Visit the new home of BRANT WATCH on Monday, December 2.
Visit the new home of BRANT WATCH on Monday, December 2.
With applesauce stains dappling the front of his Calvin Klein extruded-silk pajama jumper, Julian Schnabel takes a private moment with friend, billionaire, and professional-enabler Patriarch Peter I. “We did it Petie,” Schnabel whispered, “we really fuckin’ did it. There’s like 400 people here, and I bet only 8% of them know that this is all a joke.” Those annointed celebrity guests included actor Benicio del Toro, best known for his stirring role in The Wolfman; Debbie Harry, acclaimed for her recent guest judge role on Project Runway Season 3; and the ghost of late, lovable curmudgeon Lou Reed, who bumbled about the Brant compound loudly “hating every fucking thing and every fucking body.”
Peter II, wearing a hand-tailored suit from Stephen Cohen’s new Criminal Enterprise (TM) line of menswear, posed with someone’s near-sighted aunt in front of Schnabel’s iconic Smashed Plate Boogie-Woogie (Requiem for Janet’s Face / Bring Me The Head of Caesar, Extra Dressing), 1987. “The plate works are definitely my fav,” Peter II explained. “It’s like Julian just does not give a fuck. Most people would see all those plates and be like, Sweet, dinner party time! But he was, like, ‘I see a specter of destruction, and I shall bring my wrath upon you, vulnerable porcelain detritus of our modern civilization!’ It’s fucking punk.”
Jeffrey Deitch, freshly back from California and excited about his upcoming role as the host of Bravo’s Work of Art 3: The Bushwick Years, is seen here with Marxist fashion scholar Arnie “Praxis” Geez. Deitch wears a couture corduroy suit from Thom Browne’s Talking Teddy Ruxpin Is Your Friend (TM) collection. The pair are posed in front of Urs Fischer’s monumental bronze sculpture, Pain In The Ass, 2003, rendered from a 3-D scan of the artist’s prostate.
"This is my Hurricane Sandy painting," Schnabel said of the piece above, Driftwood Mojo / Hurry Up & Wait / I’ve Got Some Peanut For You, Puppy, 1980. “This was made decades before the actual event, but born out of a certain telekinetic prescience, as if I could feel the storm in my hands as I worked. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
Compound guests were thrilled by vaudeville icon and professional impersonator Jimmy DeVille, seen here in costume as the beloved Christopher Walken, who reportedly died in 1982.
Eddie Schnabel, Julian’s younger brother, is photographed here with the 1986 smashed-plate-and-ox-blood masterpiece Song Of Titan / Moon Warrior Abandon / Trim Your Hedge Fund, Sir. “I’m real proud of Jules,” said Eddie, a partially employed plumber by training who lives in Astoria and tends to see his elder sibling only a few times a year, at gala events. “Our mom always said, J-Jay, you’re gonna be somebody, and look, here he is: Somebody.”
"The tail end of August is the hardest time for these lost souls," whispered Harry, speaking to a reporter from W magazine at the four-day Burning Man Recompression Survivor’s Camp, an immersive healing retreat hosted in Jersey City. “They’re reading all the tweets, they’re seeing the Instagrams, they’re remembering that time back in ‘06 when they just ran fucking free and barefoot all night, on some sort of vision quest, and communed with a gigantic flaming aardvark who was riding a dream-bicycle across the pocked face of the moon. And it just matters that they know: We’re here for you now, everything is going to be alright.” It’s the second year that Harry has volunteered to serve as what BMRSC calls a “flesh-embodied reality anchor”—the terminology itself admittedly a bit of a holdover from the days in which even meatloaf came spiced with LSD. This year, the young Brant’s first charge is Delorean Brattle Spracket (born Emily Holliday), an 18-year old “burner” inducted into the hallucinatory West Coast revel by her cousin, who first began traveling to the Black Rock Desert for an American Studies thesis he was completing at Rutgers University. “At first things were pretty chill?” Spracket says, her voice as hypnotically glacial as mostly-frozen maple syrup. “Like, you’d just be hanging out, and somebody would be like, Care for a free burrito? And the burritos were totally guaranteed to be vegan, you didn’t even have to ask? And then some dude who back home is probably like a lame dad with a bunch of stupid kids is, like, riding a tricycle around naked in the sand, just totally rapping in some language that hasn’t been spoken since caveman times?” (Spracket’s spine does a weird sort of shimmy-jerk thing, at which point Harry enfolds her in a “cone of understanding.”) Fifteen minutes later, she continues: “But then sometimes maybe some guy would be like, Have you ever read Noam Chomsky?, and you haven’t, so you go back to his tent? But it turns out that Noam Chomsky is just sort of like a nickname for his penis, which he’s painted to look like a mushroom with a terrifying face?”
