Bradford Shellhammer

why i write, too

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 08:57:10 -0500

"You know, they ask me if I were on a desert island and I knew nobody would ever see what I wrote, would I go on writing. My answer is most emphatically yes. I would go on writing for company. Because I'm creating an imaginary -- it's always imaginary -- world in which I would like to live." -William S. Burroughs

on arlene, paper dolls, and paper dresses

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 14:20:33 -0500

About five years ago, I went to Joe's Pub and saw a collection of celebrities read other celebrities' books and biographies, showcasing the hilarious words and stories found in the pages of books by Suzanne Somers and Diana Ross. You know, real literary giants. The event was put together by Nancy Balbirer and featured the actor and playwright Charles Busch, who read from the pages of the classic Always Ask a Man: Arlene Dahl's Key to Femininity. He was stellar. Surely you know Arlene Dahl? I did not then. But I was so blown away by her writings that I rushed out and snapped up every copy of the book on Amazon and eBay. Now my secret's caught on. The book, which I paid about $5 a copy for, fetches upwards of $100 nowadays. But back to Ms. Dahl. She's perhaps most famous for being the mother of 1980s heartthrob Lorenzo Lamas. At one time, though, she was a Hollywood actress. As her career faded, she sold lingerie and wrote advice columns, and later astrology columns, for newspapers. But it is Always Ask a Man that shows her true genius. Case in point: In the book, she offers borderline-offensive advice to women, telling them to not speak their mind, to be subservient, and to always be dressed to the nines. She also quotes many Hollywood leading men on what they find attractive in women. Men like Anthony Perkins and Rock Hudson. Yes, she asked the gays. And as the chart above shows, she offered tips on fashion and beauty. "Chic Is: A gay dinner hat. Chic Is Not: Sleeveless dresses on overweight women." Dear God. If they weren't so camp, Dahl's words would be offensive. Yet, many decades later, I find the fashion industry still holds up many of her ridiculous and outdated concepts of femininity and beauty. This saddens me a bit. But, as with a train wreck, I cannot look away from her. Nothing is better than whipping out this book at a dinner party and after a few vodkas reading its passages. A few years ago I met Cynthia Rowley and gave her a copy. Upon receiving it, she sent me a pair of graphic print vintage 1970s underwear. It is my favorite gift to give, especially to design folks. I went through a strange phase in my Arlene Dahl obsession too, going so far as to buy many of her 1960s paper dolls and framing them and lining the walls of my upstate lake house. But in recent years it had slowed down. Until recently, when I found a video of Dahl presenting dresses on a TV fashion show. In it Dahl talks about the wonders of paper dresses. And as I watched it for the first time, I thought of my paper dolls and all the joy they, and Arlene's words, have brought me.

on not eating animals, eating animals, and then not eating animals.

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 23:05:19 -0500

It must have been the 6th grade. And I don't know why I did it. I really have no clue. No one in my house was one. No one I knew was one. There was no reason. But, I suspect, even then, I was much brighter than many, myself included, knew. I look back and think that even back then I knew right from wrong. I was a vegetarian in the 6th grade. And remember I went to school in a suburb of Baltimore. This was no California. This was the late 80s. This was not cool. But Morrissey was. And he sang that meat is murder and something in those words must have touched me. I was a vegetarian for 7 years. 7 years! It seems so long ago. It seems so odd that I have almost entirely blocked this out. But then it became normal and I never obsessed or fretted over it. I wonder if anyone even remembers me being a vegetarian. The few memories I have of my vegetarianism, and later, a one-year stint at veganism, do remain. I remember seeking fake Dr. Martens made from vinyl. I remember signing up for PETA at the first Lollapalooza. I remember vegetarian meals at Louie's Bookstore Café. And I remember in my freshman year of college founding a new club on campus, Veggies & Friends. Please forgive the name. I remember a big meal that was put on with the Peace Studies department. I remember an awful Erasure/Lene Lovich song on an animal rights album. I remember the supermodels who'd rather go naked than wear fur. And I remember the first time I ate meat after that. It was sophomore year. It was close to Christmas and I was at IKEA (of all places!) with Beezer Zepp and I ate a hotdog. After 7 years I ate an IKEA hotdog. WTF? And then a love affair with meat and cheese and foie gras and fur and leather began. I did not just eat meats and dairy. I obsessed. I gorged. I overate and I consumed. Consumed so, so very much. I was worried about what tasted good. And meat tastes really good. And so does cheese. And so does ice cream. Sour Cream. Fried Chicken. Steaks. Greek Yogurt. Bacon. Oh, dear God, bacon. And I would once in a blue moon recall my vegetarian past. I'd make ignorant exclamations around vegetarians. I'd point to design and say look at our canines! We were designed to eat meat. What was really happening is that I was defensive. I used my vegetarian past as justification; I thought they were no better than me. I gave 7 years. I said it stopped meaning something to me. I don't know what that meant, but it felt the right thing to say. And as I grew up and made more money I could afford more luxuries and meats and animals are luxuries and I got even further away from vegetarianism. And I cared not to know. I knew secrets existed. I'd not been blind to stories of the destructive nature meat consumption has, not only on my body, but also on the world. The skies. The water. The animals. And the people. Yes, the human race. Right before Christmas Georgi and I ate brunch at Cookshop with Monte Albers and Michael Meltzer. We undoubtedly consumed animals. Probably many. And as we walked up 10th Avenue on the way to Brian Babst's birthday party we stopped in an independent bookstore. And I picked up a novel by Nabokov and sat looking at another book, Eating Animals, by Jonathan Safran Foer. I loved the font and color and almost bought the book based on its cover alone. Let me back up. Months earlier I'd read Michael Pollan's book In Defense of Food. And upon reading that on the train back to NYC from Dutchess County, I knew something had awakened. This past summer, while poor and focusing on fitness, I even did several vegan weeks mixed into my normal diet of burgers and cheese and ice cream. I did it then as a way to lose weight, clear my head, wean myself off chemicals in processed food. But the idea of veganism was not foreign. Although just for a few weeks at a time, I'd still embraced the concept. And then Christmas rolled around and I decided to buy the few people on my list books. I bought Eating Animals for my brother and one copy for me. I don't know why actually. I thought his girlfriend would enjoy it. My brother is a new father and now that I have read Foer's opus I hope my brother has read the book. It is as much about fatherhood than it is about anything. Eating Animals awakened something in me. Something so deep and powerful and precious that halfway through the book, while dining on New York Strip at an Argentinean steakhouse in San Jose, Cost Rica, I declared to my companions that I was going to go vegan. I was laughed at, obviously. And I read and read and read. And on the flight back from San Jose to New York City I finished the book. And I made up my mind. This was it. My last meal made up of animals was airplane food. Awful, tough beef with peppers and onions. It was rough and disgusting. And like that IKEA hotdog it will forever be symbolic. I could go into everything I learned from the book. I could write about factory farms and tortured animals. I could write about the environment. About pits of pig shit killing humans. About the oceans being raped. About workers being taken advantage of. About species being altered and mutated. About antibiotics being rendered useless. About big business destroying small business. About corporations calling all shots. About the American way. But I won't. Those reasons are undeniable. They cannot be ignored anymore. Not by me. The convenience of forgetting I no longer have. The burden of remembrance is what I carry. And I vow to remember the consequences my actions bring not only to myself and to my brother's daughter but to my lover, my mother, my city, my country, and this world. Ultimately one paragaph changed my mind. The author writes about cruelty: "But nature isn't cruel. And neither are the animals in nature that kill and occasionally even torture one another. Cruelty depends on an understanding of cruelty, and the ability to choose against it. Or to choose to ignore it." I choose not to ignore it. And this time around it's more than just childhood innocence fueling the decision. It is a deep love of life that allows it to be one of the easiest decisions I've ever made.

