zyzz

(exhibition text from '10 likes and i'll rewrite diary of a wimpy kid,' by anais baker and pip lennon)

Kelp is waving on the sea floor, anchored by roots until washing up ashore and becoming leathered by the sun. The salt forms rings on its surface that stiffen it into a jerky, the skin of a veteran sunbather top deck of their sophomore cruise voyage.

There is a certain kind of coastal physique. In youth, it's triangular; broad-shouldered, muscles isolated and defined with the precision of an airbrush. Tan is sprayed (brash), applied in a self-tanning moisturiser (subtle) or a Bondi Sands mousse is applied with a mitt and removed way after the recommended curing time to achieve a deeper, intermediate glow. Formulations with greenish and purplish undertones are recommended by the boys in the gym locker rooms before class, amongst cloying mists of lynx, because these make the tan look way more realistic than the orange basted onto the bodybuilders of yore. Self analysis is required for maximum effect: whichever colour you tend to bruise, that's the one you should pick.

There is a sense of protection in the culture of 'aesthetics,' a phenomenon that swept the nation, pioneered by former-wimpy-kid Aziz Sergeyevich Shavershian, better known as Zyzz (may he rest in peace). Kids who were used to getting beat up behind the gym were now inspired to enter that palace of ectomorphic recreation and experience its transformative power, the bruises no longer etching their failures but providing a handy guide toward tan-shade selection. Sometimes the muscles, chiselled with hours of precious study time, lasted all summer after high school through the holiday feasts of Christmas and New Years. Sometimes, like the cracked shelves of rocks that descend into the sea from the esplanade, which many jump off on the hottest days whilst hardstyle and EDM blast from a JBL, the muscles gradually soften, their protective purpose fulfilled, metabolised down by salt and torpor. Gel combed through side fringes and spiky peaks dissolves in the ocean, and the fake tan starts to pill and rub off as it makes contact with the sand, the og gritty exfoliant. The labour and leisure ratio is arguably off kilter... but aesthetics is the bridge and means that all the effort is totally worth it brah, keep pushing!

The coastal physique gets weathered and people become flat and tattooed and this fades to a blue green that mottles with all the freckles and pitted acne scars and melanomas that are widening whilst we are too busy trying to sail or fly away. Some sway their metal detectors over the sand trying to excavate but we see less of them lately, the treasures are usually rusted. Seagull shit defaces the salt-damaged sandstone of the Bay Hotel and bird spikes line the ledges as protection.

Zyzz and the subculture of detailed, labour intensive aesthetics at large is reactionary against the slacker, although protection lies in both. There is protection in running away from life, and sprinting too hard into life. Trim the fat from the body, retreat outward, or trim the fat from the lifestyle, retreat inward.