Art Sex Music
Page 21
The explosive media response to the exhibition was totally unexpected but ironically fed well into our show, which was primarily based on how COUM was perceived by others and how our image was at times distorted. What a gift, what a spontaneous collaborative work, forming itself via the media day after day after day. We seized on the new material and me and Chris went to the ICA each day to collect the press cuttings, photocopy them and pin them to the wall of the gallery alongside the existing documentation. What had set out to be a retrospective exhibition had been transformed into an evolving show that was increasing in size as the press fed their own hysteria.
It was my and Chris’s closeness during the harassment and intense stress of the ICA that cemented our relationship. The ICA show was pivotal in determining all our futures. It proved to be not only the end of COUM and the beginning of Throbbing Gristle but also the beginning of the end of my relationship with Gen as Chris and I fell deeply in love, and also through chance meetings that led to Gen’s pernicious liaisons with a girl called Soo Catwoman. It also caused the end of my relationship with my mother and father.
24 October 1976
‘Cosey Fanni’s Deep In Blue Movies’. Headline from ‘Sunday People’. Bet Mum sees it. Feel bad about it for her but there’s little I can do.
My mum and dad read the story and believed every word – even though it said I was the daughter of a wealthy family in West Hartlepool. I spoke with Mum: she said she was absolutely shattered by what she’d read. That was the end. Mum had kept in touch regularly until the ICA. The scandal separated us forever. It was me or Dad and I completely understood her choice, even though it broke my heart that I never saw her, heard her voice or received anything from her again.
Pam and Grandma wrote to me and kept me informed, and fed her information on my well-being. I was so thankful I’d met up with Mum in London and gone for coffee and cake in Soho before all the ICA troubles.
All those Sundays Gen had routinely lain in bed reading the scandals in the News of the World or Sunday People with a cuppa tea and chocolate … He was now reading scandalous stories about us, the repercussions of which only affected me. The press hadn’t had their fill; they pursued and continued to ‘report’ on us for another two weeks. The Evening News had found out where we lived (from Acme – how nice of them), and would bang on our front door for hours on end, then go to the studio, the neighbours, the Broadway Market shopkeepers, to muck-rake what they could. They didn’t get much – everyone was very kind about us.
After interviews with the BBC and Thames Television, we withdrew ourselves completely, ignoring any press, radio or TV requests. I suppose any other band would have jumped on the back of all that and used it to promote themselves, but we weren’t a ‘band’. We were independent of the usual record label, PR, etc. – we had our own idea of how and when TG would be presented and promoted and had decided to set up our own record label, Industrial Records. Virgin had made noises about being interested in TG so me and Chris took a TG tape, photos and poster to Simon Draper at Virgin Records. Sleazy was against accepting any offer, and me and Chris weren’t serious about it anyway. Gen was more interested in a deal, though, and when Melody Maker heard about the Virgin visit, Gen did a three-hour interview with them on TG – on his own and not telling us until afterwards, which didn’t go down well. TG as a whole should have discussed it first and then, if agreed, done the interview.
*
The outrage surrounding my magazine works caused questions to be raised in the House of Commons and recorded in Hansard. Tory MP Nicholas Fairbairn’s hysterical response – ‘These people are the wreckers of civilisation’ – appealed to our sense of humour and was adopted by us and others when writing about Throbbing Gristle and COUM. His cries about our decadence and debauchery were hypocritical, seeing as he was known for his outrageous drunken behaviour and extramarital affairs, and later accused of alleged child abuse.
It was the magazines and tampons that the press focused on. For fun we had Sotheby’s value one of my soiled tampons: £80. Not bad. I didn’t understand what the fuss was about and was rather blasé about the objects displayed – the five-foot-long double-ended dildo smeared with blood, syringes we’d used for injecting blood and urine, knives, my soiled bloody tampons and other relics were everyday objects to me, but were obviously shocking to other people.
