Ceci n'est pas une pipe (or UFC champion)
Recently, I met current UFC Featherweight champion, Alex Volkanovski, and must say that from start to finish, the entire affair neared Magritte levels of surreal. When I say “met,” what I really mean is that my friend Rachel and I stood within the confines of this man’s wingspan for a quick photo opp inside a liquor store in Chelsea and left without turning back.
It should come as no surprise that I know nothing about UFC, but my cousins adore it. Inside a packed itinerary of happenings spread over a weekend — weigh-ins at Radio City Music Hall, meet and greets at Dave and Busters — they needed assistance. You see, something that can and will happen at UFC meet-ups is the signing of liquor bottles. Very specifically Howler Head bourbon, the banana-infused “official flavored UFC bourbon” which sounds violently devastating to consume (their website advertises an Elvis inspired shot recipe where you add it to peanut butter whiskey…), but fear not! I’m told it’s not actually for drinking, it’s for commemorating. For keeping in a safe place. For admiring.
They needed someone to retrieve and care for the bottle because it could not be brought into the arena for the big fight. Lucky for them, I am great at holding things. Be it keys, sunglasses, or a half-sipped lemonade and you want to get on that roller coaster? I am very much your girl. I had preestablished plans with Rachel and when I poorly presented the task at hand over text, she simply said yes. I don’t know a better person.
We beat my cousins to the liquor store, strolling down 6th avenue and tripping over each other’s stories in a walk-and-talk that undoubtedly would’ve turned Aaron Sorkin’s head (Not Aaron, but I did spot Jemima Kirke and gripped Rachel’s arm so tightly I probably halted blood flow. She did not look our way). After peering around the corner, we became witnesses to the longest line I’ve seen in quite some time. Rachel reminded me of the awful plot line in the Gilmore Girls reboot where Rory is assigned to write an article about waiting in lines (for Cronuts and vintage sneakers) in New York for GQ, which ultimately leads her to sleep with someone outfitted in a Wookiee costume. I am proud to report this was not my fate, but like Rory, find there isn’t much to say about the waiting. That said, my favorite part of being in this particular line was the number of people walking by with cellphones or cameras to record its popularity, knowing that in a sea of UFC fans in Hasbulla t-shirts, we stuck out in a quietly funny way.
When we finally crossed the threshold into the shop, my cousins gleefully took their place in front of the step & repeat, while I tried to unsmudge my blurry iPhone camera. When Mr. Volkanovski put his arm around me, I was so shocked to be touched that I forgot to say my prepared statement, crafted approximately 18 seconds before being ushered over. “I like your chain” was my big idea. I looked over at Rachel, into her soul, to find the reminder that we were in fact awake and alive, and that we had made a series of decisions our entire lives that led us to be here in this exact moment. Before I knew it, my cellphone was handed back to me and two signed photographs of the champ were forced into our hands. Ten footsteps later, we were sending my cousins off in the direction of Junior’s and toting the signed paraphernalia around Manhattan — my own Flat Stanley experience. First, propped up next to a spicy chicken sandwich. Next posing with a scuttling street rat. Finally, placed on its own seat on the L train.
Magritte fever dream behind us, we walked over to the Renegade Craft Fair, or as I have affectionately nicknamed it, “the shag and fine line tattoo convention.” Reader, from the moment we walked in ‘til the second we left, it was overwhelming. Hundreds of Baggu tote bags (guilty as charged) swam aggressively upstream in search of the perfect, chic statement earring and ceramic incense burner. The fair’s patrons, though on the hunt, were uncommitted to the flow — bobbing and weaving in front of artists’ tables, unsteady in their want, and resultingly clogging up the venue with close-talking NYU-expats in Carhartt overalls. When the day’s BeReal notification went off from inside the belly of that slow, snaking parade, I actually thought about God. It doesn’t get any BeRealer than that.
Let the record show, we did not just window shop (based on the tension in the room, that would’ve been masochistic) and I figured I’d tell you a little about some of the things I acquired.
