Threadworms, From the Archives: Jess Cole
This is a Moment
Observe the scene as necessary.
A city. A city that could be anywhere in the world. A glass gallery in the high-heel of such a city. The glass is so clean it’s barely solid. A situation which lends itself to the circumstance. Of seeing and being seen. The essential observation. It’s the opening night of The Hot Thing’s debut solo show. A.K.A: THT. The showing up of faces came half an hour after the show started. A sudden crush at the door made it seem all the more worthwhile, all the more important. The crowded apparitions of the IN. The in-faces. The in-the-know faces. Normies walk by and a line of frenzied inquiry quickly forms outside. Inside, are the airs of Fashion and Art with the whispers of ultra-wealth. They immediately get into practice: Gassing with one another, gassing each other up, just so gassed to be there. Their airs and graces mushroom under the lights: F-art, silent yet deadly.
Fash1: This is a shitshow
Fash2: It’s always the way.
Fash1: True.
Fash2: Drinks? Although, Sherry.
Fash1: Sherry? Should I know her
Fash2: As in the booze. Sherry are the drink sponsors tonight.
Fash1: How trifling!
Fash1 Puts hand on hip, ironically coquettish.
Fash2: Trifling?
Fash1: Trifle? 70’s. Dessert. Pour. Sherry.
Fash2: Gotcha. Yeah, very cheese and pineapple.
Fash1: I’ve never – it’s so like, baby boomer.
Fash2: It’s like, so antiquated that it’s actually very cool now.
Fash1: True. I mean also, keyword: free.
Fash2: Yeah. I don’t think I’ve paid for a drink since like 2017.
Fash1 and Fash2 jut their hips out towards the bar. They notice the oversized fedora of the Deal in conversation with someone whose skin is so dewy they must have bi-weekly facials, ah it must be, is it, yes it can only be Mun-knee. They casually drift into the eyeline of The Deal. The Deal pretends to not see them.
The Deal: We couldn’t do what we do, unless you did what you did.
Mun-knee: I just had to be here, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, to be in the moment of what is really a moment, right now.
The Deal: Yes it’s really a big moment to invest in.
Mun-knee: I mean, I buy art to experience life.
Mun-knee cups the air.
When is THT arriving?
The Deal: Oh you know.
The Deal winks.
Mun-knee: The exclusivity, oooh, how so?
The Deal: You’ll know so, soon.
Mun-knee: This feels like a moment.
The Deal: Let’s make it a moment.
Skipping several blinks, the Journo’s pupils dilate. Feverishly typing into the notes they write: Mun-knee buy’s THT’s art to experience life. THT is of the moment. DELETE. THT is the moment. DELETE. THT is making our moment a moment.
Dis: Play it cool man, play it cool. You gotta be sincere about it. You gotta keep one eye on your work and the other on the scene, on the Deals, on the Munknees, to see if they are watching.
Dis peers over the edge of his sunglasses, observing the scene as -
Dis: Have they noticed me yet?
Dis closes his eyes and tries to stay in the mode. The mode of Dis: all that matters is that Dis know’s Dis’ work is great, fuck these guys. Dis is working on history, on legacy, not right now… the scene is too slow, just ha -
Dis: Ha-ve they seen me yet?
The Deal side eyes Dis swirling his drink.
Dis: I want to be the name. I want to be the name on the lips of Munknee, The Deal, curators, the owners, collectors, patrons, board members, fashion dailies, journalists all of them saying Dis, Dis, Dis, Dis.
Dis momentarily locks eyes with The Deal. The moment passes. Dis mutters his Dis-Dis-Dis into the Sherry glass. That deep-down mutter-to-thyself truth.
Dis: I want to be THE HOT (new-ish) THING!
The Deal leans into the Mun-knee and begins to laugh. Dis bites down on the Sherry glass and it cracks – deep down he knows he hasn’t got a chance in hell.
Fash3: Did you guys get the gift card with the invite?
Fash2: Yeah, but it’s only like £200 off.
Fash1: It’s a shitshow.
Fash3: It’s what I came for tbh.
Fash2: Yeah, I mean and the looks.
