#introtext

[itsannajovanovic]

Work Introduction Text 

[wasteaway-comicthing]

[theshirtsandshoes]

Hey Guys

We’re a four piece massachusetts rock band. We’re looking for more bands to connect with, share our music with people and reblog kinky shit! None of us have used a tumblr before, so feel free to tell us everything we’re doing wrong along the way!

Check us out on some other sites as well and stay linked in!

https://soundcloud.com/the-shirts-and-shoes

https://www.facebook.com/TheShirtsAndShoes

Really look forward to blogging with the lot of you.

-The Shrts and Shoes

[aerobiaerobie]

What makes a DJ more than just a someone standing behind a laptop screen? What makes a DJ transcend into being something... bigger? To embody an ethos, to create a movement, to become a symbol, an icon… an artist?

Perhaps even more than by their sensibilities, artists are defined by their sensitivities. Although it took him a few years to realise, it turned out that Pierre David Guetta had always been an artist; it was somehow hard-wired into his physiology. He was a particularly sensitive child, so much so that, somehow, without knowing it, he developed a synthaesthetic ability to smell colour. Well, one colour in particular. A colour named E163.

E163 is an insidious sort of red, the type of red that can seem deep and at other times hollow and almost bluish. The colour changes depending on pH, adapting to its context. It can be the colour of roses, or flags; of post boxes, Spiderman, or fire engines. Sometimes it is the colour of oranges.

E163 is a slippery colour -- somehow not a colour in itself, but the emulation of a colour, a fictional imagining of a real colour.

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David developed this strange ability to smell this one particular red in 1974, a few days before his seventh birthday. His mother Monique had, for some time, resisted young David´s persistent requests to have a birthday cake in the shape of a Paris Saint Germain shirt. To the radical-left Monique, football was a complete farce, a low form of male posturing and disgusting spectacle, designed to control and oppress the masses and re-enforce gender roles. At the same time, through her training in psychoanalysis at Paris VIII University, she was becoming acutely aware of that she should not be projecting her own desires onto her young sons – that she needed to give them space to develop their own desires, ambitions and subjectivities. Torn, she eventually gave in to David's request. But she did insist on two things: rather than the royalist blue home kit, the cake she would order would be of Paris Saint Germain's away kit, a worker's red. That, and she absolutely would not permit PSG's corporate sponsorship emblazoned on this edible monument to his team.

She'd been busy that week organising three anti-fascist events in the streets of Paris, so she decided simply to order the cake a few days in advance through the bakery at Franprix.

Monique would leave the boys every Tuesday night to attend one of Jacques Lacan's seminars at the College de France. This particular Tuesday in 1974, the Tuesday before David's seventh birthday, he would be left alone in the apartment. His half-brothers Joelle and Dominique had stolen a super 8mm camera from the ethnography unit of at Nanterre University where their father Pierre had been teaching. They were roaming the streets of Montmartre making a Western, barefoot. Some hours earlier they had broken into the tribal art gallery of their step-mother, Anne, and decided to 'borrow' some objects as props.

As soon as the door slammed on their five-floor walk, David crept into the kitchen and climbed up to the counter top where a cake box stood, huge and inviting. He opened it gingerly. The dazzling carmine icing reflected in his blue iris like flames. He tingled. He had to try it. He plunged a skinny arm into the cake, but before he could bring the icing his lips, his hand started to tremble, his eyes narrowed, and throat started to swell. He got dizzy. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. With a crunch, little David fell off the counter top and lay, writhing, on the kitchen floor.

The front door swung open again. Monique had forgotten her XXXX – an 'acte manqué', perhaps. She burst into the kitchen to find David on the floor, red icing plastered to his swollen arm, like a china doll coved in plasticine blood.

Without hesitation, Monique rushed her son to Salpetrie hospital. It was hospital she knew well – her favourite hospital. The hospital where Docteur Charcot had treated the hysterics. Her heart always fluttered when she entered its halls. Charcot had that effect on her.

Acute allergic reaction, was the diagnosis.

Ever since that day, Monique Guetta was convinced that the industrial food complex had been conspiring to kill members of radical left and their families through the addition of this artificial red colorant into foods. E163, this insidious red colorant that emulated perfectly a communist red, a red that mobilised revolutions, but now, she was sure, a red co-opted by transnational food conglomerates.

And ever since that Tuesday in April 1974, everything in David Guetta's life was arranged by the Guetta matriarch to avoid exposure to E163. The pantries of the families of David's playmates were vetted. Letters were written to his lycées, instructing that all students who shared classes with David should avoid the substance. Restaurant dessert menus were scoured in advance before a family trip.

And so, ever since, perhaps due to this physiological allergic reaction to the colour, or perhaps in part an even greater fear that his mother would create another 'scene hysterique', David had begun to be able to smell the presence of a handful of molecules of E163 in a room, the long chain of organic compound molecules... He made sure from this point onward that he could sense them before his mother did, and invariably caused him some embarrassment.

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You spend your whole life waiting for it to happen, but somehow hoping that it will never happen. I guess in that way we give it more credit than it deserves. You might think it's going to be somehow different, spectacular, theatrical, other-worldly and weird. But the truth is its just another moment. It's always more banal than you think it's going to be. Either that, or every moment is more weird than you might think it be.

For David Guetta it was no different. Perhaps being a superstar DJ, playing in three different countries in a single evening to thousands of adoring fans, you might imagine it would happen differently. But it didn't.