on monkeys, surfboards, and family

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 22:53:15 -0500

I said a prayer before I went to bed. I fell asleep sometime around 9:30PM. And woke to my iPhone's alarm at 1:45AM. We had a 5AM flight and the blizzard had already dropped 20 inches on my hometown of Baltimore. We were cautious and leaving for the airport early. The car arrived and eventually six friends were picked up and we rushed off to JFK. No one but Georgi and I had slept. He barely slept, actually. Upon waking up I checked my emails and while I slept he'd written me one, on his blackberry, from bed next to me while I slept. He said he could not sleep and was excited about our first trip. His sweetness is never ending. And it's always laid on me. Heavy. Thick. Heavy. We flew to San Jose. And met up with several more travelers from San Francisco. Nine of us traveled across Costa Rica's lush and rocky land towards the beach town of Manuel Antonio. Our house was 6000 square feet. The top level, living, kitchen, and dining, was completely open. It framed a mesmerizing view of trees, monkeys, the Pacific below, and jutting rock formations. It was indeed paradise. I live in cliche. Yes, I know. Four other friends arrived later in the day and I was surrounded by 12 others. Some on the trip I've known for more than a decade. Some I have had sex with. Some I'd once been in love with. Some I'd lived with. Most I'd fought with. Some I'd broken bread with and others I'd broken glasses with. Some I'd just met. Most were family. And a week in paradise had many journeys. We boated along the Pacific coast and watched dolphins jump and snorkeled with fish below. I learned to surf and caught a wave or two. I ate ceviche and grilled meats and fruits and vegetables. I drank as many beers this week as I had the past year. I cabled above forest canopies. Swam in the ocean. Taunted monkeys. Impromptu drag shows. Poolside shows (The Nightingales) were born. Made cocktails and guacamole. Read. Laughed. Bickered. Swam. Sunned. Jumped. I did not turn my phone on once. I rarely looked at my computer. And when 13 people start to get on your nerves, and yes, even when they're family, they will at times, I descended to my (rather large) room and held Georgi and locked eyes and giggled and tickled and told each other that we must be the only two sane people in the world. And that is true love, folks. When the world is mad. When everyone is carrying on around you. When you feel outnumbered and outplayed. There is one. One you trust. One you lean on. One you escape with. That's my baby. And then, quickly, we'd reemerge to the house. And we'd see the housemates. Theron in Beyonce drag. Ms. Panda eating Pringles. Greg downing Scotch. Leland wiping up. Jesse exclaiming. Ryan observing. Lucas laughing. Jack clicking at his game. Michael texting. Monte lip-syncing. And Eric, my dear Eric, exuding cool in a gaggle of big personalities. And we'd sit around the table and Theron would toast the house and we'd talk and eat and discuss our days and the next ahead. And while it snowed in NYC we kept warm with 90 degree temperatures, bath water warmth of the Pacific, and each others vibrant personalities. Paradise is meant for me. It's a shame it lasts just a week.

