The Wig Returns To The Opera House
Photographs by Justin Smith
Preface by John Thomas Bulger III
Dear Tom,
Please explain to the family.... I got this job writing the prologue to this photography book for Phaidon. It's going to be one of those big things that weigh 20 pounds. They flew me to Perth to meet the photographer, this English guy named Justin Smith. I arrived here three days ago. The photographer was supposed to pick me up from the airport. Instead, this little Japanese woman greeted me.
I was informed the photographer was a lunatic who does things on a whim, a total reclusive maniac. The Japanese woman took me to this mansion. There was no one there. Perth is the most isolated city in the whole entire world. It is quite a trippy and hallucinogenic feeling. Anyway, the Japanese woman left me there, and said that she would be back shortly. No one ever came back, and I wasn't able to get in touch with anybody to figure out what was going on. Meanwhile, I had this huge place on the beach to myself, thinking about how I have got to come back to Sydney to catch my flight to NY in two days. The next morning, the Japanese woman came back. She took me to this boat. The boat captain was Danish. Nobody knew what I was doing there, and I had indulged myself in the photographer's liquor cabinet, utter confusion! The boat driver told me that he had been instructed to drive me to Rock Nest. I didn't know what that meant.
A couple hours later I arrived at this land of the giants amusement park of lizards and cannibals. It was totally bizarre. When the boat docked they picked me up in an old WWII army jeep, driving me to the other side of the island. One of the most beautiful I have ever seen. In the middle of some other universe I could only have compared to the beaches of Tulum, or The Creature From the Black Lagoon. Some place you come to retire and practice witchcraft, eating your babies, the usual.
At this cabana, I met the photographer. He was surrounded by all of these beautiful women and their parents. Some famous Australian chicks named Tijah, Gemma Ward, and Nicole Trunfio. Famously hot women that this Justin guy had found when they were like 14 and are now on perfume bottles for Calvin Klein, the usual narcissism. He talked about himself for hours and told me to acclimate, which wasn't so hard to do, as the girls were all pretty unbelievable.
A long day of drinking, submerging myself into gallons of Pickford's Lemon
Bali and Vodka's, the ocean, and one of the most shark infested waters on the globe. There are Great White's all over the place! Just two months ago some guy had his whole bottom half bitten off just a few miles away. His friends watched the shark open back up and show them their friend's arm. What's that got to be like?
A day and a half later, in a drug-induced stupor, I realized that I had to catch my flight in 6 hours. My skin was red. I have burnt through half of my epidermis. They laughed at me. They were on vacation, and the boat was just not coming back. I cursed them, and by the time they felt threatened enough to get the boat back, it was too late. I think that I am developing some bad case of lockjaw.
In short, I missed my flight, but I met this red head. Not a natural one, but close enough. The photographer has bought me a tape recorder and raised my pay for the project to 6 grand. On top of that, I have convinced them to let me do whatever I want to do. They feel pretty bad that I have missed my flight back to the US. I think that I will publish my interviews with the model girls verbatim. It will have nothing to do with the photographer. He doesn't seem to care that much anyway, and has decided that I should finish my book on his balcony on the beach. It is coming along pretty well, but it is very hard writing about a trip to China while sitting on some balcony looking at the end of the world, backwards maniacs.
I wish that I were there. I had to change my flight to get back on the 2nd, which is a blower. Writing is good. I like doing it. I'm finally happy, comfortable not caring what people think, getting paid to do so.
Lifeguard thwarts Man Eater
Man Eater thwarts Life Guard
Without Life
They all went back to
Burning Ants
Watching television
Constructing pipe bombs
The Man Eater got a whole new set of
Pendulums
And Lifeguard Limbs
"Never shall I be thwarted again."
He told himself
Eating Man
I have realized that art is all about convincing idiots that you are smarter than them. At the end of the day, 15 thousand dollars later, I'm going to send them some idiotic passage out of my bathroom ponderings such as this. Although, I have slyly told him that this particular one is much too important to publish.
