The Aunties of Hollywood Blvd
My Aunties are on a billboard, staring at all of you as you pass on by...
Welcome to my Substack #20. Soundtrack for this post: Gemini Rights by Steve Lacy
1. Day 1: The Aunties were late, of course. Because Aunties always have a timeline all their own – they always have to put on their mauve lipstick in the car, spritz themselves with a musky scent at the last second, make sure their sari is draped over the shoulder just so. It is not ‘being late’ - it is making an entrance, making sure enough gossip has been foddered, whispers asking what could be taking them so long. It’s the build-up of longing and anticipation. An Auntie knows how to do this well, because gossiping is their currency. They were so late, that they completely missed the opening party we threw for them. But oh, what an entrance they make, showing up and out in the brilliant California sunshine on Hollywood Boulevard. They aren’t the only billboard on that corner - overshadowed by Channing Tatum sweating in a jungle and next to a lung cancer warning for smokers – but they know they are the only ones not selling their own bodies for the usual billboard. From their rooftop vantage point they judge everyone that walks by, disrupting silently as they do.
2. Being part of an art show that temporarily reclaims thirty billboards from capitalism to share art fulfilled my anti-capitalist heart. I spent much of my early twenties thrilled by the pages of Adbusters magazine, and this art show felt very on brand for that. This is the 9th year that the Billboard Creative put on this show and I had always loved driving around this city and seeing the sporadic art billboard. I didn’t even think of submitting to the show until Jean Ho, my first Aunties w/ Deadly Stare commission, convinced me that it would be a glorious story for my Aunties to be staring down on the plebeians from a billboard. The Aunties did get in, and it indeed is glorious.
3. Day 2: I park behind a dumpster in Thai Town for the most perfect first view of the Aunties on a billboard. I time it so that the line from SZA’s Conceited would be playing – “cause I’m betting on me, me, me, me…” I am so excited to see them I jump out of my car to take a selfie with them – though they pay me no mind and keep their stare steady. At this intersection at this time of day, the Aunties stare at the tourists in their crop tops walking casually by the drunk houseless man who had sprawled out on the side walk. On this day, I am most impressed that the words of a Sufi saint, painted green and cut into palms, have made it onto a billboard overlooking Los Angeles.
4. I didn’t mean to make the Aunties w/ Deadly Stare series to be sold, or to be seen by strangers. I made them with an energy I now know as casting a protection spell. I made them as a meditation to calm my anxiety and to keep me from spinning out of control. I made them because I liked painting on old paper ephemera, and painting white bridal dots over eyes, and I was inspired by turn of century artist Jamini Roy and Bengali scrolls and how my dad’s doodle in the 80s were elongated eyes. Just before the pandemic started, I was overwhelmed by the toxicity of the people around me and the idea that maybe they were the reason my body became cancerous. Unconsciously I was drawn to the evil eyes – and painting evil eyes with eyeliner obsessively – that I think they provided me a kind of protection. Art is more than just art. I mean, I always knew this but in practice, I didn’t know there was this kind of power of spell casting in art making. So, when I look up at the Aunties w/ Deadly Stare #17 on a billboard, I am filled with the feeling of not know where the past three years went by but at least there was that, and I made that, and am here for that.
5.Day 3: I find myself a stool seat at the brunch spot Friends and Family. From this perspective the Aunties look on as I work on my laptop, and honestly, side-eye my procrastination. Or maybe they side-eye that I didn’t make a meet-cute moment with the cute guy sitting next to me. Aunties do that, vacillating their stare between criticizing outfits, single-ness, and body weight in the same passive aggressive glare.
6. I learned early that I behaved sinfully. This was made clear to me when I would go to dawats, and I would eat my thorkori chicken and dhal bhaat with my hand. To the Aunties, it was a moment of staying true to my Bengali roots until they realized I was eating with my left hand and not right. It’s haram to eat with your left hand in Islam, they would tell me, shocked and ashamed. But I was five years old, left-handed, and I wanted to eat. The Aunties would stare and it was always a conversation topic they would have with my parents as I silently and shamefully ate. Even though at home I continued to eat with my left hand, eventually, the compromise at other peoples’ house would be to find a fork to eat with. And then I was Auntie-Stared at for being the Bengali kid that ate with a fork who was too Western and snobby to eat with my hands.
