I have heard EVER, with respect to my health at large.

So about three hours ago I returned from my nearly three hour consultation with Dr. Bert, the GE. Most of that time was spent with the scheduling girl who waded through paperwork, codes, diagnoses, time slots, preps, directions, scrips and phone calls. Dr. Bert and his assistant both seem quite certain I have Crohn's, its just a matter of locating it in my digestive system. Since my tests from the fall didn't show any signs, they think it might be higher up, perhaps in my stomach or upper portion of my small intestines. The coming week alone I will be visiting the hospital 3 times. In order, I am having a specialized pelvic CT scan... which involves a short fast and a barium milkshake, followed by a slew of blood tests including an insanely expensive uninsured super-proprietary test that screens for certain antibodies present with Crohn's, Colitis, and Inflammatory Bowel, called The Prometheus Panel. Which, considering it costs just short of $500, should also predict my future (at least for the next year) and take me out to dinner and a movie.

Manners, dude! Not a cheap date. Man.


disintegration © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

At the end of the next week I will have another procedure with Dr. Butcher for comfort's sake... Thankfully he says I will be needing neither a spinal nor full-on anaesthesia this time... only a local and some sedation. The next week holds the upper endoscopy.... not unlike an inverted colonoscopy, I should be out for this one they say! But that is what they said about the colonoscopy and I have some trust issues with anaethesiologists.

After my last appointment with the Butcher, I told Michael I wanted to throw caution to the wind a little since I was officially rebroken... there was technically nothing I couldn't do, for the time being. So, what, you ask, had been missing? Well... cheese. I demanded white pizza. And mojitos. And exercise. All of which I enjoyed to excess for a short window of time... until it became too painful. Exercising control once more.


On an eavesdropped tip from the doctor's office we thought a trip to the Cowtown flea market in the Jerz would be a pleasant afternoon jaunt. In under an hour we were deeply into the greenest pastures of NJ, admiring distantly some choice abandoned houses while negotiating the windy roads to Pilesgove. Curiously we entered the township of Pilesgrove, continued along the road, entered another town, and then reentered Pilesgrove, this happened at a number of different places... stopping to ask directions twice, a total of 5 attempts were made before we were able to successfully infiltrate the vortex that is Pilesgrove.

After the Cowtown experience, one wishes it was a little better hidden. Though I haven't been flea marketing for very long, I have a fair knowledge of what to expect as far as what is normally sold at them, the backwoodsy population frequenting them, and the general precautions to take. With the promise of a rodeo and a livestock auction, we thought we knew what we were getting into. Alas. It was more like we got dumped on a street corner in North Philly. I have never been afraid of getting mugged at a flea market. Until now. None of the usual tables of people selling odds and ends antiquities and second hand clothes. The stalls sold only copious bling (including enormous jewelled skull belt buckles that were really tempting), discount perfume, stripper-wear, cellphone jackets, mexican music, used VHS videos, porn, and candy. Holy ghetto batman. When I made the mistake of wandering from Michael's side for a moment, some guy with a horrifying gericurl sidled up next to me, rubbing his chest suggestively and gaped at my tits much to the horror of Michael who had fallen mere steps behind. After maybe 45 minutes, we made a run back to PA trying to piece together the hows and whys of Cowtown. There weren't anything but farms for miles around... its very existence seemed improbable at best. We both have decided we dreamed (nightmared really) the whole thing.


alison leans the kills @ johnny brendas © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.


