^{for walter benjamin, the city is a dream-space, and in lyotard’s libidinal economy, desire is a generative force. bataille posits the city as the place where we expend desire excess to survival: every city generates its own desires and dreams. in other words, DESIRE LINE is not a city guide, nor an interview, but some third mysterious other thing about how creatives inhabit their chosen cities…}

^{today, Roxy Navaï, who runs the international fashion PR firm RX STUDIO walks us through Toronto, with a quick detour in Paris…}

_{p.s….. see her wedding at Monaco’s Yacht Club featured in Vogue, here}

Where are you based?

I’m Toronto born and raised and now, and after about 16 years living abroad, am finally home again.

Is there anything you miss about the city you last lived in?

The city I last lived in was Paris, and I definitely do miss the lifestyle. Parisians simply know how to live. Strolling the streets by day and having coffee at a brasserie (my beloved Café Charlot), into apéro in the early evening with friends at spots like L’Area, followed by dinner somewhere impossibly good like Vivant, L’Oursin or Early June. Paris really has a rhythm and a “joie de vivre” that no other city can match.

When you want to feel inspired, what places in Toronto come to mind?

Toronto has some really incredible vintage stores that are a whole other kind of inspiring. So many of them have pieces that are like discovering a little piece of fashion history. My favourite being Garment Service, founded by my friends Kurtis, Sepehr and Jake. Hands down the best curation in the city. And the guys themselves are just the best, I love going there just to visit them, and they’re always doing something cool and innovative.

Other than that, My own living room. I guess I’ve become a bit of a homebody since moving back. We put a great deal of care into how we decorated our living space, and had my dear friend Marc Ranger paint a freehand fresco across our dining room wall. Each piece of art or furniture that fills the room came from my family or was intentionally sourced via Facebook Marketplace or some of Toronto’s amazing vintage vendors (like Studio Era Toronto.) So each time I set foot in that room, I feel surrounded by creativity and really inspired.

Best getaway outside of Toronto?

My husband and I finally made it out to Prince Edward County in June for the first time, for our first anniversary. Long overdue, since living abroad meant Canadian getaways never made the list. It definitely lived up to every bit of the hype. A three hour drive from Toronto, and suddenly you’re in an entirely different atmosphere, lake, air, quiet, and the kind of stillness the city just doesn’t offer. “Reconnecting with nature” as they say. It’s also really up-and-coming I think, there were so many amazing restaurants (like Darlings that we loved), cafés (like Rise Coffee House) and bars (like Bar Duchess.)

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today: touching back down in montréal after my five years abroad, post-vacation dreams & jetlag, a party in westmount.

below the paywall, “time slips through our fingers like fairy dust”, heartbreak, hard, then easy times in paris, a bitey polish prince (not mine), intentionally missing my flight, then my train, and so forth.

on my flight home from paris i write long and hard in my journal, mostly vowing to never fly again. for starters: there are no gluten free options on this flight. i eat a ladurée pistachio macaron, then a rose, then an advil, and then a sleeping pill. i pull my sleep mask on, drift off, and very soon after wake up to open-mouthed coughing and wheezing from all directions. a girl from ottawa sat directly behind me talks loudly about her girls trip in montréal this weekend to her random seat mate / new best friend. i mentally tell her to grow up, remember that sleeping pills do not and have never worked on me, curse the inventor of economy class and sort of fall back asleep again.

at canadian customs i’m asked where i reside, and i uncomplicatedly select canada for the first time in five years. i briefly mourn the thrill of telling complicated half-truths to the touchscreens i interface with in various airports of the countries i synchronously technically reside (mexico, canada, france). those days are over now, and i think i’m cool with that.

M picks me up in his loaner car, a yellow-gold hornet and when i see him through the unrolled window, i say his name out loud with a question mark as if maybe he is my uber driver? because this car looks nothing like him. i eat gluten free pretzels from the airport dépanneur in the passenger seat and i have so much to tell him but i am so exhausted and so one track minded on my pretzels. it’s only been a week since we last saw each other but honestly it feels like it’s been months.

at home, we drink wine, wait for J who is out presenting an award. when he returns, i present my cat tongues brought back from paris and vow to sleep til noon the next day. but i wake up at 6 from an extra-vivid nightmare that i’ve been violently bitten by a flying insect (a yellow-gold hornet, perhaps?) so visceral that i hallucinate pain so real that it extracts me from sleep.

in the kitchen, i find J and M just waking up with sleep masks worn like headbands, making espresso, and i am so happy to be back on canadian soil. they go to work and i do laundry, go shopping, facetime with A, argue with the french manager of a hotel over the the phone, do alexis ren’s ten min abs, film myself prepping an elaborate persian dinner for the vlog. for the first time in my life i’ve taken time off after my vacation, which feels very adult and sensible of me. what a life

i’m laying on the couch with the dog and within arms reach there is: lemon water in a mason jar, white wine in a dainty glass and and a pile of books i’ve collected from around the house. M walks in through the back door, foraged lilac in one hand, J on facetime in the other. when he sees me, he completes his sentence: and willa is luxuriating on the couch. i’ve arranged my four days old and newly broken necklace from cadaqués (purchased as evil eye-repellent) into a squiggle on the coffee table.

i contemplate having it repaired against my better knowledge, as when they break, they’ve done their job, so to speak. the breakage indicates the presence of the evil eye, evidences the charm’s effectiveness, effectively rendering it useless both materially and energetically. time to buy a new one, basically. at this rate, that’s 91 protection amulets a year, at about €2,000 or $3,200 CAD. and i would like whoever is sending me the evil eye to know that i am ready and willing to make this investment.

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i’m sort of annoyed, but then my favorite playlist comes on the speakers. next, my jet lag suddenly hits, i am overcome with thirst etc, but i can handle it, it’s not my first rodeo, not at all: i cry, smoke a cigarette in my robe, get dressed, have a glass of wine and fashion a long taxidermy fox around myself like a scarf as people start arriving through the back door.

M goes to return the gold SUV, pick up his normal car, and when he returns he finds us all smoking cigarettes and drinking wine in the back. what have you guys been up to?

this, i say, vaguely gesturing around to the smoke billowing from the group. i’m technically still on euro time so i allow myself a few more cigarettes. plus, T has menthols, which are illegal in canada, so i’d be wise to make the most of the opportunity. M brings out another ashtray and the cocktail we’ve made for his arrival, lights a cig, and 4 seconds later taps it into his drink. oh! he says. a swing and a miss! J points out six errant trees obscuring our view of the city, gets the saw from the crawl space and tactfully cuts them all down in his prada boots and loewe work pants

from the balcony, the rest of us watch the clouds pass. a blue-grey stratus storms past a static range of cumulus meringue, there’s the neighbours waterfall, j’s chainsaw buzzing, the intermittent snapping of branches. a breeze blows through lilac suspended in heat, menthol hangs in the aaaaair…

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read her interview for BESO magazine here.

Where are you based vs. where are you from?

I’m based in Montréal and am from Sherbrooke, about two hours drive from Montréal in QC.

What is the most beautiful thing about living in the city you’re based?

Definitely the community, the people, the energy.

The most cinematic part of the city?

Habitat 67 is pretty cinematic. But as a more personal experience, as cliché as it sounds, I really love driving in the city from the Champlain bridge at sunset, any time of the year. There’s just something about that experience that connects me to a deep teenage memory of coming to Montreal from Sherbrooke, and that feeling of life and possibility.

An overlooked cultural institution?

I think Stereo is an important one. Clubs are often overlooked as cultural institutions and Stereo has been such an important part of Montreal’s music and nightlife culture since 1998. Its sound system is still considered one of the best in the world and it’s right here.

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on the alternating weeks, i share an interview from the arts & culture magazine i founded, BESO mag. please read last week’s, on mexico city-based italian artist Lucrezia de Fazio, here, about her work that centers on desire, femininity, and her body.

june 3, 2026

my train from marseille to paris is held up somewhere near the midpoint for around three hours. during this time, i befriend the cat seated across from me, avoid his owner’s advances, wave off his offerings, lie that i’m allergic to everything. he raises his eyebrows, to which i respond: yes, even saucisson.

i try not to laugh and close my eyes. at this point, i have no idea how long a wait i’m in for, but i cancel all my plans anyway. i eventually give up on trying to rest, with saucisson guy alerting me with unsolicited updates on our delay every ten or so minutes. i try to leave my dying phone alone, no outlet in sight. all i’m left to do is keep my eyes closed and headphones on, halfheartedly reflecting on what equal parts beautiful and absurd a time i’ve had in france over the years. the other half of my heart is preparing itself to move back to canada tomorrow.

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^{Italian visual artist Lucrezia de Fazio tells me how Mexico City, her dreams, and her primary medium - her body - have shaped a profound evolution in her work’s core themes: femininity, intimacy, desire, and now motherhood. This art week in Mexico, Lucrezia will present the second of three acts in her latest work, Madres, Monstruous, y Maquinas, a long-term project that is synchronistically linked with her first pregnancy.}

^{photography: Carolina Lucia Smagacz; intervew: Wilhelmina Mer}

WILHELMINA MER — Let’s begin with the roots of your practice, where did you go to school?

LUCREZIA DE FAZIO — I moved to London from Rome when I was seventeen to do my foundation year at Central Saint Martins. After that first year I moved back to Italy to do my BA in sculpture at the Fine Arts Academy, where I learned many techniques in the old school way, like anatomy and drawing for eight hours straight. I then went back to Saint Martins to do my masters in photography and philosophy. These were the two most important years for my career in the sense that my practice developed through trying many different types of media. I came from an academic background in Italy, then brought that to London where I explored video mapping, installation, and video performance. These two worlds combined into what my practice is now.

WM — What initially drew you to performance and using your body as your medium?

LDF — At Saint Martins, we had no time. There was a lot of pressure, a lot of anxiety. This is why I also started to play with video, because I could have the effects and results quicker and in a more effective way than going to the lab. It’s a different process, especially with performance because you’re exposing your body. It’s very powerful, and it’s more direct. It’s a lot of things. I say sometimes when I go to see other performances, just the presence of the body means a lot. You don’t need to add a lot.

