"2012"

I told my daughter about Basso. We were walking past the golf course and the only answer I could come up with was Basso. I explained that it was easy to find a space for very cheap.

She asked me more questions.

I told her the spaces ranged in size, some large some small. I told her about the neon light fixtures, the circular tube installed on the ceiling of Mark and Kyoko, and the exposed wires of Cleopatra’s.

My daughter wanted to know if there were bathrooms in these spaces, I told her there usually was. I explained the layout of PM gallery, the loft built above the bathtub made her laugh. I told her there was a kitchen and a living room and that every morning there would be wet foot prints through the gallery from the freshly showered curator, this made her laugh. My daughter pointed towards the ocean, I nodded.

Who would clean up the foot prints she asked? I smiled down at her, imagining the toe prints of Julie Groche evaporating into the hot afternoon air. I told her that the people who ran the spaces would clean.

My daughter continued to ask questions. So they were like homes? Yes, I replied while trailing my index finger on a palm frawn, the spaces were kind of like homes.

I bent down to remove my shoes and my daughter leaned her weight on my back as she slipped off her purple sandals. How did they run the spaces? I paused, she asked again, how did they run the spaces?

I told my daughter that the spaces were like any business. Holding her sandals in her hand she looked at me, who worked? I looked at her and replied that often it was just people around who helped out, friends or lovers or house guests. She crinkled her nose.

My daughter scooped a handful of sand, we walked closer to the water, how could a business rely on lovers?

We met James Leary at the dock, he was wearing a light yellow te-shirt and his beard was growing out.

He sprung up to greet us. I asked him how he was, he smiled, his eyes flickering charged with something, “you know, good but busy.” I looked at him and tugged at his beard. “It looks good.”

The sun was reflecting off the glass of the tall buildings downtown and the whole city seemed engulfed in a camera flash. But we were on the edge, leaning on a metal railing with our weight falling towards the water.

Tuesday through Friday Ripley would teach sailing lessons in the harbor. My understanding of Manhattan was very rigid, grids, maps, numbers and obligations. Ripley’s boat glided in ways that pulled at the seams of my city.

(zoned out) The boat rocked back and forth loosening and tightening the rope that held it to the dock.

Matthew and Max insisted on picking up the furnishings for Dark and Stormies. Rum, ginger ale. plastic cups. Matthew was wearing all blue, and after signing a waiver we were handed bright orange life jackets. Ripley tugged and clipped us together, I imagined bobbing in the river.

Everything after that feels like a photograph, I remember James smiling with all of his teeth and cheeks stretched back. He politely refused a Dark and Stormy, he had work to do later.

(....really thinking....) I remember asking him, he said he was working on writing, a play or a paper.

Every time the boat rocked a drink would spill. I looked down and my legs were covered in rum.

It hit quickly, and I became sea sick. I closed my eyes. I needed to forget where I was.

I began thinking about the raves that I used to go to, ( -- cue music -- ) big warehouses, dark and loud. Ignore the feeling of my legs giving out and my stomach flipping. I could hear James laughing and smiling in the sun, Matthew was telling a joke about laundry.

The sickness the ocean had imparted upon my body was the new cool drug. I was riding the first big wave of mdma, pushing me from all that was comfortable. I scrunched my eyes and gripped on to the brass handrail. “Keep thinking about night clubs.”

The first night I moved to Berlin we went out to a club with lots of red and green lights, not dark enough, and filled with teenagers. We did shots at a tiki bar on the second floor.

I got in a fight with a British boy in drag in the bathroom line, he kept saying, “you don’t respect me because I’m dressed like a woman” while sobbing into a handkerchief.

My eyes were clenched shut. Each push of the boat sunk me farther into my own darkness. Max touched my back but I was gone, throbbing on acid. The sound of birds on the river lapsed into the thump of bass. Dancehall.

The boat continued to rock, I knew Manhattan was close but I needed to drown somewhere else. The Dancehall kept playing. My skin was cold and wet, I lay my head down on the side of the boat. Lasers, strobe lights, black lights, no mirrors, no clocks.

I was entering hell, the only option was to jump in the water. But no, I couldn’t do that, keep thinking about night clubs.

Angels, angels, angels, angels.

The thumping of a dance floor seemed to move with the rocking of the boat. Berghain, Panorama Bar. In the morning there was always enough room. The light from outside would stream in on beat with the window shades. Thump thump.

(....now thinking about an annoyed annoying memory....) The Bulgarian bar, not a club but dancing with a weird green strobe and too much to drink. I remember a very fat man dancing with me and bumping into my gin and tonic, I dropped the glass. The boat lurched, I clenched the brass rail, Max's voice echoed in, “I haven’t seen a show at the Gagosian in two years.”