That evening Johnny Brendas welcomed The Kills to the stage... and for the first time in many months I decided to go to a show. Michael was covering it for work and invited me along to make the evening a bit more enjoyable. My only exposure to The Kills was by way of his show preview written some time before... I wasn't sure what to expect but I was pleasantly surprised. They are rather like PJ Harvey with jaggedy electronica edges. And they made me want to moan and move in ways inappropriate for public consumption.


smoke machine the kills @ johnny brendas © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Well. Glad to have gotten that out of my system. I should purge the thoughts more often. I am still having some trouble wrapping my head around what will be come of me the next few weeks. The tests will point to how my problem will be treated but I currently am without a timeline as to when I will be 'fixed' yet again.



interior life © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

And if I do have Crohn's, that, separate from my other malady, is a forever sort of thing. It brings up questions that I am not ready to answer or consider about my professional life. It makes my head hurt and my stomach ache. I have a lot to process. I wish it were all just photographs. They're ever so much easier to process.

NOTE For those of you in the Philadelphia area, Ms. Shanners is going to have some things she has worked on for sale at a new boutique, including a revamped gossip bench, vintage trays, a clock and prints. Expect coasters, pocket mirrors and more functional art to be available both at Bohema and in her youwannatalkjive Etsy shop by the end of the month! Details on the opening follow:

Please come to the pre-opening of Bohema Artisan and Vintage Boutique on Friday, May 9th from 6-10pm. The store's official opening will be on Saturday, May 10th, so be sure to check it out if you're in the area!

The location of the boutique is:
6152 Ridge Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19128

There will be hors d'oeuvres, cocktails and guests can mingle with the artists featured in the shop. The boutique is a mixture of old and new, with quality vintage as well as new merchandise, mainly hand-made by local artists and marketed to women. I'll be there, so don't hesitate to stop by and indulge in free cheese cubes with me!

fast and slowed

It seems I misread my instructions for my testing for Crohn's on Thursday. Rereading last night, it appears I have to go on a juice fast starting Wednesday morning. The instructions also mention that I will be having a super-revolting test that no one bothered to mention at the doctor's last week. Super-plus-pleased. I wish I had something amazing to distract my likely-to-be-delirious self that didn't include looking at pregnant women at work. Since meeting with the Ass Doc last week I've had daily pain in my guts, which might be psychological or real. Who knows. Tomorrow might tell me.


weeds © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

The weekend was a long winding trek through some of our old stomping grounds. Up to Trevorton to Mr. D's parents for a visit, back down to The Burg for some thrifting, practicing, sushi and a NTTT show at Small's.


the cramps © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

It was an excellent show. I was shooting the band for an online magazine called Unsung Hero. Wish I had a link. The Night Train was headlining that night and in top form. Miraculously there was a very low level of generalized show assholery. And little alcohol-related violence. One braless dancing girl fell over on a slippy beer puddle. No randomly thrown punches or overzealous gyrating. But no lack of dancing either.


duo © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

The band was obviously enjoying themselves and the audience, likewise, watching. It was probably one of their best performances I've ever seen.


cmybalic © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Also of note, I have apparently not lost my general desirability in my time of aging and infirmity... not to say I am peaking in the quality of men I am piquing the interest of.


don't you wish your boyfriend was hot like him? © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Ahem. Cough.

I was sitting in an armchair and this gentleman pulls up the sofa next to me. And an ottoman. And faces me. That is the side of my face that was not turning to acknowledge him. At all. And he starts going on to my ear's dismay, about the comfiness of his seat. Then my phone rings. Its Dustin, calling from the back of the bar. To confirm that he see Monsieur Referee making his move. Simultaneously and obliviously, Mr. Referee continues talking to me while I am on the phone with Dustin, talking about him. Loudly. He scarcely pauses for breath, speaking to my hand holding the phone. It was quite a brazen feat.

Later Mr. Referee nearly got into a brawl with the obsessive sound guy who was marching back and forth between different parts of the bar, pausing to listen and then going back to his sound board to adjust. Mr. Referee, who was agitated at not scoring with me, decided that his displeasure with Mr. Sound might need to come to fisticuffs. Somehow, the smooth Mr. Sound manages to assuage him after some tense wrist grappling and sits down. Intense conversation, with wide open mouths close to each other's such that they appear to be skirting actual making out by a hair's breadth, ensues.


armed robbery © Laura Kicey. All Rights Reserved.