WM — So it was a pragmatic choice then, but you’ve stayed with the medium.

LDF — The exploration of the body as a female artist was and has always been the focus of my practice. It was a lot more experimental at college. Since then I’ve gone back to the roots, going back to drawing and writing, and from there I went back to performance again. The figure is still central. It will always be, it’s the closest thing that I am, the closest thing that I have to explore. It’s a very mysterious medium.

WM — I’m interested in how you represent the female body in fragments. Lips, mouths, tongues, breasts, and nipples that are then multiplied.

LDF — This started in my mind at Saint Martins. I had a seminar with our philosophy teacher, who taught Deleuze’s texts, and I remember the concept of Body Without Organs. This stayed very clear in my mind. I liked the idea of cutting the body in the way that is desexualized. And these are mostly sexual parts: tongues, nipples, hair. I started with the nipples which were the most obvious. The tongue as well. You can find a lot of meaning in the symbol of the tongue, and the hair too. I’m in the hair moment right now. I use them as symbols. But I also really like the anatomic part, in the sense that they are true to their referent because I cast them from actual bodies.

WM — So they’re not interpretations but bridges between the literal anatomy and its symbolism?

LDF — Exactly, they are exactly what they are, with all the pores, and all the details taken directly from the body. On the nipples you can sometimes see the little hair. You can see they’re from different bodies. With an anatomic part, you can separate and analyze the literal form from what they’re used for and what they symbolize.

WM — For me, they suggest a disembodied, maybe divine feminine presence. The installation views feel almost like shrines.

LDF — Now that you mention the shrines, I see it. I never thought about that before. I like when others have a different reading of my work. I’m not a Catholic, but I come from one of the most Catholic cities in the world. And we have something called ex voto, which are like little sculptures of body parts. Each saint is the protector of some body part, for example, Saint Lucia is the protector of the eyes. So if someone is sick in your family, you bring this little ex voto, this sculpture of the eyes. So I like to see these works also as ex votos. There’s a holiness to how they are installed in the gallery or art space, which is typically a sterile white space.

WM — I’m also curious about the tongue symbolism.

LDF — The whole project came from a dream that I had, where I was cutting the tongues of people I knew. I remember sitting at the dining table with my friends, and they were not talking, and I knew it was because I had cut their tongues. The title of the work is Cosas no Dichas, unsaid things. I collected a lot of symbolic words that you can combine, like Mom, Christ, Believe. Big words. The artworks come from different research so at the end you can have different readings. But for this it was the meaning and story behind the word gossip. The word gossip comes from the handmaids who were present at the childbirth in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, which was the same time as the witch hunts. It then evolved to become a bad word connected to witchcraft.

WM — As in gossips spreading rumors about the witch in town?

LDF — Yeah, or being gossipy. So I like this anecdote.

WM — I like it too. Your often explore relations between women and the female collective, like in HYMN, for example, which also felt witchy to me. What’s the story behind that?

LDF — The project began during lockdown when I was in Mexico City with Lexi Sun, a fellow Chinese artist and friend I met at Saint Martins who was living in Berlin at that time. We started sharing our personal experiences of that time with each other. For me, it was going back to live with my mother after ten years, and she was experiencing living with her girlfriend for the first time. So we collected lots of little actions that we observed from these experiences, then we started writing the performance together.

Each movement was symbolic of a relationship that we had with a female other, which could be a mother, a lover, the feminine side of your brother, of yourself or of your father. They were very simple actions. One of them was called The Lover’s Discourse, which is performed by a cellist. Behind her there is another performer connected to her with two hand pieces. The cellist was playing her music, and she was being hugged by the other behind her in this very romantic way. But she wasn’t able to perform what she actually would because she was constrained by the movement. The idea was about a relationship where you feel safe, you feel loved, but at the same time you can’t feel or be entirely yourself. Little things, very symbolic.

WM — How did the performance go last year in Mexico?

LDF — We showed it for the first and only time in a real way here in Mexico City at the Italian Institute. It was crazy. Thirteen performers in a huge fifteenth century nuns cloister. Everything was red, it was a bit spooky in a way. Some feedback that I had was from a friend who said they had a feeling of danger the entire time. And I liked that because I didn’t think about it when I was writing it.

WM — I felt that too - how do you find women respond to your work?

LDF — What I remember, especially during HYMN, was women and female friends of mine in the audience crying, thinking about their moms. It was cathartic. Women were empowered by the performance, and connected to that sweet side of childhood. Male audiences were more shocked. They also didn’t expect that from me. A lot of people were used to seeing my paintings, my other work, and they were shocked that there was a sense of violence in the performance. I will say women saw the tender part, and male audience saw the aggression and the violence and the danger.

WM — Can you tell me more about the other, somewhat lighter side of your work?

LDF — I use drawing and painting, mainly with watercolors, as an automatic and impulsive practice like writing a journal. My works on paper are the most intimate and private ones to me. I draw by memory bodily shapes, portraits, flowers. it doesn’t really matter who and what they are or represent. These works come out as a subconscious response to the more “aggressive” side of my work but coming from the same place. Through those images I explore memories and encounters, remembering the moment they happened and try to recreate them.

WM — For me, your work represents a duality, where there is the tender and sensuous side to femininity, along with its darker aspect: being subject to objectification and violence.

LDF — My main subjects are objectification, domestic labor, and motherhood. These are big topics that are forever connected to the female figure in society and in the family. This is what I want to explore in my art. And it’s also about anger. Art is the way for me to express what I feel and what I want to be seen. With performance, it’s very direct. There’s not a lot of interpretation. You see two girls drowning themselves, it’s a strong image, you can feel grief. It’s all there.

WM — How has living in Mexico changed your work?

LDF — I want to make it clear that my discourse comes from privilege. When people ask “how’s Mexico City,” it’s very protected for me. Gentrification came big and strong, but at the same time you can just switch on the TV to the news and you can feel it: Femicide is a huge thing here, it’s happening. What I see here that makes me furious is that it happens to most girls. Violence is part of their upbringing. There are huge manifestations for Women’s Day in Mexico, and you can see the anger and the reaction. The good thing is that there is a reaction. Still, it’s not a safe place. It’s coming from a society that is very macho. I also come from a country that is also strictly macho, but in not such an obvious way, which can be even more dangerous.

WM — How did you end up here?

LDF — I came for the first time in 2017 with a couple of friends who wanted to see the architecture. I came with no expectations. It felt very familiar, I felt very welcome. It’s not similar to Italy, but there was not a huge culture shock in terms of the people. They are very warm, they love their food, they love their culture, exactly like we do in Italy. Coming from London where the arts scene is very big and very institutional and very closed, here everything is much more free, and more open. From that trip I applied for a residency to come back and explore more. I stayed for three months during Zona Maco, and I found out what art week was. Since then, I’ve shown in and come back for every art week, until I stayed for good, two years ago.

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WM — So, you’re presenting the second act of Madres, Monstruos y Maquinas this art week.

LDF — In April 2023, I confirmed my solo show at Galeria N.A.S.A.L in la Roma. I was thinking, okay, the show is in February of next year, what could possibly happen between then and now? And then I got pregnant. And my due date is in the same week as the show. I will also have a piece at Salon Acme, and another at the Italian Institute. As it happens, I was researching the texts that informed this project just before I found out I was pregnant. The entire project is closely connected to my pregnancy.

WM — Wow. That’s incredibly synchronistic, and very beautiful. What was the text?

LDF — So crazy. I was already reading essays by Rosi Braidotti, about domestic labor and the role of women in society and in the family circle. And then I read her essay, Mothers, Monsters, and Machines, from which I took the project’s name. It’s about how the female body, specifically the mother’s body, has been seen since ancient Greek times as something monstrous, because of how it changes shape very rapidly during pregnancy. ​There’s also the mechanical aspect of reproduction, and how nowadays, we can reproduce without the act of sex, and how reproduction can be manipulated in a lab. And on the other hand, how you can have sex without reproduction. I started working on this project and divided it into three acts, like the three trimesters of the pregnancy. I started getting into these ideas while I was experiencing it in a personal way.

WM — What was the first act?

LDF — The first act happened in November, it was called Cantos. It was a simpler performance, with just six performers. They were playing a lullaby, composing the music live. The chorus was singing, then the instrumental was a xylophone. Lullabies reflect both this tender and creepy side of motherhood. It’s something that makes your baby sleep out of both love and desperation. People are like, ‘aww you’re doing a lullaby.’ And I’m like, ‘yeah - but wait for it!’ I read something by Federico Garcìa Lorca, one of my favorite poets. He surveyed all the lullabies in Spain, and he discovered how creepy the lyrics are, like, ‘please, go to sleep, so that the bad person will come and eat you alive.’

WM — Fairy tales originated as very disturbing stories.

LDF — You subject a completely innocent individual to that, a baby who has no intellectual apprehension of what’s scary or what’s loving. I believe it comes from desperation when the mother is not sleeping. I found it very interesting. The show went well. We did it twice. And then the second part will be during art week. I’ve needed to make sure the installation will work without me being present. I may be giving birth then, so you will have to see it and let me know.

