Today, my mother Maria, my Nani Rose, and myself, Ruby Valentine, went to go see the wonderful 1940's fashion exhibit at the Phoenix Art Museum.  As we looked in vain for a parking space, I got a text from my friend Kyle, asking what I was doing.  "At the museum!" I gushed, a big outing for me.  Kyle and my friend Shawna go practically every week.  I hadn't been in about a decade, despite living a few blocks away for nearly 7 years.  "I know," Kyle answered, suficiently creeping me out.  

It turns out he had been honking at me while I went in circles at the parkinglot, and, oblivious to the sender, he could see my head whipping around in anger that some asshole had layed his horn on me.  I have horrible road rage.  I have horrible *vicarious* road rage, in fact, if I happen to be a passenger.

After that text, I knew he must be in the vicinity, and asked how he knew I was there, while simultaniously staking a lookout for him as we passed the enterance.  It turned out he was right behind me.  I introduced him to my family, and we headed for the exhibit on the mezzanine.  I was kind of surprised by how small it was, but the quality made up for the quantity.  

There was a small glass box at the entrance, holding amazing goodies, in particular a pair of full-fashioned nylons with fucking FLAMINGOES embroidered on them.  I'm still wondering how the hell they did it, beings how nylons snag and run if you blow on them the wrong way, let alone embroider, which makes me think they were possibly glued appliques.  
"I love these!" I moaned, as Kyle, my mother, and I admired them.  Kyle (who is post-mod mod if you could catergorize) had once derided my seam-stockings as "looking like something an old woman wears" when I showed up at his snazzy duplex on one occassion, so I gave up trying to use them on *him* for bewitchment, though he did admire the flamingoes on this pair.  I was actually really surprised to realize that some men really aren't turned on by stockings.  Sometimes I'm ashamed the way my naivete hits me upside the head.  

The platform velveteen and leather pumps were the other thing that made me go absolutely crazy.  I kept on debated whether to try to switch shoes with some of the models that were left unprotected.  They even had a pair of those close-toes that were popular at the time that curves gracefully upwards to shield the toe-cleavage modestly.  I've been wanting a pair ever since I saw some in an old comic book, being such a unique look that was basically never replicated again as a style of footwear.  The other pumps, however, have had some pretty close approximations replicated, and I was lucky to find a great pair second hand a few years ago, which I painted red with acrylic very sucessfully to match an outfit.

Okay, so I saw some amazing clothes, but it was frustrating, since my first impulse was to want to try them on.  We drifted to the end of the exhibit, and I was shocked out of my socks to see a REGINALD MARSH OIL PAINTING!!!  Now, for those of you who don't know (probably most people), Mr. Marsh was a wonderfully decadent painter of the old school who has drifted into total obscurity at this point, who was a huge influence on me.  I was totally taken by surprise to see anything of his in a museum in my home town.  I first heard of him in an essay written by Dr. Anton LaVey on how his work had virtually disappeared from the collective consciousness as his style of painting had been wiped out by the rise of abstract art.  He had really flourished in the 1930s-40s, when his style of voyueristic realism was still acceptable.  In my studies of Coney Island for my *Dreamland* project, I came across some wonderful examples of his work and was totally hooked.

My mother, who is an art teacher, had never heard of him, but she agreed there was a great deal of connection as I explained what an influnce his style of women had been on me.  The voluptuosness he imbues his sexy floozies with is something I've sought to impart to my own heroines, and I was overjoyed that my mother, who is very familiar with my style, recognized it right off the bat, with a pride she takes in my wide-reaching realm of knowledge.  Oh my, I'm making myself blush with shamelessness.

Anyway, my mother found that there was also large watercolor of his on the other side of the exhibit, which was of a very shapely, sexy lady sitting next to her serviceman boyfriend in the seat of a love-boat ride, which was flanked by angels that bore a great deal of resemblance to her.  Behind them, you see the line of couples waiting to board, and to the far left a great burly character pulling the operating lever.  I forgot to note the titles of the work we saw, but I think this one was called "Love Boat."

Going back to the first painting I spotted, which was in a marvelously ostentatious gold frame, the figures pictured are huddled around what looks like some sort of monument, or perhaps the bottom of some stairs leading up to a grand building in a park at night.  One blonde in a red dress, the sexiest girl of the group with her hair done up in victory rolls, stands alone under a streetlamp, the glow thickening the shadows around her as she turns to look back, her face tart and throwing that "come hither" look.  Just increadible, seeing my first Marsh!

Kyle, who had wandered off into the next room, came back to see what I was squawking about.  He then said that he thought he had seen another Marsh in the next room, so after snapping pictures with my phone camera, a scurried off to the next exhibit.  This next one took my breath away.  It was a typical Marsh subject, girls in line at the cinema, with the ticket booth and a sort of night watchman type gazing on.  The colors where unbelievable; the little tootsies were dressed in bright reds and yellows, all of them blonde, all bursting out of their clothes.  I snapped some more pictures, before a curator huffed over to stop me.  Luckily I was able to convince her she had caught me taking my first picture, which I apologized for and deleted while she watched.

Right next to this painting was Frida Kahlo's famous painting of Dorothy Hale's suicide, which was under glass and much smaller than I had always presumed.  It was about 16x20, if that, including the frame, which the painting extended over, and the detail was just breathtaking.  I felt immesurably lucky to have glimpsed these treasures and even snuck some photos, as well!

Next, we drifted off to another room which held the "mirror room" which I had heard about, both from my friend Kellie, who had discovered it a few years ago, and my mother, who had recently taken my baby niece Whitney to see last week.  I had no idea that this "mirror room" they talked about was in fact a Yayoi Kusama installation!  Yayoi Kusama is another of my favorite artists, so I couldn't believe my luck on this trip, getting to see so many treasures.  The mirror room is tucked at the back wall in a permanent instalment, and is pitch black inside, except for little colored lights that hang from the walls.  Mirrors cover all four walls and the floor and ceiling, and there is a little entrance and a little exit at opposite ends which are hard to spot while you're inside.  The effect is like walking through space upon the stars, just thrilling, thrilling!  It's easy to loose your bearings inside, so we all held hands as we bumped through space and the little color changing lights.

I still can't believe my luck at seeing so many works by my biggest heroes.  It's all sort of mind boggling, as it was so unexpected, but the nicest sort of birthday present!  I'm turning 25, a quarter of a decade, in two days, and I couldn't have thought of something I would have liked more.