One artist, Shira Neiss, had pairs of enamel pins for sale that depicted a beheaded Marie Antoinette, head and body — each severed end of neck spurting hot pink blood. Rachel and I synced up in believing them to be a riff on “best” and “friend” necklaces, but when I mentioned this, a blankness glazed over the artist’s face. Then a laugh. Then a reassuring no, the intention was not to split them up in celebration of friendship, and yet!
While I clicked around on Venmo to complete the transaction, Shira told me that earlier in the day someone had actually asked her if the pins were modeled after her own grandmother, delivered with no shred of sarcasm in their voice. How I wish to know that person’s life.
Other claimed treasures include a t-shirt embroidered with “every gay is a blessing” around the collar from Sicko Stitching, some adorable stickers from The One Named Mara (if you buy this one, we’ll match), and my new prized possession, a stained glass ornament of a girl reading a book, made by Fenny Suter of Suter Design & Co. I look at my glass girl and feel instantly relaxed… and then immediately self-conscious that I’m not reading enough. She’s perfect.
I did then spend the evening and following morning in what many call the city of angels: Brooklyn, New York. Walking around Williamsburg, Rachel and I overheard a bizarre exchange. A young person in a bright blue puffer jacket shouted, “I was at church! Where were YOU?” at the sight of a friend in the street. The friend, two disciples in tow, replied, “We’re going to the Glossier store!” When Lea Michele sang, “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world” THIS IS WHO SHE WAS TALKING ABOUT! I’d like to pretend bright blue puffer was the one who made the grandma-Marie-Antoinette comment, but that’d be too perfect.
We also popped into Rachel’s favorite coffee spot, and I just have to highlight the randomness of objects precariously placed on a wall of shelves at any given trendy coffeeshop. Tennis racket. Old-school milk carton. 5 non-sequential editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Busted Singer sewing machine. Haunted wooden rocking horse. Visibly filthy Chicago Cubs bobblehead. In every city there is a beloved location to purchase a pricey maple latte that features a strange chorus of antiques, either meticulously selected over a lifetime or stockpiled from a single visit to the Goodwill. Write about that, Rory Gilmore.
In all my travels, I also visited The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield, Connecticut and recommend checking it out as and if you’re able. Tucked away in the part of America wealthy elites hide out to be intellectual and wear cashmere (truthfully think Stars Hollow of Gilmore Girls, but real and functional), the museum stands bright and bold. One of its current exhibits, “52 Artists: A Feminist Milestone” features a roster of multi-generational artists, including a bulk of women originally on view in “Twenty Six Contemporary Women Artists” — an exhibition curated by writer Lucy R. Lippard that opened at the Aldrich in 1971.
All of this to say, I was inspired by an artist talk (held in celebration of a book launch for 52 Artists) between Dona Nelson and Rachel Eulena Williams (who complimented my Baggu, so THERE!). There was so much love and reverence for one another’s work that my heart did a little backflip. Dona, who was part of the original show, had trashed the art that was previously on display and admitted to throwing away many paintings from that time in her life. Without so much as a beat, she told the crowd that she didn’t regret it, and in fact and retrospect, needed to toss them “in order to leap!”
I’ve been thinking about it for days — the notion of physically clearing out to make space for new — so much so that I was inspired to put together a Spotify playlist titled “dona nelson told us she threw away most of her paintings from the 70s and doesn’t regret it.”
It is equally bitter and hopeful, as I find myself to be most of the time.
But then I remember being photographed with a UFC champion I had to Google the name of on the train and just laugh and laugh, landing somewhere in the middle of that spectrum until something else pulls me to either side of the extreme.
Big love,
kaylasomething
Final note: If you can give to those impacted by the recent mass shooting in Colorado Springs, I encourage you to click away from here and do that. There are a few places you can give, so search around. I donated to this GoFundMe.
I’ll leave you with the above Instagram post (multiple slides, fyi — each thoughtfully articulating what surrounds this painful tragedy), written by poet Andrea Gibson.