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on the alternating weeks, i share an interview from the arts & culture magazine i founded, BESO mag. please read last week’s, on mexico city-based architecture firm SALA HARS, here.

it’s been raining for two days straight and i’m feeling restless. i want to do everything all at once. i want to text my graphic designer. i want to read my book (Northrop Frye’s The Bush Garden), i want to read an article in one of the fifteen Paris Reviews laying around the cabin, i want to read Health Gossip, i want to write this post, i want to finish one of the tens of entries hanging in my drafts. i want to outfit my guest bedroom, buy a flight to london, go to the national archives in ottawa, buy new shoes. i can feel the city pulsating like this in my veins but i’m not ready to go back yet. i still have to swim halfway across the lake to blueberry island and back.

everyone’s left but J, M, and I. normally after weekends like this i’m saying goodbye to everyone for several months, but now we’re all driving back together to our homes in the same city. but i still feel what i normally feel at the end of a long weekend with the people i love most: restless. let’s get this goodbye over with shall we? i guess i am still learning how to settle into a settled-down life. i can still feel my maladapted pavlovian response raging against the placid lake through the window.

the thing is, i’m actually researching the canadian identity, our landscape, etc., Bush Garden and all, meaning i’m presently exactly where i’m intended to be. i couldn’t have planned it better if i tried, and lord knows i have not planned anything at all. just a lucky girl with no sense of urgency, and yet…. there’s nothing urgent, really, just that ever-present burning desire to hold onto every passing moment, like sand through my fingers.

my astrology affirms this is exactly how i’m meant to be feeling. so boring to talk about astrology, but such a relief to know that there’s some cosmic sophistication underlying what often feels like absurdity. i am meant to feel restless, grounded only when circumstances are just so. i am also meant to be whittling down my network, a hard pill to swallow. everything is falling into place, i suppose. i open and close my laptop several times, wondering, where am i going with this one? just feeling it out in skintight black loungewear and a single men’s-sized sheepskin slipper hanging variously off of one foot, then the other.

i am overflowing with all kinds of sensation: my feet absolutely ravaged by mosquitos, lesions stinging from after-bite, newfound baby fever after spending the weekend with E’s perfect four-year old, good old-fashioned love and gratitude for my friends. a mild headache, too much coffee, strange guilt that the only value-add on this post is insight into today’s mania.

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i ask myself, why can’t i be more like the other girls, girls who share relevant headlines and happenings in the world, information that’s actually useful and good for people? i often ask myself some variation of the first part of this question. but i could stand to be a little more self aware, in the positive sense: i have started sharing BESO stories every other week. only recently because for a long time i’ve been trying to reconcile this creeping sense of impostor syndrome related to BESO (work i’m very proud of) with the often very unreconciled personality that i express on this blog. however i did always see the blog as well-earned, low-brow escape from the work i do on the magazine, and the magazine as necessary escapism from myself. i also do some pretty solid travel writing, for gods sake. so there. that settles that, at least for today.

i finish this entry, sigh a long sigh of relief, and explain to M, a renowned immunologist, that the only way to earn substack fame is through consistent weekly posting. that, interaction, and lots of clever, visually satisfying notes. i tell him i’ve gotta charge my dead phone to scroll for pictures from the weekend to illustrate the piece, even though it’s not about our weekend, just how crazy i am. there are so many beautiful details i could share about it in writing — the way M inscribes the front page of his books with the date and his name, the way the clouds are parting even earlier than the forecast predicted for the sun to finally break through, the bouquet of wildflowers foraged from the property, the perfect risotto i freestyled for the group the other night — but i insist, once again, on making this all about me.

and then i remind him, as i remind all of you, to please

LIKE, COMMENT AND SUBSCRIBE <3

xo

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now i’m laying on the floor of my new apartment under the skylight in the room that i think will be the living room. laying on the floor because the apartment is empty (all my furniture is in france) and also because i’m struck with decision fatigue again.

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^{text —ANA VALESCO, mexico city. portraits —KEEGAN KEENE, paris}

^{originally published on BESO MAG + secret backstory here}

ANA VELASCO — We’ve been friends for many years, but I was thinking earlier before you got here. I feel like there are some parts of your story that I don’t know.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Well, I grew up in Pachuca, about an hour from here. Growing up, I always somehow knew I wouldn’t live there. I wanted something more for myself, whatever that was. In high school I started seeing graphic design, and then a friend told me about a school in Mexico City, where I ended up studying visual communication, specifically graphic design applied to editorial and communication fields. And it was funny, because in my first design classes they would show us these very geeky things, the rules for paragraphs or spacing between letters, and I realized: these are things I had been noticing my whole life. When I was little I would be reading a book and be like, ‘This is wrong — these two words are too close.’ I loved designing presentations for school. When I got to university I was like, wow, this is what I’ve been doing my whole life.

ANA VELASCO — I definitely see that in you as a person. You’re so informed. I’ve met a lot of designers and there is something very particular about your work — knowing how much you love all these aspects of culture, music, books, film — it feels like a different influence than just graphic-ness.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — I don’t think it’s a bad thing, but a lot of graphic designers are very much conocedores. Very knowledgeable about who’s doing what and where. I know the designers I like, but I don’t see graphic design as a field by itself because it connects to so many others. My references are not, for example, the logo of whatever brand. When I was studying, the school where I trained taught us a lot of Swiss design, brought back by and passed on by Mexicans who had studied in Basel. When I started my own work, I was very worried about how it would look in the context of European or American firms. I would compare it a lot to that. And then at some point I just let go. I was like: my references are that, but they’re also all the messiness that Mexico has, in a good way. It’s all these layers. So I stopped trying to position my work within a certain aesthetic and started letting the influences come by themselves. Translating from the gut, more than from the head.

ANA VELASCO — I feel like there’s a fluidity in it. Your work is very precise, but it’s not aspiring for perfection. It doesn’t eliminate the human touch.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Yeah, I like that layering. It’s not messiness exactly, but it’s complex, which is the way projects usually are. What I like is trying to understand the client and what they need, what they want.

ANA VELASCO — How would you describe your work in three words?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Heartfelt is one. Layered. And hermoso (beautiful). I try for things to be beautiful. I went to a Barragán exhibit the other day and they had his entire acceptance speech for the Pritzker on the wall. He talks about the importance of looking for beauty, and how critics have removed the word from their vocabulary. But he felt it was what people should strive for. I feel very connected to that.

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ANA VELASCO — I agree. I think beauty, when it doesn’t stay in the superficial, is a real North Star. It makes your experience in life more profound, your connection to yourself, to your decisions, to other people. And I think when you strip people of beauty, you strip them of dreaming, of dignity, of aspiration.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Exactly. I use the word hermoso a lot when I see things that I like. Sometimes I’m like, I should say something more profound, more intellectual. But to me, when I say something is hermoso, I mean I see light and God in it. I see the connection to the person. That’s what beauty means to me — more than something plastic.

ANA VELASCO — I agree. And you really represent that. Obviously there’s this big leap you’ve made as a tangent of your work as a designer — which is Suave. What made you want to start an editorial, especially in this climate?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — I was a little angry that there wasn’t — in my opinion — a good magazine in Mexico. I had these references I loved: Buffalo Zine, Marfa Journal, Re-edition, Acne Paper. All these European magazines I would see in school and feel so connected to but couldn’t find here. Then I was on a plane back from New York with those three magazines and I was like, well, I should make it myself.

ANA VELASCO — I wanted to talk about being in the first issue, because my poem in it is called ‘How To Be Alone By Yourself in Private,’ which is a title I probably like more than the poem, still.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — I love the poem. We weren’t really friends at that moment — we had met once through mutual friends. But I loved how you write.

ANA VELASCO — I remember you told me you were starting an editorial and I was very excited because I had grown up a huge fan of magazines and editorials — it was my dream to work in editorials, which I was able to do before the industry crashed. So I was excited. And knowing your taste, even if we weren’t that close — I really admired your perspective and your eye. And it felt like a very loose brief.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — It’s always loose.

ANA VELASCO — Which was very exciting and very nerve-wracking, because there aren’t so many opportunities — especially a few years ago — where someone invites you to just play. I felt very trusted. Very accepted, invited into something very special. I feel really proud of being in this work, and in a couple of the other Suaves. It really comes across that you love artists, you know?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Thank you. When I start an issue, it’s always a little vague. What I always see is that everyone ends up thinking about similar things. So I try to guide it in a very subtle way, and then once the issue starts forming, I begin seeing all these connections between the contents. The whole first issue ended up being about the individual — everyone was looking into themselves, thinking about their place in the world, their connection to loneliness. Even the only interview in the issue is an artist interviewing himself. It came through by itself. And it’s funny because it was even hard for me to see myself as an editor, because I didn’t study that. My name is super tiny on it — ‘edited, printer, designed by’ — all very small. Even though it looks like a finished product, I felt like, I don’t know how I did this.

ANA VELASCO — I think that’s what it was though — a very safe place to play, including for you. And to gain this confidence, because it is a very serious thing that you created. Very professional, very beautiful. An incredible collection of art. And I think that maybe a lot of people who you asked to contribute hadn’t really been asked from a place of — I don’t know — taking themselves seriously. That’s how I felt. And you’re saying that for yourself as well, as an editor.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Yeah. I also wanted, from the beginning, to show the work of people that — and it’s connected to something we were chismeando about earlier — who are maybe not in the main scene of Mexico City, the echelon you would see in Purple when they do something about Mexico, or those profiles of the “cool” Mexico City people you “need” to know about. I love all those people, many of my friends are there, it’s not a top-down thing. But I also wanted to show it from the inside. And to show the connection between art, fashion, and photography that Mexico has — working with the legacy of fine arts photography here and bringing fashion into that. Some other magazines are doing that now, but at that moment, that was what I wanted to show.

ANA VALESCO — And there is also this invitation of queerness that hadn’t been shown from a place of artistry and beauty and respect.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Yeah. After the first or second issue, people would say, ‘Oh, the queer magazine.’ And I was like, I don’t see it as that. I never wanted it to be just that. But every issue is about what I’m learning at the moment, or something I feel I need to learn. The first one had a lot to do with my own queerness, my confrontation with gay aesthetics — putting it out there. There’s always a gay thing in Suave, which is important because I’m gay and it’s going to come by itself. But even the contents that aren’t queer in an obvious sense have this very open-ended queerness to them. Nothing is questioning why this thing is next to that, or why this photographer is followed by this poem that has nothing to do with it. It has the freedom — that queerness has — to confront how things should be made.

ANA VALESCO — And a real representation of the Mexico that a lot of people do experience, that isn’t the socialite parts of this culture. So, Issue Two — how long afterwards was that?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — For Issue Two I did this thing — you were in it, you’ll remember — where we had a website with one piece of content on the home page at a time. A video, a poem, a text. People wouldn’t know how long it would be up. And then it came down, and it was down forever. I’ve always been interested in how you can put attention on just one thing at a time, because right now that’s nearly impossible. If you see something online, you know it’ll be there forever, so maybe you don’t finish the article or you don’t watch the video. The magazine is the same — you flip through it and put it on the shelf because you know you have it forever. I was thinking about how you can connect to something and then let it go. But it was a bigger issue — we were working more with brands. We had this cover with Laura Bozzo.