Phenomenal. The one that got away. My other pseudo-suitors included a married guy sitting next to his wife, one guy who knew who I was from flickr, and a total Bro with a nasty stogey. What did all these guys have in common? They were all mostly hitting on my camera.

Dustin was kind enough to dedicate a "to the four guys who hit on my girlfriend tonight, you guys are awesome!" Made my week, really.

feral

There are so many ways to tap into your inner animal, and it looks like I have three sure-fire methods, since today I am reaping the rewards.

1. Go to a Pet Parade

Sounds quite possibly lame. Is actually silly. Was kinda enjoyable on a purely guilty pleasure level. But watching people who have worked really hard to dress up and train their dogs in elaborate ways is kind of entertaining in a way you can feel good about, one step removed. I don't dress up my cat. She would eat me whole.


whippling © Laura Kicey

1. Go see a Hardcore Show in a Bumblefuck Town

Guaranteed you will want to beat someone up afterwards. I didn't go to see hardcore bands play. I went to see Night Train to Terror, who were awesome, as always. We had to wade through some truly questionable music and smokescreens to get to that point of the night, but they made it worth it.


burl's cymbal © Laura Kicey

1. Go to a Cat Show

Advanced cat primping always leaves me in slack-jawed wonderment. I love it. I would do it, possibly. I would feel slightly ashamed, but for over two hours I couldn't stop going awwwwwwwwwww, sincerely. Convention centers are magical vortexes where extremes of society converge. And when you hang out on the edge of such extremes and enter, it is easy to get sucked entirely in.


four senses © Laura Kicey

I was especially drawn to the above beast for his particular 'specialness'. Jacob, a 3-year-old ragdoll was born without eyes. Since his brothers and sisters were show cats, he has been travelling around since the age of two weeks. Every new place he goes, hotels and other homes, he makes a little sound and smell map and kicks back and takes over the place as though it were home. He was playful and confident, despite the initial impression that he was taking a nap and didn't much want to wake up. Though he could only show in the "Household Pet" category (for animals that have been altered, which normally means declawed or neutered), he was winning oodles of awards doing so.

When you mix these three things together, the response is apparently, make something. I'm not sure if it is something good just yet. But I have been itching to make a coherent, ongoing, self-contained project for some time. I just had no idears. Then I had the idear but no idea how to make it work.

Today, I just dug in and started making up the rules as I went along. This is how my project construct came to be. I wanted to take existing photos or walls, doors and windows, or ones shot specifically for this purpose and redesign them into what I would call my aesthetic ideal of a wall. As I worked for a couple of hours and sifted through my stack of source material, I started adding in tree shadows, faded painted typography and extraneous textures... using 3-6 images, I built imaginary walls.

All elements have to agree on a basic scale and perspective (or lack thereof since these are all very 2D thus far).
They should be physically possible despite not existing.
The colors have to harmonize, but I can change them to achieve that.
The individual elements can blend with each otheor sit on top of each other.
Sources should not be used more than once, for now.

So here is an initial taste of what is on its way... though who can say how far it will go:



hideaway © Laura Kicey


invisibles © Laura Kicey


delicates © Laura Kicey


welcome © Laura Kicey

Its rather fulfilling also to see really old photos come alive in ways I never envisioned. I figure since I have been doing this sort of manipulation to images of myself since I picked up a camera, this sort of work certainly isn't going to harm the integrity of a wall or 50. It is the culmination of all the things I adore, design, color, photography (and my most oft revisited subject matter- typography, windows, walls, plant life) all tied up neatly. Taking all of these very sort of serendipitous things I have stumbled upon for years and building something precise out of the them. I'm... like... making art. Unheard of. I might consider trying to pitch this for my upcoming show if I can create enough... And I welcome you, blog readers to let me know how you feel about this stuff I've made, I'm part excited part insecure, venturing into what seems wild new territory. Let the commenting begin!

falling silent

I've been quietly working myself up to the excitement that would be Night Train to Terror's biggest show ever this weekend, with tales spinning out in front of us of their name on billboards in the York area. They were headlining. This was huge.

