Oh, so thaaat's where you've been.

I spent almost every weekend in July in Paris. Sounds glamorous no? Of course nothing is less glamorous than schlepping yourself through the metro to do gallery research. Of course, it does still beat having an office job.

So, FrenchBoy and I arrived in Paris Saturday morning. We did some shopping and bought some fancy new cutlery and then went to lunch where he proceeded to sneeze and cough and begin to run a very high fever. I sent him directly back to the hotel to sleep, which meant that I was stuck doing gallery hopping without my favorite gallery hopping companion. Boo Hoo.

I've probably mentined this before-- FrenchBoy knows very little about art, but he sure loves looking at it. Heck, he loved Art Basel, FIAC, and the Berlin Biennial as much as I did. In fact I love going gallery hopping with him because I like to have someone to compare notes with after we leave each gallery. (Me: “Did you see how snotty the receptionist was?” Him: “No, but did you see how many typos they had on their price list? Ils sont nuls!”) Also suddenly with him on my arm I’m not just another sweaty tourist or an artist trolling for representation or inspiration. I could be a collector! I admit it. He’s…my disguise!

So since my “Art Beard” had a fever, I set off to Le Marais solo. I knew many galleries were closed already for the summer, but I figured I’d at least be able to visit a few. Unfortunately, almost every gallery I visited was just…horrid. My friend Julie, another artist from New York, was in Paris the weekend before and she had mentioned how crappy she found most of the galleries to be compared to New York, but I was hoping I’d magically stumble upon a few good ones. No such luck.

I’m not even going to start criticizing the actual artwork, because the thing I found most appalling was the galleries themselves. Two particular instance stand out in my mind. The first being the fancy gallery near Place des Vosges where the gallery assistant was scaring everyone away with her evil glare before they would even try to enter, and my favorite being the gallery where the seemingly drunk receptionist refused to make eye contact with clients!

Now, I can take being treated poorly, but what if it was my work in this gallery and a drunk gallery receptionist treated my collectors like that? One by one my already modest list was being reduced to almost nothing. Not one of these galleries woudl be suitable for mywork!

But just when I was about to lose all hope and head back to the hotel completely deflated, I ran across one tiny little gem. I saw a group show of all of their artists. I read their resumes, and checked their price lists. There wasn’t one thing I didn’t like about this gallery. Even the 2 women working the reception desk were helpful and chatty. Chatty I tell you! Also, as I was checking things out, 2 people actually bought 2 paintings. So, apparently they sell stuff!....which is always a bonus.

Ok, so, I don’t want to jinx it yet by talking about it, and I’m not running to dust of my slides just yet, but I am excited to see what they have on for the fall!

*fingers crossed*

Je ne suis pas bien dans mon assiette!

Just in case you're all wondering why I haven't been posting very often, I might as well tell you before you work yourself all up into a panic.

About 4 days ago I started feeling a bit queezy. It would come and go at random hours of the day and then I'd be fine. Then about 2 days ago I woke up and had a 10 minute sneezing fest. Since then I have been fighting off this summer cold like my life depends upon it.

Thursday I took a 4 hour nap and actually slept through lunch. Even so, I fear the cold is kicking my ass. So, I've been spending most of my days on the sofa watching FireFly on DVD. (..because heaven knows there isn't anything good on French TV.)

Also, I'm just generally pissed off that I lost a whole week that I could have been doing something productive like starting that new series of paintings that I wanted to complete in August...

So ya see, I'm here, but groggy and grumpy, and a bit feverish. As the French say: "I am not well in my plate." And frankly, I doubt you wanna read about that....so enough already.

Taking The Next Step.

I was just thinking the other day. Some of you have been reading this blog for like 3 years now and my site statistic counter says that lurkers from all over the globe are reading my nonsense by the thousands, so I guess there's no time like the present to take yet another big blogging step.

*dorky drum roll*

I now have an e-mail address: MadameK (at) ymail (dot) com.

Now those of you who are too timid to post in comments or have been harboring burning questions for the past 3 years can e-mail me directly.

Hate mail is also accepted to this address, although please note that your e-mail, your full name, and your e-mail address may be re-posted here if you're not nice. *evil laugh*

The One With the Satan Flowers.

Warning: This post contains ranting and strong language. It was written in cranky mode.

