Neue Nationalgalerie, Thursday, 7:15 PM

Tell me, how did you manage to snag invitations for THREE gallery openings in one night? We’re the only ones left in town? I hardly believe THAT. Georg and Andreas are in Paris, true. And Achim’s in Rio. Or is it Australia? Who can keep track! Oh, don’t feel so guilty about reaping the spoils – consider it compensation for enduring a Berlin winter! Besides, who needs the beach when you have Paul Klee?

But don’t tell me you come to these things for the ART! I certainly don’t. I find it much more interesting to look at the people. For example, have you ever noticed that Germans never have scuffed shoes? They’re always perfectly shod. Apparently it’s a national obsession. But I don’t mind - I’ve always loved good shoes. In my genes, wouldn’t you know: my grandfather was a shoemaker. Apparently, he fixed Gomulka’s boots in Siberia during the war. That’s how he survived. Of course, I learned this last week. Don’t you wish there were access to information legislation for family secrets?

And didn’t anyone ever tell you how to walk at these things? You must PREEN. Walk from the hip bones, like a dancer. I tell you, with the right walk and polished shoes, you can go almost anywhere. And you have to have a really well tailored jacket. Ideally, bespoke. Hand tailoring is the ultimate mark of status. Actually, the ULTIMATE mark of status is inheriting couture from a dead noble relative and then having the garment reworked to fit you like a glove. I saw it on TV once… But if your ancestors worked the plow, as mine did, you have to make due with good fabric and an expert tailor. Ideally, the jacket should be slightly worn and paired with expensive frayed jeans and interesting boots. But you can never look too put together, otherwise people will think you have to work for a living, and that would never do. If you can’t inherit, then marry well. If that doesn’t work, pretend.

And you may look down at the floor to observe the shoes, but that is the only excuse. Look at the paintings head on, and keep going.

Well. All this pontificating has made me mighty thirsty. ‘Tis a pity they don’t have free booze at these things anymore. Economic crisis… Let’s go down to the “Heile Welt” and have a gin and tonic.

I am tired of looking at paintings head on.

Netto Discount Supermarket, Wedding, Monday, 7:15 PM

You know, I think the Germans decided to conquer Europe because they couldn’t stand their own food. I mean, is it any wonder they stock the liverwurst beside the cat food? Is there even any difference between the two? Of course, it’s not as bad as it used to be. My friend told me the first time he saw Mozzarella in Italy, he thought it was lard. Alice B. Toklas said she billeted German soldiers during the war who had never even TASTED butter. I wonder about her though: the world was coming to an end and she talked about how they preserved meat in white wine; hid dried fruit for the liberation. Maybe that’s not so crazy after all – saving something precious for better days. Besides, I have found that artists often retreat within themselves during crisis to create esoteric works which have nothing at all to do with their surroundings. Oh well, not everything can be Guernica. But maybe it should. And I have always believed that people who say art isn’t political should be shot. Now THAT would make a great installation.

Oh, what of it. Have you been to the Hamburger Bahnhof – the museum for contemporary art? There was this piece called “shithead”….I needn’t describe it, but I will tell you I was thankful they protected it behind 3 layers of glass. Oh, and there was an entire airplane hangar full of urine samples. I ask you: what’s wrong with a pretty painting? Wait…please don’t tell me.

So, what does one bring to a pizza party at a commune? I would bring ham, but I think the hosts are Israeli. Oh who cares, I’ll tell them its turkey. You know, I haven’t the faintest idea of how I fell in with the granola expat crowd. I met this girl in my German class, and before you know it I’m talking disarmament with documentary film makers from Kazakhstan with more facial hair than a mammoth. Of course, there are no Germans at these evenings…Why? Oh I think they think we’re crazy: A German would never move to another country to just “find themselves”, without a job, without any sort of support. Would you, raised on the milk of socialism…cradle to grave security, 6 weeks of holiday a year? No, this nomadic quality is a particularly North American affliction, a product of our frontier mentality. The mode of transport may have changed, but we’re still a bunch of naïve idiots in a wagon train looking for a pot of gold.

And where did I get my refreshing optimism? Darling, you know it’s impossible to explain a mystery. Now go and get me a beer…

…the one thing that links us all.

Café Einstein, Kurfűrstenstraße, Monday, 2:15 PM

At the end of the day, you just have to decide what’s important to you. Do you want to take subsidized public transport to the opera, or do you want a big screen TV? Do you want to sing in “interesting productions of new works” or do you just want to be in La Bohème and wear a pretty costume?

…Big screen TV, right?

…Pretty costume?

HELLO!

Honey, wanting a comfortable couch and a car and personal space doesn’t make you a big sloppy American. Well actually it does, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I can completely understand: I would give my left arm for someone to be superficially friendly RIGHT NOW. Enough with direct and honest! What purpose has honesty ever served? The main reason I became an opera singer was to live in a world of illusion 24/7. God…that waiter looks like he wishes we were dead…ok…inside voice.

Oh, yes… two clubhouse sandwiches and two Diet Cokes.

