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Costanza Chia

  1. No Bonafide Hustler


    I think i saw my brother tonight. I think that i saw someone and that someone morphed into my brother not sure if that is because the hash weed whatever that was and im just in the state of seeing shit. But i kinda think that was his spirit. Looking at me straight in the eye. Not with disapproof and not with judgement. Contempt. Like jesus looking at his discepuli in titian ‘s creations. Idle. The light you see at the end of a tunnel.

    I look at him, briefly, cant lock eyes with such piety. I trust to try locking eyes again. Antonio? Is that really you? I havent seen you since august 2012. Or 2013 my mind is naturally or chemically fuzzy. I dont know. I cant see very well either but i refuse to wear glasses cause im too afraid of losing it. And im not bothered. Another thing to have to care about. Antonio in london?My heart clenches. I dont think ive seen you in any circumstance that i can nail down. Weird. I do remember you. I do remember every time i saw you, you would be different. Look,act a bit different. Im like you brother,  i change as quickly as a chameleon. I call it a reinvention!  a new philosophy. weaving new experiences into our lives and wanting to see the different sides of ourselves. whatever. I’m still philosophy ing, I know its nothing but a bonafide way to say we are unstable people. we are artists at that though.

    Oh! i just saw you again! walking down the escalator. and my mother too, I see her brown nesty hair that hops on her head every time she makes a step down the stairs. her trench coat and iconic bags. I flash back to the face of giovanni as i wait to get at the end of the escalator. An authentic hero. he collected beautiful chicken and had a farm in tuscany. he looked like a rooster, his spirit animal. wide chested and impressive posture, always wearing nothing but a towel and the keys to his tractor around his neck. we would sleep over at his farm all the time since we were children, the inside of his house was far from a farmers interior. decadent romantic furnitures from the 1800hundreds. vintage books, smoking paraphernalia and italian legendary comedy cassettes like toto. unbeatable. he also made art. metalwork pieces, shilouettes of trees. by hand. a vulcano resembling gentleman. he died this week. he fell off his tractor, died underneath it. which lead me to a great deal of more philosophy ing , reasoning about the meaning of life. a new reason to make a change. What if.. and I am saying what if.. I got into prostitution? i would experiment on the limitations of simple mentalities of the opposite sex. i would test my abilities of getting what i want.

    would I feel horrible afterwards? or would I be numb and carry the weight of the secret on my shoulders for the rest of my life? well the last men I had made me completely lose sight of what exactly is the purpose of fucking. Why do women see it so offensively to get paid. I think its weird not to. it is a customizable performance we put up. a well thought yet completely improvised dance and acting skit. a cheers or mumbled love you doesn’t cut it.  I am an attractive young woman, people would pay a lot to get in my pants. and I want money. I never wanted love I want courage, I want power to do what i want. Buy me. 

    No, I will not do this. I thought about it seriously for three days though. even put my name and number out there. Its actually so easy. you just need to be creative. I have been called.. three times by different men in the past 2 days. I said yes. on the phone. One of them was 59 and needy as fuck.  I wanted to do it. it excited me to no end. making money out of my body.  it made me feel like a pot of gold. the idea I mean.

    I am in the underground going back home, to meet with my first client. I thought about it all day. I will make 800 pounds in one sitting. 2 hours and I am rich. what stopped me was Antonio’s face. My mothers back turned. Giovanni, it was them. the people that I love present themselves to me in different form. A sign to back away. now. I also saw my dad three times today in various restaurants. chatting to different crowds. explaining, teaching to them the meanings of life. oh how I wish you were here daddy. I will try not to leave sight of your love  again. I will not partake in the act. I am not artificial. not a fuckdoll. I am real. I can do it without sinning this hard.

    I will love myself harder next time for you

  2. Summer Artwork

    this work is the realest work I’ve ever accomplished

  3. magictransistor:

'These Are The Days My Friends' : OZ Magazine (September, 1968)
  4. baltimorehorses:

The Seven Stone Weakling - David Hockney (Part of A Rake’s Progress)
  5. qurty:

Sir Sidney Nolan
The Encounter
  6. elisemesner:

Melon feast for @digsapparel #amelonaday (at e l i s e m e s n e r . c o m)
  7. dekonstruktivisme:

Anke Loh autumn—winter 2001—02.
Taboo, geographic, moralistic, sexual, gender specific, on a metaphorical and local level, different for men than for women, put together in a new way, longing for idyllic love, not voyeuristic, relationship between couples.
The presentation of this collection ‘Unter der Gürtelinie’ / ‘Below the belt’ took place in the bright underground hallway of the Centre Pompidou, where the glass elevators were an indispensable part of the spectacle. As the spectators were standing scattered over the room, the elevators started moving, carrying the male and female models downstairs.
With this concept, Anke Loh created a kind of physical (auditive) proximity between the spectators and the spectacle, without however crossing the boundaries of actual physical contact. The interaction with the crowd created a unique personal attraction on a metaphorical and local level giving the collection a more personal dimension.
Some of the models were equipped with small speakers attached to a minidisk, which they were holding in their hands. While mingling in the crowd, the spectators could hear the music coming out of the models’ speakers. Also several microphones were spread over the entire space and when approaching one of them, the models’ music was broadcast over the main speakers creating a bizarre mix of ongoing background music and musical fragments.
© Anke Loh Press Archives.