ANA VALESCO — Which was a huge moment.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — A huge moment. And literally the moment the magazine came out, she had to go into hiding because Interpol was looking for her.

ANA VALESCO — For anyone reading — Laura Bozzo is a very, very famous figure. The Wendy Williams of Latin America.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — The Wendy Williams of Latin America wearing Demna’s Balenciaga. It was the most fabulous shoot. It was also where I met Rogelio Burgos, who is now the fashion director of the magazine. We drove to Acapulco with trunks full of clothes, shot there in two days in her house. It was the most incredible but also most dramatic experience — and I didn’t really get to enjoy it, which is why I always say my goal on this new issue is to enjoy the process. I was so nervous the whole time. What if the light falls? Put all the photos in the drive in case something happens. I wish I would have enjoyed it more. But the experience was incredible.

ANA VALESCO — The stakes were higher. Did you still feel like an imposter?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — A little less. But I was going through a breakup, so it was very sad when I was printing that issue. I thought maybe it would explode more — we had the Laura photos. But they were so beautiful that it became impossible for the work to be trivialized or memefied. And I realized: that’s not what Suave does. Even with three celebrities on the cover of Issue Five, it has never gone viral. And I think it’s because of how grounded it is. That’s maintained a growth that is different from what brands would expect of a magazine they might fund, but it’s because we’re striving for something else.

ANA VALESCO — I think the recontextualization is the most palpable thing. These huge figures, but you’re seeing them grounded. There’s a seriousness — not self-seriousness — but something where you can’t laugh at it.

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SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — To me, featuring those people is also talking about people who have shaped Mexican and Latin American culture. They’re important. They have this place that is untouchable and respectful, and to me they are as important and as highbrow, if you will, as the fine artist we commission or the fashion story we shoot with an emerging designer. In Mexico, I feel like that’s how we see things. Everything is in the same field.

ANA VALESCO — I loved working on that edition. And I remember — my mom was in the hospital that week, and you invited me and I switched from sleeping at the hospital to coming to play, and it was so therapeutic. That’s what Suave has always created: a space for people to express themselves, a place of release. Why did you change the format to newspaper for the last issue?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — After Issue Five, I realized a lot of people weren’t really reading the magazine. I do the same — I buy magazines I love and I flip through them and put them on the shelf. I wanted to expand out of our same circle of readership, also out of the magazine’s format and size. So I decided to do a newspaper. I wanted it to cost what a newspaper costs, which is 10 pesos — at least that’s what it cost when I was little. Some people didn’t like that decision. But to me it was about two things: being honest to the format as a designer, and being honest to something I felt as a child, which was this wonder that something that costs so little could have so much inside. I felt people would want to look at every page.

ANA VALESCO — And you’re meeting the moment. People want to reclaim their time, their attention, their beauty, the way they feel about themselves. People want to read. Even if we’ve forgotten how to.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Yeah, and I want to keep exploring these notions of time and attention — how you can demand it. Which might sound a little presumptuous, like, I want you to spend time looking at this. But that’s what I’m interested in.

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ANA VALESCO — The physical experience is so different too. It’s big — you have to put it on a table.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — It has 200 pages. It was monstrous to do. I got sick making it. Printing it sounds romantic — a whole week at the printers — but it was a lot of energy. And there were a lot of no’s from brands, who are getting more and more used to magazines catering to them. It’s hard for PRs in Mexico to understand a magazine that isn’t selling influencers. I was really angry when I finished that issue. What do I need to do to have this magazine and sell it for 10 pesos?

But then we printed 10,000 of them. We distributed in Sanborns and in kiosks across Mexico City. And it was really nice for people — kids at the book fair where I gave a talk last year would come and say, “I always wanted one and couldn’t buy one until now”. That meant something. Because the truth is, we live in Mexico. Selling a magazine for 800 pesos is not an accessible point for a lot of people. It was nice to be able to show that. Beauty — again that word — but to me, that’s what it was.

ANA VALESCO — I think you were reclaiming it. The launch event was so lovely — people sitting on the floor reading it together, by themselves. It felt spiritually connected to the essence of why you started it. And now you’re going again — what made you come back to it?

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — When I finished the last one, I wrote in the editor’s note that it might not happen again. I even talked about it in therapy. I got a little out of myself on that issue — I started feeling like a secretary for contents sometimes. Then I went to Paris for three months because I needed a disconnect from Mexico City after 12 years, which is where I met Willa. And because that’s where Rogelio is and where the brands that have helped us are. I wanted to see the industry there — and I guess, if I’m being appreciated somewhere, I just wanted to be there.

Being there, talking to Rogelio, we started talking about how we wanted to do it differently. There was this moment where all the fear I had been carrying — the nervousness, the pressure — just lifted. I thought: this might be the last one, so let’s just do it our way. And I felt very free by that idea.

ANA VALESCO — That’s exciting. You inspire me a lot. Suave inspires me a lot. The work you make — not just in Suave — inspires me a lot.

SANTIAGO MARTÍNEZ ALBERÚ — Thank you. You know, you are the person who has been featured the most in Suave. One of my rules when I started was not to repeat collaborators — I wanted to push myself to find new people every issue, because what I saw about magazines in Mexico, and in general, is that they bring back the same photographers again and again. But with you I’ve made that exception. And not for the last time.

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In classic Barragán style, its bright pink, modernist structure is expansively windowed, allowing an evolving interplay of light and shadow to unfold throughout the day: sharply cast shadows envelop the exterior in echoes of its planate forms, whereas light enters indirectly, diffusing the space with a numinous glow.

The volcanic rock formations indigenous to Pedregal extend from the garden into the house’s interior, emblematic of the Barragánian paradigm that is found in the architectural union of interior and exterior space. It came to me recently that César has done something similar in keeping his home open to the public, a gesture that bridges the division between private home, museum, architectural paragon and public space.

We spoke at Tetetlán about César’s years as one of Mexico’s preeminent art collectors, the collection that he sold nearly in entirety two decades ago, and his experience restoring the energy and spirit of his home.

— originally published on: https://besomag.com/cesar-cervantes —

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WILHELMINA MER — Let’s begin with how you discovered the home.
CÉSAR CERVANTES — I had lived in this neighborhood all my life. Probably, I had the genetics or the intuition, but I liked the uniqueness of the neighborhood, the houses, the path of the streets, the landscape, and its surroundings. In the early 2000’s, I got involved in preserving the neighborhood and its relevance. Before this one, I had preserved and restored four houses. It was then that I discovered that Barragán had created the neighborhood. But, it was almost impossible to find more information or to see any of the three houses he built here, out of which only Casa Pedregal still exists today. I started looking more into Barragán, but to be honest, I didn’t like him. The vox populi around him is very sad, it’s full of lies or uncertainties, at least.

This is what happens when someone has prestige. When someone is simply famous, everybody goes with him around his fame. People tend to be more jealous of prestigious people. Even those supposedly close to him still don’t know, or want to tell the true story. They kind of kidnapped Barragán with the version they had created of him. In addition to the discourse around Barragan, his houses that still existed were closed to the public, and with few exceptions were in bad shape or heavily altered. The context was not at all positive.

WM — Who were the previous owners?
CC — The Prieto family. Very nice people, and outstanding in how initially they believed in Barragán and in their own way did the best they could for his legacy. The house had not been inhabited for six years, it was almost abandoned. It was used, but not inhabited. There’s a difference, when you use a house, but don’t inhabit it, it loses part of its soul and little maintenance issues become important issues. The house had been for sale for six years. No one bought it. It was strange, but understandable.​

WM — Because of the state it was in?
CC — That had something to do with it. For me, it was in bad shape, hard to read the spirit of the house. Not many knew about Barragán and his masterpieces at the time. It was not that everyone could see how bad it was, it was more so that they couldn’t see how fantastic it was! On the one hand, it was the word of mouth around Barragán which was, and still is in some way terrible. And on the other side, all of his houses were in bad condition. So, at the time I didn’t like him. I knew he was good, but it was not my cup of tea.

WM — What was, then?
CC — I was more into very modernist, functional houses. Diogenes the cynic was, and still is one of my inspirations. At the time, I felt I needed a small space, nothing exceeding basic needs. In this neighborhood, that was difficult to find, besides the house of one of Barragán’s colleagues, Max Cetto who happened to work with him on the plans and construction of Casa Pedregal. Anyway, the house was at risk of being altered forever or demolished. I was working on rescuing and preserving as much of the neighborhood as possible. I knew if I had interest in this neighborhood, that this house must be preserved. And I was not mistaken. I knew the house was important for the neighborhood and for the city. So, in one of those very irresponsible decisions, which is the only way I had made decisions, I decided to buy the house. I said, you know, I’ll buy it, I’ll restore it - because I love restoring houses - and then I will sell it. Nothing could go wrong. I didn’t imagine living in the house more than a year after restoration.​

WM — Then what happened?
CC — Each day as we were recovering the house, removing layers, removing dust, and pieces that did not belong to the house, the energy changed. Its mysticism reappeared. I began studying even more Barragán, not only by the book. This time deeper, I was looking for the people who met him, who worked for him, who really knew him. Not the “experts,” but people who knew him personally, discreetly, intimately and professionally on an uninterested level.

WM — What did you learn?
CC — That he is a fantastic guy. That he did not lose his mind over whatever was said about him. He never opened his intimate life or intimate thoughts. That he was not as religious or more religious than my grandfather was, which was the only way to be at that time. People always said he was gay. We don’t know and dont care but there is for some an obsession with that. No one knows for sure. What I can confirm is that he was a fantastic man. I know that he fell in love with a couple of women, and at least a couple of women fell madly in love with him as well. That’s confirmed.

