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In it, she gives actor Vincent Gallo a blow job Gallo also wrote, directed, photographed, edited and produced the hooey , and this blow job is no shadowy simulacrum.
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- It might surprise modern viewers to learn that the moment was a recreation of the finale of The Widow Jones , a hit play of the day, and the filmed moment was screened in order to publicize the show.
A black girl and an Asian girl huddle anxiously on the corner a few yards away, checking her out. Chloe looks up, wrapping her arms tight around herself in an instinctive gesture of protection, as if to reduce the exposed surface area of her body even as she manages a smile that is shy and skeptical and indulgent all at the same time.
Chloe giggles with relief. She looks down at her jellies—transparent plastic sandals. And the two girls standing on the sidewalk in their big black Doc Martens want to follow her. Chloe tries to remember where she got the sandals. Something Something. The girls thank her and practically run up the street. Chloe fires up a Camel Light and resumes her study of Vogue. Helmut Lang is my absolute favorite. God, Armani is so old-ladyish.
Lagerfeld ruined the house of Chanel; Coco would never have done miniskirts. I watched this documentary about her. She was so great. In addition to her jellies Chloe is wearing a very short white dress made of a shiny, flame-friendly space-age synthetic.
It looks sort of familiar Gaultier? Maybe you saw it a few years back on the little girl from the next building who came around with her father and held her pillowcase open for the mini Snickers bars. The funny thing is, it looks really good on Chloe. Two dollars. She accessorizes it with a fake Chanel bracelet from Canal Street, which she wears around her biceps. At this moment, she is five feet eight, weighs a hundred and ten pounds, and looks, in her current short coif, quite a bit like a skinny Jean Seberg.
She checks the racks methodically and holds up a pair of white vinyl pants. Chloe favors places in Brooklyn and her native Connecticut. The first time it happened, Chloe was seventeen. She was standing at a newsstand on Sixth Avenue, in the Village, when she was approached by Andrea Lee Linett, the fashion editor at Sassy.
At the time, Chloe had hair down to her butt, and she used to tuck it up inside a big Nefertitian hat of her own creation. After the shoot, Linett went out and bought baggy tan corduroy overalls for herself. Chloe was still a student at Darien High School then, sneaking off to the city whenever she could.
She grew up in a gray shingled ranch house near Long Island Sound that looks pretty raffish amid the austere white Colonials and the tall, picket-fenced Victorians. He started with our kitchen, and then he did it for other people. We never had as much money as everyone else.
I came to the city with two girls from Connecticut who were my homegirls. Every skater in the city was there. It happened again a few months after the Sassy shoot, when Chloe was hanging out in the city, kicking it with her friend Harold and the other skateboarders.
Meanwhile, the folks at Sassy asked Chloe to be an intern that summer. And then Sonic Youth—the godparents of alternative rock, and possibly the coolest band in the world—cast her in their new video. The idea for the video was to do a little parable about the way Seventh Avenue plagiarizes the guerrilla fashion of the street: the Trickle-Up Theory of Fashion, where the Up Haute cops the Down Low. The whole grunge thing was just peaking: runway models were slouching around in expensive hommages to the scruffy rockers of Seattle and their thrift-shop flannel shirts.
And who better than Chloe to represent the supercool street girl whose style gets ripped off in the designer showroom? She was dressing in arch preppy stuff and wide-wale corduroys, and she always had the best look. It was never off-the-rack skate stuff. We were all into old Fila stuff from the mid-eighties, but it was like her Fila sweater would blow yours away.
She looked like a village guy who steals from Polo. Everyone wears it now. Chloe was one of the models for the New York launch of the X-Girl line, which took place on Wooster Street last April—a major gathering of the interconnected tribes of hip-hop, rave, indie rock, and skateboarding.
Chloe was also one of the muses. It was this blue broadcloth shirt and it just fit her so well. When we were doing our fall stuff I had her try on stuff. Sometimes I think, This is really Chloe-ish. But Chloe simply likes the Lemonheads. She still likes her parents. It was one of the highlights of my life. Chloe really is the symbol for all those kids. But she does keep to herself. He also tried to represent her for modelling assignments, but found her curiously indifferent to being marketed.
It was kind of a fuck-you thing. At the time I was pissed, but now I kind of admire it. It may also be canny. Here in the blue-tiled bathroom of Tunnel, a night club that has survived the eighties to enjoy a second round of popularity, it looks like a rave is going on: dozens of street kids in their mid- to late teens dancing to house music, smoking whatever, and kicking it.