"It feels good to be a role model," says Harry later, still quietly conversing with the reporter from W. “These kids need some grounding. They need what I would call a reality check, or what the literature here refers to as a ‘realignment of sense-parameters with the horizon of greater glee.’ I mean, look at them: They’ve been living in a world without any responsibility, without any need to work or earn money or do something of value that contributes to the planet; they’re just like drug-addled Bobbleheads, bobbling their way from one party to the next, completely ignorant of how the majority of the world goes about their business, blindly supported by parents—if such a word even applies here, I mean, really—who don’t realize what a holocaust of privilege they’re funding.” Harry and the W reporter step outside to smoke an unfiltered bindi cigarette, a packet of which the anemic Brant has tucked into the mink-lined pocket of his rutabaga-impregnated denim motorcycle shimmers. “You’ve just got to shake them—not literally, some of them have brain damage—just metaphorically shake them and ask: What is your purpose? Why are you here? Are you a sentence in the story of the world, or even a piece of punctuation, or are you just dead, blank space on the margins of the page?”
At midnight, Harry’s agreed-upon two hour time-donation was up, and he gave a wistful Queen’s wave in the direction of Spracket, who was deep into a period of mandated journaling (‘text-based gestation of hope-material.’) “Id like one day 2 live in Norway and raise cows,” she wrote. “To milk their udders in the morning, go for walks at dusk, to have a husband with an unruled beerd and rough viking hands” [SIC.] She looked up from her labors in search of Harry, who by then was merely a dwindling red light entering the Holland Tunnel. He’d been replaced on big brotherly duty by Alan Cumming, smiling sheepishly, carrying a battered Whole Foods bag filled with puppets.
The New York Post caught a scoop this morning (courtesy of Brant Watch) regarding a vitriolic blow-out between white-haired billionaire koala Tony Shafrazi, Patriarch Peter I, and notoriously bad driver Owen Wilson. The scuffle—which ended with pools of blood and hunklets of scalp marring the pavement of 6th Avenue—was the result of a simple text-messaging error. “Everyone knows Patriarch Peter can’t use technology to save his fucking life,” Shafrazi said, oozing an undefined substance from a gash on his left cheekbone. “You say BlackBerry to him and the fucking guy gets all squirmy, like you just dropped a racial slur on the floor.” Shafrazi had been coordinating dinner plans with Patriarch Peter I and Wilson; unfortunately, the latter duo was ensconced at DaVeh’Gina, while Shafrazi was pacing in front of Indochine “like some fucking creep with nothing fucking better to do than fucking burn calories.”
The misunderstanding was partially cleared up thanks to a tweet from Wilson (“Chillin at Duh’Vagenius with @PatriarchPeter, bout to be an oyster HOLOCAUST in this piece” [sic]) which Shafrazi promptly responded to (“UFUCKINGDOUCHEFACE i suggest U clear a boot-sized space in your ass IMATINDOCHINE #livid”). Shafrazi hired a pedicab to rush him to the correct restaurant, where he observed a visibly intoxicated Patriarch Peter I assisting Wilson in the ‘Slurpy-Slurp Friend Luge,’ a Brant tradition in which a dozen fatty Blue Points are quickly ingested, in the manner of a beer funnel, using a scoop-shaped plastic implement passed down from one generation to the next.