I know we shouldn’t order Diet Coke, so unseemly in this lovely old place, but I swear the chemicals do wonders for your voice. You brought Diet Coke from home because it’s not the same here? Okay…definitely don’t move to Germany. You are beyond hope. You don’t want to end up like Cristina Onassis…no…not DEAD! She was addicted to Diet Coke – used to send her private jet to the states every WEEK to load up on the stuff. Apparently the cost worked out to $1000 a can.

Yeah, I agree. Berlin is sort of the Bronx of Europe, well at least this part is.

Of course it looks like the Czech Republic – we’re an hour away from Poland. I know, once you’ve lived in San Francisco you’re spoiled for life, but the only people who can afford to live in San Francisco anymore are oligarchs and all those smart hippies who bought property in the 70’s. Now, all of bohemia has decamped to Berlin and I fear it may be the last stand of the independent artistic spirit….

Oh, you know how I am…Glass not only half empty but chipped and dirty; nothing the same as it was; oceans rising, mountains falling. The world is teeming with angry people who want a shot at something, but I don’t blame them: I blame us for being complacent, for expecting this post-war party to last forever.

What would it have been like to have grown up in an optimistic time? I have friends who are optimists. I admire them greatly. They think we are one scientific breakthrough away from eternal life; tell me we should all work together to create a better world, erase borders, erase countries, live side by side…chacun a son gout…

But I know deep in my heart, when it comes down to it, you can’t trust anyone…

When I was a kid I always got the sense that when the knock on the door came, we would know what to do. These things are inherited, not learned. I knew that my mother would go to her room without a word, take the diamond rings and sew them into her dress. I would get a loaf of bread and a family photo and we would wait to be taken away. I used to look around the house and think “if they do come, it will only take me 5 minutes to hide the menorah, the Kiddush cup…” I had it all planned: I knew we could never relax because we had to be prepared for the knock on the door.

Of course, we were not in any danger, but it was the memory of being hunted, the deep knowledge that the worst could happen at anytime that made me feel on guard. So I find it hard to be an optimist, to be direct and honest. I fear this is the truth I will blurt out.

And then I will not be able to stop what I have started, which scares me a great deal, for what is the end of such a trajectory?

No, I would recommend you stay home. Come here from time to time and have a coffee with me…get nice seats at the opera, taste the goodness of the bread, but stay home, close to those you love, and wear a pretty costume.

As for myself, I must stay, for every time I go on the stage in this place, I take back a little of what was stolen from me.

Publish Post

This is the most powerful thing I can do.… The only way I can learn to become an optimist.

Or am I just full of shit? Sometimes I just want a big screen TV too.

Okay! Let’s go to KaDeWe and buy things! I’m so glad you decided to go with Erno Laszlo – the gold standard of skin products. If I were down to my last cent I would buy face cream, because once the skin goes….

Gartenstrasse, Mitte – Friday, 8:36 PM

HEROIN! Now there’s a nasty drug. God, I remember doing heroin at the Beat Hotel in Paris in the 50’s with Allen Ginsberg. No, I always preferred the psychadelics; LSD and the like. But my favourite was psylocybin. What a pure high! It was almost VIRGINAL… I felt like I was in “The Song of Bernadette”. The first time I took it was in Berkeley in the 60’s – I forgot all about shopping; my bourgeois existence. Oh, did I tell you I sold the beach house? Top of the market. They turned it into condos and are selling them for a RIDICULOUS price. Boggles the mind, really.

But I’ve stopped doing drugs now; at my age you have to choose your urges and I save mine for sex! But do you remember the 80’s with Salomé? He would bring a big chunk of hash and we would play Scat. Oh no dear, Salomé wasn’t a woman, HE is a highly regarded artist…. Yes, I remember clearly – it was you, me, Salomé and ATTILLA…. at that dingy club in Schöneberg. What was it called - The Yellow Umbrella? Oh God, the SHOWS they used to put on! Real cabaret, back when there was still such a thing. The owner was this ancient transvestite from the Weimar years, and I always brought her little offerings of peyote so we could get a table by the dance floor. Say, do you remember that New Years Eve when the waiters walked around completely naked carrying silver trays of cocaine? Now THERE was a party. Nowadays it’s all benefits…raise money for this and that. Incredibly dismal; weltschmerz just kills my mood. I mean, how can you have an out of body experience at a benefit for Rwanda, or AIDS? At the end of it, I’d just rather cut a cheque.

Oh, don’t you just love Hildegard Knef? If cigarettes could sing! What a voice of experience. Hearing her interpret Cole Porter makes me want to just light up and get naked. I met her once, you know. Amsterdam. The 70’s. Now there was a time…these days they’re closing down all the whorehouses to make room for designer shops and other such nonesense. Oh how I mourn the demise of innocent pleasure, of cheeky hedonism…having sex in fits of laughter. It is all so serious, now.

And yes, I will have some more wine, now that you’re asking. Say, did you get that invitation for the opening at the Berlinische Gallerie? I would love to go, but I’ll be in Zurich that week. Wouldn’t you know Iskandar is turning 65? Can it be? It seems like only yesterday we were getting fucked out of our minds on Mykonos….