Friday night I somehow clocked a twenty-four hour day sans caffeine. I had bought a Sparks at a liquor store in Echo Park, but left it at Danny's house in Highland Park. I drove over there for Halloween 2.0 before heading downtown to shoot at DANCEiSM.
DANCEiSM just keeps getting better and better, and I really believe that the DANCEiSM team, headed by one Ben Oprstu, have created something special and electric. Ben's enthusiasm for good times and good vibes is infectious, and he makes everyone feel like VIP to his life-party.
The kids came out in full neon lamé regalia and danced without inhibition. Since the party has its origins in the University of Southern California, most of those in attendance were students, too young to jade themselves in the Hollywood club seen, still brimming with freshman excitement. I saw not one wallflower, in fact, roaming the crowd with my camera I was the only one not dancing.
I really hope DANCEiSM takes off, because not only is it a fabulous party, it is a fabulous party with heart. I hope they never get too cool for their britches - I can see them easily occupying the spaces that some of the big Los Angeles events are losing their grips on.
I was allowed access to the stage, where a young lady implored me to dance. Dressed in gold pants, I really had no choice otherwise.
I pulled into my driveway at 4:30am, deeply satisfied and happily distracted from the whole Prop 8 mess...at least for a few hours.
I slept in way too late on Saturday, getting nearly ten hours of sleep. Stirring from bed at 2:00pm, I had to discard my art plans for the day to focus on the Silver Lake Rally and INSEMILLATION later that night.
The passage of Prop 8 has swept down into my life and moved it like an earthquake. I am consumed with it. Everyday is a reminder of the discrimination that exists in my beautiful home state of California. The election of Barack Obama brings a bittersweet ache to my heart, and as I was walk around in my day to daze, I cannot help but look at those around me and wonder who voted for discrimination.
I have cautiously come to the realization that it is discrimination that lies at the bottom of this - pure and simple. It is born from ignorance. Regardless of my own sexual orientation (Which is nebulous, at best) and regardless of my own personal or (Lack of) religious beliefs, a vote for discrimination is a vote against me. It is a vote against you - gay, straight, black, white, Asian, Hispanic - and you do this country a tremendous disservice when you support Proposition 8. While I agree that no, no one has any business pushing anything on you, "marriage" in this context is a legal term and does not threaten the sanctity of what you have. If marriage were strictly a "religious term" - as the Yes argues - then atheists would not "marry."
You want to talk about "pushing beliefs?" Then why am I - as a strict atheist - forced into marriage, should I choose to devote my life to someone of the opposite gender?
The requirements for "domestic partnership" under California law are as follows:
(5) Either of the following:
(A) Both persons are members of the same sex.
(B) One or both of the persons meet the eligibility criteria under Title II of the Social Security Act as defined in 42 U.S.C. Section 402(a) for old-age insurance benefits or Title XVI of the Social Security Act as defined in 42 U.S.C. Section 1381 for aged individuals. Notwithstanding any other provision of this section, persons of opposite sexes may not constitute a domestic partnership unless one or both of the persons are over the age of 62.
The blatant injustice that Proposition 8 represents is positively repulsive.
You want to talk about pushing beliefs? What if I oppose "marriage" altogether as a matter of personal conviction? What if I want to share a partnership with someone of the opposite gender? I have to wait until I am 62?
Marriage is not a religious term. It is a legal term. And before the law, before our Constitution, it is everyone's right. It is my right. It is your right. It is our right.
I boarded the Metro in Hollywood and resurfaced exactly where I needed to be. The march was coming down Santa Monica Blvd and I threw myself into the crowd, armed with my picture-eye.
At one point the march proceeded north on Vermont to Sunset. At that junction, the cops, the mounted cops, and the SWAT team prevented the march from its desire to move west. I ran across the front, terrified of the wide-stance and masked faces that blocked our path. We don't need anymore violence or hate or ignorance. Though I understood the march's frustration, I knew we had to choose our battles wisely, and so I urged people to turn east. We eventually conceded, but for a moment I faltered, and fell to the curb in tears.
A man came over and asked me why I was crying. Brimming with new emotions I could scarcely understand, I told him that I felt hopeless and confused. He told me to not despair, as it was only the beginning, and extended his hand to help me up. We stood together and renewed, I carried on.
I was rewarded with the pleasure of witnessing people of all sorts of different backgrounds united under one cause. Everyone was out there - I was relieved, I was inspired.
I felt hope.
I hopped back on the Metro to Hollywood. At the station I found myself engaged in conversation with a group of renegade protesters whispering about a new rally at 10:00pm on Hollywood and Highland. I reminded them to speak with love in their hearts and in their mouths, but where emotions are involved, logic sometimes dissolves. You cannot fight hate with hate. And while I agree that yes, we need to make ourselves visible, we need to remember that the world is indeed watching.
When asked where I would be, I responded that I had another event to attend.
I arrived late to INSEMILLATION, to my great dismay, because the first installment involved an experiment of epic proportions. Artists of all practices listened to parts of Hour of the Shipwreck's album on headphones, and responded as their art demanded, on canvas, on stage, on paper, on drumstick, on bow. The artists and audience were recorded during this first movement.
In act two, the band came out to play, and while they played, footage from earlier was mixed with video art.
With adrenaline in my veins, beer in my gut, and smoke in my eyes, I was in the right state of mind to relinquish myself to the truly stormy auditory epic that Shipwreck would lead me on. The music rolls darkly over itself through a landscape of bare trees shuddering in the wind, silhouetted against a full moon, in a rickety stop-motion sort of way.
I have never seen an audience sit so raptly.
The brainchild of Tony from Big Lovin' Panda (I swear, everything connected to Tony is golden), I could understand the great bizarre mystery that had transpired just before I had arrived, and as I watched Shipwreck before me, I too felt a little art stir within me.
Call it "performance photography."
When it was over, and I returned to Planet Earth, I ran around introducing myself, trading business cards like baseball cards. I hardly remember anyone's name.
On Sunday I managed to wake up at a reasonable time, and after breakfast with a friend, embarked on an epic bike journey downtown to shoot over the latest roll from across the sea.
But I will tell you more about that tomorrow.
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