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Changing of Film Monologue

 Right off the 25 South, on the side of the road where the red rocks are, the lens was dusty. The camera began to malfunction when we stepped foot on sacred land. There were shrines for the dead, and discarded bottles for the maybe dying. I smiled and laughed under my breath as if it were a divine intervention. I looked up at the sky for just a brief moment as if to say, “You got me good this time.” It ended up being dust underneath the attached flash. I thought about leaving that bit out of the re-cap I would give Mike at the darkroom, but I could not bring myself to lie. It’s just too damn hot to lie. And I wore all black that day and my sister’s old boots with the paint stain on the toe. I felt seasoned and I felt content. That dirt made me feel as if I had been on this Earth for three lifetimes! Maybe four.

 I wanted to shoot a model like Keith Richards. I had seen the photographs of the Rolling Stones in the Mojave Desert. These images had me transfixed for weeks. They had taken seven buttons of peyote each! Four is customary, and three is if you’re afraid of the outcome. They went all the way. They were all shirtless and wrapped in blankets. I wondered where their girls were when the sun was coming up. When they were sitting on the cliffside gazing outward. Who was there to brush the dirt off of their faces? To be their mirage in the morning? Then it struck me.

 We needed a new direction. After a few shots, I had to change my roll of film. From Kodak Ultra, to Portra800. I fumbled with the film boxes for a few minutes. I cleaned the lens with my already dirty shirt. I caught myself staring at my model with my hand holding my chin in thought. “Let me give you an image,” I said finally.

“The women on the road with these men have to buck up real fast, you know what I’m talking about? Picture this honey… You fall in love with a Rockstar. With his magnetism, with his attitude, with his perhaps purposefully dirty, wild look. Like it’s curated. Like he might be manufactured. Like there might be A & R behind his genius and you and you alone are gonna find that out, you know?

You feel like he has studied Rock n Roll for a decade and ended up here. You think he’s smart, you think he’s sensitive, you think he’s a genius even! You think he’s the sexiest god damn thing you’ve ever seen. So, you throw on that top that shows off your tits and some amber musk behind your ears and you go looking for him. You buy a ticket, you slip the bouncer a fifty, you do what you gotta do.

You want him to think that you’re just as filthy and surrendering as he is. A kindred spirit to this mega anti-dogma that is this seemingly evil and ‘off the cuff’ life of Rock n Roll. One of the first things out of your mouth when you’re looking over your glasses about four inches from his face is “The first rule is that there is no rules.” You take a drag of a rolled cigarette, you don’t break eye contact. You blow the smoke to the side like James Dean, and this dumb ass eats it up so quick and you know that you’re in.

 You think this is going to be a lavish and high budget production. You picture the heavy flash photography in the magazines of you as the new “it” girl. And there’s your genius boy walking, strung out beside you with his arm around your shoulders and his sunglasses on after sun down. That first night you spend in his hotel room, you think you love him. You think your friends back home are gonna envy you, and let’s be honest, they do.

 But what this life actually is, is this:

You make it onto the bus. After the first two weeks, you realize you’ve never felt like this before. You’re raw from all the sex. You’ve had a few conversations with the band that hit you so deep that you think you’ve ascended! You’ve got your feet up on the table and you’re packing another bowl and you’re watching Wyoming go by out the window. You think you’ve made it.

 But by week four, you’ve got bags under your eyes. You’ve been wearing the same shirt for two weeks. You’re unhinged. If one more trucker at the truck stop tries one more thing and ruins your five minutes to shower, you’re going to fucking explode. The band manager is yelling “Come on, Chickadee! We’ve gotta be in Nashville by noon!” And he bangs on the door.

By week six, you don’t know if it’s all the whiskey, all the coke, or all of the heat exhaustion from this disgusting bus, but you’re really starting to question yourself. Why the fuck did you give up your daily comfort and wellbeing for a group of sweaty idiots? They poke at you constantly and they do way too much blow. They’re not your friends, you don’t even like them! And you hate your genius boy. But you love him so much and if he stares at that girl for three seconds longer, you’re going to strangle him to his death! She can’t put up with this! Only you can, and you do, and you hate yourself for it. You’re dehydrated and you know your mother is worried sick. You only get two minutes on the pay phone. The manager yells, “Come on Chickadee! You gotta keep up!” And he snaps and he snaps. You say without a single tear, “I love you, Mom. I’ve gotta go.”

 You’re broken down now, you see? These women are having the crisis of a fucking lifetime. At this point, you think you have solved the mystery of why Rockstars trip on peyote in the desert. Its not for the album, it’s to escape that fucking bus!!

But you keep going, for a freedom so personal that it’s art in itself. For a man that you know is only incredible on stage. If the fans saw him drunk at rehearsal… If they were in that room watching him howl! You can only imagine their cringe! So sweet it is.

 You know when you look at him that if he had the chance to move on from you, he would. And then you realize that he does. With every show.