And others were fascinated by us. We were invited to a dinner party by a sexologist, with the guests being psychiatrists and sexologists, opera singers, me, Chris and Gen (Sleazy opted out). It was all very polite but creepy and we felt under scrutiny, our actions and comments being carefully assessed. After some drinks and nibbles, the sexologist entered the room wearing a catsuit and bird mask and playfully swinging a whip. ‘Time for fantasy games,’ she announced. What?
We were all led upstairs and told to form a circle. One person stood in the centre, describing one of their sex fantasies. They then spun the knife, and whoever it pointed to when it stopped had to act out their fantasy with them or forfeit a piece of clothing. A sexologist version of Spin the Bottle. It was all a bit clinical, even the sex play. They seemed rather repressed (maybe that’s why some of them were there). It felt like we were the evening’s entertainment but that didn’t bother me. Chris was whipped, Gen chickened out, and I ended up with a nervously sweating big man called Henry (the ‘butler’), both of us stripping off as slowly as possible. He was anticipating a voyeuristic feast of my nakedness but I insisted we did it back to back. There was a freaky sex fantasy played between two opera singers – both naked, singing and biting each other all over … and they thought we were weird. An interesting evening.
Selwyn and a couple of other people I’d worked for kept ringing me to do jobs. They saw the ICA debacle as an opportunity; others blacklisted me, thinking I’d ‘used’ them. Through Selwyn, David Grant, a known porn-film-maker, approached me and Gen to do a half-hour film (called Sensations). He wined and dined us with his friend Peter. Chris wasn’t interested – he thought they were exploiting us (he was right) – but Sleazy wanted in.
My annual birthday party never happened that year: I was preparing for our trip to the USA, and did a modelling job for Michel and worked on the David Grant film in the evening.
4 November 1976
Sleazy turned up on the film set, along with Diana Dors and her husband Alan Lake and kid Jason.
We got on like a house on fire with Alan Lake. He told us he and Diana had been brought in to make fun of us, but he really liked us, gave us their home address and said to come visit them sometime. Diana was talking about her experiences in films and how her romantic scenes had to adhere to the Hays Code: the lady keeping at least one foot on the floor during romantic embraces. That was supposed to ensure there were no sexy love scenes in bed. Things had changed a lot. I did a glamour model shoot and a simulated sex scene.
Selwyn was there and commented on how thin I’d got, and told me not to lose any more weight. I hadn’t noticed – it must have been the stress of the past month.
We were filmed in conversation with Diana, Alan and an actress from Coronation Street, discussing our approach to life. The actress misunderstood what we meant about freedom to explore and express yourself, no boundaries. ‘What, so if I feel like shooting someone I can? Just kill them?’
We looked at her as if she was mad. ‘That’s not the normal train of thought,’ I said.
*
Although the ICA had been a farewell to COUM, the last few actions involving just me and Gen took place in America. We left the UK the day after my birthday, flying away from the shitstorm the ‘Prostitution’ show had caused, harassed by press photographers right up till we boarded the plane, one reporter telling other passengers that we were filthy pornographers.
The British Council had funded our trip, so the press still had some muck left to poke with a stick and throw at us, greatly exaggerating the funding we’d received. Going to America meant we could meet our mail art friends
who had contacted us through our FILE magazine artists’ ads and contact list, including Anna Banana, Bill Gaglione of Dadaland, Arethuse, Monte Cazazza, Jerry Dreva and Bobby Bonbon (aka Les Petites Bonbons), and Skot Armstrong (aka Science Holiday). Monte and Skot became the most regular and valued mail art collaborators and remain my very close friends to this day. I’d spend hours embroidering postcards to send to Skot, making collages or small handmade and interesting artworks. In reply, so did Skot, Monte, Jerry and Bobby. That mail art was personal and treasured, including Jerry’s gift to me of ‘Wanks for the Memories’, a masturbation book, full of his boyfriend’s semen.
Our first stop was Chicago, where we stayed in the studio loft of our artist friend Kit Schwartz. She was working on a piece involving large broken mirrors and we helped her assistant Dan devise ways of smashing them to get the effect she wanted. We’d arranged to meet up with another mail art friend, Arethuse, who’d travelled to Chicago and was going to do much of our US road trip with us.
