Cutout, hand-painted paper lines the ballet entrance to the nebula surrounding a pink and blue Neptune. Cotton candy globes float idly by, never picking up their pace. When I blink, it looks like all the pastel orbs are frozen in space as when you blink at a slow spinning fan. Here, we reside in a world of lunar light blue, pastry pink and pale purple or hover above for an aerial view of after a young girl’s birthday party. Speckled neon candles and mirrors hang over the frosted cosmic forest that prophesizes what’s to come by looking through translucent erasers and found sequins.
Melted child-made stars are suspended in a velvet curtain falling from the top of the square frame coated in globs of glowing liquid lava or paint. Neon pink, yellow and blue, assembly line dripped candy dots cascade down from hot pink, puff-painted clouds. If there were walls, they would be covered in lemonade Jell-O and detachable charms. The dripping glitter forces me to participate in fictional spells that will promise me love and to meet Britney Spears.
The suspended opal peppermints create a viaduct to the childhood hideaway I used to frequent. The little wooden guesthouse with checkered pink curtains held all the secrets to getting the plastic toys you wanted from your parents without having to wish. The gem-studded gumball crown hidden in the center of the house allowed the ceremonial accumulation of dust to settle around the bottom in the shape of lanterns. At night the lanterns took the form of ancient pharaohs and holiday sprinkled donuts.
Frosted American Royalty
Once upon a conflict-free diamond kingdom, or palatial estate in The Hampton's, a little girl with tomboy hair wore only polished primary colors. The live-in nannies protected her from exaggerated bubble gum gender roles while her parents were at work. At night when her mother arrived home she did not want her daughter to be pink unless she chose it herself with diamond covered lollypops and royal cake walks. She was encouraged to crave the handmade. She was given paper dolls instead of Safari Barbie and told to defend orchids and oracles before girls with tan lines and teal eyes. She fell in love with snow cones and flat invented personalities.
After some time, the girl grew restless, and despite the constant two-dimensional play, she coveted buttercream glazed icons and pastel plastic toys made for children who owned Easy Bake Ovens, child cosmetics and safes for their furs and jewels. She began baking embellished vanilla cream layer cakes for birthday parties and installations. Craving a vintage, still-in-the-box plastic devotional object, she set off to buy the tannest turquoise-eyed younger sisters of Barbie on eBay. She removed the tiny dolls from their staged boxed homes and decided that buying them was the same as making them. Their factory-sewn clothes were replaced with permanent colored frosting, antique ballerinas and sprinkles made from scratch. The glazed peaks of neon paint would prevent them from having to change their clothes again, creating an everlasting votive to girl toy royalty.
The ritualistic arrangement of all the doll cakes on white glitter paper created gem like reflections on the wall behind them. The light helped to transform consumer places into sacred spaces and allowed for a quiet meditation on the toys we covet and fetishize as adults. The space whispered ideas of feeling thoroughly loved when you were or were not given all the pale sea foam gifts you desired. Spoiled and entitled prayers circled above the semi-mandala in a hot pink and gold Bridal Barbie chandelier.
Like Barbie, the little girl never married, wore radioactive neon eye makeup and lived to consume.
December 1, 2013, at 10:23 am
This morning I woke up to the perfectly made up eye and lip of @KimKardashian beaming down at me through what now looks like a small screen. I wonder for a brief moment how her brows achieve such arched perfection. Concluding other-worldly perfection, I wish that someone did my make up for me. I recall pieces of the dream I had last night of shopping somewhere in the south of France with Mary-Kate and Ashley for vintage rainbow sequined silk purses and their pint-sized version of American Girl dolls. Despite growing up with star treatment on a hyperreal landscape they managed to escape the child star curse effortlessly. Ashley bought me the sequined purse for an undisclosed amount and almost immediately I wished I had waited for something "cooler". When we came upon the American Girl doll of Ashley she had a lavender bow in her hair and a handful of glitter in her permanently opened hand.