7. Day 4: Cars race towards us as I stand in the middle of the road and Wajiha takes my photo. Of course, I want to run to the curb but Wajiha’s photog confidence in taking up space for the picture’s sake is always infectious. She is so brazen, one thinks, I should also be. I stand in the street for the photo and scream at the last minute and race to the curb. The locals standing on the curb look at us strangely, especially because our influencers-in-the-wild poses aren’t quite as Hollywood as the usual ass thrusting poses. We walk up to the Armenian uncles in front of the store to see if they would give us access to the roof, but they say they don’t have the key. The Aunties just stare at us with all of our picture taking antics, I imagine, muttering “Budtameez.”
8. There was the Auntie that looked unnaturally white – bleaching her skin and wearing the lightest shade of white makeup (Shada Auntie). There was the Uncle and Auntie and that would always bring a tub of Neapolitan ice cream to the house – so they were called Ice Cream Uncle and Auntie. There was the Auntie that lived by the airport (Airport Auntie) - an unfortunate naming based on circumstance and nothing else. There was the Auntie whose cheesecake was legendary – she was just Auntie with the Cheesecake. When my friends started having babies, we would have long discussions about how I would be referred. Would I be an Auntie? A Khala? A Phoopi? A Mashi? I wanted a cute name – maybe I could be Ice Cream Auntie – except I would need to go to the store for ice cream before every visit which is just cumbersome. Or Puzzle Auntie, because gifting jigsaw puzzles was my love language. We tried to make “Mishthi Mashi” stick, but I kept forgetting to buy candy and bring the Mishthi. In the end, I’m just Taz Auntie – the Auntie their parents hang out with when they get a baby sitter and need a break from the family.
9. Day 5: Today, it looks like the Aunties are staring directly at the red wooden sign leaning on a tree. The sign has a picture of a palm on it and is leaning in a way where no one can really see it. It doesn’t seem like it’s good marketing, but I just imagine that psychics who can see into the future would know that already. The Aunties stare says, “This is haram and black magic. Go in if you want, but we’ll be out here judging you when you come out.”
10. I didn’t need to be high to feel completely taken by the surreal quality of Meow Wolf – huggable pink monsters and rippling walls that echoed trills when you touched it. I walked around alone and in my KN95, taking in the the feeling of bewilderment – how little we get to experience feeling lost and wonder the older we grow. In this timeless art space, no matter your age, we all dance with lights. From a distance, I notice a cute Desi teenage couple out on a date – I think how their brazen show of affection is just normal in 2023. It’s cute. It’s what I wish I had. I never dated as a teenager – and even if I had the chance to date, I don’t know if I would have felt as brazen to be so public. Later, on a narrow path I walk by them, but I notice out of the corner of my eye the girl hides behind the guy so I don’t see her. I walk away perplexed. Why would she hide from me? I don’t live in Denver, and I have a mask on. She doesn’t know who I am. But then I realized what had happened – she Auntie-ed me! She thought that through The Auntie Network, I would rat her out to another Auntie and it would somehow get back to her Mom, because in all likelihood, I was probably her Mom’s age. I was aghast. I would never be the Auntie to rat out a teen on a date. But also, I was aghast to be perceived as an Auntie, an Auntie like that. And because I couldn’t get it out of my head, I spent the past month writing a script about this moment.
11. Day 6: I watch the stripper clap her 8-inch heels against each other making a huge shocking sound that makes me jump. She then climbs to the top of the pole and lays out horizontally while rubbing her nipples under her bikini top. I know I am supposed to find this sexy, but all I think about is how strong her core muscles must be, how pole dancing is actually a sport and how many muscles I didn’t have to make me look like that. As I wonder at what point to throw the couple of single dollar bills I have - because skills like that should be rewarded – another woman from our bachelorette party asks me what kind of work I do, which then turned into a conversation on the state of public utilities. This isn’t fun, I didn’t want to be reminded about the state of politics and my job search while at a strip club. I may be an Auntie, but I’m not THAT much of an Auntie. I wonder if this is similar to how men do business deals at strip clubs. I try to move the conversation by gesturing to the dancing girl and saying, “wow, she’s so strong.” But it doesn’t work, and the energy vampire sucks me into a conversation about elections, again. As we leave Jumbo’s Clown Room at midnight, we are hit with sideways rain whipping our jackets open. Our phones did text us a blizzard warning that night, what did we expect? The Aunties, drenched in rain and under lit ominously, stare at us as we jump puddles walking to my car. They judge us, but little do they know how little there was actually to worry about us. We were Aunties too.