Merry Christmas Loughboro's! I miss you all. My family. I
Love you guys. Mr. and Mrs. Loughboro, Tom, Sam, McDonald's. You guys
have it really good up there. Vermont is so amazing. It would have been a perfect place to spend Christmas, considering that a year ago we were all sitting in -20 degree weather building your home. Instead, all I've got is some red head. While she has got a nice body, she has not left the country. She thinks that I am a stereotypical American. I mean really, what do I have to do with Mr. Belvedere or Ashley Olsen?
She just met me. I'm thinking of running through town this evening, naked, covered in shaving cream. People here are really nuts. They might not even notice.
Hopefully the book will be published so I can keep pushing on. Rest assured, I still haven't completely lost it.
Love,
John Thomas Bulger III
JTBIII: So I wrote this letter to my best friend. I was supposed to go to Vermont, New England for Christmas . What do you think about using this for the intro? It's pretty good. It makes you look like some kind of photography God. Besides, that's all you really want in an intro anyway. Maybe I'll even add the fact that the Japanese woman said "Justin Smith....penis so big. He take such great photos. Very very famous photographer! Such big penis! Big as my arm!" Then you'll have it all. And really man, the fucking thing has got to weigh 20 pounds! I don't care who is publishing it. Tell them to put a weight in the bindings. Don't worry about any of the contents. The weight is all that matters man!
JS: AAAHH MAAANN! It's good......It's really good. The problem is.....that you have never been to Perth before! Maybe it would be better if you came here and really checked it out. It's the best city in the entire world. Why do you think that I live here? Everyone wants me to go to Paris, New York, and all of these places. And you have made me sound great....but I think you need to come here and see why I'm not leaving. It's the Wild West Mate!
JTBIII: Are you sure I have to? I'm staying in Bellevue Hill with these hot chicks and the head aboriginal art expert for Sotheby's. They have a boat, and there is a party every night.
JS: Yeah, it kind of makes sense. Don't you think? I mean, we'll fly you here, and you can see where the photos come from. It's all about Perth! If you're going to write my intro you will only understand it if you come here. You can tell everyone I'm paying you 15 thousand dollars if you want. Nobody has to know.
JTBIII: Fine! But I do need a taperecorder. And some kangaroo boots goddammit! And you better figure out how to make the story I wrote come true! Because I think that it sounds good. Get the chum ready! I want to be dipped in it. I want to get bitten by a shark. Do you know how many chicks I will get back in New York? Just a small bite man! Nothing major!
JS: Allright, but we will only refer to you under your real name - John Thomas Bulger III. This is a civilized town.
JTBIII: Not even my mother calls me that.
JS: It's Perth man. Everything will all make sense. See you soon. Merry Christmas!
One Week Later- Perth 1/30/2005
Justin Smith is my father, my brother, my best friend, my worst enemy, greatest adversary, myself 15 years later, bizzaro JTBII, the eyebrows, ohhhh the eyebrows! He gave me the gift of a lifetime. He showed me Australia; this freakish eight breasted goddess. He has opened my eyes to my own beauty. He tortured me for hours, standing in poses that just didn't seem to make sense at all. "I am a man, take a snap shot and deal with it!" I questioned my whole existence, only to want to frame the picture of some beautiful paintograph on his computer screen that was I?
There is so much love within this man. He wants to give, give, and keep giving, love your self! Not to mention this insane Tim Burton twisted town, the backyard to the end of the world. Most people where I am from will never visit, truly understand, care about, ponder, wonder, or even have a layover in the place that is Justin Smith, this place that makes so much sense!
Perth; it's long roads from the downtown, through the park, a metropolitan push, leading you into these neighborhoods, one side ocean, one side endless bush land. City beaches; every ten feet or so a couple with their six pack of beers, kissing, eating fish and chips. The birds above them, life partners, they talk about their day. "Catch any worms? How are the kids? You wanna have sex?" The pink sun sets over the oilrigs and great white sharks. "Gooday Mate!" His true understanding of this surreal scene, the painting. He doesn't take snapshots!