on the 4th design

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 20:28:56 -0500

I first started the process of redesigning this site well before Jason Goldberg returned from Germany and offered me the job of Creative Director. Before I left Blu Dot I was considering a jump. Not to another furniture brand, but to start my own business. Over the years I'd written for many publications. I have been decorating apartments on the side. I'd begun writing for Sundance and Full Frontal Fashion. I also started creating KissZINE with Zach Augustine. All these creative endeavors and ideas and opportunities were presenting themselves and I longed to work creatively. I'd earned it. I'd paved the way. I was ready. So I called my mom and told her I was considering quitting my job to go work for myself. Doing what? Doing it all. I would write for more blogs and more websites. I wanted to make videos. Publish the zine. I wanted to help other retailers create compelling marketing campaigns and shopping experiences. I would actively pursue decorating clients. I had just taken on two small projects the same week I told my mom of this idea. Doors were opening and while the last five years had provided financial stability, I'd longed to do more. I was bored. Then I told Georgi, who was extremely supportive, and Sandra, who encouraged the leap. She said to me "do you always see yourself working in a shop?" The answer was a resounding no. I'd loved the five years I spent in showroom sales. I loved the commission checks. I loved the homes filled with amazing furniture. I'd loved the furniture industry, meeting designers and becoming friends with the close knit design community. I have made many friends in the modern furniture and design worlds. But, again, time and time again, I kept returning to a lack of satisfaction. That while I excelled at sales, I felt a part of me, a rather large part of me, had been dormant. I was ready to risk the financial security of my career path for more personal fulfillment. Post-workout Sandra and I mulled my options. The first was take my blog, going strong now for nearly ten years, and transition it to one showcasing my talents. All of them. Not just the written word. My friend Scott Seviour walked into the diner and sat at the adjacent table. I told him of my plan. That I wanted to start my own firm. But what to name it? He asked, well, what do you do. And I rattled them off. One by one. I can, pretty much, take on any creative job. And he said like a "workshop?" And that was it. Bradford Shellhammer Creative Workshop was born. I love the imagery of the word workshop. It conjures up pictures of elves in Santa's workshop tinkering away at toys(a love of mine). It reminds me of the Bauhaus, where students built furniture and made screen prints and wove textiles. And it made me think of how I work: with other people, with my hands, with trial and error, with a myriad of disciplines. It seemed right. I felt, coming off the tumultuous and ultimately life-defining year of 2009, my online presence needed to match my actual life. I wanted it to feel adult. I partnered again with Ralph McGinnis and rid the site to its cuteness. Gone are the rainbow colors and animated characters. I wanted lots of white. Few colors. Black text. I kept the font Neutraface. It fits me. It is big, graphic, clean. I wanted my words to stand out. I wanted my work to stand out. And so the site now is black & white, red, gray, and yellow. I never liked yellow. But as my tastes have evolved over the years, so has my appreciation for the color. The red/black/white color combination is somewhat reminiscent of my first blog, youngbradford.com. I like that nod to my past. I was not expecting Jason to come along and offer me a job that incorporates everything I felt missing from my previous professional life. But he did and I am so happy I joined. And I am working a lot now and I am dedicated to fabulis 100%. I cannot possibly take on a new project right now. But whether the workshop remains closed or it reopens down the road, one thing is certain: I've changed yet again, headed down a new path, and have made a creative transformation.

on being fabulis

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 14:20:17 -0500

Ten years ago I started writing online. At the time I did not know what a blog was. Most did not. But I did it and stuck with it. It is the longest commitment I have ever had. And I need it. Five years ago I transitioned my career to the world of design. I began working in furniture retail. I launched two retail concepts in Manhattan, one for DWR and one for Blu Dot. I achieved a second degree at Parsons. I began painting and decorating and creating. But I never left writing online. Last year I started writing for Sundance Channel and Full Frontal Fashion. While I continued to excel at online communication, my day job lacked something. I was not creating. I was not designing. Though I did work for creative design houses. Ten years ago I met Jason Goldberg in NYC. We moved to San Francisco within months of one another. He got an MBA. And I found a simple life. Jason went to Seattle and then New York and then Germany. I stayed in touch. And I watched Jason's successes. He founded Jobster. He founded, and sold, Socialmedian. And I admired his drive and entrepreneurial spirit. I was a bit envious at times. Last week Jason and I met. We spent the day together and he offered me a position as Creative Director of his new online venture Fabulis. Fabulis will soon become a name you recognize. The site will be a place where gay men and their gay-friendly friends celebrate life. A place we share where we've been and where we're going. It will produce the ultimate gay guide to living. And the content will be entirely user generated. Monday I gave notice at Blu Dot and accepted Jason's offer. Please visit Fabulis and sign up to receive info when the site launches. I'd love everyone reading this to become a part of this next chapter of my life. This opportunity is a direct result of my dedication to online communication: blogging, writing, creating. Now, in my tenth year, it takes another turn. I am anxious as to what awaits me in the next decade. One thing I am certain: it will be Fabulis.

robert fontanelli portraits

Sun, 03 Jan 2010 10:21:27 -0500

I recently sat for artist Robert Fontanelli who created these two portraits. One features the Blu Dot Real Good chair and the other featuring the Carlton cabinet designed in 1981 by Ettore Sottsass. Both, like myself, are colorful.

on bad poetry, good people, and a new year

Fri, 01 Jan 2010 10:06:48 -0500

New shoes New friends New clues New ends New starts New stops New parts New pops New dreams New days New teams New ways I want new. New. New. New. New things New songs New wings New throngs New lives New kisses New dives New misses New me New you New we New too I want new. New. New. New. Happy New Year.