So we arrived at the event, sponsored by Coors Lite, mostly alone on the stadium premises on the Penn State, York Campus. Synthetic-looking Coors Lite Girl™ was there to plasticly announce Coors Lite drafts were a buck! Then she disappeared on the toy dunebuggy with promoter into the woods for making out. Doormouse, who opened for Night Train at their last show at Small's in Harrisburg, was there opening with pretty sleepytime drones magic. Then a couple other bands played. Begin downward spiral. Freakishly warm day (albeit likely more seasonally appropriate) had cooled to a clear shiver. Enter worst band ever. They take the stage and not only announce but descriptively unveil their drunken state to the shrinking audience. Which they reiterate throughout their performance, moreso than actual singing. Or that tuneless, soulless act that might, if one were also likewise trashed, be mistaken for singing... which mysterioulsy the enthusiastic female audience members knew every word of. Probably including the chorus of Dude we're drunk.

Five minutes after their set was to end they announced they would be playing one, no, three more songs. Daggers shooting out of our collective eyes. Two songs and fifteen minutes later, Night Train is moving towards their instruments and promoter is hot on their tail, to inform them that the cops showed up and there have been too many complaints from the neighborhood folks. Night Train will not be playing.

The lads were paid with a case of The Crappiest Beer™ and sent home. The utter antithesis of the Best Show Ever.



refrain © Laura Kicey

The only saving grace was this visual sliver of silence that cropped up early on in the night.

If anyone who promotes shows in the Philly area would looooooooove to give Night Train a chance to play out in these here parts hit them up. NOW

In other promotional news, a few nights ago I went to the Adrienne Theater to see a play starring Sonja Robson, A Few Small Repairs. A ficticious tale based loosely on the story of Jackie Onassis' aunt, Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale and her daughter 'Little Edie" and the decrepit mansion they lived in.

Like I told her after I saw it, it was so much like going to these abandoned places I love and then being able to see the invisible story the photos I take would tell if they were full of people. It was a tragic and bizarre tale wrapped in a comedic gown. Go see it on stage if you have a chance, otherwise you might want to check out the documentary Grey Gardens which I am chaffing at the bit to see. Netflix give it 'ere!

Sponsored by your mama.

auto pilot

Nothing takes the pleasure I get out of snow like driving.


shift © Laura Kicey

Prior to last weekend's wildfire of a show by the one and only Night Train, I was transporting the guitarist goods to destination: Lewisburg.



in tune © Laura Kicey

Somewhere in the wilds of Pocono, PA, snow starting belting us. Then stopped and all seemed well and good. until I made an unfortunate move on a solid sheet of ice and got hooked on the ass end of a tractor trailer. My first accident! My cherry (-colored car) penetrated! The sobs of ecstasy!


burst © Laura Kicey

Groan.

I was fortunate enough to be able to avoid getting behind the wheel for the remainder of the weekend which was spent, in part, photo-frollicking in the depressed towns of Berwick and Danville, PA.


the masses © Laura Kicey

While Danville maintained a certain quaintness, Berwick was just all out odd. Evidence of the difficulty of keeping businesses afloat in this town were apparent everywhere. The seeming complete lack of zoning put shops, industry and residences back to back with each other and mostly in completely inappropriate buildings. Business owners seemed to take every advantage of what they saw as holes in the marketplace and left themselves open to basically selling any and every thing. Their signage reflected this sentiment, with many shops ending their names with Etc., And Stuff, And Things and other vagueries. Others built onto their signs without foreseeable end. This worked for some but not all.


et cetera © Laura Kicey

Meanwhile back in South Eastern PA, things are shaking loose. Plans for the upcoming JOINTS joint are on a roll. Frames have arrived, postcards are coming. And financing to cover it all came in the form of two sales of pieces I have hanging in the Funky Lil Kitchen in Pottstown. From a complete stranger. VERY very excited.