There is a book we are working on about him now, with personal and proven testimonies that will change the story. I’ve found he is one of my heroes now, one of the most beautiful people to have ever existed in Mexico. There were lots of rumors that he was super bourgeois. Far from being simply “bourgeois,” he was more of a Franciscan, even a kind of Diogenes for me, so I couldn’t find better! His way of life, his philosophy of life, his style of living, his pleasure in sharing, his love for culture and traditions, the creation of these spaces that you know well. It’s very particular, it’s a house where you can feel perfect alone, really. Or with a friend or with your partner, or with a hundred people dancing…

WM — Having fabulous parties…
CC — I love his elegance and simplicity at the same time. And, he was super humble in a very sophisticated way. So I got the house, finished it, and loved it. As soon as it was finished, a lot of people I tried to sell the house to before who initially declined now wanted to buy it. But this time it was me who said no, I don’t want to sell. I don’t know if I will ever sell it, not now for sure. Each day I love it more. I know one day I might leave it, as change as a way of evolution is part of my life.

WM — Right, because around the time of the acquisition coincided with another big shift in your life.
CC — I had been collecting art since the mid-nineties. And then I got tired of it, really tired. There was no more I could do there and it was becoming entropic to look for more. It was starting to feel egoistic of me to keep looking for more. Enough is enough and we must all learn that in all regards. ​

WM — What led up to that moment?
CC — I was able to do something relevant, create a very good collection, work closely with my generation of artists, bringing back some local attention to artists that had died with no ample recognition, and collaborate together with wonderful people like Eugenio Lopez, Agustin Coppel, Moises Cosio and all the great people at that time that were part of Kurimanzutto, in giving Mexico a place in the art world. Twenty-five years ago, no one would talk about Mexico or Mexican artists. Of course there was a beautiful generation back in the fifties and sixties, with Tamayo, Orozco, Rivera, Covarrubias, Spratling, etcetera. But from the eighties until the mid nineties, nothing really happened. So, I wanted to create a beautiful collection not only of Mexican artists, but in Mexico. I’m still grateful for having had the intuition to participate and for all that I received in all ways for that stage of my life.​

WM — The art world had also changed a lot by the time you left.
CC — For me, at that time, prices and the “art market” were still secondary to the art. It certainly wasn’t the most important part as it is today. There was more solidarity in the art society. Little by little, as the whole world changed, the art market became the market that it is today in Mexico and as it had been in extreme capitalistic cities like New York and London. It has probably been that way all the time, but it was not as big or as obvious as it became in the early 2000’s, let’s say, after the first edition of Art Basel Miami, which occurred at the same time as 9/11. Everything changed dramatically. I realized that everything was becoming competition instead of solidarity. I didn’t want to be a part of something that wasn’t making me good anymore, or was not making good to most of the people. It simply changed. I decided to stop collecting, and then I decided to sell the collection.

WM — All at once?
CC — Almost in the same year, but not all together. First I decided to take a break from collecting. And then I decided to sell. People say that I sold the collection to buy the house, but that is not true, it is just coincidence. I decided to sell my collection, and then after that, I said, well, I’ll buy the house. I was also selling my company at the time, also getting divorced. So no, it wasn’t simply that I sold the collection to buy the house. I began to sell my collection, and then, I bought the house as part of a deep change or evolution in my life and its priorities. I believe I understood plastic art so well that I moved on. As you can see, there is no more art in the house.

WM — Well, there’s still one piece — the John Cage score.
CC — Yes, there were a few pieces that when I sold were not considered art, or at least had no economic value - but a very deep personal significance for me.

WM — How did you get into John Cage?
CC — I’ve never been in the mainstream of collecting. When I was collecting, I based my collection on lots of study and research. It all began with literature and art books that took me to the object and then back to the non object. The number of publications, exhibitions, galleries, let’s say in the mid-2000’s was probably ten to twenty percent of what it is today. So at that time, if I could find an artist who really caught my thoughts, I would study him or her in depth. I would find out their sources of inspiration, or quotes that good writers or critics would make.

That’s how I found John Cage. I saw him mentioned a couple times. I got into him when almost no one in Mexico knew him. The high quality people I admired and learned from did remember and know about him. No one collected him here. His works were inexpensive. I got this score in Cologne from Walter Koenig. Regardless of the cost, I love his work, I still do. Last Saturday, we had a piano concert by Ana Gabriela Fernandez at home, and it was inspired by John Cage. When I sold my collection, I said, I will sell everything, except what was given to me as a gift, but, this was not a gift. I had a list with which I offered my collection and art book collection to my friends and no one ever pointed at, or thought much about this one.

WM — I did [laughs]. I wrote about 4’33” in university. I remember when I saw it at your home for the first time, I had a moment.
CC — It’s been there forever, since I renovated the house. So meaningful, and now even more after this conversation, it makes it obvious that it is one of those unique art pieces.

WM — What was it like getting rid of everything - pretty easy?
CC — Absolutely. There were very complex things, for example some people close to me in the market did not like it, or at least didn’t like how I did it. Many galleries and many artists didn’t like the fact that I was selling. So, I was discreetly boycotted. They tried to, at least. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t making a business. I didn’t make the collection in order to speculate or make money. So I got the “boycott” and lost some people that I considered friends, people that I admired and to whom I will always be grateful. Grateful even for their attitude as I sold, because it further confirmed I had made the right decision.

WM — They felt betrayed?
CC — Not necessarily betrayed, I worked hard with all of them and paid for every single piece. Probably I was the first one to sell a collection in recent times and they didn’t expect it or understand it or know how to react. They were thinking more on their own interests than on mines that we had built together. I’m not sure how to say it in English, but you can call it transfuga, like in the Vatican. With all humbleness, I don’t know a case of a cardinal or bishop or archbishop resigning from Vatican catholicism, you know what I mean. No one resigns in the power coupoles. Whoever wants to, in my opinion, is killed before leaving the Vatican. That’s why in Spanish we call it transfuga. At that particular time, when the art market was booming, my decision to sell was not taken well. And I don’t want to be pretentious, but apparently they thought that my leaving or quitting might bring some other collectors to question what they were doing.

WM —What did the fallout look like?
CC — For instance, one of the world’s greatest collections I knew and admired was the Patricia and Gustavo Cisneros Collection, in New York. They were close at that time, I really appreciated and learned from them, and coincidentally enough they stopped collecting at the same time. They of course did it better than how I did. They only sold a little part of their collection, and donated most of it to the MoMa. Because for them too - and they were and are one of the biggest and greatest collections - the market had changed so much that it lost meaning.

It lost, how to say it, “enchantment” probably, no? Probably they as well had learned what life is about, there is much more to do than accumulate one same good. It became all about money. Before, the only thing that didn’t matter was money. If you wanted that piece, and you were the right person for that piece, the artist and gallerist would help you get it, regardless of its price. Suddenly, it all became about money, fame and status. So, I decided to quit.

And some tried to boycott my decision, out of fear, or just by being someone who will raise questions. I don’t want to give so much importance to my decision, but I feel it happened that way. Besides that, it was joyful and easy to sell. And life is not about the right answers, it is all about the right questions. I didn’t know I had so much relevance in the market as when I made that decision. I was looking for the opposite, simply to leave a space, to be more discreet, and I was then heavily criticized and questioned. But, some celebrated and supported my decision.


WM — From what it sounds like, you went from maybe, a very closed world, to having this house with an open door. Have you always been open like this?
CC — It was the same when I collected art. The house was always open, there were always visitors, there were always dinners or parties. Art as you know it only happens the moment it is shared, viewed or attended by someone else besides its creator. I believe in sharing, and making art a way of living - and that has nothing to do with art pieces hung in your walls.​

WM — Right, and 4’33” is paradigmatic both of what you just said and of the conceptual movement in the way that it’s not a work of art per se, but ephemera from a silent “performance.” It’s about the energy in the room. I see a parallel in your decision to sell your collection, and then move to this house whose spirit you restored. Given it’s the only artwork that remains, is there a shared symbolism between your home and the Cage score?
CC — Absolutely, yes, and more so after this conversation. I think there is much analysis and research still to be made around Barragán. One of course is his relationship to Japanese culture, the other, of many more, is his relationship with John Cage. We know he was a music lover, but the connection with John Cage deserves special attention. Probably as we speak, I realize that what John Cage did with 4’33”, I did with plastic art: a reflection that turned into a supposedly silent piece, that ended up being lots of noise.

WM — Will you tell me more more about this incredible library [here at Tetetlán] that’s you keep open to the public?
CC — At the time I began collecting art, books were very important. One needed to be deeply informed before approaching a gallery or an artist. I had an unwritten rule that for every piece I bought or considered for the collection, I needed to read ten books around it before. Later, I discovered that mine was the opposite approach than is common today - people buy ten works, and hardly read one book. It’s very sad. Books are, and will always be very important for me. In the early 2000’s, the internet was not as solid as it is now, so you were reading books. You couldn’t find all the info on the internet. The library was still open in my former house. On Wednesdays, I had it open to students and artists for study.

WM — So, another of Barragán’s paradigms is his union of interior and exterior space. Recently it came to me that you do something similar in opening your home to the public.
CC — Yeah, right. I never saw it that way, but I can’t imagine having a library just for my own, or a collection just for my own. Some of the people I admire the most have wonderful collections, and they do try hard to share them, but, ninety percent is never on display, and probably twenty percent of that collection will never be, and probably ten percent will never leave the crate. I can’t believe that. That’s when the market changes. Because that’s speculation. That’s accumulation, and any accumulation leads to corruption, to inflation. And that is what the art market has become. Not in the very bad sense of the word, but it’s very much about speculation and accumulation. Collections are no longer considered on their quality but on their quantity. It’s not how it should be.

WM — Visiting your home is an expansive experience. It’s much more interesting than visiting a museum.
CC — Expansive, yes. Collecting creates accumulation and an accumulation creates corruption. But people do think that by buying art they are becoming cultured and admired people, and it is not the case. Culture is something else, as said before it is a way of life, not only what you read or what you hang on your walls. Collecting has become more of a way to “show off” and an easy access to the “higher” social spheres. Collectors are looking for the well known names as if they were luxury brands. And gallerists have responded to it by opening more galleries in different cities.