The windsurfers carve through the icy tunnels, going in circles, their wide frames and massive arms, backs, suspended, the wind, the wind. The knife sharpening and the unsheathing of the blades. The howl at the sky. The waves are slapped by angry warriors, encouraged to go faster, faster, towards the shore. They are slaves to these figures floating on air, feet above the water, hoisting themselves from kites, god plays puppeteer. Their boards look down at the choppy water, begging.
On the beach, 6 foot women bask in the sunlight. Freakishly beautiful. I know. I have been there. The Burning light. The sun whips rays of hot coals, reprimanding the citizen's beauty.
She is pale skinned. God has a plan. So does The Wig. To the eye of any normal Man, unnoticed, just another beautiful daughter of some English immigrant or local dentist. A smile is on her face, content with tomorrow, another day in Perth. The Wig knows how good she has it.
The delis that once sold a loaf of bread now sell prosciutto and foccacia. The giant houses of the 1980's, their views of the beach, obstructed by a single home. Its giant concrete wave rides up the front, dipping up and down on the roof, staring at the Dingo Flower Company headquarters. It recites the theme song from Karate Kid "I'm the best...around...nobody's ever gonna take me down." Ralph Machio's tomb!
At dawn the girl walks down the steep hill, parallel with the wave. The end of the wave urinates into a swimming pool. A perfect jump. It was made that way. The wind may change its mind.
She walks down the hill further, entering a driveway, three steps, through the backyard where two chairs stair at their shelter from the sun, vines reach. She walks through the door. The light from the newly laid paint blinds her, hitting her face. She is scared of change. The Wig is there. She can feel him. He is in love. The dark green colors, the blues, the perfect white. The chairs in the living room gaze at each other. They are old and ugly but the Wig thinks they are beautiful, and it makes them happy.
The girl walks into the kitchen. Her hair; newly died, red, orange scalp, pungent rinds. Her lips; supple from being bitten, unnoticed. In the kitchen stand the Wig's father and mother. The father smiles, his life, it was one, everything he could have asked for. He slices ham, slams the ham between a roll, mustard. "You looked hungry." He says. His glasses catch her gothic skin, her confident canter. The mother, a mother to many, looks her in the eye, never judging, always loving. She wonders if the girl had received the same love she had always given, proper care, affection. Evaluating the girl's hands from ten feet away. She could teach her to be the best violinist in Perth. She could be her mother too.
The girl continues along the hallway, entranced, mesmerized by these people who willingly sacrifice their everything for the Wig, as the Wig would do for her, them, the Great White Shark's.
The dark green walls change the light, the life. The eyes adjust. She continues along the great hallway, a newfound confidence in her stride. She has new underwear; a pink lace protruding through her tight blue jeans, riding boots. She would inflict pain on a horse if she thought it might like it, subconscious bondage. The Wig's sister interrupts her train of thought. Covered in the green paint, brush in hand; She has the most genuinely honest lips, freckles. She too had died her hair before, now. Her eyes; so bright, so magnetic, revealing her vulnerability, that place you go to when someone asks you "what's the happiest moment in your life?" "What a dumb question!" The eyes respond. "Aren't they all great?"
The sister knows the green paint will somehow return, a future deja vu, an even greener pasture. The Wig will make sure of it. Everything will be all right as long as he is there. She puts on another coat. Her hair is cut straight across. Jet-black Japanese. The girl smiles. Their blues eyes connect
She walks through The Wig's room, the Great White Shark Stares from the desk. There is no fear in his shallow wading pool, cave. The Wig is on the veranda. He plays the violin
The Wig
Suzuki Violins and long daggered extensions of his arms, lethal love, for her
Some band that never had a lead singer
Never put out an album
But he's retired already
Everyone's heard his voice
The aboriginal lines off of the bush
Flammable peeks on his face
Larger than life
The wig was stolen from some
British Naval Commander
They locked him in a room at Kings Cross
Gave him Tchaikovsky, acid, transvestites
At the end of the day
They threw him off a 747 Boeing Jet
His fleet stared from below
Rock Nest Island
"It's the only way to get that grey, silver, Great White Shark color!"
The wig maker exclaimed
As he plummeted from above
A gift from the heavens
Taking horizontal snap shots
"Never Vertical!"
