Anna Helgeson is curious. Curious about the ever-present past, how fantasies become common sense, cultural erasure, and how we decide what is funny. Using performance, photography, and words she...
I spent all week not thinking about David Bowie once. Then he died.
I am sure I have gone months, maybe even years with out once consciously thinking about David Bowie. But hearing that he died struck some kind of deep chord in me that I think boils down to this – I love freaky ass freaks waving their freaky ass flags. They are my heroes, my role models and a source of courage and inspiration.
Before I knew what the word queer meant, before I read Judith Butler with drag kings, and way before I knew there was such a thing as performance art there was David Bowie.
His blue eye shadow and glittery leotards gave me hope. Hope that a far stranger world was possible. Hope that maybe the choice between boys and girls was not any more important than the choice between red velvet and gold lamé.
I can now see that I was collecting images of queers, freaks and weirdoes to protect myself from the sideways glances of the normal world and building a fence around my own freaky heart.
David Bowie RIP – actually fuck that. David Bowie will not rest in peace; he will live on forever in all of our freaky little hearts.