By week twelve, if you’re enjoying any part of this life, then you’re just an idiot. These women have attitude because they don’t have any other choice. You’re absolutely lost in the polarity of what you need and what you think you need. You hate this, but you just can’t stop. This isn’t the glamour and the Ritz you thought it would be… not one bit. It’s the ride of your life. And it’s gonna push you to pray every night in a few years like you’ve never done.

Trust me, I know. Now, can you give me that? Yes, stand right about here… Turn your head to the side a little.

Perfect.”

[gsbrandson]

I just want my baby to touch me.

#bygsbrandson #gsbrandson #vsco #blackandwhite #love

[gsbrandson]

On my days at home, I wake up and open all the curtains, windows, and the back door. I put on my canary yellow robe from 1970, and a sacred tune, like Candy Says by the Velvet Underground or Clementine by Yves Montand. I fragrance myself with Chateau 1970; one spray on either side of my neck, and one half spray between my breasts. I take my wrists and press them on my neck and run them through my hair. I sit and allow myself to decant.

I make coffee, check the soil of my beloved house plants, and clean my kitchen top to bottom. Every nook and cranny! Sometimes I rearrange the flowers and put a couple in some old wine bottles to set the mood.

I light some white sage incense (or rose if I have it) and make a little wish. I tell my baby I love him, and that he's the only one for me. My incense wish is granted with a kiss (or five). And again, there's magic in the palace. And there's general splendor. And there's romance. And that's just how I like it.

-G.S. Brandson

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Mae Rymer in Pagosa Springs, shot by G.S. Brandson

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Photoset for ‘Musings’, taken by Mae Rymer

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The Sunflower Tourniquet

Polaroids by G.S. Brandson

Black and White film / Job Pro 600

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Self Portrait, 2019 by G.S. Brandson

Polaroid Job Pro 600 / color film

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Flora

The flora of childhood differs from the cacti embellished landscape of the present. My summers in the Pacific Northwest were lavender scented and colored grey. I packed a raincoat of every color for these weeks on vacation once a year. I flew kites on the beach in navy blue. I harvested raspberries as sweet as spring in yellow. I ran through the fields of flowers as if they would never end, and back then they never could. There are certain memories, like these on the peninsula and ones at the ballet dressed in velvet and roses that I have saved. The others have been burned like an ex lovers letters. I would never harvest my life from the ashes. I would never piece together the series of events that led to my permanent heartbreak. I would be amongst the flowers forever. I remember traveling to the lavender farms in my mind in the bad times. My backyard became a place where the flower fields met the sea. I would lie with the blooms and dream of a better life. Today, I lie upon the canyons where the fields of cactus flowers meet nothing for miles. 

I am lavender scented and colored grey.

 And I have given that little girl a better life.

[gsbrandson]

Denver, A Vignette

It was Ash Wednesday. The cold front was coming and I was dressed in my 1972 shearling. The one with the big collar. I had spent most of my afternoon noticing the neutral color scheme of the tall buildings and the clothes on everyone's backs. I had spent my afternoon looking up and trying not to shiver. Later, I asked a cab driver to take me somewhere beautiful. "Like Tiffany's, you do understand." The car pulled up to the Brown Palace Hotel. "That'll be an even fifteen." Inside, the waiters were dressed in perfectly pressed white shirts and the bell hops in black wool coats with gold buttons. They called me miss and a last name that belonged to my father and to me only on paper. Inside the tavern, my waiter talked five people into the rib eye steak with a poem he recited about its excellence. I shook my head and ordered two glasses of Argentinian wine. I ate cheese and mustard with my fingers. "You've got rock n roll in your soul," he said to me. "You're so money, baby baby. And you're my last hope of the night, you know. If you order something sweet to go with your meal, I could win a trip to Vegas." He leaned in, "And I've always wanted to go."

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The first photoset on record by G.S. Brandson.

Fujifilm disposable camera, 2002

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A love affair with Piet Mondrian

Photo by Tristen Silver Pennington at the Dallas Museum of Art

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Vanity (number one)

Polaroid on color film by G.S. Brandson

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Self Portrait, spring. By G.S.Brandson

Polaroid / job pro 600 / black and white film

[gsbrandson]

De Clementine

You broke your fast with daybreak.

The first thing to touch your lips was me.

You had dreampt the night before,

Of tattoos on your torso:

Orange tiger lilies,

And Clementine rinds,

Stacked in neat little piles.

Orange would be the color of the year.

Or, atleast the season.

Your dream state brought churches in full Ghospel.

And visons of lover’s past.

The tattoos on their torso’s,

We’re black and white,

And of words you chose not to remember.

 You were my Belle in the afternoon.

There you lie in the sun,

Dutch tulip caressing,

Surrounded by the sheet music,

They never taught you how to read,

But you still can.

You wish you had dreampt instead,

Of B-roll footage filmed on a super 8.

The ballet warmups of Paris,

The overheard rooftop Jazz,

Into the morning.

The city passing by,

On the back of a motor bike.

