But the dividing line between good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart? — Alexander Solzhenitsyn

This Monday, Story Story Late-Night, the black sheep of our live storytelling posse, returned to the scene of Visual Arts Collective for CRIME Stories. The provocative show was scandalously awesome.

I had a rough time scheming up an outfit for this theme, but in the nick of time, I pulled it off, inspired by the femme fatales of film noir (like Veronica Lake)…

 with a touch of flare from Spy Vs. Spy.

Clover Lane velvet and netting hat ($14, Antique World Mall). Red leather belt (gift from Kim Philley).Film noir is a dark era in celluloid from the 1940s-50s that gets its nihlistic attitude and shadowy style from crime pulp fiction and German Expressionist cinematography. I took a 6 week winter course on film noir in college (though I culled the above from Wikipedia), and yes it was as bad ass and as Liberal Arts as it sounds.

These movies just drip with raw sexuality, shadowy motives and fantastic fashion. The sirens wear outfits that seamlessly fuse demure and downright daring (often right down the front). (Check out the innocent(?) Jane Greer above.)

I bought this now label-less black-and-white dress on sale at Macy’s years ago for $50 because it made me think of a trip to Paris. I promptly regretted spending so much on polyester and fantasies, but also promptly started to wear it backwards (which is why I cut out the label), as shown above. (The real front is real boring, a sheath of black to the neck.)
Now all I need is a cigarette. And the gaze of Jan Sterling. Vavavoom. She’s so smoldering, it’s criminal.
Moral of the story? Skirt the law. And don’t get caught.

Photos (of me) by Whitney Rearick. The others — stolen from the internets.

All below photos (except one) are by the unstoppably awesome photographer Will Jones. See the full slideshow of Modern Art 2012 at Boise Weekly.The Modern Hotel (and Bar!) is a boutique outpost in Boise with posh, mod rooms, and drool-worthy historically-infused cocktails. Every year, the hotel hosts Modern Art, a single night in which artists of every breed and ilk are allowed to take over every single room and make do what their imaginations will make do with each space.

Everything from topo-bedding…

to 70s disco dance parties (this room was off the hook, btw. Boogie down, Drydens)…

to courtyard dancing backed by a giant concrete wall entirely hand-crocheted using old VHS and deck tape vinyl. Just, you know, express yourself. Cover surfaces. Then cover ground.

Because who says art doesn’t draw an audience? Modern Art is a zoo. A fun, crazy, arty, experiential zoo.

This photo is by the fabulous Whitney Rearick

So, of course I somehow got involved. The talented writers Elisabeth McKetta (pictured beside me in her signature red cowboy boots) and Elizabeth Rodgers invited me and fellow word-maker Kim Warren to join them in room 214, the sweatshop…er…spontaneous writing room.

As a group, we decided we would go neutral on clothes, letting the writing speak the loudest and what not. So I just had to wear this Liz Clairborne vintage silk dress with black comma print ($6, thrift store). [SIDENOTE: This dress is like my writing. I want to wear it so bad but something always tears me away. In this dress’s case, that something was actual tears, right up the seams in the ass. So on the day of Modern Art, my boyfriend Dan Costello handmade a replacement part to fix a handheld sewing machine, then hand-sewed the ass of this dress. Dude. Seriously. That is a good man. Also, Kelly Lynae sewed it back together the first time. Both of you. Seriously.]

In this writing room, we would get a word or a phrase from people coming in. Then write out a full page story in a composition notebook, tear it out, hand it off to that person, and let them do with it what they will. No rereading. No cross-outs. No editing. Just do it.

I admit, I was skeptical of what both the writers and the readers would gain from such an experiment.

But what an amazing experience. The 5 hours flew by, as did my limping hand. The daily fear that every writer faces of the blank page (I call it the abyss), and of disappointing both yourself and your audience, just had to be wrestled with, over and over. It was like all the mini-little anguishes and delights and epiphanies of writing a complete work packed into 2 to 3 minutes and one sheet (after another).

I learned there are whole worlds inside me, inside all of us. Just clawing at the door. Waiting for it to open up. Just say the word. Start creating.