He yelled
The Perfect Photo
His own face, lips, eyes, stomach, obliques
Shoulders in
In his pocket
A note addressed to the girl
The reality of the situation
The commoners will all be taken out of context
Will leave this place
Starve themselves to death
Take pictures
Millions of dollars later
New York City
I will still be here
For you
For everyone
Perth
A much more beautiful woman
Taking your picture
We have great tits
1/01/06
JS: What about the pictures Dude? I'm not sure, but I think you should talk about the photos
JTBIII: Dammit Man! I'm getting there. If you want, I could plagiarize some other guy's coffee table book. You're so impatient. The picture is good! Do we really need to take another picture?
JS: I'm trying to make you beautiful. I'm trying to capture the exact moment in time that you are thinking the exact thought I'm thinking you should be thinking. What about the photos!
JTBIII: Justin Smith is the best photographer ever to see the moon at night, through the lense of a camera! There! I'm done having my picture taken, modeling, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I'm a writer man. Let me write! Stick to taking the photos.
JS: Exactly! Don't move! Focus! One more picture. I promise. We are selling these photos for a lot of money. Arms in, shoulders, scream, your worst nightmare, brain exploding, legs, stomach, neck muscles, wrist eyes intense, jaw, oblique, legs! Everything has to be perfect!
JTBIII: I hate you.
1/07/06
Justin Smith's photos are not photos at all. They are paintings in the truest sense of the word. He is a photographer. Yet, in this modern day love affair between the camera and the computer he is a Monet, a Degas, a Georgia O'Keefe, a Salvador Dali, that guy Veronimus Bosch whose water supply was filled with acid, a Rembrandt of the mouse pad. He shoots "Cannon's." His photos are explosions into the deep seeded emotions of his subjects, taking their inner most demons, thoughts, desires, and insecurities, capturing and exploiting them for a higher good. His canvas is a photograph. Getting that canvas correct, to the optimal state, photo session after photo session, day after day, just to get that one canvas, one photo. What he does from there is truly miraculous. He has spent months upon months, years painting some of the canvases, engulfed in the photo, obsession of the soul, the psychic relationship between the subject and the artist, that moment in time, the conception of a masterpiece.
When Justin was 16 years old, he played violin at the Sydney Opera house for David Healthcott's first return to the piano in front of a major audience. This scene was depicted in the movie "Shine." Justin was there. His hair was died blonde and he had six earrings. Healthcott gave Justin a solo for being the Wig, before the Wig was the Wig at all. It's no wonder that his paintings are such masterpieces.
A 7 year old girl can be a woman. Your brain explodes with the power of a faucet in some tropical outdoor ideal moment, permanent vacation. You can never replace the feelings, bottling them. However, if there was anyone in this world who could capture that feeling, total mental and physical nudity, it is Justin Smith. I would complain the whole fucking time.
As with any artist, Justin's work is a reflection of his heart at the moment of its conception. Presently, he is in love. While the feeling has not been reciprocated, the work is evident that his mind has exploded with the same passion of that moment, the commencement of his heart. The profundity of this series truly describes the feelings that exist when one can no longer go on as a friend. When there is just so much more to it, it may be time to go separate ways. No matter the outcome, the heart has done all that it can do. The rest is up to the lens and the man behind the camera.
Through Justin I have realized my greatness, what I truly value in this life. His pictures are exemplary accounts of that moment in time that I never want to end, knowing that it will.
One day we will all be old. I will have his picture on the wall, and I will never forget Margaret River, Perth, The Madison's, The Hewitt's, Elissa, Dave, his family, and all of the people who have contributed to that moment, the picture, the lifestyle, the culmination of his photographs, the ultimate feeling of the endless road trip, high school, adolescence, and tomorrow, an even better one. We box men twice our age on New Years Eve in Perth.
Thank you Justin. I have learned to accept the harmful blue rays of New York City, the subways, the crowded streets, the pandemonium. It's much easier when I pretend that I am living behind your lens. The lighting is actually quite perfect here.
Sincerely,
John Thomas Bulger III