I was stuck in flashbacks of drugs and nightclubs -- the only reference I had to my body as it slipped beneath the fiberglass bow.

Aids 3D DJing in a studio building, hundreds of people dressed for cold Berlin, dancing getting hot. Pushing back and forth on the dance floor, back and forth back and forth. I could feel water splash on to my face as the boat jerked forward. I was passed out on the floor of Watergate, a teenager.

Matthew was talking about a performance he wanted to do. I could hear him describing lights, describing costumes, but I was stuck in a basement on Avenue A spinning on the dance floor with my hands out. Spinning like a dervish in a small, dark, loud basement.

I opened my eyes, a flash, the Panorama bar, the club was lit and the sweaty faces of my colleagues revealed. James was reading from a novel, Matthew touching Max’s hair and Ripley pulling on white ropes. I closed my eyes, the sun spots dancing across my eyelids, reminds me of the eagerness and the vitality and the beautiful awesomeness of youth, so very awesome you know, youth is -- those shining, lovely bodies to watch them, to feel the light, to know it’s an ever present thing.

Thank you and Good night. Please enjoy the L’Occitane gift bag garnished with aromatic shampoo, crème beurre de karate lotion, perfumed silk paper and a brochure for our wonderful host, the Stedelijk Museum.

Times was built on love. A deeply sentimental and corny type of love.

2007 marked the first federal surplus in Berlin’s history. I open a Pilsner Urquell and hand it across the bar. Since 2009, rents have increased yearly by 7.9%. “Everyone’s moving to Wedding.”

“I don’t want to live in fucking Wedding.” At night we sit around and talk about how we wish we could have bought apartments three years ago.

A young intern from Johann Koenig slouches on the corner of the bar smoking a cigarette. He adds, “It’s like New York in the 70’s.” “Shut up,” someone responds. The intern looks embarrassed.

Berlin’s debt is somewhere just over 60 billion dollars, but the surplus of the past two years will begin to pay it off. There are around 12,733 Americans living with visas in Berlin. At least a dozen of them are sitting in the bar. I pour glasses of whiskey and exclaim, “at least it’s almost summer.”

Berlin is one of the European cities least affected by the credit crisis, almost entirely due to persistent growth in tourism, with over 20 million auslanders flooding the city each year -- “the MDMA is really good” -- making it the third most visited city in Europe.

“LA?” I squeeze lime juice into a Moscow Mule and hand it across the bar. “LA is weird, you need a car and it’s fucking expensive.” The new Brandenburger International Airport is set to open June 2012, securing Berlin’s status as the “gateway to Asia” and the new hub of European travel. “Maybe Brussels would be better.”

“I don’t want to make paintings in my bedroom.”

Studios are harder to find but property prices are still 4-6 times lower than London or Paris. “Paris is annoying.” I agree and open an Erdinger Kristall. The prices of Berlin’s real estate market are expected to double in ten years due to the capital gains exemptions on residential property, which expire after ten years.

“Everyone’s leaving Bushwick.” Maybe as a joke, the Koenig intern orders a Manhattan. “Everyone lives in Chinatown.” The unemployment rate in Berlin reached an all time low in 2011. Most of these new jobs are in the service sector, and most of those are with unregulated pay. I scoop ice into glasses.

The rent for the bar is €523 a month. Our profit margins fall below the average for a bar of similar size. A Pilsner Urquell costs €2.50. We sell around 35 cases a month. There are 746 hotels in Berlin with 112,400 beds.

“What about Detroit?” I laugh while wiping down the bar with a wet rag. What about Philadelphia?” Everyone laughs. My rent is €250 a month, and the revenue from the bar pays little over half of it. A web developer in Germany makes an average €26.50 hourly, a waitress €5.50. I slice oranges out of love.

The numbers behind European households are regularly printed on the front page. The eurozone is a personal crisis, taking place in interviews by Times reporters in kitchens over olives and dates. “What about Athens?” I unpack a crate of beer into the refrigerator. As artists it is our responsibility. Patti Smith just checked in at the Soho House.

Leaning against the tile, someone pauses from their beer and asks, “Is the rent cheap?” “The Acropolis Museum is only €3 for students.” Germany is one of the few countries in the European Union without a minimum wage.

As an artist, I pour Aperol into a spritz glass turning it blood red. Our tab book is full of names. We don’t use debt as a weapon. “Modular is too fucking expensive.” “So shop at Bauhaus.”

In a few hours Dan Bodan would lean his head against the curve of the staircase and cry out to the bar. But for now it was quiet. Two German girls sat in the corner drinking white wine.

The neighbor came in. I was slicing limes. He told me about his daughter and how he had smoked too much weed in Amsterdam. Dan Bodan arrived with a floppy tote bag filled with cords. “Last night was so crazy.” I handed him a beer and he recounted the evening while plugging things in.

