a meeting with the master of scrolls.
a.k.a. Lucretia Tye Jasmine ޜ
In the 21st century, daydreaming of sharing white chocolate- and confetti sprinkle-dipped marshmallows on eyelet cushions as girls and women could in the 1950s, or trading secrets of wisteria-wrapped college love-ins, sage-blessed love-making with dreaming folk and rock musicians, and chapels dedicated to bohemians in the 1960s.
Regaling twin tales of twirling in a sparkling sea of strobelight and diamonds off of a disco ball, and inspiring and mining the minds of the great, late bohemian poets of the 1970s, or plotting partner-in-crime platinum satin and leather goddess-gilding and beaming, a luminescent star, in the heart of the dance floor, the crowd or backstage in the 1980s.
Taking turns scrubbing hand-Xs in the faint street-lamp outside a soil-smoky grunge club and inking two-day tattoos in the shape of Kurt Cobain quotes in the 1990s, and even, melting together into the rhythm of livewire-sizzling and fuchsia-swum boudoir-wonderlands in the pre-cellie 2000s, is tsk-tsked before it is listened to.
Lucretia Tye Jasmine holds the porcelain, heart-shaped key to the fluffy, cotton-candy-pink, pearl-tiara-printed diary of "groupies'" stories from the 1950s to the 2010s, next to her treasure cabinets of rebellious girlhood sculptures and mixed-media sacraments out of memorabilia. Of symbolic (and some actual) rock'n'roll memory boxes, be it a 1960s heartbreak hotel dollhouse, a Chelsea Hotel bedroom door kissed all over with musicians, poets and fans’ notes, or posters collaged from her archive of early-90s riot grrrl ‘zines.
What unfolds next, is a talk with Lucretia about art-making, adapting social issues and political arguments into art, finding and mixing-together the highest inspirations, and the friendship between feminist and artistic practices, and feminist politics and anyone who at any time could have been called a “groupie.”
One taking place on a – metaphorical – tulle canopy-enshrined, ribboned-cushion-drowned queen-bed called home by battalions of stuffed animals, teeny-bopper magazines (of foxy ladies, hottest fashions and celeb-raves, and things every girl should know but will not be told anywhere else), self-slaved-over scrapbooks and rock’n’roll and “groupie” memoirs.