peace and big love 2009

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 09:55:16 -0500

on twelve months, starting from scratch, and the verge of a breakthrough

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:51:03 -0500

This is a daunting task. I am trying to map out an essay highlighting 2009. But I am having a hard time. So much happened. So much changed. So much started. So much gained. January started and I began a new job. It has now been a year since I left DWR and the rumblings of trouble I sensed there have manifested in CEO firings and expose news stories. So I made the right move. And Blu Dot's been just lovely. Lovely coworkers. Lovely walks to work in Soho. Lovely new furniture in my lovely new apartment. I took a trip to Minneapolis in January. To see the corporate offices and sit in on product development meetings. It was cold. But inspiring. Minneapolis made an impact on me, its art museums and architecture and people all a real treat. In January this blog started to change too and I am so happy it did. Gone were the daily remembrances of what celebrity I spotted at Equinox or where I ate breakfast to be replaced by the overly dramatic essays I am prone to write. I am glad I shifted back to writing and found my voice again. In February Ben Dixon and I traveled to Rio with Charlie Currie and Jesse Cozart. While in Jesse's hotel room he told me that we were to meet a friend of a friend. His name was Georgi and Jesse thought surely I'd recognize him from the gym. And when he showed me Georgi's Facebook profile on his Blackberry I most certainly did. And I'd eyed Georgi for quite some time and my heart jumped. Literally. The early months of 2009 are clouded with sadness and secrecy and I want to be very clear. The time I met Georgi I only knew I needed to know him. I was engaged and the last thing on my mind was leaving Ben. I was committed. Ben and I shared a day in Sao Paulo and I quietly convinced myself I would make it work. I would be a better partner, even though, deeper down, we both knew it was over. I had an awakening in Brazil. The air and the sun and the sand and the coconut water and the men and music. They all inspired me. I felt young. In February, on one of our final nights in Rio, Jesse, Ben, Charlie and I dined out. We had Italian of all things and in Ipanema something was brewing. Carnival was about to start and we were about to leave. And I stared out the window and saw two young high schoolers, a girl and a boy, make out on the hood of a car. The passion was obvious; the scene out of a movie. And I saw the love and the desire and passion. And I knew I had lost that. And that image haunted me on the plane flying home. In March I decided to change my life. On a conscious level I threw myself into physical exercise. And on a subconscious level I began preparing an exit strategy for my failed relationship. Enter Georgi. With little more than a casual conversation in Rio, once in the US Georgi and I began working out together religiously. And I lost 15 pounds during these daily 6AM, two-hour long training sessions. At first I was motivated to get in shape. Soon after the motivation was to see his face. And everyone saw it happen. Scott Seviour coined it a "bromance." And I fell in love and by the time March rolled around, and as Ralph McGinnis' designed wedding invites were set to be printed, I began experiencing dizziness and sorrow. I was depressed. Shaken. And scared. And with the counseling of my mother and Eric Riley and Eric Lee and Sandra Hansel I called the wedding off. And it was liberating and freeing and the hardest thing I have ever done. Now, Ben and I are easing back into a friendship. Slowly. In March I saw Simply Red and Morrissey and started going to shows and buying music. I was alive. In April everything was upside down. I was living with Ben and Georgi shied from me as any sane person would. I was not datable. Or was I? I systematically made changes. I rented an apartment in the Village. I drained my meager savings to do this and I was for the first time in 5 years worried about money. I watched Atonement, with Georgi, and while the tale of lost lovers moved along onscreen I convinced myself Georgi was the love of my life. Afterwards I fought hard. And won. And while I dined at Minetta Tavern with Paul Margolin we eyed Madonna dining at the table across from us. And then and there in that classic NYC moment I knew the chaos would quiet and things would work themselves out. In May I moved to that apartment on Christopher Street. I was photographed for and interviewed by The New York Times. I rented a Fire Island share. And I climbed back on my feet. I made new friends through the year, some who were experiencing similar lifestyle changes. I had all my clothes taken in and sold so many of my costumes: Etro suits and bright colored, and super expensive, items I'd collected. And in late May I travelled to Palm Springs and gathered with my best friends and toasted life. We had an incredible time and I returned to NYC golden and on an upswing. In June I turned 33 and I felt, and looked, much younger. Georgi and I started enthusiastically gushing to one another. We wondered if this excitement would ever fade. We danced and had fun on Fire Island with friends, new and old. We celebrated Pride outside in the sun. And I saw Beyonce with Thomas Goldberg. I also started writing for Sundance Channel on the side. And I slowly put back the money I'd borrowed. And I started figuring out how to live differently and spend differently. In July the Times piece published and I was inspired by the kind words of strangers and frightened by the viscousness of others. I continued heading to the beach. And life got simpler. G and I fell into a rhythm of exercise, cooking, eating, relaxing, and sleeping. A simple kind of life had become my own. We traveled to Baltimore to eat steamed crabs. In August it seemed silly to keep two apartments so I looked to sublet Christopher Street. I did and met the wonderful Alex Zapak. I went to Fire Island for a week and Georgi went to Bulgaria for two and the distance between us nearly broke us both in two. When he returned I moved in. I saw Depeche Mode with Alireza Massoumnia. In September we kissed summer goodbye. My housemates and I painted the island, and our faces, gold. My mom visited. I started writing, and shooting, for Full Frontal Fashion. We saw the Pet Shop Boys with Theron Long, Alireza, and Joe D'Espinosa In October I discovered I had a gay uncle and some straight uncles too. And an aunt. Relatives of my father we never knew of. Georgi turned another year older and I felt less like I was robbing the cradle. Dwell shot our apartment and made a lovely little movie. We dressed as the Wizard of Oz and had a glorious Halloween. I heard news that an old friend died. I returned upstate for a fun weekend at the house. In November I travelled again to Palm Springs and walked away inspired. I saw Pamela Johnston get married. I swam in Cher's pool with Alireza, Zach Augustine, and Diana Coney. I flew across the country with Amanda Lepore. I made Thanksgiving dinner with Georgi and John Nolan and Joe D'Espinosa. And then we all went to DC along with Patrick Menasco. I dropped Real Good chairs all over NYC and contributed to a really good movie Blu Dot created. We saw Royksopp with Adam Norbury and Marty Chavez. In December we went to party after party after party. I sat for Robert Fontanelli. I founded KissZINE. And I sit typing secure. Madly in love. Financially stable. Grounded. And about to take Georgi home to meet my family. The year was one of upheaval in every possible way. Like shaving your head. Like ripping up a sketch. Like leaving everything behind. I found peace in starting from scratch. My job was new. My lover. My home. My body. My soul. I am on a creative roll. I am making things. I am writing things. I am alive and about and running around town. My friends have been my rock. The old ones who have been here for me and the new ones who have magically appeared from the strangest of places. 2009 was a broken year. 2010 already looks to be a breakthrough year. I am ready. Crazy in love. Right side up. And very thankful for you.