LAB is taking off. Most pleasing. And the vernacular design itch has been transferred from Joseph to me. I love this things Tibor Kalman and Kerrie Jacobs wrote that Mr. Robertson posted on LABlog. Look for more on vernacular design in the next issue. Also for the next issue, a call for entries:

Posters & flyers— we want to see ‘em. A pack of design ninjas will pick the best of the batch and we’ll include them in an upcoming issue of LAB.

Here’s the only rule:
The poster/flyer must be designed by you. No found objects, please.

How to submit? Send a PDF (or .jpg) of your design via our contact form. Please be sure to include contact info. Bonus points: post a picture of your creation in its natural habitat to this flickr group.

Curious about usage rights? Check out read the fine print

Be sure to add the following tag to the photo (for flickr):
LABproject03



Next weekend, the D and myself are to be Most Esteemed guests at the Parental House of K in the Northeast of Nowhere, PA. We will dine on Special Hot Pot and wrassle cats, possibly thumb wrestle cat with opposable thumbs.
And then, adventures in Coal Country. Followed by next Sunday, our show goes all the way up! Stay tuned.

chemistry

cover of LAB magazine featuring amphibious © Laura Kicey
design Joseph Robertson

It is everything I wish for in most magazines... where most fail, LAB comes in and save the day. Not long after it was due for release, here it is. Brainchild of Joseph Roberston, fellow flickrer. He kindly put my photo on the cover and re-ran my article on self-portraiture inside. Everyone should immediately go and e-grab the first issue of LAB magazine. I ordered one off Lulu so as to get a hard copy and support this amazing project.

Every time I write now I have to fall all over myself apologizing for being such a slacker with the blog. It is one of those nutty backward spells where I am shooting precious little, but making large forward leaps in projects such as LAB nad joints which facilitate past work. I've been chaffing at the bit to write a little about my New Year's excursion down the coast to North Carolina. So here is a lil something...

Things I have learned.

1) No matter where you go, all children are on wheels now. This makes me feel very old and I worry that if they come out with an adult version of these shoes I will perish in a terrible accident in attempts to 'keep up'.


labor © Laura Kicey

2) Wave. And no matter what you are doing, you can pass it off as innocent. Even undressing in public.


eardrum © Laura Kicey

3) 'Collapsing' and 'abandoned' are not mutually inclusive states. Still. Damn it. Same with 'cheap' and 'good'. Especially when applied to hotels in either case.



the deep end © Laura Kicey

4) Insanity in a socially acceptable package is no less amazing. I had flashbacks to Violet Hobaugh


flocking © Laura Kicey

5) Alfred Hitchcock might have been from the South if he wasn't already British. I came from farmland. We had nowhere near this amount of bird mass. It was terrifying. And as a semi-closeted bird nerd kinda exciting.


soiree © Laura Kicey

So Mr. D and I have finally finished curating the joints show, I sent out press releases to all the local papers. I've got to order frames and prints yet this week. Bundles of people are expected to turn up. I am still getting that nauseous-everyone-I-want-to-talk-to-is-here-but-can-only-take-2-minutes-with-each feeling. Two hours and over 30 people we know, plus the random ones we don't who pop in.

In other news, another photo was published on FILE and JPG published the following photo for their Tourist theme included in Issue 7:


vacational © Laura Kicey

In other publiciziziztationings... The band Mr. D plays with, Night Train to Terror in the short time I have been acquainted with them have grown on me immensely. Like a tumor. They make me shake my ass while I shoot them. They played Small's in Harrisburg last Saturday night and have an upcoming show in Lewisburg and Tuesday Tunes (I think) this Friday night, January 19th. If you are out in the middle of nowhere, come out and support!!!


engine © Laura Kicey