So yesterday we were invited over to a friend’s house for a BBQ lunch. Ok, they’re a bit more than friends. We’ve known them for ages and they were the witnesses at our legal wedding ceremony, and the husband in the couple is directly responsible for getting FrenchBoy his current fancy new job, so I don’t mean the word "friends" lightly. I mean it in the French way, ya know how you make about 10 friends and then you keep them forever, so you don’t have to go through the trouble of getting anymore?

Anyway, as all of you other ex-pats know, when you’re invited to a meal in France you bring one of the following items:

1. A bouquet of flowers for the host.

2. A bottle of carefully chosen champagne, or wine ….And I say carefully chosen because you know damn well everyone will talk shit about you when you leave if you bring a bottle of cheap swill.

3. or last but not least, if the hosts have kids, you buy a cheap-ass, but not too cheap toy for each of their children to amuse themselves with while the adults get drunk.

I’d forgotten to buy a fancy brand of champagne for the occasion (Our “house champagne”, which we buy by the case once a year isn’t quite fancy enough for this particular occasion. And yes we buy champagne by the case. You read that correctly.) and everything was closed on Sundays, so I stopped at the florist to buy a bouquet.

We pull up to the florist in the car and FrenchBoy leaves the engine running. I turn and give him the screw face. “I’ll wait here while you run in.” he says. Now, folks, this is where things went terribly wrong. Ya see. I know jack-shit about flowers. I don’t know their names, I don’t know where they grow, and I certainly don’t know which ones smell like what.

So, I run into the flower shop, and grab a whole mess of flowers, and manage to get in and out of there in under 5 minutes inspite of the fact that I almost came to blows with the middle aged asshole who tried to cut in line in front of me.

Side note: If by chance you are the man who tried to cut in front of me at the flower shop yesterday and by some act of fate you are now reading this post, As soon as you are finished you should get down on your knees and thank whatever God you pray to. Dude—yu almost got homicided. Hint: If you see me barreling into a flower shop at 5 kilometers per hour with a wicked scowl on my face from being forced to enter said shop, not to mention the fact that my left foot is soaking wet from the puddle I tripped and stepped into on my way in, do not, I repeat, DO NOT get all jazzy with me. I am an ill-tempered American girl with a fiery Aries temper, and if you haven’t noticed, I got a little meat on my bones. I could pick you up by your Achilles tendon and snap your petite frog body in half over my knee without breaking my stride. Seriously dude, just back away slowly.

So, I get the fucking flowers and run back to the car.

Five minutes into our 40 minute drive, I realize my mistake. I have somehow managed to buy the funkiest smelling flowers in Metz, France or perhaps on earth. I mean they smell like compost! Just rancid. We were coughing and our nostrils were ablaze!

As soon as we get to the BBQ I warn the hosts about the stinkiness, and apologize profusely. (“Here’s some flowers. They smell like ass, but whatever… where’s the food?”)

One hour into lunch, their entire three-story house smells like putrid flower pee.

Am I a great guest or what?

Next time I’ll just bring a freakin’ bottle of Charles Lafitte and be done with it.

photo snagged from http://angrylittleflowers.com/. Hilarious.

Now back to your regularly scheduled program.

…So I’m in the café line at IKEA after paying for my crappy new Billy bookcase. I’m already having a tough time deciding whether I should order the hotdog that I know tastes like rubber, or the sugar covered donuts which are always partially frozen, when I hear this kid start screaming in back of me. In pushy French fashion Mother and child arestanding barely 20 centimeters away from me so that the child’s wails of agony are goin directly into my left ear.

Just as I am about to convince myself to completely throw caution to the wind and order the new creepy-looking chicken sandwich thing on the brightly lit fluorescent menu, the kid lets out yet another long earth shatteringly loud scream that sounds something like it may in fact be dying.

And since at this point my bloodsugar is so low that I’m actually physically incapable of caring whether or not the kid is in fact dying. I don’t turn to look. Instead, I say to myself “If that F@cking baby screams in my goddamned ear one more time I swear to god I’m gonna turn round and smack it!”

Almost instantaneously, I hear this un-Godly noise that sounds something like:

“WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHRFT!”

And with that, I feel a weak, yet surprisingly firm thwack on the back of my neck.

Yep. You guessed it.

A bitchy little French baby just sucker punched me on the back of the neck!

Now, It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened. In fact, I was in a bit of a daze untill I heard the baby’s mother say “arrête!” (“stop”). Instinctively I turned around to face the mother and child. And here my friends, is where it gets that much funnier.