on furniture lines, bloodlines, and pencil lines

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 22:19:56 -0500

Does my stomach stick out too much? I wonder if my eyes look stressed and bugged out like they do in some pictures? Are the wrinkles in my forehead relaxed or showing? My chin. Oh my chin. Double, triple? Or do I look slim. Has the fact that I have not shaved in 3 days made me look bloated? Older? Filthy? More masculine? What about my hair line? Noticeably retreating? Or holding its ground? I have self confidence. At the end of the day I am happy with my life and my body and my waistline and my hairline and my skin. There are moments of insecurity. There are days when I feel better about myself than others. There are days I feel unworthy and days I feel oh so very worthy. Luckily the scales usually tip to that side. I sat for hours in Robert Fontanelli's apartment on Irving Place last night. He lives on one of my absolute favorite blocks in Manhattan. Directly across the street, on the NE corner of Irving at 19th, sits my dream house. Brick. Manicured. Stunning. Gypsy Rose Lee once lived in Robert's building. Robert's apartment is old. Concrete walls. Exposed radiators. Leaded glass windows. And his house is filled with curiosities of old. Herman Miller's first bedroom set. A Stottsas mirror. More Memphis. Aalto lounge chairs. Noguchi cyclone table. Easels and sketch books. Books and woods and an iMac. Pottery and oversized, glorious, colorful posters from the 1950s by Erik Nitsche for General Dynmaics. Tom of Finland on the walls. His house contains relics of the time before his childhood. An old red LCW showed its wear. It made me miss the pair Ben and I shared. I remarked this and Robert advised me not to purchase things so ubiquitous. Other than that chair his home is filled with obscure, though somewhat recognizable, pieces of the past. After I took in all his belongings and asked my last question of fascination Robert began to draw. And we chatted. And listened to LCD Sound System, a band I kinda knew of, but never like-liked. Their blend of music styles is a bit infectious. And then Robert told me to stop talking. He needed to draw my lips and mouth. And in those moments of silence I sat or stood and my mind raced thinking about, naturally, what he was seeing. And documenting. And capturing. And exaggerating. And downplaying. And I felt a touch of insecurity. Which is good to go along with the self-obsession that allowed me to ask my mother to pay for a portrait of myself as my Christmas gift. When Robert showed me what he'd started I was amazed. He said the sitting was the opposite of what he'd imagined. He was expecting color and movement and body. And what he drew were a few faces. Detailed. In muted colors. And that face was perfect. I saw my mother's father. My own dad. And my brother. In addition to myself I saw the faces of 3 other men who share/shared my own blood. And that was exciting. I cannot wait to see what Robert creates. What chair or furniture or mirror he juxtaposes with my image. I cannot wait for him to draw Georgi either. And perhaps a new tradition has started. A yearly portrait. By a different artist. Every Christmas. Capturing someone. Something. My bloodline. In pen and paper. Or paint. Or snapshot. To be displayed. Looked upon. And discussed. Because all faces tell a thousand stories.

on balderdash, yarn, and Scandinavians with drum machines

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 22:43:51 -0500

Eight months ago, a mere month after my break-up with Ben, I prepared for a second round. Georgi, who had turned my life upside down, was acting smart. He knew my emotional state all too well. He'd witnessed the previous two months which lead my sorrow to physical ill to life-altering decisions. I stood there, in April, resolute in my love for him and its importance and nothing could make me not fight for it. He was resisting. Part of it was the newness of love. And the other part was the ridiculousness of the situation. I was heartbroken, racing up and down an emotional roller-coaster, and still sleeping in bed with my ex. Why wouldn't he run? And I braced myself for what came next. I knew it could go either way. He could have walked away, promising to return to our affair once dust settled. And he could have stayed, what I lobbied for desperately. But he had a choice. And in his choice the path of my life was wound around. And I would be fine either way. But I knew my heart could end broken, twice, in as many months. I rely upon tricks and rituals from my youth. And so I made Georgi a cd. On it I layered tracks spelling out my emotions. I let songwriters and vocalists translate my thoughts. He listened to it and sent me an email. "I hope the next cd you make me is happier," or something like that, he said. On that cd was a song by Royksopp called "You Don't Have a Clue." It features the vocals of Anneli Drecker and she sings "But you don't have a clue, this party hasn't ended yet. Not for me and you, now you're just pretending." As keyboard blips and piano keys pulse around her ethereal vocals she sings a song brazen and forthright. She told her lover that she knew, better than he, what he was thinking. And I knew better than Georgi. What we had was the stuff songs are written about. So it seemed appropriate that Drecker put on a fantastic show last Monday at Webster Hall with Royksopp. We were guests of Adam Norbury and Marty Chavez. The band was incredible. They took electronic music and made it rock and roll. They jumped and drummed and banged and recreated their songs. They did not simply press play. And Drecker, who stood in for Robyn and The Knife's Karin Dreijer Andersson on the band's biggest hits, which is no small feat, was magical. She captured those bigger pop star's inflections perfectly and gave a dramatic, nuanced performance. Georgi and I kissed. Smiled. Danced. Jumped. This party hadn't ended. And we walked home with Adam (Marty had to rise too early) and we ate Mexican on the street and I felt young and alive. Ears ringing and lips stretched. At the Royksopp show I told Marty we were going to DC the day after Thanksgiving. This prompted him to mention his friend Patrick Menasco, who has a house there. Patrick runs in similar circles yet we'd never met. And the night before Thanksgiving that changed. I met him as we dined at Joe and John's house. We had lasagna and delicious wine and the world got a little closer and smaller. And on Thanksgiving Georgi and I cycled and cooked and along with Tanner and Alireza we ventured back to Joe and John's. Patrick was there again with his friend Wes. The food and company were delicious. Turkey. Pancetta and Brussels spouts. Mashed potatoes with blue cheese and garlic. Yams. Beets. Fennel. Fresh cranberry. Cauliflower. Olives. Cheeses. Cornichons. Cured meats. Hummus. Crusty bread. Delicious wines. Pumpkin and Apple pie. More food than the ten of us could have even dented. Not even if we'd starved ourselves for days. And we played parlor games and crashed before midnight. The next day Joe, John, Georgi and I went to DC. Patrick joined us and at dinner we ate with my mother at Dito's restaurant. My mom looked pretty, her hair curly and and she was wearing lipstick. I made Georgi sing the song he's made in her honor, sung to the theme of the Wizard of Oz. He was "Off to see the mother, the greatest mother in law." We kissed her goodbye and joined Rahnee and the twins, Jon and Lucas. We danced. Laughed. Reminisced. And again Georgi and I crashed. We woke and shared carrot soup and crusty baguettes and tapenade and ham and then walked the Holocaust museum. It was powerful and emotional and I often times trailed ahead of Georgi unable to continue reading about the horrors. It was a crisp, crystal clear day in the capitol. And then we were off. Joe, John, Patrick, Georgi and I. And a truck that hit an overpass closed the NJ Turnpike. And a drive which normally takes 4 hours ended up taking nearly 8. And though I had seen these guys for 4 straight days, and though tempers flared a bit in the car due to the situation, we made it back to Manhattan alive, better friends, and truly thankful. And now a week from that Royksopp concert I sit in bed alone with my laptop after 10PM. I key these words. And I listen to another Royksopp song, this one sung by Robyn. It is a song of longing. About a lover gone, to work, and the sorrow that consumes her when he's not there. She goes mental every time he goes to work. She calls him up and wants to know when he's coming home. She's so alone. And when Georgi's not here, I am too. The song is an answer to Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence." It shimmers in a moody disco light. It is epic. And whether sung by Robyn or Ms. Drecker it's still the same. "Can't stand it when you go to work. You never seem to know when to stop. I never know when you'll return. I'm in love with a robot." Just like the mix-tapes I made when I was thirteen, songs still sing my life. They provide the soundtrack. The yarn that holds my thoughts and emotions together, loosely knit, they're my family. My friends. I am thankful for my family. My friends, new and old. My lover. And for Scandinavians with drum machines and other ones with unique, odd voices. They're all my loved ones.