Shafrazi, by now so enraged that he was shaking “like a fucking Parkinson’s patient on the Cyclone,” ejected himself from the pedicab and grabbed Wilson around the neck, reversing the course of the last three Blue Points, which were ejected “high into the air like a geyser of mucus” (according to the Post.) A trio of Italian waiters attempted to restrain the boisterous gallerist, to no avail. “You ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER fucking leave me waiting in front of the wrong fucking restaurant,” Shafrazi bellowed, “and you’ll be deader than your fucking career. You’ll be reincarnated as a retarded dog, and you won’t even get cast in Air Bud 6, you fuck.”
By the time the carnage had ended, some twenty minutes later, six anonymous diners on the sidewalk patio had been killed. Patriarch Peter I fled the scene, later found walking in his underwear toward Chelsea Piers. Shafrazi reportedly broke Wilson’s nose seventeen times before being hurled into the street, where a Toyota Prius drove over him and failed to stop, having mistaken his body for a discarded mattress wrapped in black plastic. At press time, everyone involved was pressing charges against everyone else, and Shafrazi was suing Indochine for being “the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.”
Here we find Harry, wearing tapered anaconda slurpeets paired with a Venetian-mesh blouse and heel-jacked hog-bladder booties, photographed with Gina Berruchio, hostess of the popular Italian gameshow “Your Mommy’s Salami,” wearing a new Gerhard Richter X The Jogging dress produced by Uniqlo. The occasion is the first annual benefit gala at the Wonderwheel Center, a Long Island-based institution founded by Lady Gaga in order to promote “intrinsic and explosive wonder-cality in the performing and visual-type arts.” Guests at the benefit—which reportedly “cleared everyone worthwhile out of Manhattan for an entire Saturday, leaving only the shitty and unimportant behind, weeping into the pillows of their own insignificance,” according to GalleristNY.com—were treated to various coGAGAborations with the likes of Antony, Marina Abramovich, and Dustin Yellin. (The latter artist’s piece was literally electrifying, as it involved Gaga playing a bone-white grand piano whose keys were attached by wires and alligator clips to the nipples of Yellin, who was suspended precariously above a large water basin.) Peter II was woefully unable to attend, as he had previously committed to making a promotional Sweet 16th birthday cameo in Anaheim, California. (“$18,500 to show up, eat some cake, fart, and take the jet home,” Harry explained, with a languorous wrist movement of unexplained import.)
The evening kicked off with erstwhile actor Alan Cumming MC’ing what Gaga referred to as a “wonder-tastic battle between artiste bulls and slavering, testosteroni matadors [sic, from press materials].” Creatives, including Peter Coffin, Matthew Barney, and Sarah Sze, donned frilly ‘bull’ costumes designed by Rob Pruitt, and proceeded to be taunted, “stabbed,” and ultimately slaughtered by James Dimon, CEO of JPMorgan Chase. “In Madrid they eat the balls,” Dimon cackled, to the delight of a braying front-row crowd. “But here we exercise a bit more restraint.”
Later, a select cream of V.I.P.s were skimmed from the rabble and invited to take part in A Boat For My Lady, A Lady For The Lake, a brand new experiential installation produced by Gaga in conjunction with Punchdrunk and General Electric. The event, as candidly described by the Center’s publicist, “is pretty much like Sleep No More except outside, and with fewer people, but with more freaky-deaky Oriental-type shit.” Guests wearing thin-china masks were escorted into the woods by a gaggle of “ninja-clown-butlers” who enacted a malleable narrative based on Shakespeare, Law & Order: SVU, and David Foster Wallace’s Pale King. (Specific details were scant, as media was not invited to participate.)