Kind of like a franchise. They are chains now. From that time up until 2010, there were two or three who had galleries in multiple cities, and now everyone does. So where’s the uniqueness? Forty years ago it was the car industry, around fifty years ago, it was the jewelry industry. No one could wear anything simple, it is all about excess. People had more cars than they needed. They were paying too much money. Now it’s plastic art. What happens with contemporary art happens with fashion, it becomes about a display of status.

WM — Are you interested in art today?
CC — If you are talking about plastic arts, I don’t really care much. I haven’t seen something that makes me feel inspired. In terms of plastic art, there’s so much to see. I don’t even think collectors have the time to get to know their own pieces. Culture though, I still love and will always love. And of course my life still has a place for plastic art [gestures to paintings hanging on the walls of Tetetlán]. But I haven’t been surprised or enchanted. There’s not so much intellectuality in the work or society as artists pretend there is. I’m more worried about many other issues.

WM — If not in art, where do you go to find enchantment or inspiration?
CC — It’s crazy but, if we are honest, there is no better way to be inspired or enchanted or find serenity than by walking in a nice garden or park, or through a nice city. If you decide to be by the mountain or by the beach, it’s a wonderful way to get in touch and feel the universe and its magical energy. But then it gets monotonous. I think you need balance. At the beach you become open, get in touch with these basic, primal instincts. But you also need these big cities. You need the energy and the chaos, to complement both parts. Of course you can visit museums from time to time. If you ask me what museum I’d see in New York it would be The Met, The Met over the MoMa without question to learn about history. There are very few people who know about history. And that’s a bit sad, they try to buy history by buying art. Few things as inspiring as a nice conversation.​​

WM — Something that comes to mind are the times I’ve seen small gatherings at your house spontaneously turn into sound ceremonies. In one moment, it’s a loud party, and in the next, there’s complete silence. And then the sound bowls start. I like those a lot.
CC — That’s fantastic. And it doesn’t cost much. They are wonderful. You know, why not walk in a temple? They are places you really feel good, feel silence. Barragán got most of his inspiration from monastic places. So, if you ask me whether I want to go to a museum or a temple, I’ll always say a temple. People today are not visiting temples. They’re visiting galleries. So it ends up being all about noise. Visual noise, too, which is just as terrible as any other noise. I think it’s excessive.

WM — Yes, like commercial signs vying for visibility.
CC — The house’s simplicity is the best. It’s beautiful. There’s nothing like simplicity. It’s an open book that never ends. That was probably why before this house, no other Barragán house had been sold. Of the seven that still exist, none have been sold. Because you really don’t want to leave that place. Something touches you hard so that you don’t want to leave.​

WM — Do you mostly stay in the area?
CC — Si. I hardly leave.

WM — I remember when we saw Mario‘s show at El Eco, you seemed jarred to be back in the city.
CC — Yes. That was a beautiful performance by Mario García Torres. I respect him very much. I think he’s one of the greatest artists. That was almost two years ago. Besides that, I had only been to a gallery or contemporary art museum two or three times, which is a lot for me. And I don’t want to be the grinch of contemporary art. As much as I love opening my house and my books, I love opening questions, opening people’s way of thoughts. The more you see people going one way, the more you need to question that direction. In Mexico City, art is booming, probably more so than in New York, even though we don’t have great museums or great open collections. Mexico City has always been a very creative city. It’s fantastic to create.

WM — How has it changed in recent years with all the foreigners?
CC — I wonder how long it will persist. How many of those people who have come in the past five years will stay? I think of what happened to Berlin. Thirty years ago, everyone moved there, and then it emptied out. We are, of course, very different cities. Mexico is used to being open. Historically, we have been a welcoming city and country. We are built on that.

To mention only recent times, almost a hundred years ago there was Lebanese migration which had a wonderful impact in Mexico. Then close to the forties, the Spanish immigration, then around WWII, mostly Germans, and then in the late sixties, Americans, and then Argentinians. We can’t imagine what Mexico is today without the wonderful people who migrated. I’m positive the present migration into Mexico will help in creating a better Mexico and a better world. Migration generates more creation; people who migrate tend to be very creative and productive people.

I always imagine a day without political borders. It is interesting how countries are working on erasing their borders for products, for commercial trade and economic purposes, but for people they get tougher everyday. I think migration is fantastic. It’s lovely, it’s beautiful. And, the people coming here - from the States, Canada, and Europe - are not competing with Mexican jobs.

WM — How has your experience of the home changed over the years? Do you still make discoveries?
CC — Its serenity is what I like and enjoy the most. Every day is a discovery, each day something new. There are unending possibilities. Spending the day at the garden is a lovely day. And it’s so simple. And that’s another thing about plastic arts these days. It is no longer simple. Back in the day it was. Now it’s all about calling attention and about competition.

WM — The art world can be a lot of fun.
CC — In the art world we find a lot of interesting people. Some of the people I admire most, I found through art. There are always good parties, interesting people around culture, not necessarily around contemporary art. It’s fun because these parties are attended by the kind of people who are more attracted to a gallery opening or an art party than a football game.

WM — What about a basketball game!
CC— That’s at least our little section. I don’t know about the rest. But if we at least want to go to a little party, after a Capitanes game, we will have as much fun as we would at any art party.​

WM — Do you have any secret stories from parties here?
CC — The house is full of them. I don’t have them. There’s a great friend of mine who is encouraging me to do either a book or a film on the house. It might happen, and lots of great anecdotes will pop up. ​

WM — I love this idea.
CC — They said I should put little cameras or tape recorders. I said, I would never do that!
​
WM — That’s too bad [laughs]
CC — Everything happens here. It’s so lovely. All I get is very good comments and anecdotes. Nothing bad has ever happened. I think it has to do with the spirit of the house.

WM — Definitely, there is a different energy here.
CC — For some reason, I like that there is no plastic art, it creates a different context.​

WM — There are lots of amazing objects on display.
CC — Those are very related to time, these are things to open questions. I have a few beautiful Japanese objects. I’ve had people from Japan come to visit the house on a tour and not even know their story. I think to myself, please, let’s not lose contact with our traditions. It’s important to not ever lose contact with history or traditions. I believe our only borders should be traditions. But then again, North Americans, particularly from the United States, have no connection to tradition. Right now it’s all about consuming, feeling you’re part of something just by consuming. Polarity is growing. And I think being open reduces polarity.

WM — Being open in what sense?
CC — Being open in the sense of opening your home, sharing. I question being open all the time. I question being open with my house, the way that I am all the time. But I like it, and it is a process of not only opening the house or library, it’s about opening and sharing thoughts, actions, projects.

WM — Well, it means a lot. When you say “it’s your house,” you really mean it. I have heard you say it to many people. Still, I was surprised to see so many strangers walking around inside the house the other day
CC — It lets you see something else. Not only the house, but the way we live in the house.

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we arrive in marseille at around 6, take a car to la cité radieuse, then check in to le corbusier hotel on it’s third floor. low-lit and unadorned, it looks much the same, surely as it always has, given this is a unesco world heritage site.

referred to back in the day, in all seriousness — and today with fondness — as “the madman’s house” for corbusier’s visionary social and aesthetic program, the radiant city is quiet, understated and relaxed. the reception desk is piled with papers, books, binders, a PC desktop, and is infrequently manned by various indifferent french staff. wood-panelled with side-long windows, there’s a maritime vibe to the place. ceilings hang low over long dark hallways with navigation lights piercing through to mark entry to each room. behind a bright yellow door marked ‘E’ is mine, the smallest i’ve ever seen, with a tiny balcony, a view, and a janky lock and key. i love it. i could live here, i keep thinking. hypothetically, of course

we reset, shower, and bring wine up to the roof. it’s perimeter is fenced off at eye level by thick brutalist concrete, sectioning off a dreamy expanse of cloudy blue sky casting corbusier’s towering dove-grey sculptures into relief. it’s tranquil and deceptively cool up here. you can’t see the chaos down at sea level, but you can sense it. we drink wine and zone out atop a massive stone plinth in an area marked off by signage that reads interdit, and then we leave for our dinner reservation at la mercerie that we cannot miss.

we make it out but end up missing dinner on account of a dramatic onset of exhaustion and minor/mid crashoit. as we take our seats at the table i realize that i am simply not in the mood for a tasting menu after the travel day we’ve had. in fact i’m delirious and i wont do it. plus, marseille is hectic, charged and intense - it’s a challenging energy to walk into in the state i’m in. this feels like bali, i keep saying, even though it looks a lot like paris, albeit absolutely covered in graffiti. its humid, loud, and the traffic is totally fucked. when did i get so soft? back in january i was briefly determined to move to marseille. from what i’ve heard it sounds like my kind of place, but what i’m presently experiencing is a test of my survival skills. everything in my periphery is moving at high speed. i am nearly hit by a rogue scooter, am probably about to be robbed. you know, i take back what i said earlier: i’d die out here.

and then: no, no, i could handle marseille. i’d do well here. it sort of feels like the lovechild of my two favorite cities in the world — paris, mexico — with an ocean on top. i go back and forth like this, hypothetically, of course, because my french visa expires in two days. E is losing patience. i’m sleep deprived, i don’t know. our ubers keep cancelling on us. i can feel the groups of boys loitering around us assessing the situation. i try to straighten out my posture and look alert. an uber finally comes through and returns us to le corbusier.

i sleep a long, dreamless sleep and wake up in the same position i fell asleep to a text from E saying having coffee upstairs. i dress myself in a daze, leave my cabin, and as i emerge begin to notice that the interior’s every element and surface — the rectangular claustra vitrine in the entrance hall, the tiled floors, the concrete-grilled windows, the latticed wall engravings — all reference the building’s underlying gridded structure, and with it, corbusier’s vision for harmonious communal living. now that i’ve returned to my senses, i can see that the grid radiates from every corner; it progresses through the building in rectangular forms that unfold in subdued mondrian accents of red, yellow and blue. in the daylight, it’s glossy floors reflect square pools of light, numinous grids filtered in through the glass. the sound of residents’ footsteps and bonjour’s skip across it’s surface like stones. okay, radiant city. i can see it now.