on dwellings, new wrinkles, and the greatest job on earth

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 09:37:46 -0500

Bold Color, Small Space: Bradford Shellhammer for Dwell by Gary Nadeau from gary nadeau on Vimeo.

It is a unique setting. Sitting in your tiny apartment, microphone running under your shirt, and four grown men with cameras and lights and recording devices hovering around. And yet here I was once again whoring myself out for a pr opportunity. This one was different: I was worried about the outcome. Video? Me? An editor of Dwell, my favorite shelter book, had called only the month prior. She'd read the Times this summer and wanted to do a video shoot for Dwell's site. The theme: Bold color, small space. Makes sense. I agreed to the shoot. Obviously, it's an ego boost. But, you know, it made sense for me to agree. I do work in design and furnishings and it would only benefit my career. And I do write on the side for various publications and websites, so again, it is good to get out there. But I was concerned (really) about appearing like a media whore. I mean I don't have an album to sell or a book to sell or a clothing line to sell. But I guess I do have myself to sell. And I guess sales is what makes the world go around. I too also did not want to shake up my relationship. Who wants to date a guy who is hungry for fame and attention? And not everyone wants their home on display for thousands online and this is Georgi's home too after all. But, the positives outweighed the negatives, and Dwell, like the Times, is a pretty classy joint. I was a bit honored that they'd asked me. Finally, others besides myself were catching on to my talents! Bout time. Immediately I was at peace when Gary Nadeau and his team arrived at our place. Gary had done his homework. He too had read the Times' piece and he also had read my website and was cool and complementary when talking about my blog. And then it hit me. I do have a body of work to sell. I do have something to talk about. I am a writer. I am a designer. One must believe these things to make them a reality. And too often I've brushed away my writing online as mere journal keeping, of no real value to anyone, but myself. But this is not true. Ten years (almost) after blogging for the first time I am at a place where I've amassed many a word published online. Youngbradford. Bradford Shellhammer. Queerty. Design Notes. SUNfiltered. Full Frontal Fashion. I've made a little go a very long way. And made some money along the way doing it. So I relaxed. I chatted with Gary. Showed them our home. I showed off my toys and talked about inspiration. And they left after 8 hours. The video Dwell published yesterday is really quite lovely. It made me smile. It showed off the humor and fun I attempt when decorating. It was very colorful and I think it so accurately portrayed me. I am really quite thankful to have this little treasure to take with me into the future. It will be a reminder of this time. A time when I am the happiest I have ever been and a time where I felt I could take on the world. I did get a little sad noticing where my body was changing. My eyes' skin is no longer as taut as it had been. I looked older than I do in still images. And my nails! Jesus I needed a manicure. But even Gary's macro shots of my cuticles, wrinkles and dry skin could not distract the viewer, and myself, from the brief film's point: inspiration, color, laughs, and love are everywhere. It's your job to find them. Talk about them. Write about them. Sing about them. That's your job here on earth.

my simple truth

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:12:48 -0500

Writing is not hard. Not writing is hard.