Harry was reportedly lost from the group for six to seven hours, later discovered by a Long Island police officer curled into the hollow of a tree. He was unharmed, but also different, somehow, from that point on.
This production still for boutique perfume brand Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness captures Italian motorcross hopeful Lenny Capadappa and Peter II sweatily sandwiching pickle heiress and aspiring actress Lana Porcine. Porcine (whose Facebook page lists “Natalee Halloway” as a personal inspiration) plays the role of a disheveled teen clubgoer being greedily nibbled, poked, and groped by two hormonal strangers who, driven mad by the scent of her perfume, proceed to literally devour her in CGI sequences created during post-production. “It’s like a metaphor for how the way we smell can make our lives better,” Porcine surmised, though she did express some discomfort and confusion that her character ends the commercial as little more than a puddle of steaming, vaguely human material on the floor of a nightclub, said puddle being greedily lapped at by Capadappa and Peter II, who have at this point sprouted pointed CGI ears and pronounced facial hirsuteness, an art director’s approximation of the insatiable lupine yearning triggered by Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness, which retails for $819 per 10 ounce bottle at Barney’s.
"Now I become Death, the destroyer of worlds," muttered a sweat-drenched Peter II, his irises pinwheeling through the fifth hour of a massive DMT trip at Mi Scusi, the members-only club in Milan co-owned by Silvio Berlusconi. (The Brant family was in Milan so that Patriarch Peter I could ink a deal with Sausages 4 Everyone, the locally-based meat delivery superchain.) "Part of me wants to lower my arms, but part of me knows that if I lower my arms, I’m going to lose the, like, mystical relationship I have to the ceiling at the moment.” Mi Scusi, known primarily for featuring underage girls in short skirts dancing on unexplained box-type structures, has in recent months become something of a haven for psychedelic drug users. “It’s not a question of ‘How are we going to score?’ ” explained Peter II’s friend Leo Pompino, pictured here in white jeans. “It’s more like, ‘Is there any chance we’ll get out of here without someone forcibly shoving a hallucinogenic compound down our face, against our will?’ To which the answer is always No, no we will not.”
In the club’s VIP room, Peter II regaled a rapt crowd with a story about how he once worked at McDonald’s for half a weekend, as a joke. The trust fund-based artist Max Snow turned in an iPod DJ-set comprised solely of Kanye West’s “Black Skinhead” on repeat. By the morning hours the dance floor of Mi Scusi was littered with abandoned purses, scraps of hair weave, crushed lipsticks, and various pieces of ripped clothing. “There’s about a season’s worth of Law & Order: SVU in that room alone,” one clubgoer commented before returning to the overly bright street outside.
In this Brant Watch exclusive photograph, a visibly befuddled and distraught Patriarch Peter I is caught in the back-corridor bowels of Art Basel, seemingly unsure of where, and perhaps even who, he is. ‘I’m in a bad place,’ he whispered, shivering against an invisible breeze. ‘I wake up in a strange bed, I put some ‘clothes’ on my ‘body,’ I’m forced to walk around and converse with other supposed ‘human beings,’ but everything feels so hollow and fake, and one day—I swear—I’m going to punch through this veil of illusions and finger whatever’s on the other side.’ Patriarch Peter I had attended the major international art fair with his family, but he seemed unaware of their whereabouts. ‘You want to know what hell is?’ he asked Brant Watch. ‘Hell is having two kids who literally refer to you as ‘the ATM,’ as in ‘have you hugged the ATM today?’ or ‘better go pretend to love the ATM for five minutes before he stops spitting sweet hundos out of his fat face.’ Hell is having a wife who refuses to sleep with you more than once every six to eight months, and who has assembled a scrapbook of nude photos of herself that she gives to you, when you’re particularly handsy, along with the directive to ‘dear God go take care of yourself in the third floor bathroom already,’ a wife who, when she does deign to relieve you personally, in the Biblical sense, acts as if she’s performed an act of charity worthy of Mother Fucking Teresa. Hell is having to pretend that Nate Lowman is actually an artist. Hell is having to obsessively refresh and recheck a certain website ever since they made light of my manboobs. Hell is—’ At this point Patriarch Peter I suffered what appeared to be a minor epileptic fit, after which he removed his Cole Haan shoes and, putting them on his hands, began to enact what can only be described as an experimental puppet dialogue. ‘Sometimes life is grand,’ the left-hand shoe squawked. ‘And sometimes life is so, so sad,’ replied the right-hand shoe, drooping in an approximation of serious depression.