at reception, i order an americano and am told that in france, we say allongé by the server who then dramatically allongates her body to illustrate the point. okay, i say. i’ll have an allongé. i bring my coffee to the roof and find E, who tells me that on his way out, the same server mentioned to him that just the other day, someone jumped right off the ledge to their death. we drink coffee in silence by the shallow turquoise pool with the minimalist fountain, because it is the area that today is arbitrarily sequestered off by the same interdit signs that, just last night, marked off the other side of the roof. it’s breezy and peaceful as we ready ourselves to go back downtown.

we learn that everything is closed in marseille on mondays. also on tuesdays, by the way. but thankfully not jogging store, where glossy FANE bags are displayed like candy and have remained my single-pointed hyperfixation ever since. i desperately need one in every color: latte, lipstick, oyster, mint, pétale, and in every finish: spazzolato, nubuck, tanned and patent leather. i find out that i also desperately need striped la fetiche shirts in every colorway, too. i have the sense that this newfound aversion to black means something in me has changed for the better.

limmat is our only lunch option, where we drink nice wine, are reminded that air conditioning does not really exist in france, and decide it’s time to go check in to tuba club where it does. we spend the rest of the day on tuba’s rock drinking daiquiris, daydreaming, tanning, reading til sunset. we jump off the rock into the ocean. it’s really perfect. i tell E about this idea i have, entirely inspired by our weekend in cérbere. it occurs to me that i actually know a guy in toronto who could probably consult on the project. an hour later, back in my room, i get a text from exactly that guy: i think you just walked past me at tuba club. i go back out and say hello, have a cigarette with his group and then back to my air conditioned room. it’s heaven inside; the cool air is finally giving me the space i need to process the past week. i think, wow. every life experience just effortlessly accumulates then unexpectedly folds into the next. of how nice it is to be here. of how often and indirectly i am rewarded for the conventionally and also plainly unwise decisions i make. i fall asleep feeling tipsy, self-determined and pleased with myself, then wake up about five hours later feeling quite the same. and then, suddenly panicked, almost as if i can sense what has just gone sideways.

it’s six in the morning, and i walk over to tuba club’s villa to use the hammam because i can’t fall back asleep. i walk in on a lone man on staff preparing breakfast, playing cowgirl in the sand by neil young, and it’s as if he’s seen a ghost when his eyes land on me. i’ve forgotten it’s ungodly (unless paid) to be up at this hour in france. he thinks, maybe, that i’m lost, and starts ushering me back towards my room. i’ll walk you all the way there, he assures me, grave and concerned, searching in my detached, jaded expression for signs of mental illness, perhaps. this is so unserious, i think, of his concern, of what is going on with me, it’s absurd. he eventually understands that i’m not disturbed, just north american, very go, go, go, up so early like this, and finally turns on the hammam for me.

in the hammam, i lay on my back, close my eyes, and will all of my trouble to leave my body through my open pores. an hour later the steam turns off. honestly i could have gone a lot longer than that, alas, i step out lightheaded, blushed and unsteady. i walk back up the stairs to the villa to lounge on the bellini-esque couches alone in my hotel robe. by now the french man has turned on the elevator music that plays on low volume all day long. its overcast. i drink coffee, apricot juice, and aqua panna from the bottle, dripping with condensation. i smile at the french man who insists i eat something. i pick up my phone, place it down. i make a mental note to book a session with my colorist, and at least two with my hypnotherapist. i very briefly and tactfully cry for the first of several times this morning. my face is red. i am sunburnt exhausted and dehydrated, because of today, because of last week, because my whole entire life. hotel guests come in for breakfast and delight over the continental spread of all the things that i’m allergic to. i text the hotel manager that i’d like to check out now.

after we pack and leave our rooms, we wait around in the villa. it’s way too hot outside, and i have zero desire to swim or do anything but get on my train to paris. i’m too tired to talk and have resigned myself to watching others enjoy themselves for now. i see a couple arrive with their bags and suddenly have the sense that i’m watching an episode of the white lotus as she breezily pulls her hair into a ponytail from the other side of the glass. an elevator music-style rendition of justin bieber’s peaches comes on. E hands me a copy of apartamento’s book on modern cadaquéan architecture that momentarily distracts me from my absolutely foul mood.

in it, i learn that cadaqués has been pillaged by every civilization that’s encountered it throughout history. but it was never settled by invaders because it’s basically a landlocked island, with a small port and only a single road leading in and out of town. it’s true, it was a pain in the ass to get there. that’s also of course why it’s remained so beautiful and perfect. i internally make the sweeping generalization that everything is like this, and mentally lock myself in my apartment for the entire summer. i then tell E what is going on with me.

overlooking the ocean, we eat a seafood lunch in a melancholy and nostalgic manner. it was the only solid plan we made this trip: our farewell lunch at tuba club. a couple dressed to the nines orders everything on the menu and films using a handheld device that i guess steadies one’s phone camera. you need one of those, E jokes. i’d been shakily vlogging him, and both of us in hysterical laughter all week. i for some reason can’t take my eyes off of the couple, and i don’t even try. i just watch them, and wonder what it’s like.

on my way to the station, i mentally prepare for the three hour train to paris. i mentally prepare for what may or may not be a date later tonight. i ask myself why i have made plans with five separate people to take place in the 24 hours that i have in paris, during which i must also organize all my possessions to move back to canada with. i am both north american and sick. i hold onto the handle above the car’s backseat window to steady myself against my driver full-speeding down the road that winds along the coast from tuba to the city centre. i become nauseous, i ask him to roll down the window. he hits his vape and tells me to stop looking at my phone. it’s not my phone, i say, it’s the roads.

you are like a chilled, he tells me, chuckling to himself, genuinely endeared by my sudden illness. i look out the window for relief, and see a man standing tip toe atop a garbage can to get the shot of his girlfriend, who is leaning far back over the ledge of a bridge.

xo

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i can still remember holding this thick newspaper with both arms, reading the editor’s note, feeling so enamoured by it’s writer, thinking, who is this guy? how does he know what i’m thinking and feeling?

beso had been living online for the year since i’d started it, and as the initial excitement and momentum wavered, i began to constantly question whether or not the project could or should exist in the way i eventually wanted it to (i.e. sensitive, unformulaic, progressive and mostly amateur content in print). i had my doubts (i.e. will this land and how tf will i properly fund it) and, by the time i made it to suave’s launch, i had eventually become completely neurotic about the whole thing

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i invite them instead to a weekend on the southeast coast of france later this summer. i’ve confirmed my attendance, have no conflicts, and very much want to go but can’t seem to pull trig on buying the flight for that either. have at least booked a (fully refundable) hotel stay, though. i actually do need to go to paris for practical reasons, also to this event for magazine reasons, spend some time in the south of france for nostalgic reasons. need to do all of this, mainly, for closure reasons - my hesitation comes from the image of myself alone with three suitcases ungracefully (definitely hungover) accepting defeat in the departures zone of CDG.

in meditation the other day it became clear to me that nothing will significantly change either way, whether i go now or delay it even longer. so why put it off? perhaps this uncharacteristic travel anxiety stems from it being quite obviously volatile out there, but the world has been on the brink since 2020, so what’s another month and a half of electing to be out of touch and doing as i please?

but no, that’s not really it, either…

related:

what’s crazier: to not book a vacation because the news anchor suggested it unwise to or because your astrologer advised against it? what’s worse: to ask your energy healer a question you so clearly know the answer to, not only because it’s already been provided more than thrice in concrete, materially unambiguous signals, or, vowing to take intuitive matters into your own hands, because what he said was not what you wanted to hear? what’s more fucked: to be served accurate 30-second psychic readings about your love life via instagram ads, or that i watch them all the way through? to have been prompted by men for my entire life to repeatedly reiterate my disinterest, or that i still feel edgy about having to hurt their feelings (yet again) even though i gave it to them straight the first time? and what do we make of this: that i inexplicably can’t even remember what’s in those three suitcases i left in paris, or that i don’t even really care?

xo

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i take an express bus from montreal to point claire to meet S & D by the golf course they grew up on. have recently become obsessed with buses because i can read on the way without becoming carsick. i’m reading birthmark, a short story by miranda july that details the insidious nature of the assumptions we make within romantic relationships, i.e. he wouldn’t love me if i still had that birthmark on my face. a touch spot on given my little crashout the other day. as i take note of this in my phone app, i also notice a sign on the bus with the words MENACER, CRACHER (threaten, spit) crossed out by the cancel symbol. in franglais i think to myself i’d better get off before the menace & crashout police catch me on the vehicle. when i get to my stop i have trouble getting off the bus, as if i’ve never done it before, and a man with two small children eyes me suspiciously, open-mouthed. i tell him sorry, i’m not from here, instinctively gesturing to my outfit as proof.