on cher's pool, snow cones, and symbols of beauty

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:54:45 -0500

He crept in. He had the past few nights. His smiling face and big brown eyes only seen in brief snuggles and smiles leading up to my trip. He works a lot. I woke at 4:45AM and showered, grabbed my bag, full of paper cranes, bowties, and shorts. Sleepily, I stumbled into the cold NYC morning, coatless, and climbed into a town car parked with Alireza in the back. We were off to the desert. I wrote feverishly on the plane, emails and blog posts and facebook statuses. And we landed in LAX early, rented a Jeep Wrangler, and drove to Palm Springs. Stops at In and Out Burger and the outlet malls (navy blue Tod's lace-up boots, my #1 score) slowed down our eventual arrival at the Ace Hotel. I cannot overstate my affection of this place. A bohemian modern beach shack vibe in the middle of the desert. A mixed bag of sexes and orientations and body types. Flowing cocktails and tacos and tranimals. Alireza and I had flown in for Pamela and Josh's wedding. The wedding party stayed at the Viceroy, but a few of us stayed at the Ace. Alireza and I invited Dirty Diana and Zach down to join us for the remaining weekend. They arrived Thursday night while I sipped margaritas with Matt Wilkerson in the hotel bar. Matt was in Palm Springs for work and we caught up and laughed with some other DWR folks. Then DD and Zach arrived. We ordered cocktails, went to the hot tub, and I ate a desert called the gay banana. Chocolate covered and sprinkled with nuts. Foul. I ate every bit. We arrived at the pool before 8AM on Friday morning. Hazy Shade of Winter played from the speakers. We demanded service from pool boys, set up chairs, where we'd remain for three straight days. The pool was empty then. Staff scurried around doing odds and ends. And Diana blurted out "this is what it must be like to be at Cher's pool!" Alone, with staff working all around you. We drank snowcones and ate ceviche. Recited Auntie Mame and Paris is Burning to the delight and horror of those around us. Impromptu photoshoots in bathrooms, balconies, and pools, always in heels. Laughter. Sunshine. Good friends, food, drinks, weather. The sun warming us. The champagne warming us. We posed with the young couple the day before their wedding. Watched Dina Martina's twisted show. Danced. Ate. Ignored our phones. Flirted with waiters. Taught them the hanky code. Don't ask. Friends, old and new, floated in and out. Tom Coggia, one of my first loves was in town with Mike Enenbach. I walked through the desert with Tom and arrived at a chic Palm Springs home where some NYC pals (Kevin, Giulio, Joey) were in attendance. James St. James interviewed me in and out of the pool for World of Wonder. He called me a blogging legend. "It's a fame," said Dorian Corey once. "A small fame, but you absorb it, you take it. It's like a physical high, a high that won't hurt you." Ha. Palm Springs has this power over me. It makes me smile. I bask in the sun and laugh and joke and forget the world. It is nice, and needed, and I intend to continue to return throughout the year. Another theme of my diaries emerge here though, my complete loss of self and sanity without Georgi. I missed him terribly this weekend. Thank god for the distractions. Like Zach Augustine. My house mother. Gift giver. Ego booster. Faith believer. He is infectious and courageous. Powerful and fun. He inspires me to create to let loose. It was his thigh high boots I wore in the pool. Like Diana Coney. Red head and big lips and big tits and big fun. Feeding from each other's energy. Singing the Depeche Mode catalog word-for-word at the drop of a hat and always ready to make others laugh. Like Alireza Massoumnia. Soft spoken and under the radar. Talented and inspired by art and color and collections and costumes. Ordering champagne when we weren't looking. The four of us posed for family photos. All weekend. Every second. Various states of dress. And decorum. And lucidity. And let's not forget Pamela Johnston. Her wedding was a series of visuals so strong and so arresting, like a Hockney painting come to life. Yellow chairs and blue pools and blue skies. Adorable, sexy, darlings running around in red minis and flowered Muumuus and bleach blonde finger waves and turquoise silk dresses. Her girls darling, sexy, colorful. Her groom in a simple tan suit and Pucci necktie and smile saying he was the luckiest man on the earth. Her gays, the McLoughlins, and Ben, dressed to the nines, but, shockingly not as colorful as the girls. Mexican cookies. Raspberry cocktails with jalapeños. Yellow cones of pom-poms. Checkered vans on the ring bearers. Mariachi band playing Walk the Line. The images still stay with me. And the sun set. And her lip was smeared pink and her Pucci pumps pointed out from below the gorgeous, stunning gown designed by Alireza and she glowed. Her white net veil sat perched up on her head, framing her face. She glowed. And their story, having met when 14, and marrying, many years later, made me tear up. Believe in true love. Understanding how life takes you on a journey, all over, but always back to the one you love. The one your need. Your other half. My other half worked religiously this weekend while I lounged, sipped, giggled, and reminisced. He checked in, as did I, and I dreamt of a time when we too would be gathered in the sunny land, surrounded by happy people and blue skies and all our friends. A day when we too would get married. And the recent set back in Maine has not made me bitter or angry. Just more dedicated to the belief in the pulse and rhythm and color of love and how nothing can stop that motion. Early Sunday. Post wedding. Post parties. Post poolside drag shows and burgers and old friends and singing in the streets and right before we could have ordered a bottle of champagne (for Lulu, of course), we actually pulled our shit together. Walked away from the party and the Michael Jackson records and the porn stars sunbathing. And the four of us packed the room and the car. Zach's missing wallet returned to us, sun having drained us, we got in the car, sang Yaz, and made it to Los Angeles. A final dinner together and then Diana was off. Then Zach dropped us at LAX and Alireza and I slowly pulled our suitcases along. Sitting in the middle of the Virgin concourse was Amanda Lepore, returning from Australia and on my flight. The three of us discussed the weekend and talked of her trip and looked at her wigs. Alireza left for San Francisco and Amanda and I sat for a few hours, with my laptop, looking at pictures. She said she adored Diana and Zach. She applied lipstick. Was dressed to the nines and we agreed to cab together to the city upon landing at JFK. I spoke of how anxious I was to get home and crawl into bed with Georgi. She thought he was adorable and thought Pam looked spectacular. Ms. Lepore too was anxious, to find a white fur for a party this coming Thursday. We both were obsessed a bit about the tasks at hand upon arrival. Time passed as two unlikely travel companions chatted and giggled, waiting to go home to the most perfect place in the world. New York. And how perfect it was that my trip wound down with Amanda, a symbol of freakish beauty, glamour, color, glitz, and charm. A spirit embodied by all I came in contact with during this desert journey. My eyes, dry, from heat and sun. My soul, too. Needing to be