Yesterday, my friend Xeni Jardin posted a story about a man who is in love with mannequins. In Los Angeles, I used to walk along Hollywood Boulevard, taking pictures of mannequins. This one was behind a grate in the front of an abandoned store. She was single but was not for sale.
Hollywood Toy and Costume has a mindboggling display of decapitated mannequin heads in its windows. These mannequins model wild wigs as outrageous as the towering drag queens inside who (wo)man the wig counter. I always liked this mannequin. She looks so happy to be alive.
I took a photograph of these mannequins at the beautiful Rem Koolhaas designed Prada store in New York City. I think of them as members of the mannequin world's White Power movement. They're fashion nazis.
This mannequin lived in an Amsterdam sex museum. I saw a live sex show not far from there. In the theater, everyone sat in red velvet seats. The performers had sex on the stage. In the end, everybody applauded. The stars turned to the audience, waved and smiled. It was a surreality.
Once upon a time, I wrote a short story called "Mannequins." The story was about a woman who was in love with a man who was in love with mannequins. Later, I took a photo of a mannequin with her head on a stake. I tried turning the mannequin into a comic. I never did finish it.
