Matthew Linde is an artist, curator, and student living in New York. He is the director of the Melbourne-based fashion exhibition space and store Centre for Style, which was included in this year’s Berlin Biennale. Linde is also a Columnist for Flash Art. Upcoming exhibitions include the TarraWarra Biennial, Tarrawarra, Australia; Romeo Gallery, New York; and Shoot the Lobster, New York.
A week with Linde includes exploration of twee aesthetics, skate videos, and a late night stroll in Central Park. The “Consumer Report” concludes dramatically at a punk show in Bushwick. For all that and more, you must keep reading. —John Chiaverina
Woke up after napping to avoid work. I’m depressed and so I sit at the computer distracting myself with fashion blogs.
Fashion blogs remind me that it’s ok. I drape a towel around me and look in mirror, pretend it’s a gala.
I bought this book from twee second hand book store on window displays.
Wake up from napping to distract myself more.
Looking at store mannequins online.
I get an email from Eric Schmid and I open it. It’s about a group show he’s organizing. I’m the ‘fashion’ in the show.
I’m really lethargic. I try writing chapter drafts for my dissertation and it’s boring.
I go out for drinks with friends and I get drunk. I get extra loud and talk to anyone. I tweet: “I have no blood family and I am easily excited by people. It is quick for me to feel kinship or love with acquaintances.” Embarrassed.
Woke up not feeling well and embarrassed.
Thinking about maximalist fashion designers like keupr/van bentm.
My wardrobe is in despair. I’m trying to wear only suits as my uniform. Before this it was pajamas.
Emailing this person on craigslist for free old sheets.
They reply and tell me to come over for sheets.
I am getting old sheets.
Haha twee culture: also thinking about some things (I write these on my wall):
Gum on suits
Old eggplant in fridge with sauce
I can’t cook
to look after a body
I *hate* early 2000s Dior. I *hate* fashion accessories as repurposed art objects
Thoughts. I have these notes in journals.
MY Ravaging eczema
Walking to store to buy dinner ingredients, I am inviting people over for dinner. I can’t cook. I see someone with great 2008 style revamped grunge well not really grunge more shoegaze. I ask to take a photo of them. They accept. (NB: I run into this person on Houston St. a few days later and we are semi-friends now.)
How do I steal from Whole Foods? (Can someone message me about this.)
Everyone is secret rich in NYC.
I go to Central Park on my own to cheer me up. It works. I talk to this person sitting next to me on the statue at the Southeast corner of the park. He works at the Apple store and tells me my accent is cute. We go for a walk to see something and he is wearing a polo top with crisp pants. It’s a boring outfit.
I’m at home eating Ben and Jerry’s and looking at:
From Ryohei’s CSM grad collection and a new Noveta performance I found on their blog.
Friend calls me. We talk about things. I feel OK.
I go to Blue Stockings and ask again if they need volunteers.
I am in Beacon’s Closet and I buy a really nice suit for my Dese’s glam party. I also buy a fake diamond broach for extra effect.
This is what I am wearing to my day working at the FIT museum:
It reminds me of the Robe Volante:
I get worried about my lack of work for my postgrad studies. I don’t like the look of this eczema on my cheek. It’s bad.
Rewatching old YouTube saves:
From Rocha’s 2003 collection.
I wake up with my eczema tearing my body. Surplus value??? Lol.
I’m working on a major exhibition that will include five designers’ work. I think about how this must be useful. Or good, it’s a good thing that this exists. Anxiety.
Meeting with lawyer about visa.
I meet up with a friend for a snack.
I think about the semi-friend I made from street-style photographing them. I feel very solipsistic in New York. My friend calls me and we talk for hours. My friend tells me I need big glasses for my big face. I feel self-conscious, my eczema is growing. I wanted these:
I did drugs five hours ago after a gig and I almost died. I feel like I am still dying. I can’t do drugs anymore, my body is done. Some old punk cryptkeeper with two pitbulls found me as I was on the curb of some industrial street in Bushwick. He asked if I was alright and I said I was about to have convulsions and I need to go to hospital. I was having trouble breathing and he asked what I took. He sat with me while a friend of his got out of a taxi and started hugging him and she was talking about her night while petting the pitbulls and I felt like this was the last thing I was ever going to see.
Now I’m in my friend’s bed in Bushwick. I can’t go to sleep in case I die.
I walk slowly around Bowery with my friends and I explain my morning, they said I looked bad.
I’m at home now. I’m researching old design houses like Halston, Geoffrey Beene, Tao. Harold Koda’s writing is boring.
I try to read but watch YouTube.
I try on different outfits while watching YouTube.