At this point in his career, David's life was a delicate dance, a dance in which he tried to maximise his exposure and multiply his commercial and creative collaborations and interests. Multiple Guettas needed to be managed and promoted simultaneously: the DJ, the Producer, the Father, the artist.

He had been sharing the lift with his business manager Analise, a cameraman named John, and his booking-agent Thierry. Analise was briefing David on his imminent advertising shoot for Burn energy drink which the Burn Energy Academy had been planning.

Analise was going through the running order for a large event that was to be held in Paris - 'Guetta meets Guetta' - which was to be collaborative party and exhibition, between the DJ Guetta and another Guetta, a street artist, Thierry explained, who was, confusingly enough, also called Thierry. John was shooting for a documentary on the DJ to be titled 'Nothing But the Beat', a production that had, coincidentally, also been secretly co-financed by Burn.

Burn had been aggressively pursuing David to be their spokesperson for a few years. For them he symbolised the perfect balance of zen calm and manic energy which would hold an appeal to everyone in their target demographic. He was their everything, and their nothing.

David's manager Thierry had always wondered why it had taken David so long to accept the terms of Burn's lucrative offer – an offer which would give him even greater exposure, and, more importantly, the possibility to mentor young emerging artists. Thierry supposed it might have been the anxiety; David generally avoided highly-caffeinated energy drinks.

Thierry and Analise were talking over each other loudly now, but neither was getting through to David. He had been increasingly distant over the last days – things were tense with Cathy. She had been spending more and more time on this collaboration with Tweety. Warner Brothers had proposed the collaboration between Cathy and Tweety Pie: to create a line of shoes for young independent women, footwear for college and the club!

Over the last month, Cathy had been working late nights. David had got used to waking up alone with steamy scenes of Cathy being fucked by a cartoon yellow canary wearing a strap on. Could Cathy's relationship with Tweety be more than just corporate? Could a Warner Brothers cartoon character being satisfying Cathy's needs more than he could?

David's strange hesitation regarding the Burn contract had led to this shoot being postponed. It was originally planned that it would be shot in Cologne, but, as Thierry was explaining to David, with his European tour kicking off, the only option was to shoot in front of a green screen and to set the locations in post.

David was anxious now. While he was fine with being photographed, he hated being filmed. He realised it was a necessity in the path that had been decided for him, but he felt somehow that it never quite worked, being on video. Something about motion betrayed the truth.

Then for a second, in the corner of David's eye in the empty corner of the elevator, he could have sworn he saw Joelle. Yes, it was him. Joelle, with his weathered face, dressed in a cheap Native American costume, standing perfectly silent, with these piercing dark brown eyes. Joelle, his beatnik half-brother who died of septicaemia in 2004 while living with Native Americans in Orgeon. (David had since become an important patron of an anti-septicaemia charity; he always shuddered when his grooves were described as 'infectious' by the music press).

But this Joelle, standing in the corner, was smaller than he should have been – almost exactly two inches smaller in both height and width. And hovering one inch above the floor.

There was a vibration in David's pocket. He pulled out his phone: a message from Will.I.Am. A single word in capital letters followed by a space and then five exclamation points - TRANSLATION !!!!!

He blinked. He looked up again. Joelle had disappeared. John the cameraman appeared to have swung his shoulder into Analise, trying to get a close up to David's Blackberry, and Analise was pissed off.

'LASGO' read Guetta as the elevator doors started to open. This fragment would be last thing he would remember reading – not even a complete word, not even a complete name, just two clipped syllables.

They walked down the narrow corridor, Thierry and Analise jostling one another, trying to get closer to David, who was starting get anxious. A man with a gentle Scottish accent was waiting for them, and greeted them as they approached.

'Here we, here we, here we foo-king go', the man said slowly, almost ceremoniously, as he swung the studio door open. David was pushed through, into the dark empty film lot.

An assistant gave him the script, and sprayed his face with some kind of tan make-up which got in his eyes so he couldn't read it. There seemed not be any dialogue, just long list of cryptic instructions. He stepped into the green screen. Someone who must have been the director showed him his marks. Then another person, the director's doppleganger, stepped in and showed him another set of marks. A cameraman on a dolly started to get into position.

A metal trolley was bumping onto the scene, being pushed by an assistant wearing white gloves. On it sat a gold electro-plated suitcase, which the assistant carefully opened. In it, framed in protective synthetic grey sponge, were three cans of Burn energy drink. Another assistant pulled out a glass with ice and gave it to David, reaching for the suitcase and pulling out one of the cans of Burn. Then, taking a soft white cloth, she polished it carefully, slowly, caressing the metal cylinder with her palms.

Suddenly, the sound of the can opening ricocheted around the room, the sound of metal screeching across metal, of gasses ripping from a high pressure container to a lower pressure surroundings, a snare drum. David's heart started to race; he started to feel dizzy. The assistant moved towards him, and tilted the opened can toward the cold glass in David's now-trembling, sweaty hands. Something hit his nostrils, a substance that had not hit his nostrils for many years – he could feel the angles of those tri-hexagonal molecules hitting his receptors.

His throat started to tighten. All at once, he knew what colour the liquid that come out of that black polished can would be. As the can moved from a 10 to 15 degree tilt, David gasped for breath. He thought about Analise, about Thierry, about Cathy, Will.I.Am, the other Thierry, and then, sharply, of his brother, of Tweety.

In that last split second before he lost consciousness, a drop of Burn energy drink fell into glass, the sickly red colour of childhood trauma, the colour of maternal neuroses and now – for the first time since he was a child – the colour of anaphylactic shock.

Fucking E163.

[jcwlondon-blog]

Day Two JCW London

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