Is beauty an objective quality or a trick of the light?
Does it exist purely in the gaze and in the eye of she who gazes?
Is beauty…a place?
Is every object of beauty a gateway?
An invitation? A promise?
There’s an implicit aesthetic cosmos programmed into every piece of spectacle.
Like a radiant code.
Every glittering garment, every fresh collection, every tidal flow of fashion and philosophy is a world unto itself.
In every jewel, there’s an implicit way of seeing.
We catch glimpses of the House where Beauty lives in every image that moves us, every sound that soothes us, every room that immerses us in its ambience and every song that breaks our hearts.
Objects that make it through the divide between oneiric fantasy and factoid flesh.
Fetishes from beyond that infect our space through the magic of craft and concept.
Is beauty a shock? An intimation of the transcendental? Suggestions of a perfection too alien to be merely true?
Out there, we keep the streams and spheres of beauty suspended in states of abstract segregation.
We separate the skeins of light and form and mind, this transmitted tactility, this ravishing telepathy.
Museums and galleries grow around our strangest paintings like stop motion clip-art cityscapes.
Music grows artists through whom to be born and audiences through which to admire itself.
Fashion devours itself endlessly and secretes the by-product of its conceptual bulimia on catwalks and scented sheets of hi-res collage.
To every strain of beauty, a separate sphere, a different quadrant of the spectrum.
Does the collage provide a clue as to how the gateway function of beauty can be vitalized?
In the magazine, where image collides and colludes with narrative, advertising, journalism, and perfume to suggest a slice of all the lovely things worth knowing in the industries of pleasure.
In the nightclub, in the programmed party, in the Happening, the collage unfolds like angelic origami into more space and more time, into interactivity and experience.
In the medium of the party, all our glamours, our sounds and visions and tricks of texture come into play and in that play we blur our boundaries and shift our shapes.
Architecture and dance and conversation and flirtation and apparel and mood-sculpting melody and light itself converge to provide a taste of eternity.
Imagine a frequency of rapture where all celebrations converge in an experience of timeless, spaceless grace and bliss.
Identities enfluxed in a chaos of new forms.
Chaos is the fever of upgrade.
Imagine an interstitial space where artforms and thoughtforms and personalities liquefy and pool into a soup of spontaneous symbol systems.
Where Platonic solids and demonic geometries erupt through empty air and hover there, revolving, bending the TV tint of laserlight as it passes through them to binaural body-beats, all sleazy with communion.
A pop-washed profane and sacred space where a surfeit of spectacle somehow serves to lift the veils, where light and sound and sculpture and skin and movement and tactility conspire to expose the fundamental lusciousness of things. And people. And happenings.
Shouldn’t beauty be seen and felt in its natural habitat, in those autonomous zones we open in our ecstasies, where ordinary life is put on hiatus and every everything is possible and palpable as long as we don’t ever stop dancing?
In a zone like this, dresses can be pages from a book, a diaphanous diamond-studded scripture of sin that you and your sisters wear like skins made for diving.
In a zone like this, prose reveals its narcotic nature. Text becomes sheet music for hallucinations so sweet they compete with reality. And supplant it altogether if you’re game enough.
In a zone like this, protean cominglings of red and blue and green become the figments of philosophy and flavors of hypnosis.
Deep beats and antic musics unspool the tapestry of night and expose the dancefloor chessboards of a game that need never end.
Lifeforms from between the scenes and superstrings of the world we know bloom on bodies like benevolent fashionomas, incurably beautiful and infectious in their Otherness.
The austere decadence of commercial style and content becomes dynamic and fertile and contagious in a space like this.
No one leaves here as who they were in the vestibule.
This space is an alembic for energies and fascinations that will forever tint the filters of your third electric eye.
Red is the color of blood, rubies, and strawberries. It’s associated with danger, passion, sacrifice, love, anger, and communism.
Blue is the color of the clearest sky and the deepest sea. It’s associated with melancholy, tranquility, “coolness’, and police.
Green is the color of emeralds, jade, and the growing grass. It’s associated with nature, fecundity, spring, hope, and envy.
In this convergence of three spheres…
Jayme Hansen brings a spontaneous, improvisational vitality and velocity. Fashion re-imagined on the fly in a disco blizzard of scissorbirds and primary colors. Her networks are electric. She’s an electroplasmic divatron and a scene queen.
Hans Lindauer is a scifi light magus and theorist of the metaspectrum, a conjuror and splicer of test pattern rainbow bombs. An electronic composer of mystically tinted streetwise lovescapes.
Kate Fenker is elegance and impossible geometry and the shaping hand of beauty personified in a majestic sherbetstorm of theorems and needles and endlessly fractalizing textures.
The Orakuloid has been saying all this, thinking all this so the unschooled can have a skein of thought to cling to as this labyrinth grows around them and goes on growing. You’ll come to love the maze for its own sake.
In this zone, every form of media feeds every other form until a default frequency of synaesthetic rapture is achieved. Slip into this experience. The magic word is always PLAY.
Wearable, live-in/love-in evidence of this Wonderland is available in the Boutique.