I recently crept out of my home and into the harsh light of a public space to see some friends I hadn’t seen in almost two years. Everything was going swimmingly: Cocktails were very cheap; I was pleasantly surprised to be enjoying myself out of my apartment; and I was having a ball catching up. A friend’s friend joined us, and somehow the topic of my penchant for performance art snapshots came up.
“I do Cindy Sherman-esque photos when I’m out and about,” I said. “I mean, not in any serious way.”
“I assumed,” he said. I knew that this wasn’t the right topic. I knew that. But there had fallen a silence and I was vamping for time, filling up the air with what I assumed would be an innocuous subject until I could find the correct conversational key. So to round out the story, I pulled out my phone to show them both the photo of me toasting Joan Crawford’s grave with a can of Pepsi. My friend loved it. Her friend said, “Wow, you look stupid. I’m glad you don’t take it seriously.”
Which is exactly the sort of needlessly cunty remark only a professional dancer could make.