Fash2 half pirouettes, a self–conscious indulgence.
Fash1: The Sherry isn’t bad, you know.
Fash3: Is THT even here?
Fash1: Nah, not yet.
Fash3: Listen this gift card is £200 off when you spend £1000.
Fash1: Wait, what?
Fash3: Yeah look.
Fash2: Damn. This is such a con.
Fash1 fingers the glass rim.
Gasps.
A languid pause.
Every face swivels around. . .
it’s, it’s, it’s
THT ! ! !
quite a sight. . .
THT’s perfectly un-timed timing. THT’s rigour and tasteful luxury: Black. THT’s top with a collar. Expensive. THT’s small necklace, solid, gold. Also expensive. And to look down THT’s long, lithe, toned, exquisitely clothed legs and to see THT’s trainers – not terribly expensive. Burnt orange-ish, green flashes. Not a hair out of unplaced placement. Not a label, obviously, in sight. Nor a single cuticle exposed. THT has arrived. Success radiates from THT’s eyes and her smile glitters with MONEY and SUCCESS and MONEY. That inescapable truth, Money and Success, which so nourishes the mind, body and soul.
Observe the scene as necessary.
THT centres herself in the large circle formed around her, she makes direct eye contact with every face there. Her eyes gloss over Dis, and Dis silently kicks a scream behind his toothy smile. The Deal steps into the circle and wraps an arm around THT.
An awed silence -
broken by a shrill alarm.
THT’s hands flinch into fists. The Deal's eyes narrow. The faces swivel to locate the alarm. THT’s index finger taps the side of her leg. Tap-tap-tapped.
The alarm continues.
The faces shift their weight from one well shod foot to the other.
The Deal: Urm, can we not?
Somewhere, a hand stealthily reaches into a pocket to turn off the phone. The Deal squeezes THT’s arm. THT clears her throat.
THT: Wow. Thank you all for being here. It’s been such a journey, truely. I’m going to keep this short, because I just get so bored of having to say smart shit all the time, or like having to come up with the best, most brilliant idea.
Gasps.
Journo notes: We are all on THT’s journey.
The Deal stage whispers: I mean it’s really great when you do.
The faces titter. Dis winces.
THT: Yes, but I think the most important thing, in art, if nowhere else…
Dramatic pause.
Journo takes note: THT seeing is believing.
Dramatic pause.
THT’s eyes are gleaming, like, like, like some rare precious stone.
THT: Is that believing is seeing.
Journo marvels: DELETE. THT believing is seeing.
Dramatic pause.
THT extends her hand out and whips a Plato finger up to the sky, although the reference is a bit lost. Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. All of the faces look up, up into the blinding white strip lights. The faces are literally dazzzzled. The lights dip into a low glow. More gasps. The sound of slow rolling thunder, it’s as if the air is vibrating between many, many, many delicate wings.
Mun-knee: Oh my god.
A single large moth lands on THT’s finger.
Gasp!
Another moth and then another moth drop onto the shoulders of THT. The faces raise their hands up. TAKE. TAKE. TAKE. Taking this moment on their phones. CAPTURED. STORED. UPLOADED. The room is illuminated by phone screens.
Mun-knee pouts to The Deal, is this the moment? The Deal gives a small nod to Mun-knee. The faces quietly clap for some reason.
Mun-knee: Oh my god –
this is the moment!
Pearlised with the shimmers of moth dust.
Fash1: Ok this is a vibe.
Fash2: Well. I’ve never.
Fash3 swivels around, capturing it all. wow-wow-wow. Hundreds of moths descend from the ceiling and towards the lights in every hand.
Dis sneezes: Moths. Of course. Classic.
Dis notices Journo hovering nearby, fingers poised and within earshot. Dis gestures vaguely around as if to take it all in.
Dis: (so the Journo hears) This could be the most interesting thing anyone except me has done in a long time.
Fash3: wow-wow-wow.
Journo’s buggy eyes swell. Oh god this is good. Dis never quite made it. DELETE. THT is standing on Dis’ back and reaching for the stars.
Journo looks at Dis looks at Journo. Dis swirls his drink. Journo flashes an eyebrow. Dis flashes a brow back.
