Vaginal Davis takes us to a heaven or to a hell or to some place in-between (a living room under the sea?) where boys and girls in undies sit on faces and get whipped and licked (whipped as in whipped cream) while she, all smiles, talks freely with her friends -- the creative elite -- in person and over Skype.
Now that the exterior of PS122 has shed its scaffolding, which in some ways served to justify the melange of performance art and heart-to-heart within, the intersection of East 9th Street and 1st Avenue has become possibly the greatest site (at least for the remaining week of Speaking from the Diaphragm) of generational, sexual, emotional, racial, artistic, etc. etc. crossroads.
I feel like the luckiest kid alive that I've been able to help Vaginal with preparations for the show; she is hands down the most positive, loving being in this hemisphere, a veritable fountain of youth from where energy (of the natural kind, though of a magnitude that seems wholly supernatural) flows endlessly and indiscriminately.
I'm riding the Vaginal wave!
And tomorrow I'll be performing as one of the Chat Roulette boys, so please find yourself a ticket and strut along over here. I promise it will be a night to remember, not because I'm back in tightie-whities but because Vaginal only doles out the unforgettable.
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