Patriarch Peter I’s publicist later issued a statement that the Patriarch had experienced a brief bout of psychosis catalyzed by a bad piece of sea urchin sashimi. The publicist denied the existence of any self-made, book-length marriage aids (though he did, in a press release, cop to personal episodes of “onanistic indulgence during my high school years relating to the Guns n’ Roses video for ‘November Rain.’ “)
"Safari chic!" swooned Harry, bits of leopard pancreas gristle still stuck between his incisors. "Nothing gets my pulse racing faster than, like, exercising dominion over violent beasts of the wild. Okay, so like giraffes are pretty pacifist, but a leopard would rip your face off.” The young Brant is photographed here at the Pachinko Wildlife Grounds & Casino in Kenya, alongside heiress Davina Pachinko, who wears a one-of-a-kind transparent skirtgirdle lovingly sewn from the intestinal linings of 30 African Wild Asses. Joining them is Brant superfan and hanger-on Terrence Blastfort, a last minute addition to the family’s exotic sojourn. “To tell you the truth,” Harry later whispered to a reporter, “I’m getting a bit scared. Did you ever see The Talented Mr. Ripley? I have serious suspicions that Blastfort is about to get a bit Tom Ripley to my Dickie Greenleaf. Last night I woke up in the eco-lodge and he was just sitting on the edge of the bed, petting me, telling me that I have ‘the most delicate clavicle.’ But maybe that sort of stuff is normal where he comes from in Missouri or whatever.”
The rest of the Brant family, including Patriarch Peter I and Peter II, were several miles away, knee-deep in the heroic mud of endangered creature-slaughter. Pachinko’s grounds are liberally stuffed with a bounty of animals—most of them controversially treated with Valium nuggets to create a ‘slow-motion, video game-style shooting experience.’ By the end of the weekend the paterfamilias himself had racked up an impressive litany of kills: 14 giraffes, 3 Addaxes, 2 Aye-Ayes, and a Pygmy Chimpanzee in a Pappea tree.
A slightly queasy Peter II mugs for the camera outside the Oval Office, accompanied by socialite and Samsung Galaxy Note 2 heiress Deirdre Cackle III. The occasion is the launch of Michelle Obama’s “America 3.0” program, a new initiative for the American education system. “I’m mainly here from, like, a protest standpoint,” Peter II said, pausing to check a suddenly unruly gag reflex. “I got this mass email saying she’s all about, like, indoctrinating kids in how awesome gay marriage is, and also how meat is murder and everyone should eat a macrobiotic vegan diet. Which is, like, those are decisions kids should come to themselves.”
"Petey’s just a little nervous being here," Cackle III confided, "after that whole Twitter incident and the, you know, A-S-S-A-blah-blah-blah thing. But the President has been really darling; he came out and personally delivered a tray of sashimi just for us."
The evening was fairly sedate, centered around a PowerPoint presentation in which the First Lady laid out her objectives for kindergarten education, none of which seemed to feature same-sex fisting or tempeh. Attendees couldn’t help but remark on Peter II’s descent into a lighter shade of pale, eventually evincing such a pallor that a security guard was forced to physically assist “some fucking vampire boy turning fucking translucent,” as he later put it. Barack Obama himself was quite understanding, despite the disturbance. “It must have been something he ate,” the President said.