Observe the scene as necessary.
The Deal: These moths have travelled 5,000 miles from South America to be here with all of you tonight.
Fash1 looks at Fash2 looks at Fash3 who looks at Mun-knee. They turn to each other, rubbing the air between their forefinger and thumb. Mun-knee is positively ecstatic. The faces are all shrieking and squealing with delight, holding their hands out, beckoning the shimmering eclipse to come hither to me-no-me-no-meeeee.
Fash1: This is pure poetry.
Fash2: I’ve never.
The winged eyes of the eclipse comes swiftly, swiftly. Veiling the cashmeres, the buttery leathers, the velours and the faces in a magnificent mothy coat. THT’s voice takes on a theatrical lilt, the very vibrato of emotion.
THT: Exemplifying form follows function. Everything is feasible (refrain).
Everything is feasible.
Everything is feasible
Everything is feasible
Everything is feasible.
Journo takes note: FORM. FUNCTION. THT, EVERYTHING IS FEASIBLE.
The faces nod.
Fash1: I don’t get it.
Fash2: What?
Fash1: That.
Fash3: Dunno, but it sounded profound.
Fash2 cups a moth and stares deep into its shimmering buggy eyes.
Fash2: It’s pure poetry.
Fash3 taps forehead: I think she’s saying something along the lines of real art being nothing but what happens in your brain.
Fash1: Ah, right.
Fash1 thumbs temples.
Journo types: THT’s art is mind-dependent.
The Deal gently blows moth dust off Mun-knee’s dewy, dewy skin. Mun-knee quivers, dramatically.
The Deal: This is the thingness of art, the performance.
Mun-knee gazes into the depths of The Deal.
Mun-knee laps it up: uh huh uh huh uh huh.
Observe the scene as necessary.
Dis: Oh MY gOd!
Fash1: Ohmygod!
Fash2: Oh mi gud!
Fash3: OMFGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
:O
THT: The moment of naked triumph, hastens!
Dis: What the actual fuck! My garms man!
The faces cast glances, or stares and try to force smiles, then the squeals of delight take a different pitch. Someone screams, then another screams, then another, then another. Gigantic holes appear in their exquisite fabrics. How quickly things can unravel. In vain, Dis batts away the moths. In vain, F1, F2 and F3 fling themselves on the floor. It’s all in vain. It’s too late now. N.B. The Deal and THT are nowhere to be seen.
Mun-knee shrieks,clasping onto the shredded material: Oh it’s a metaphor!
Journo notes: MUN-KNEE, MOTH, METAPHOR (refrain).
METAPHOR
METAPHOR
Shrieeeeeeeeeeeeksssssssss
The faces grab onto what modesty they have left, if any, and run for the exit. A sudden scrum at the door makes it seem all the more urgent, all the more devastating.
METAPHOR?
Pandemonium, as you can imagine
(ellipsis)
Observe the scene as necessary.
A city. A city that could be anywhere in the world. A glass gallery in the high-heel of a city. The glass is so dusty it’s barely transparent. A situation which lends itself to the circumstance. A single gigantic moth remains, tapping at the side of the glass. Tap-tap-tapped. In an otherwise empty space. The floor is littered with the debris of exquisite fabrics. A single face shows up with the mild appearance of someone who always pays for their drinks. A single nose pinched, blemished. AHH-CHOO! Moth dust, pluralising.The face begins to sweep up the tattered clothing labels, illegible, whatever it was, meh, it’s all trash now. Tart ambition so easily seduced by a moment.The striptease of such trivialities. AHH-CHOO! There is a cursor hovering over the empty space. AHH-CHOO! Journo leans forward and puts their finger on it. The eclipse caught in the flash of a headline. Journo types: Where does the dust settle after the moment’s fool?
Jess Cole (she/her) is a writer based in South London. She has written for Vogue, The New York Times, The Guardian, and is a regular contributor to MARFA. Her creative practice spans dramaturgy, performance pieces, and prose. Cole finds wit—especially when it’s quick and sharp—deeply sexy, a sentiment that pulses through her writing.
