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06/25/2020
Floyd
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The Velvet Vetiver & Tanya
Lou was lurking somewhere under the bright Haitian sky. Warhol wanted it that way, possibly as part of a nine-hour wild wallpaper-art action. Warhol's favorite actor, Taylor Mead, was reading spring poems for little Jad Fair into a broken tape recorder, and so it was just Lou's curls that acted astronomically in the fade-in, in a monumental mist of microscopic mandarins, hissing fresh lemons and grated coriander, harsh and bright like the brilliant feedback that Lou could send towards the sun as if on a ray of light.
When Lou's curls released the canvas a few moments later, presumably he had just laid down for a while, light green hesperide mists danced in slow motion between blossoming orange trees, while, as if by Tanja Warhol's hand, a nutty-brown clary sage filter slowly laid itself on the lens, bergamot and flowers bubbled into each other, magically blended and marbled, balsamically smeared across the screen, softly drawn, softer still, because Warhol now primed the wallpaper with mysoric sandal cream, scraped some light tobacco, tonka and cloves like taupe fairy dust through their screen printing stencils, the warm cream speckled as gigantic blades of grass gradually grew on the projection surface, prominently shining, tree-length, longer than Lou, who now seemed tiny, soon ran backwards out of the canvas, looking at the impressive picture, how softly swaying meadows became cream-green shimmering, silky softly waving, mildly sour velvet.
**
The softest vetiver Tanja could find. In the Indian part of Haiti, of all places. Lou's curly head in the fog of Cologne, the 30-minute cross-fade into the orange blossom trees, the balsamic hinged muscatel sage filter, all this is staged by the green velvet curtain, which plastically detaches itself for several hours from the silk-screen-printed sandal foundation on the skin, which blows you wonderfully soft and flowing, the costume, which wears itself, to all tomorrow's parties.
(With thanks to Tanja)
When Lou's curls released the canvas a few moments later, presumably he had just laid down for a while, light green hesperide mists danced in slow motion between blossoming orange trees, while, as if by Tanja Warhol's hand, a nutty-brown clary sage filter slowly laid itself on the lens, bergamot and flowers bubbled into each other, magically blended and marbled, balsamically smeared across the screen, softly drawn, softer still, because Warhol now primed the wallpaper with mysoric sandal cream, scraped some light tobacco, tonka and cloves like taupe fairy dust through their screen printing stencils, the warm cream speckled as gigantic blades of grass gradually grew on the projection surface, prominently shining, tree-length, longer than Lou, who now seemed tiny, soon ran backwards out of the canvas, looking at the impressive picture, how softly swaying meadows became cream-green shimmering, silky softly waving, mildly sour velvet.
**
The softest vetiver Tanja could find. In the Indian part of Haiti, of all places. Lou's curly head in the fog of Cologne, the 30-minute cross-fade into the orange blossom trees, the balsamic hinged muscatel sage filter, all this is staged by the green velvet curtain, which plastically detaches itself for several hours from the silk-screen-printed sandal foundation on the skin, which blows you wonderfully soft and flowing, the costume, which wears itself, to all tomorrow's parties.
(With thanks to Tanja)
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