i am this also

isto também sou eu / i am this also from Joao Galrao on Vimeo.

Q U E A S Y

I woke up this morning next to my husband feeling uneasy. I sat up in bed and contemplated the source of this malaise. After all, I shouldn't have any more to worry about than your average western citizen in 2012 - job security, financial crisis, perhaps H5N1... But I'm secure, and loved, by my man, and by friends gay and straight.

But no, there is a reason for me to feel threatened, because apparently I am the threat. I throw a party in Lisbon called Pink!, and the accompanying Facebook page is quite the hot ticket. I won't deny we get a little saucy there, but it is a closed group after all and only consenting, mature adults who are in the group can see it. It's actually really cool, homosexual imagery of the arty, balls-to-the-wall variety, faits divers, culture. It makes us feel alive! AND I KEEP GETTING SHUT DOWN. I desperately seek an alternative, where I'm not OFFENSIVE TO PEOPLE WHO CAN'T EVEN SEE ME, BUT STILL HATE ME NONETHELESS. But that alternative DOES NOT EXIST. I need Facebook, apparently.

Like I need cancer.

In the wake of the THIRD shutdown, in which I lost all my friends (if I don't see them online, do they actually exist?), people came to me with stories of how art imagery on their wall - WTF even religious imagery - was removed.

Now this. I guess I feel like Rihanna. (Please click on Andy and Candy, thank you. And fuck you very much.)



Oh, and the Pink Page on Facebook is here. Join the fun, why don't you?

ALIEN

When I lived in New York, I was in-house artist for the Black Party, New York's underground no-more 'dark side'-show. Once it was an amazing, beating black heart, lodged in the ribcage of the city. In a way, it still is, but a lot had happened in the thirty years of its existence. Now we were living in a splintered New York, Manhattan looking over its shoulder at a insouciant Brooklyn that didn't give a fiddle for its grubby, gilded past. The codes of yesteryear, all those Folsom fetishes might have seeped into the porno-mainstream consciousness, but let's be honest here, a (Roseland Ball)room, this fleshfarm of shiny cowhide and methy machorobotics seemed anachronistic at best. I'm being nice about a societal dead end. The kids sniffed, wrinkled their noses, and mostly got back on the L-train.
I always wondered though, what if those desires still existed, their genepool mutated perhaps? Where was the window, slightly ajar, that allowed them to escape, and roam on the streets like they used to in the heady avenues of the seventies?
Then I saw this, and got to thinking.

ALIEN ALIEN - SAMBACA from manuel savoia on Vimeo.