Within days we’d started to regret that decision, as him dossing down in Kit’s loft wasn’t acceptable to her and he seemed pretty untogether, stoned a lot of the time, coming and going whenever he felt like it and disturbing our sleep. He was invaluable in some ways, though. He told us about a way to drive across America at minimal cost by delivering someone’s car for them when they moved states. The only cost would be petrol money and we’d all share the driving. We had another week in Chicago yet.
Our action at the Marianne Deson Gallery went really well. Our N.A.M.E. actions were more relaxed and we managed to get them photographed and videotaped, and some dollars from door takings. It was hard saying goodbye when it came time to leave for LA. We were going to stay with Harley Lond and meet up again with Arethuse, who drove off a day before us in a drive-away car – a brand new $20,000 Cadillac to deliver to its owner.
18 November 1976
Skot rang and we talked, he’s got such a quiet little boy voice. He’s moved onto Sunset Strip … we’ll see him tomorrow …
We flew into LA through a yellow cloud of smog. It looked poisonous and uninviting. Harley advised us not to go out on certain days when it was really bad – he’d got an ulcerated throat that he blamed on the pollution.
Sunny California wasn’t quite what I’d expected. People started calling Harley’s and meet-ups were arranged. My old friend from Hull, Ann Fulam, was now living on the west coast and she picked us up and took us to her place by the beach, which was much more Californian: sitting drinking tequila on the porch, catching up on old times while watching hordes of young blonde surfers, then going to see John Waters’ film Pink Flamingos.
Skot Armstrong and his friend Eric came over to take us to their friend Kitten’s place. It felt so good to meet them face-to-face. We’d been writing to each other since 1974 and Skot had said how nervous he was about meeting me, lest I found him boring. Skot had a warm, fun and unaffected demeanour, no hard edges or underlying agendas. I felt happy and relaxed with him. He described his ongoing art project to me: ‘Science Holiday is an artist collective that mimics secret societies and occult lodges, with a focus on creating modern myths and exploring the effects of context.’ He had an extraordinary, and staggeringly wide, range of knowledge and an approach to art that was immensely inspired and idiosyncratic, perceptive yet whimsical, but intelligently thought-out. He’s a genuine eccentric and I can well understand why he was identified at ten years old as a gifted child.
I noticed a wariness between Gen and Skot but at that time didn’t know why. I’ve since learned that Skot and Gen had had heated letter exchanges on art, but particularly regarding Gen bragging about being like Charles Manson, being friends with bikers and having loyalty tattoos. Skot hated cults, so Gen’s interest in Manson concerned him, especially after Albrecht D had written to him saying Gen was behaving like Manson, which had prompted Skot to write to me asking if everything I did for Gen was voluntary. I was surprised but Gen was incensed and had me write to Skot defending Gen’s position, criticising Skot for questioning his motives.
Skot remembers: ‘I was furious at Gen about whatever he had invented to tell you. There was actually a pattern to his keeping us at odds … At one point he and I were arguing about Charles Manson and he had you write to me to argue his position. It was written in your hand but it sounded like it was dictated by Gen. It created the illusion that you agreed with more of his ideas than you probably actually did, so that caused me to use more caution about writing to you. In fact, he may have used similar tactics with other people to keep you isolated under his “control”.’
I’d played my dutiful role of protector well enough to set more alarm bells ringing for Skot. He was worried for me – he recognised signs of certain cult methods of control and wrote me letters to alert and support me. I never received them.
Regardless of Skot’s disapproval of Gen’s interest in Manson, he agreed to Gen’s request to be taken to eat at El Coyote, where Sharon Tate reportedly had her last meal. Then we went back to his house to watch the first Dada-like Science Holiday films, Gaucho 96 being of particular note. Gaucho 96 was one of the fake bands they formed. If any record label showed interest they’d be sent the film of the band – which was silent. I liked Skot’s logic and informed sense of play, his apolitical, guerrilla, spontaneous street performances, driving around LA and recruiting strangers for their interactions, then retreating, leaving people thinking, ‘Was that real?’ I was in like-minded company, where laughter sat comfortably alongside serious discussions on art, magick and other subjects of mutual interest.