replenished by his arms and embrace.Share Yesterday at 5:40pm | Edit Note | Delete He crept in. He had the past few nights. His smiling face and big brown eyes only seen in brief snuggles and smiles leading up to my trip. He works a lot. I woke at 4:45AM and showered, grabbed my bag, full of paper cranes, bowties, and shorts. Sleepily, I stumbled into the cold NYC morning, coatless, and climbed into a town car parked with Alireza in the back. We were off to the desert. I wrote feverishly on the plane, emails and blog posts and facebook statuses. And we landed in LAX early, rented a Jeep Wrangler, and drove to Palm Springs. Stops at In and Out Burger and the outlet malls (navy blue Tod's lace-up boots, my #1 score) slowed down our eventual arrival at the Ace Hotel. I cannot overstate my affection of this place. A bohemian modern beach shack vibe in the middle of the desert. A mixed bag of sexes and orientations and body types. Flowing cocktails and tacos and tranimals. Alireza and I had flown in for Pamela and Josh's wedding. The wedding party stayed at the Viceroy, but a few of us stayed at the Ace. Alireza and I invited Dirty Diana and Zach down to join us for the remaining weekend. They arrived Thursday night while I sipped margaritas with Matt Wilkerson in the hotel bar. Matt was in Palm Springs for work and we caught up and laughed with some other DWR folks. Then DD and Zach arrived. We ordered cocktails, went to the hot tub, and I ate a desert called the gay banana. Chocolate covered and sprinkled with nuts. Foul. I ate every bit. We arrived at the pool before 8AM on Friday morning. Hazy Shade of Winter played from the speakers. We demanded service from pool boys, set up chairs, where we'd remain for three straight days. The pool was empty then. Staff scurried around doing odds and ends. And Diana blurted out "this is what it must be like to be at Cher's pool!" Alone, with staff working all around you. We drank snowcones and ate ceviche. Recited Auntie Mame and Paris is Burning to the delight and horror of those around us. Impromptu photoshoots in bathrooms, balconies, and pools, always in heels. Laughter. Sunshine. Good friends, food, drinks, weather. The sun warming us. The champagne warming us. We posed with the young couple the day before their wedding. Watched Dina Martina's twisted show. Danced. Ate. Ignored our phones. Flirted with waiters. Taught them the hanky code. Don't ask. Friends, old and new, floated in and out. Tom Coggia, one of my first loves was in town with Mike Enenbach. I walked through the desert with Tom and arrived at a chic Palm Springs home where some NYC pals (Kevin, Giulio, Joey) were in attendance. James St. James interviewed me in and out of the pool for World of Wonder. He called me a blogging legend. "It's a fame," said Dorian Corey once. "A small fame, but you absorb it, you take it. It's like a physical high, a high that won't hurt you." Ha. Palm Springs has this power over me. It makes me smile. I bask in the sun and laugh and joke and forget the world. It is nice, and needed, and I intend to continue to return throughout the year. Another theme of my diaries emerge here though, my complete loss of self and sanity without Georgi. I missed him terribly this weekend. Thank god for the distractions. Like Zach Augustine. My house mother. Gift giver. Ego booster. Faith believer. He is infectious and courageous. Powerful and fun. He inspires me to create to let loose. It was his thigh high boots I wore in the pool. Like Diana Coney. Red head and big lips and big tits and big fun. Feeding from each other's energy. Singing the Depeche Mode catalog word-for-word at the drop of a hat and always ready to make others laugh. Like Alireza Massoumnia. Soft spoken and under the radar. Talented and inspired by art and color and collections and costumes. Ordering champagne when we weren't looking. The four of us posed for family photos. All weekend. Every second. Various states of dress. And decorum. And lucidity. And let's not forget Pamela Johnston. Her wedding was a series of visuals so strong and so arresting, like a Hockney painting come to life. Yellow chairs and blue pools and blue skies. Adorable, sexy, darlings running around in red minis and flowered Muumuus and bleach blonde finger waves and turquoise silk dresses. Her girls darling, sexy, colorful. Her groom in a simple tan suit and Pucci necktie and smile saying he was the luckiest man on the earth. Her gays, the McLoughlins, and Ben, dressed to the nines, but, shockingly not as colorful as the girls. Mexican cookies. Raspberry cocktails with jalapeños. Yellow cones of pom-poms. Checkered vans on the ring bearers. Mariachi band playing Walk the Line. The images still stay with me. And the sun set. And her lip was smeared pink and her Pucci pumps pointed out from below the gorgeous, stunning gown designed by Alireza and she glowed. Her white net veil sat perched up on her head, framing her face. She glowed. And their story, having met when 14, and marrying, many years later, made me tear up. Believe in true love. Understanding how life takes you on a journey, all over, but always back to the one you love. The one your need. Your other half. My other half worked religiously this weekend while I lounged, sipped, giggled, and reminisced. He checked in, as did I, and I dreamt of a time when we too would be gathered in the sunny land, surrounded by happy people and blue skies and all our friends. A day when we too would get married. And the recent set back in Maine has not made me bitter or angry. Just more dedicated to the belief in the pulse and rhythm and color of love and how nothing can stop that motion. Early Sunday. Post wedding. Post parties. Post poolside drag shows and burgers and old friends and singing in the streets and right before we could have ordered a bottle of champagne (for Lulu, of course), we actually pulled our shit together. Walked away from the party and the Michael Jackson records and the porn stars sunbathing. And the four of us packed the room and the car. Zach's missing wallet returned to us, sun having drained us, we got in the car, sang Yaz, and made it to Los Angeles. A final dinner together and then Diana was off. Then Zach dropped us at LAX and Alireza and I slowly pulled our suitcases along. Sitting in the middle of the Virgin concourse was Amanda Lepore, returning from Australia and on my flight. The three of us discussed the weekend and talked of her trip and looked at her wigs. Alireza left for San Francisco and Amanda and I sat for a few hours, with my laptop, looking at pictures. She said she adored Diana and Zach. She applied lipstick. Was dressed to the nines and we agreed to cab together to the city upon landing at JFK. I spoke of how anxious I was to get home and crawl into bed with Georgi. She thought he was adorable and thought Pam looked spectacular. Ms. Lepore too was anxious, to find a white fur for a party this coming Thursday. We both were obsessed a bit about the tasks at hand upon arrival. Time passed as two unlikely travel companions chatted and giggled, waiting to go home to the most perfect place in the world. New York. And how perfect it was that my trip wound down with Amanda, a symbol of freakish beauty, glamour, color, glitz, and charm. A spirit embodied by all I came in contact with during this desert journey. My eyes, dry, from heat and sun. My soul, too. Needing to be replenished by his arms and embrace.