Well, okay, maybe that’s an over statement, but I have always wanted to live in a museum. Maybe it comes from reading books as a child and letting them corrupt me. Maybe it’s because I can’t afford art. Maybe because I still have fond memories of my college dorm room where I glued table settings and furniture to the ceiling and built a cave to sleep in just in case it all came tumbling down.
Awhile back when the Whitney had the Winograd show up, I became instantly jealous of Ronnie Bernstien. I went to see the show with Vanessa and Hope The Younger, and Mr. Frownland was using the locale as an office and rehearsing with one of his actors (I can’t wait to see his followup!). But still, exchanging the price of membership to hang out in a museum is still not the same as living in one. After all you are not permitted to make a mess like you would if is your own home.
John Waters home should be a landmark — both his place in Baltimore (particularly) and his apartment in New York are virtually museums that he lives in, able to make whatever sort of mess he likes. You get a bit of an overview of it here, but I think you’ll have to find us money for FRUITCAKE if you want the full tour.
Without John Waters I never would have had the courage to make movies, to believe I could tell the stories I wanted to, or understood what a shrimp job was.