23 November 1976
Well about half the people walked out on the performance. First time ever, including Chris Burden. Can’t be bad. I syringed my pussy, stitched my arm. We ended up all locked together lying in Gen’s piss, blood and vomit …
The action was intense, probably the most extreme we’d done to date, and it didn’t sit well with some people, especially the controversial performance artist Chris Burden, who stormed out in disgust. I don’t know what they expected, but they shouldn’t have assumed anything other than the unexpected. Those who stayed till the end gave a thumping round of applause – that was new. We washed ourselves down and joined everyone for a celebratory meal, Gen dry-fuck-dancing with Ann Fulam, and me sat talking intensely to Skot and Bobby. The next day we took the one-and-a-half-hour bus ride with Harley to Santa Monica to do our I.D.E.A. gallery action.
*
After an emotional farewell to Harley we landed in San Francisco and made our way to the Greyhound coach station to meet Monte Cazazza. We tried calling him but the lines were busy. It was scary hanging around in the station getting hustled the whole time; creepy people were circling us. Then we got through to Monte and he turned up, using his last few dollars to rescue us – ‘before you were murdered by the pimps, perverts and prostitutes there’, as he put it.
We dropped our luggage off at Art Silva’s place and went to Monte’s. He lived in a huge old municipal building, with two rooms the size of church halls, big enough for him to rollerskate round, with small rooms running off all over the place, and a spooky basement with laundry and shower facilities. Monte was part of the Bay Area Dada Group, alongside his friends Tim Mancusi and Bill Gaglione. Bill and Anna Banana, who we’d been corresponding with, also published VILE magazine as a parody of AA Bronson’s own parodic FILE magazine. But VILE concentrated on art and material that was bizarre and offensive. Front covers included a hanging corpse with an erection and Monte stripped to the waist, sneering and looking like he’d torn out his heart, holding it up to the camera. Monte had a reputation for unpredictable, outrageous behaviour, once turning up to a dinner party with a briefcase. He placed it on the table, opened it to reveal a decomposing cat he’d found, set the cat on fire and then left the party. His art project for college was pouring cement in the main entrance door and staircase, a statement that I’d say pretty much summed up his opinion on the ‘teaching’ of art.
‘Are you trying to keep them to yourself?’ Bill asked.
‘Yes, I am!’ was the reply. Bill never came over to see us.
Monte wasn’t what we expected from his letters and reputation. He was caring and offered for us to sleep at his place our first night, and we ended up staying with him for the whole of our stay in San Francisco. It was a fantastically happy time, non-stop talking, him showing us his slides, books and artworks, throwing ideas around and just enjoying being together. It felt right – it felt like home for the first time since we’d been away.
27 November 1976
His bedroom is like a cell. Just one single bed and black cover and pillows with a nazi flag laid in the middle.
The irony of the flag wasn’t lost on us. Monte was as confrontational with his art as we were, and we decided to do some ‘Nazi Love’ photos, amongst others. Me naked and Monte stripped to the waist, blowing smoke into each other’s faces through very long glass tubes, juxtaposing them as we went along, some of me naked, bent over with the sharp blade of a shiny dagger held delicately but precariously just inside the lips of my pussy, and Monte holding a sawn-off shotgun as if he’d fucked me with it then shot me, fake blood smeared all around my crotch. I didn’t get to bed until almost 5 a.m. and was woken by the sound of Gen photographing Monte in bed and Monte raging at him for being out of line. It was 7 a.m. I went back to sleep.
We’d spent the afternoon in book shops. Monte bought us a book on San Francisco murderers, and we bought fresh fruit for our trip and danced in the street. We got back to Monte’s to hear the news that murderer Gary Gilmore had got his wish to be executed. The case had been big news since we got to the USA, and Gilmore’s attitude was unprecedented and intrigued us.