When I turn around, the French mom is desperately avoiding my gaze by looking up at the IKEA menu as if the answer to all the mysteries of the Universe were somehow embedded in that f@cker. Meanwhile L´enfant terrible that sucker punched me is glaring at me like I just stole candy from her or something!

I don't know exactly what to say about this experience beyond that. A baby punched me. A baby punched me and got away with it. I mean it's not like I could punch her back or call the police. I mean, what do ya do?

So, lesson learned. Be mindful of even your private thoughts because apparently some bitchy French babies can read minds.

And they will punch you...

and get away with it.

To Whom it May Concern.

To Whom it May Concern:

The purpose of this letter is to kindly inform you that 9-year-old boys don’t give a rat’s ass about the sights and sounds of Paris. They are utterly bored by views of the Eiffel tower and remain unimpressed by the grandeur of the Arc de triumph.

However, they do enjoy trying to karate pigeons and looking at dinosaur eggs.

Also you would do well to prepare yourself for the fact that they enjoy doing dangerous stuff like jumping over parking pylons and almost busting out their 2 front teef, climbing up safety barriers, and racing other boys up steep escalators and stairways.

In closing, I wish to advise you that no matter how hard you try to impress a 9-year-old boy in Paris, they will always be more impressed with something like playing video games with other boys...

or even just watching a car get towed from in front of your garage.

So....Good Luck with that.




Madame K.

Shut up about your f*cking kid.

We went to the zoo alllll day yesterday so I have nothing non-kid related to share, but that's not so bad...



Also, I didn't get a photo of the peacock that escaped its cage because I was too busy gawking at the gang of French toddlers chasing it around like it was a chicken dinner.

Total freak show.

Seriously, I have seen some bad parenting in my day, but encouraging your toddler to chase after a big-ass wild bird that has escaped from its cage in the zoo? This is worse than the time I almost ran over a 2-year-old in the McDo parking lots because her mom was too busy lighting her cigarette to notice she had wandered off.

Alas, Just one more piece of evidence to support my evolving theory that French parents love their kids a bit less than say......the Japanese.

Snips 'N Snails and Puppy Dog Tails.

So now that the busiest June is history is…history. I’m on to a month of July filled with guests. The first special guests to arrive this month are my mom and my nephew Tyson. After two wonderful flights, they arrived at the Luxembourg airport only to discover that Lux Air managed to lose my mom’s suitcase---again. In fact every time she has come to visit us, Lux Air has lost her luggage. At this point it’s just funny.

Anyway, yesterday was exhausting. I had a really tough time adjusting to having a kid in the house. Dude, the Barbie Dream House is NOT kid friendly. How could we have not realized this before? I spent the entire afternoon chasing after Tyson making sure he didn’t accidentally break stuff. And even if he did, who could I blame but myself? Which leads me to really good question: What kind of Yuppie Jack-asses build a house, then furnish it with furniture that’s as fragile and as rare as Fabergé eggs? Answer: Yuppie Jack-asses who obviously have no kids. If FrenchBoy and I ever do get around to making kids we will either have to sell the Barbie Dream House or keep them in cages. Mind you fragile and rare cages designed by Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec.

Oh, Oh! And the noise. The noise! Listen, I grew up with 2 brothers, but clearly I have forgotten the absolute avalanche of sound that even one kid playing solo can create. Yesterday my brain actually hurted. Of course my Mom thinks it's hilarious. She's having quite a laugh at me running around the house like a mad woman. Revenge is sweet I suppose.

The one quiet moment of the day was an hour or so when my Mom and Tyson decided to make some paintings. OK, Tyson decided. I taught Mom and Tyson how to mix 2 colors of brown from orange and blue and how not to let your acrylic paint go dry in your brushes. For one blissful hour we all painted. Quietly. It was nice.

So today, we are off to the Zoo or Aquarium, or whatever kid friendly location I can find around Metz. I just want him to see cool stuff and have some fun. (Any clues on what 9 year olds think is cool or fun?)

And I will do my best to chill out and not have a cardiac arrest the next time he slams his cup of water down on my lovely glass dining room table or somehow manages to fall over and completely topple one of the fancy matching leather chairs.

Double Exposure.

So in all my excitement about San Francisco I forgot to blog about the reason I went there in the first place. Here are the photos from the MoAD Double Exposure opening events. (If you want to see the entire set on flickr click here.)








MoAD is great, the opening events were fantastic, and the show itself was a huge hit. I had so much fun and met so many genuinely interested and interesting people. My head was spinning. Also Sunday afternoon I was on the artist panel, lead by artist Carla Williams, and I managed to not sound like a bumbling idiot. For me that made the whole trip a success.