In their baggy pants and T-shirts, they hardly appear costume-designed. Clark then secured the invaluable backing of Gus Van Sant. He admits that he may have had Chloe in mind when he wrote the lead female role. Jim Nugent, the Teamster captain on the production, who has just finished working on the new Walter Matthau movie, thinks things on this set are getting a little too real.
One of them tried to pick a fight with me the other day. The next night—well, technically, Saturday morning—Chloe is back in the coed bathroom of Tunnel, this time as a civilian. Forget about the so-called V. The crowd is homogeneous in its inchoate youthfulness no aging pop artists, socialites, or countesses in sight and heterogeneous in its drug use: a few grinning love bugs on ecstasy; glassy-eyed junksters; furtive, Speedy Gonzales cokeheads zipping in and out of the stalls.
And Ritalin, the drug often prescribed for hyperactive children, is a relatively new buzz on the scene. They come out of the stalls pie-eyed after a couple of lines of Special K, a snortable combination of horse tranquillizers, heroin, and coke. Chloe is greeted and hugged by William, one of the club kids, a hulking, tatterdemalion figure wearing layers of shirts and ragged sweaters, with pink hair shaved close to his skull, and rings and plugs in his lips.
Someone—not Chloe—comments that Sophia looks good considering that she is, like, really old, like forty or thirty-four or something. Here also is the famous and much loved Junkie Jonathan, his eyes ringed with kohl, tottering on high platforms.
Usually he has a kind of deconstructionist punk look. The club kids are professional party creatures, who dress and coif themselves to fabulous extremes and are paid by the management of the clubs to hang out—thereby, presumably, attracting the less fashion-forward wannabes and weekend scenesters.
The kids form one of the downtown tribes among which Chloe moves, like a roving ambassador without portfolio. All that athletic wear and techno wear, all the stripes. Anna Sui rips everything off. Chloe scans the room. The word has apparently gone out on some deep-buried wire that tonight is toga night.
Here, at what should be the cutting edge of street fashion, the late arrivals look like a bunch of beer-bashing Phi Delts. And over there is Methuselan mogul Steven Greenberg, the Benjamin Franklin look-alike who has haunted the hot spots since at least the Pleistocene, wearing four young women with his well-cut navy business suit.
Her current boyfriend is an eighteen-year-old named Robby Cronholm, who plays in a band called Crumb. She takes out his picture and displays it. Unfortunately, Robby lives in San Francisco. The thought turns Chloe melancholy. Chloe surprised a junkie there last week. The refrigerator harbors a pitcher of cold tap water and not much else.
Lila returns at about three-fifteen. She is from a first-generation Korean family who live near Nyack. Like Chloe, she hates the suburbs. My first kiss was in this squat; I kissed two different guys on the same night. It was a spot, and the dealers would watch out for us and take care of us, but eventually one of the dealers ripped my friend off. She was eighteen. It was a real hell house. Everybody was doing a lot of drugs.
When River Phoenix died, we had this tribute party. We rented four movies and did dope. It was pretty sick. The police would come to the door about credit-card frauds.
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Chloe Sevigny: Confessions of a Party Girl – Rolling Stone
In it, she gives actor Vincent Gallo a blow job Gallo also wrote, directed, photographed, edited and produced the hooey , and this blow job is no shadowy simulacrum. I mean, I think Vincent was dealing with a lot of issues regarding the act of sex.
As it happens, Sevigny seems to have a number of every-which-way philosophies herself. One of them is, never go to sleep wearing underwear, and how she came by it is, her mom. My girlfriend calls them personality pills. But I am not abusing them in any way, and they are dangerous. I thought it was innocent. He was just another skater until, in , photographer Larry Clark asked him to write what would become the wallop-packing movie Kids.
She remains an actress always maybe on the verge of bigger things. She is in favor of a tidy apartment and does all the tidying herself.
She has a lot of fuzz on her arms and once played drums in a band named Fuzzy Peaches. She currently lives with Matt McAuley, who plays bass in the band A. Am I right?
Actually, I interpret them in any way that helps me. It is always worth checking in with Sevigny. She is, and probably always will be, It. Chloe Sevigny J. Newswire Powered by. Close the menu. Rolling Stone. Arrow Created with Sketch. Calendar Created with Sketch. Path Created with Sketch. Shape Created with Sketch. Plus Created with Sketch.