A bit of backstory...
Paul likes to help out artists when he can, but lately his attempts at philanthropy have been roundly rebuked by local artists’ worst enemy: themselves.
One of the things that draws people to
San Francisco is the “art scene”. In North America, artists are generally polarized between
New York City and
San Francisco.
They go to New York if they think they’re exceptionally talented and are prepared to enter a life of hell to try for the Warhol lottery- to be discovered, like Basquiat, and suddenly dipped in a chocolate and cocaine lifestyle. Once discovered, they’ll eschew shoes, rub shoulders with Cindy Sherman, and discuss the plight of starving children over a $500 bottle of Chianti. If they don’t win the lottery, they’ll bust their asses at three jobs and will destroy all of their late-night brain cells on aerosol and turpentine. I have a number of NYC artist-friends (I was one, briefly), and so long as they never become successful, they’re good people to spend time with.
San Francisco attracts the people who (say they) are uninterested in financial gain. They exist for their art. They arrive here with the mentality of successful NYC artists, but they don’t have the bank account or the backers to afford the lifestyle. They’re barefoot, with a taste for wine, but they have this weird morality that makes them claim to despise money.
Money is an interesting thing. I was talking to an economics professor a few years ago about the “Schrödinger’s Cat” quality of money. It is only kind of real. A long time ago, United States money was a symbol of a corresponding amount of gold, and it said so right there on the paper. In 1914, Federal Reserve notes stated clearly that they were "Redeemable in Gold on Demand at the Treasury Department of the United States in the City of Washington, District of Columbia or in Gold or Lawful Money at Any Federal Reserve Bank." About 20 years later, the bit about gold was removed, and dollars were only exchangeable for “lawful money,” that being left undefined. Even later, Nixon took us off the gold standard (look it up), and now dollars only say that they are exchangeable for “all debts, public and private.” The value of dollars (inflation and deflation) is based almost entirely on how many printed dollars are currently in circulation.
I know, I’m going on a bit. Here’s a picture of an orgy from Fucking Crazy.
Furthermore, money is made out of nothing. This is where money comes from: you go to the bank and take out a $500,000 loan for a house, along with, say, 5,000 other people on any given day. That’s 2.5 billion dollars that the bank gave away. But here’s the thing. Banks don’t have 2.5 billion dollars locked away in a safe- they are writing checks based on the promises of the government. How much gold do you think is in Fort Knox? The bank writes you (or your real estate agent) a check for basically whatever amount of money they want, on the promise that you will pay them back- and here’s the kicker- with interest. You will be paying the back 15% interest on money that they never actually existed in the first place. You don’t believe me? What do you think would happen if everyone in America went in to their bank and withdrew their entire bank accounts in paper money?
Here’s a threeway from Animals. Stay with me.
Sadly, people tend to confuse the map for the landscape. The “X” on the paper is not the same thing as your actual destination. It’s just a symbol, albeit a helpful one. A tool. Money is the same thing. But people get all confused, and see money as an end rather than as a means to an end. That’s where it becomes the root of all evil, the thing the
San Francisco artists hate. They feel oppressed by the people they feel are “keeping them down,” people who don’t have the same set of problems they have- like having to choose between buying paint or dinner, or more viscerally, between buying food and paying rent. And they blame money. It’s like hating a hammer, rather than the guy who is hitting you with it.
From Slurpin' Jizz 2:
Despite their misfocused anger, San Francisco’s artists are every bit as talented as their East Coast brethren. The murals on the alleyways of the Mission are every bit as beautiful as anything you’d find in the SFMOMA, and indeed, the two sometimes overlap.
It started a few months ago.
Paul wanted to sponsor a poetry reading. A completely non-porn poetry reading. Poetry for the sake of poetry. Paul would supply the venue, the food, the wine, and- get this- he would pay the poets. He asked me to call a poet he was fond of and ask him to run the reading. I did. The guy immediately got flustered- in a bad way, “Paul asked you to call me? I don’t want business to get mixed up in this.” He was rude for a bit longer and then he hung up. I told Paul. Paul jumped to my defense. He’s protective of his boys, is Paul. Paul called poet-guy and asked (more or less) what his problem was. “I’m just offended that you’d want to pay for poetry. I’d let you pay my rent, though…” And suddenly there was no more interest in throwing a poetry reading.
Around the same time, Paul put this ad up at FilmArts Foundation’s website:
CASH GRANTS FOR VIDEO SHORTS
I am looking for 5-10 minute narrative videos with an element of male eros. Subject matter and style are up to you. All we ask is that there be an element of male sexiness involved: a shirtless man, a handsome man, a naked man, etc. Implied, hinted at, explicit, all are fine.
Total budget for project is $500, to the videomaker. Individual 5-10 minute videos are fine, as would be a series of narratively or thematically linked 5-10 minute videos.
Send brief self-description, a way to access your demo-reel (or representative images), and a brief description of proposed video to paul@treasureislandmedia.com.
You'll hear from me almost immediately.
He completely expected to be flooded with emails. And why not? Five minutes for $500? That’s $100 per minute, for what is essentially an open call for anyone to send in almost anything. According to the counter on the forum, 254 people read that ad. Exactly one person responded. A woman- and not even a local. She’s from Italy and visiting San Francisco. Paul’s telling me about this and I’m freaking out. I’m considering shooting 5 minutes of a shirtless guy smoking a cigarette and talking about… anything. And I don’t even know how to work a camera. What the fuck is wrong with the local artists? What happened to the immediacy? I guarantee New York artists would have fucking devoured that offer.
Well. So much for pithy. This is what happens when I take DayQuil before writing. Paranoiac ranting. Well, as Bill Hicks once said, “Bear with me, and I’ll get back to the dick jokes soon enough.” Here’s Little Joe getting fucked in Meat Rack.
Enjoy!