January 2, 2014, at 6:00 am
I just met Paris Hilton. She was beautiful, tan, and tinier than I expected. She nodded and oozed sugary sweetness when I asked her to be generous. She took her time talking to me and I could tell that even though it was the middle of the night she wasn't in a rush or mystically bored. She said she loved me which was probably the best part. I told her that the TMZ video of Brandon making fun of Lindsay (Paris is laughing hysterically in the background as paparazzi and her then-publicist follow her down Hollywood Blvd.) is my favorite. She laughed and spoke in both her private and public voices just like she does on TV. She told me I had to tell Brandon and he said, "I don't give a shit" to which Paris responded "no listen” without success. I asked if her socialite oil heir friend known as "Greasy Bear" was always like that and she said yes. I loved that he acted the same way he did in paparazzi videos and Paris could tell. I didn't have to introduce myself because she already knew me, but I did apologize for drawing attention to her. Paris gave me a hug and held both my hands when she said she loved me, and I was thankful in that moment that she wasn't one of the many “celebutants” that claim to bake in their spare time.
Flat theaters encompass divinely selected instant bubblegum pop tart starlets who exist for their audience. I worshiped their divine gift for participating in the American narrative and swan lake pop-up books. I became a new version of my old tabloid junkie self. I was over the days of pretending my favorite stars were not sitting next to my dinner table because now that they posted their own selfies, we were friends. I coveted our interactions more than the interactions with my non-celebrity friends. I began to seek them out, now that their privacy was gone. Art and life were blurring so much that it was hard to tell if it was an act. I fell for it when they were really nice to me. I had adapted their on display behavior - “celebrification” of everything - and ate their diamonds on purpose.
To Frozen Stars and Lace Ballets
Go through the lands on a gem-studded saddle and see what the mortals do, in the isles where only spirits come to breathe.1 Frosty moons hung over the city, which became mediums for our crowns. The pope gave us smokey candle cups and asked us if we could pray backwards. If I could whisper, I would say take me to the world we came from, like all royalty superimposed before us. But, the cakes are glowing, a sign I must leave them soon, and I wouldn't speak for diamonds.
I wonder if I would sacrifice Athens for glitter. Lunar ice water makes your heart look flat, shimmering as it opens, slowly and full of aristocracy. Pink and blue glazes cover all the princesses with ruby rings, secret gardens on Jupiter and rose ballet slippers, revealing that it's easier to choose the intention of beauty than conserve paint for the day my heart breaks. I barely escaped this curse and the myth that you believe in what you make.
White-pink lips on tan girls are stretching the unicorn's horn into curls with violet magic dust recovered from the Swan Lake Mountains. Neon stars make up the treasure map where it seems undiscovered, but only because we are there; In the coral reefs where only the gods and goddesses know better. They said you could find the sea horses who lived in the hoofs of the unicorns better than any mortal could. You are known for stealing lemon cakes and jewels, from all glowing temptresses folded brokenly, who loved glamour instead of you.
Fluorescent red is the unattainable pink. Sorcery sliced through every unthought heart, where somewhere in us, we had to know what was to come. Lace drags through wet plastic, Barbies call paint and I elect pineapple upside-down cake, like they were the suspended mountains hung from the planets' rings all along. I hate the way you swing on nebulas and bleed rainbows. The tips of my fingers have indigo ice caps on them that resemble the velvet moons of the isles where my castle resides. Thorny coating covered the fortress made of yellow sponge cake. Royal blue lace and coral rocks of turquoise line the carbon garden outside. But, how can someone respect a fair queen that is higher than the sky that falls down from the caves? Dark puddles of satin sequins drip from all the leaves in Eden, like a void that opens irregularly where dice are attached to perfect symmetry. I hate to believe in the bad aim of hearts, black holes and Eiffel Towers.
Fur and bones look best on you, heels that can take you to the Florentine cotton candy clouds, and loves that cannot. Moon-cheese cakes instead of Sapphire rings, and limes drop from the drawn curtains. No worlds opened up when I spoke the secrets to you, but you did feel closer to the circus. Crystals help the sea-foam-covered nymphs get closer to being mortal, in order to take away the ancient war of the worlds between Athena and Paris. You began it, once upon a crystal nebula and dinosaurs have fur. Your heart means more now that Mary-Kate Olsen signed it, and I think you're perfect by the choices you make. Lavender nails hold the glow-in-the-dark wall in place so it doesn't collapse on the kingdom's land, where broken hearts are the same as empty ones. The trolls assure me there's no time to count the steps to Stonehenge, but there is acid on the silk, butter on cupcakes, and fame on the ordinary.
I am an isolated queen again and I pretend I wasn't royal enough for you.
1 Line influenced by W.B. Yeats.