Three tall Swedish girls fell through the door. “Where's the bathroom?” The neighbor pointed up the stairs. They ordered whiskey sours. I spooned maraschino cherries into the garnish tray.

Dan Bodan continued, “…and he’s not even her friend, it’s like why was he asked to come to this when she doesn’t even understand what he’s trying to do with the work?” I nodded emptying the ashtray into the trash below the sink.

One of the Swedish girls shouted across the bar, “Where were you when Whitney died?”

Dan picked up the microphone and began to sing, “If I should stay, I would only be in your way, so I’ll go, but I know, I’ll think of you every step of the way...” They applauded and asked, “Do you want shots?” “Not yet,” Dan responded.

More people began to shuffle in; it was getting closer to midnight. Claudia Rech leaned over the bar for a double kiss while ordering a spritz. We talked about summer as I poured Aperol into her glass.

Dan Bodan asked for another beer and Max Simmer mouthed “gin and tonic” while holding up two fingers.

The door swung open and Juliette Bonneviot walked in. In one long breath she bemoaned the trains which “were fucked today, beer please.” Lindsay Lawson slipped behind the bar to adjust the audio for Dan Bodan while I made her a Moscow Mule.

The bar was filling up. Nic Ceccaldi commented on the painting by Petra Cortright above the bar while I poured his red wine. Yael Salomonowitz pushed a twenty into my hands and told me her “day was shit” and she needed vodka.

Dan Bodan hoisted himself on top of the bar and I quickly moved the blue candles. He positioned himself, beer in one hand and microphone in the other. He motioned to me to turn up the mixer.

The set was short, holding the final note of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” he slid off the bar. He absorbed the end of the applause with his back facing the audience. I got him another beer.

I wiped the top of the bar down and moved the blue candles back. There was a rush to get drinks. Nik Kosmas wanted a whiskey; he waited grinding on the side of the bar. Three Germans ordered vodka sodas. I filled glasses with ice.

Dan Keller leaned over the side of the bar and plugged his iPod into the headphone jack.

Across the room Yael Salomonowitz took her black jacket off and began to twirl it over her head with one hand. “Robbie, get me a drink,” she called.

She was laughing and twirling her jacket sloppily with one hand and digging through her purse with the other. The entire bar was staring. I waited while Timur Si-Qin searched his pockets to show me a photo on his phone.

Yael continued to swing her jacket faster and faster until it knocked her purse off the table, its contents scattering underneath the benches.

Yngve Holen slid three euro across the bar but I was distracted by Yael. She was sitting on the bench, looking down at the floor, shaking her head and clutching her purse. She moved dramatically from side to side staring at the floor, lipstick, wallet, coins. She lifted her left leg up, then her right. “Where are my keys?” she moaned, leaning backwards.

Robert Fitzpatrick shrugged and smiled at Marlie Mul as she descended the steps from the back room. Without leaving his bar stool Dan Bodan asked her where she had been. I listened to Rupert Smyth, Simon Denny and Dan Bodan talk about London while I salted the rim of a Margarita glass.

Yael moved the table first to the left and then the right. She got to her knees and draped herself over the bench looking frantically from side to side.

Britta Thie ordered a coke. It was just past one in the morning and almost time for Dan Bodan’s second set. He finished his beer in one gulp and ordered a Riesling. Pablo Larios leaned on the corner of the bar and asked, “Have you seen Dan Denorch?” I pointed towards the basement.

The street sweepers on the curb were filling the bar with intermittent flashes of bright orange light. Jaime Whipple motioned for a beer as the room turned golden and Oliver Laric and Aleksandra Domanović put their jackets on and said goodnight.

I set a Whiskey Sour on the bar for Martin Thacker while Natascha Goldenberg took a photo of Florian Ludwig and Marlous Borm near the door. The three tall Swedish girls ordered shots of vodka. “Make them big,” one of them said while laughing.

Marlous Borm greeted Mia Goyette. “How was New York?” Across the room Yael lifted the bench she had been sitting on, vertically bracing it with her arms, stretching the long sleeves of her dress.

Yael turned to Robert Fitzpatrick. “Where are my keys, Robbie?” Before he could answer, Dan Bodan began to address the audience. “As always, thank you for coming out this evening—here’s one of my favorites.” The neighbor slipped back into the bar, and mouthed “bier.”

I refilled Dan Bodan’s glass of wine while he was singing. Yael paused with the bench still vertical; she laid it back down quietly and sat looking at the floor gripping her torso. I added more pretzels to the dark blue bowls sitting next to the candles. Skye Chamberlain scooped a handful.

The street sweepers drove past the window again, and the bar was filled with light. Yael’s keys shimmered beneath a stool.