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How A Little Golden Naked Man Makes Me Cry

This also doubles as my first entry as an official Gentleman here.

Watching the Oscars somehow takes the sting out of sewing until 3am to finish the costumes you designed for a show that opens in a matter of days.

Except for the fact that the costume drama ALWAYS wins Best Costumes and that is extremely unsettling to only me. Max Nova might have similar ill will toward the fact that the musical almost always wins Best Score.

I know, in my heart of hearts, that it's a ridiculous, self indulgent fare in which a bunch of people who love themselves get dressed up and congratulate themselves (and each other) on a job well done. But I don't care. I want to be a part of that so badly that it hurts. It aches like an amputated limb. A ghost of something I don't have, still somehow twisting the pain receptors in my brain until I want to cry. Until I DO cry.

And there are moments of somber recognition, like watching the Ledger family, a tiny group of very definitely non-histrionic, non-self indulgent artists, standing before all of Hollywood in the wake of their very real tragedy. Not ours, theirs.

And there's the fact that often the only recognition artists get is that which they bestow upon themselves. You can fight me on that, and I don't mind. No one knows what an art director is, or that someone designed and implemented the scars and color of the pirates' teeth in that blockbuster. So if they want to get dressed up and parade around congratulating themselves at the end of a hard year, an especially hard one this year, then I say go for it.

And I want my invitation.

The current mood of bratnatch at
FIN. 2:08 p.m., Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2009

ink :: graphite

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A work in Aberration.