The best part of course was meeting the other artists and finally having the chance to meet Lisa Henry the curator of the exhibit after having talked to her only by phone for the last....year.











So hip-hip hurray. My two pieces are on loan to the exhibit until 2011. Better to have the work out in the world on an extended loan than on permanent storage in my studio while waiting for a buyer. So here’s to hoping that the show gets picked up by a few more museums and perhaps even that date gets extended!

“Honey I’m home!” …. For real this time!

So… I actually got back from San Francisco a week ago. But I’ve been so busy that I totally forgot to blog. And by busy I mean 2 days of sleeping off my jet-lag and another 2 days of cleaning and running errands, followed by an entire weekend of family obligations. More on all of this stuff later.

First things first: I absolutely adore San Francisco. So much so, that I feel that I must have lived there already in a past life. The whole time I was there I had this weird familiar feeling, yet was acutely aware of experiencing everything for the first time. I used to feel like I was cheating on New York every time I fell a bit more in love with Paris, but now I feel even guiltier because I have a serious crush on San Francisco.



Dude, totally trippy.

Also during my trip I had the pleasure of meeting so many amazing people. Besides meeting all the artists at the MoAD events, I met up with the blogger formerly known as BuzzGirl and her daughter who I affectionately refer to (only in my head) as Baby Buzz.

In fact I had a wonderful day walking around the Mission district with BabyBuzz while Mamma Buzz was at work. Now, Baby Buzz is probably the coolest 13 year old you’ll ever meet. I just tried my best not to embarrass her with my dorky presence too much as she played tour guide.

We visited 2 art galleries, had fancy over-priced tea, and sampled Indian ice-cream before calling it a day. Oh and did I mention she speaks French comme un Français? I mean really. I was embarrassed to talk in front of her for fear she would roll her eyes and correct me.

Side note: Folks –you don’t realize how old you are until you’ve spent an afternoon with a 13 year old. All the walking around wore me out.

Later in the week we all met up again for some playing around town. Buzz rented a zip car and we rolled all around San Fran and I tried not to barf in it even though going up and down all those hills gave me crazy motion sickness. We did the obligatory Embarcadero and at pier 39 we all squeezed into a photo booth. It was good old fashioned giggly girl fun.

Buzz snuck us all into the San Francisco art institute to see the Diego Rivera. While there we also checked out an exhibit, and snuck into the sculpture studios…which made me drool a lil bit out of the left corner of my mouth. (So this is what 30 G’s a year buys ya?”) It’s like art heaven in there.

We ended the evening with a drive to Oakland for an oversized meal of Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, which recently had a falling out with Roscoe so they simply crossed his name off the awning but kept on serving the waffles. Hilarious!



Sunday I just spent the day walking around the mission again. When I die can I go to the Mission and spend eternity browsing used bookstores and dozing off on an over-stuffed coffee shop sofa with my laptop resting on my belly full of coffee?

Oh and how could I almost forget? Although like a dumb-ass I managed to schedule my trip to miss Gay Pride by only a few days, my friends Ina and AJ managed to grab us three much sought after tickets to the 2008 Fresh Meat Transgender and Queer Performance Festival. It was amazing good fun.

Photo by: Asha Leung, 2007.

As icing on the queer cake I had the honor of having Sunday brunch with one of this year’s performers Turner Schofield who is not only too damn good-looking for his own good, but also happens to mix a hoppin' mean Mimosa. Turner's performance was a huge hit, and I was lucky enough to snag a copy of his book Two Truths and a Lie, which he was nice enough to sign and make a little note in French no less! *swoon*

That night at the festival I also saw the Harley boots of my dreams being worn by a totally cutie who was nice enough to tell me exactly where to go buy them.



I also met her friend Idexa, from the very famous Black and Blue Tattoo on Guerrero and 16th street who turns out is a major celebrity in the international tattoo world. What luck?

Also-- Jasmine--I made it to 24th and Mission to eat at Farolito’s. Like you said, the outside is a bit sketchy, but I walked in and it was packed. The so-insanely-handsome-that-it’s-just-wrong guy at the counter greeted me with a “Hey girl.” and I had to keep my knees from buckling underneath me. Dude---why didn’t you tell me the carne asada super burrito is the size of a newborn? I could only eat half of it.

Anyway. San Francisco rocks.