Yves Montand at Cafe,

1955.

 Your black lace was at the request,

Of your purple snapdragon baby.

It is a love as pure,

As the tellings of innocent baby love,

And of the garden-soiled,

Summer feet of France.

Sparkling eyes underneath the moon,

And the clementine fever,

Of the Riviera.

There is nothing so precious to the ear,

And nothing so scandalous to the eye.

Now, you’re dancing,

Floating,

Full waltzing back and forth.

To the french classic pianos of yesterday,

And the wildflower blooming time.

And all I can sing now,

My love:

De Clementine,

De Clementine.

[gsbrandson]

The Sunflower Tourniquet

Who has disturbed my rhythm?

I would like to hear your name aloud.

Hear you speak it in self expose.

You have made it so that my frequently visited realms,

Are my nightmares.

I used to have dreams,

Of un velo bleu clair,

And photos polaroid.

But now I am tasting the slimed spit,

Of your Virgin de Guadalupe figurine,

As I go to drink.

She is at the bottom of my bottle,

And attached to her chest is the still heart,

Of a small animal.

I say, “Show yourself to me.”

I hear “You must do what you promise.”

I awake.

I pick up my pen.

The door is closed.

I cannot leave.

 I heard un petite cloche in the morning.

And turned at whiplash speed,

To greet my fairy angel visitor.

Hanging from a blossom in my snapdragon bouquet,

And suckling from her teat.

But there, she was not.

Have I received my wings?

The run in I had with Pneumonia in 1997,

Brought me visions of angels.

They danced around my grandmother in play.

I saw their reflection in her tears.

I recovered soon after,

And now, in a much humbler kitchen,

I can hear them.

What am I to be healed from this time?

Am I to be saved?

 There is love in this time.

The shop keeps and the usual pedestrians,

Call me Fleur de la Reine.

As I purchase a bouquet every few days.

“Which ones are your favorite?”

They always ask me.

I reply, “We are all God’s children.”

I was born in the honey bush,

On the night of the Helichrysm Saturn.

The rarest of cosmic occurrences.

The sound of my conception was an opium overcast.

Poppies would make me sleep,

Make me dream.

And the flowers would remain loyal to me,

For every one of my days.

 I was born speaking le language des fleurs.

You tell me beauty is sacrificial,

And about that, you are right.

You say, “We end the life of a flower,

For our own selfish display.”

I love your fights for floral justice,

And your rose red behind them.

But beauty and magic are coexisting.

Cohabitating,

Like the woman and her flowers.

We borrow from Earth to send messages to heaven,

In her image.

Venus is a metaphor.

 The blackbirds sing throughout the evening,

And the grandfather clock chimes louder by the hour.

These nightmares are not an apneatic terror,

Due to lack of oxygen.

They are dandelion seeds blown from your lips,

Into my realm,

From yours.

What skill you have.

Breaking the barriers of time.

Declaring war upon me.

But I have stopped you,

Before your germination and your spread.

You may try your hand,

At this garden haunting,

But I doubt you will succeed.

For one must not challenge the blue delphinium.

She identifies as the night crawler,

Of the Imperial Garden.

And she only answers to me.

 I can hear the flowers speaking.

This is my gift, and it is expertly coveted.

I joke that it feels as if it were stolen.

There will be no referee,

To speak “En garde” in incantation.

This battle is informal,

And I have learned to embrace you.

Greet you like an old friend when you growl at me.

What are my uses in these times of war?

I cannot kill the beast,

Skin it and wear its pelts as my prize.

I must convert it,

Tell it the bedtime story of the moonflower,

And put it to sleep.

So, I am standing at rest,

Arms wide open.

And my army is behind me.

My kingdom of trillions.

Her majesty, Queen Flower,

Has been slashed by a blade.

And now, the flowers fight for me.

 You are a blind beast.

You have mistaken the blackberry wine on my hands,

For blood.

I have meant you no harm.

But now, I do.

Tell me,

What is it that you wear when you are conjuring?

Do you make it obvious,

That you are not from this world?

Do you let stones speak for you?

Do you win your battles with your hair in curls?

I’m afraid I will wear you,

Spin you into a black silk gown.

Don you,

And watch as you billow in silence.

 The sunflowers have become my tourniquet,

And I am fully embraced in the vine.

My wounds do not last long here.

I have become a live performance of Tarot.

Wands of cotton flower bound in a grasping hand.

Golden rods held high above my buttermilk crown.

And your sacrament has transformed you,

Into a night blooming Cereus.

You grow to form an archway,

And you bloom above my head.

The sugar cane has grown beneath me,

The nightfall is golden.

My tongue was once a syllable encroaching,

But not quite reaching.

Once again, I am on my throne,

My staff, a crown imperial.

My mouth is open,

And through me,

My kingdom speaks your name,

In self expose.

[gsbrandson]

Color Breaks & Compositions Series 1

The shirts of M.B. By G.S. Brandson

Polaroid / Job Pro 600 / Color film