S, D, and their husbands B & B are waiting there for me in the car. S yells out the window, get in loser, we’re going to the sugar shack. i get in and start screaming because i’m so excited to see my friends. on the drive to the countryside, we discuss my detox symptoms, modern courtship and my recent crashout. this eventually leads to the topic of love letters, specifically of the unhinged variety.

the last D received in this category was from the guy (a published poet) who shared his musings on their first date with her several months after the fact, out of the blue. in this email, he refers to her as a “hard-built ontarian queen”, suggests that maybe her ancestors were “losers” (they weren’t) and writes at length about his ex’s “small and proud” breasts. S’s most unhinged love letter was from a highschool boyfriend, written in red ink across several airplane barf bags. mine would have to be the track a beatboxer i dated in university sent me after our breakup, which is him rapping about how he had to sacrifice our relationship for his eventual fame. hope he’s well. D & S are planning a live love-letter reading event, probs in new york, which i think is a really good idea.

anyways, we arrive, S compliments my scrunchie (which she already saw in this post) and we make a deal to write more often from the hip, in shorter form, this is what i did and what i wore-style. no more weeks-long edits on a single post. so here’s my first go. the “sugar shack”, which is more like a county fair, is decrepit and carnivalesque. it’s giving american horror story: cabane a sucre. B films D riding the mechanical bull, kris jenner-style, while the bull operator appears as if in a trance. there’s an unmanned petting zoo, where i pet a baby goat, admire the chickens, notice a vampiresque duck. there’s a grown woman making loud baa sounds, soliciting the lambs from the other side of the tetanus-ridden wire fencing, and the animals start stampeding inside their cages.

we take a choo-choo train around the property to see sap being pumped from maple trees through a network of looping blue wires. we spot a marmot behind a life-size statue of a deadman laying on the ground. an old man yells at me to sit down. a small child points at me and says look at the old lady. over lunch - a feast of maple syrup-infused eggs, sausages, soups and largely glutinous dishes - i teeter on the brink of an orthorexic meltdown. i try to make a joke about this and my friends laugh nervously. the entire place is run by children, including one who reminds me he’s a professional after i recoil when he comes at me with scissors to snip off my festival bracelet. at the end, waiting in line for our frozen maple syrup lollipops, fielding dirty looks from tweens, i lean in and whisper in D’s ear, you are the most beautiful girl at the sugar shack.

xo

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beautiful, stylish girl with messy hair?

no dice. i haven’t brushed my hair today and am desperate to have T by my side so that mine looks intentional next to hers, effortless and wild. i call and learn she’s actually waiting for me at 915 dupont, (not to be confused with 9:15 a.m.) which should have been obvious as this is where we normally meet under conspiratorial circumstances. i had misread the text, once again forgetting about my monthly resolution to double check everything.

is your friend okay? lovely shopgirl asks. yes, just a classic case of two adhd girlies making same-day plans. i text that i’m on my way, but first discuss my newfound aversion to tarot cards with lovely shopgirl, test out three separate fragrances on either wrist and my neck (volta by barre, gossamer spirit & étude in black by universal flowering), then stop at GUS TACOS next door for a single birria because i’m missing the old country.

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i finally make it to T, finding her sitting perfectly poised and crosslegged on the floor in a curtained-off corner at 915. we roll the bamboo down low, gossip for an hour and then remember the premise of our meeting: my new project that i have exactly two months to pull off. i tell her everything, and she’s obviously down.

we go back to 100% silk, and the girls are stoked for me to have found my friend. the four of us chat about skincare, dropping the self-care / control routine, clothes, and the fact that it’s the spring equinox today. T gets a rare glimpse of the inside of my bag and takes a picture. we learn the first day spring is also the first day of the astrological new year, and all agree that this makes much more sense than it occurring in the dead of winter. i of course find this very symbolic because of my new idea.

i have another epiphany, turn to T and tell her: accessories are the essence of life. she laughs really hard and agrees. i’ve been dressing minimally and exclusively in black since highschool (long before we knew about CBK, by the way) however recently i’m feeling sort of over it? a new era, it turns out…

i find an oversized beaded yellow silk scrunchie by tigra tigra and need to have it, because if i saw someone else wearing it i’d think who is she, running errands in her chic little scrunchie? i love the idea underpinning a thrown-on accessory made ornate: it’s a reminder that glamour can and should infuse the every-day. that’s the energy accessories should bring: sparkle, intrigue, inspiration. ideally, they should be elusive statements of one’s inner complexity. the more intricate, impractical and unexpected, the better — at least in my case.

inspired and full of life, we buy our things, go back to GUS and and the staff laugh at seeing me back in again. but what they don’t know is that last year’s running-in-circles routine is this year’s upward spiral

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here are some accessories on my mind:

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as the delirium rises, i convince myself it will always be this way, that i will never sleep again, that i will never sustain the energy to write the fifteen or so emails i must every day, to go to the sauna, to edit interview transcripts from 25 pages down to a clean 6, to experiment with alternative website layouts, to go to pilates, to get on another plane ever again, to make a dinner reservation for my mom’s birthday, etc.

i begin to think this must be some version of the depression i briefly experienced once then managed to evade for the rest of my life, until i remember that i always get this sort of way when i’m sick, and that the existential wormhole i’ve crawled into actually makes a lot of sense given the facts and figures at hand, or rather, the looming question marks left in their place. i tell myself it’s just the insomnia, the illness i’ve earned along with my pms talking. i remind myself of all the things to be grateful for: my godfathers their dachshund this bed my health my friends my family my hair. i will the tension in my neck to subside, i focus on my breath, and so on.

i become intolerably bored by all this, and reach for my phone to google how they built the underground eurostar tunnel from england to france. it’s simply out of scope for me, someone who was imagining coal miners with pickaxes, to believe these people had the follow through to first engineer and then install ‘tunnel boring machines’, for example. i picture myself speeding at an ungodly velocity beneath the ocean’s floor, rolling my eyes and flipping my hair, ruminating. i remember the outrage on the part of my university boyfriend’s engineering classmates after he gave me his iron ring, for all it symbolized, because i studied art history and no one outside their faculty actually works. too large for my pinky, i’d wear it on my ring finger, still too loose. a barista on campus once pointed out the discrepancy and asked me, how’d you get that ring? to which i responded, how do you think?

i then ask claude what TCM has to say about persistent tension at the base of the skull, and self-diagnose ‘du mai obstruction’. the ‘jade pillow gate’ (located at the base of the skull) is apparently the gateway between not only the head and the body but our connection to the spirit world. it makes sense. i learn that the brain, in TCM, is called ‘the sea of marrow’ and at its centre is called ‘the palace of mud pill’. i feel around for the SI3 and BL62 acupuncture points in my hands and ankles and press into them. the tension in my neck dissolves completely, then i fall asleep.

a few hours later, i get a text from ethan saying tell me more and immediately i know i’ve texted him some deranged, half-baked business idea in my sleep. indeed, the idea is for a travel app that counts the days you’ve spent in a given country so that you don’t accidentally overstay your tourist visa and get yourself banned. this is for people who travel a lot, never miss flights, but can’t be bothered to do the math or google the rules, people like me. trying to legitimize the venture in my semi-wakeful state, i respond: maybe the app would sell travel accessories, connect you with the best car services, predict your travel needs, flag airport pitfalls, etc.

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it might even tell you when it’s time to go home already. it should somehow sync up with your astrology apps and flag good / bad planetary transits for travel as well as good / bad locations according to one’s locational astrology. it would be a cosmic travel advisor powered by AI. the more i think about it the more i think this is a truly genius idea, both practical and spiritual, jade pillow gate blowing wide open.

i then remember how i, not so long ago, got looped into paying a monthly plan for weekly psychic counsel, enlisting an energy healer as a psychic travel advisor who would help me field international invitations. this was not how she advertised her services but it was what i turned all of our conversations into: is the energy better for me here or here? should i let my ex-situationship take me to miami? should i go to tulum, somewhere i swore i’d never go back to, once again? i learned all the answers in advance, and also that there were, naturally, several curses on me since many lifetimes ago.

whenever i doubted, she’d tell me, just wait, there’s some other factor that’s about to reveal itself that will make it all make sense. indeed, it always did. we worked together like this for nine months. i can still remember how grounding it felt to always have a sense of what the near-future held. but at month nine i finally realized that maintaining this dialogue was no way to live, because it was slowly grating at my own intuition. even still, trying to decide how to spend these next couple of months that i thought i’d be in paris has felt like shaking a magic 8 ball ad nauseam, desperation and ennui mounting with each vague response from the ether.

i was at a party with ethan over the holidays, where an acquaintance asked me what country i now live in. whatever it was that i said in response caused ethan to throw his head back in laughter, then to impatiently, theatrically tap at his watch and say, it’s been two months, time to get going, as if he were me. in noticing the mismatch in how obvious and unfunny this was to me (two months being an intolerably long time to spend in one place), that thing i always say pressed up clear in my mind’s eye through the ether: only boring people get bored.

so there it is. i’ll tell my therapist never mind then, i’ve figured it all out: i’ll just find a way to be less predictable.

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i’ll spare the details but, i came home to an unlucky incident in paris after the holidays which led me to pack up my apartment and flee to london while i get my life back in order. all i really had to do was pack up my things, take a train, and come stay in the guest room of my godfather and his husband. in other words, two of the objectively best people on earth provided objectively the softest of landings in my time of need. i’m really lucky. but still i’m waking up in a panic in the middle of the night, crashing out on a daily basis and calling my friends in hysterics, only to get laughed off and reminded that i used to live like this voluntarily: packing, unpacking, checking in, checking out, obsessing over flights and where to spend my time between international art fairs. the man who manages my practical matters said to me on a call last week, it doesn’t sound so bad, this problem you have. i tried to convince him how terrible it was, to have the rug pulled from under me like that, but it didn’t land. he was amused by the whole thing, because it was me telling the story after all. now you can be everywhere again, he said.

but what’s really vexing me, even more than the shock, is that i’d tried to turn the page on this four years long catch-me-if-you-can chapter of my life. truthfully it’s been a lot longer than that. for context, i’m technically a resident of three countries but don’t have a fixed mailing address. in the past 17 years i have lived in 11 cities across 6 countries. in this past year i’ve slept in at least 44 different hotel / airbnb / guest rooms. definitely too blessed to be stressed, and yet…

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i can be anywhere, it’s true. but by now i consider this much freedom to be a trap. and it was this that i was trying to escape when i moved to paris. i settled down and established a predictable rhythm for about 4 months, and it felt really good. it felt good to know where i’d be two weeks from today. and here i am again, unable to tell you, with my plans changing on a daily basis, if not more. it could be margate, marseille, london or new york. but probably not paris. it’s almost impossible to find an apartment there as a foreigner - i just got really lucky last time. so i suppose i now feel that i’ve been singled out by the universe to lead this complicated, unpredictable life where i can’t even answer the simple question of where my mail is sent. really sad story, i know.

convinced i’m cursed, i consulted my energy healer in bali over zoom. it’s not the end, he said, it’s just a moment. our translator gestured psychically with her hands, the way i felt the world was closing in on me.

and then she flicked her fingers outwards as if it was not like that at all.