When I got the job as a staff artist at a nightclub, the dream came true. It was the sort of impossibly swank joint where Saudi princelings blew $20,000 a night on champagne. Meanwhile, onstage, the world’s best vaudeville performers would do acrobatic, carefully choreographed acts about cutting off banker’s heads. My boss had the depravity of a Borgia prince, but goddamn, he understood my art. I drew my beloved performers as gods. Customers were coke snorting pigs.VIA
It got me thinking that all it takes to get political is a sharp eye, a mocking disposition, a discomfort with your place.
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