Turin

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: Have Broom, Will Travel

Dear James and James —

I’ve recently parked my meandering caravan in Torino, Italia, and transformed it, with a quick wiggle of my exceptional nose, into a glass-enclosed nest surrounded by woods and autumn leaves. Between the chirps and trees, I’m finally at home, or close to it. Who would have thought it was in Pino Torinese, or Turinese Pine, that I would find my comfort zone? But perhaps the reasoning is not so obscure: A childhood fantasy was being a tree fairy, living among mossy evergreens, luminous enchantments crackling from my fingertips. It’s a fantasy that lingers yet.

Scarlett Rouge

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: Tarts! Frocks! Democracy!

Dear James and James —

I’ve been meaning to write you. There’s so much I’ve wanted to share, but my head has been so topsy-turvy with all these hats I wear: the chef cap coupled with visual-merchandizer visor topped by a filmmaker’s baseball cap. There are days I feel like a circus acrobat juggling while spinning, suspended in air; I stop for a moment’s reflection, amazed that I have the energy to grow so many arms. I am utterly grateful to have so many delicious ingredients to create the sweet-and-spicy dish that is ma vie.

Phoenix Rising

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: Phoenix Rising

Dear James and James

I’m sharing a comment someone made about my last piece, in which I was being a little hazy about my love life. Mopey Reader wrote:

Firstly, thank you for thinking of me. I do have some questions. Sometimes, if people use a number of metaphors and/or similes, or if they confuse the two the same way many mistakeningly [sic] use the term ironic in place of coincidental, I get confused and miss the main point. Is there a new lover or is this a metaphor for the art fairs? At first I thought the article was about a new person that you met but then it turned out to be about other things so I don’t know if that person is real or not.”

Scarlett Rouge and Giovanni

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: 63 Ways to Say I Love You

Dear James and James —

Have I been MIA? Where have I been and what have I seen, and is it really worthy talking about?

When I tell people about all my travels the refrain is invariably, “Oh, you lead such an exciting life!” But globalization, as far as I’m concerned, simply means longer commutes to work, sprinkled with maladies from recycled air that of course have to blossom when I am on “a vacation” with, yes, my new lover. However, our destination is where he also happens to be working. We barely see each other except between the sheets.

Since we last spoke I went from LA to Paris.

Scarlett Rouge Porn Star

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: The 3 Faces of Me

Dear James and James,

What’s that game when you create your porn identity by adding the name of your first pet with the first street you lived on? Mine would be Milky Spring. Quite hot and pretty appropriate. Really the joke’s on me; I can thank my bohemian parents for already providing a perfect porno name in case I was so inclined to follow a calling in the sexual arts.

Math Bass

SCARLETT’S LETTERS — Reality Is Just Collage

Dear James and James,

It’s so nice to be back in La-La-Land, to bask and see my face glow from the sunny rays Angelinos love to hate and Europeans hate to love. Being cheerless here is a crime.

There is a buzz going on in L.A., and it’s not coming from the massive electrical lines that grid the hills to the valleys, or found amongst the flashing lights of a red-carpet calamity. It’s happening in the young and vibrant art scene. Perhaps I am biased — I’m seeing many of my peers come into their own, flourishing into a thought-provoking conceptuality that juggles humor with irony. This is what I love; it’s unique to the creative expression of these bright groves.

Joel-Peter Witkin

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: Dancing in the Garden of Earthly Delights

Dear James and James —

It’s been brought to my attention recently, or maybe I should say I have recently been reminded, why I don’t drink hard alcohol. You might have seen me — unluckily or luckily, depending on what you fancy — a couple fashion weeks ago at the Yoyo Club in Paris. I drank vodka as if was spring water from Lourdes, then got on the DJ stage and danced a kind of striptease in my pink ruffled silk Rick Owens dress. The security guard gracefully tried to remove me from my adoring audience,

Scarlett Rouge Backstage Rick Owens

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: A Secret Homelessness

I am walking. Walking. The runway is endless. Literally, it’s a marathon with only one row of seating, and mass of bodies clustering behind it. We were told to run, twice through, while keeping our cool. I’m wearing what hasn’t been seen before. Slightly afraid the Egyptian-esque tubular hat will fly off my small head. This is not my first time strutting down the catwalk; still, adrenaline kicks in, helps me keep up pace.  Adrenaline encourages me. All you got to do is walk. The world’s fashion elite are watching me. Watching as I walk. Flashes from their little snappers.