12. I fought very hard to keep my womb – but in 2020 I had two doctors tell me that I should get a hysterectomy. “You are 40 years old, it’s not like you are going to use it,” is an actual thing they said to me. The thing is, I wanted a baby, and I think I still do. So I fought very hard to save my womb. I came up with other reasons to save my womb that don’t involve reproducing (did you know a name for god is Rahma, the womb?) but still I wanted that sliver of a chance of possibility. I don’t feel like I’m Child-Free-By-Choice – I hate the term for myself and I never chose to not have a child. I chose to not reproduce with dumbasses, and chose to work in non-profits that don’t give financial security to be a single mother, and I chose to live in a state that doesn’t support a single woman with maternity, day care, healthcare, etc… I also never wanted to be a Mom so desperately I was willing to do it alone – I always wanted a husband to parent with. But quality potential sperm dads are not easy to come by. It’s been three years since I kept my womb, and late at night I often wonder what all for. It’s quite possible that the only kind of mothering I will be providing will be to my friends’ childrens. I will Auntie them, with sweets and puzzles, and chaperone them to concerts, and I’ll keep their secret when I see them in public making out – but it won’t be the same. An Accidental Auntie.
13. Day 7: The sun sets pink on the Aunties, the background sky matching the portrait pink acrylic I used in the pink background of the painting. Today, the Aunties are demure and golden. They are still looking at you but they know you are looking at them, too.
14. Did I ever tell you what inspired the Auntie series? In 2016 two Muslim women were boarding a JetBlue fight – they were older and wore stern chador type hijabs – and as they boarded the flight, they stared. They stared so hard during the flight it made the flight attendants uncomfortable and they were pulled off the plane when it landed. Didn’t they know? I thought we all knew. This is just how Aunties stare. Their stare is so deadly it’s a terrorist act. I paint the aunties to remind myself that to have the kind of power to strike terror with just a look is a wonderful thing.
15. Day 8: Today the Aunties cry out in the rain, weeping through their eyes for everyone to see, “Three years ago today you were told you had cancer cells, and today you do not.”
16. Now on the rare occasion when I go to a dawats, Aunties still stare, but they know better than to verbalize what they want to say. Now that Mom has passed, the Aunties know they don’t have anyone to gossip with. So instead they stare. Sometimes their stares are sad, because I remind them of my Mom. But usually, their stares passive aggressively judge the weight I’ve gained, the lack of a husband on my arm, why my makeup isn’t prettier, and if I should be eating that piece of mishthi. I’m too old to ask why I’m not married anymore, they know. So instead they just stare. But I make sure I look good so they have something pretty to stare at when they do.
17. Day 9: It is blustery, and snow has fallen on Los Angeles so that the mountains behind the Aunties are snow capped. The wind is biting and the palm trees sway shedding fronds all over Hollywood Blvd. The Aunties are wind whipped, the plastic ripples, and with each gust the Aunties shiver, their look wildly all over the place. Today they are unfocused, taking in the madness. They are just trying to hold on.
Epilogue
The Aunties decided to leave without saying goodbye, but I guess the Aunties are on their own timeline. Still, my feelings are hurt. I drive up Normandie Blvd. the first moment the rain clears and look for them – but the billboard is bare, ripped shards of scraps glued to the board. The Aunties were supposed to be up through March 6th, and I still had a week left. But the biting blizzard wind must have been too strong. I park my car and start walking around the building, looking to see if it could have fallen anywhere. I look at the encampment, and in the dumpsters, and in the corners of the ally. Did they fly through the air and land on a passing car, judging the driver? Did they land on the sidewalk, and a homeless person used the plastic for shelter in an encampment, defending them with looks? Did someone find it and decide to put them on their bedroom wall to stare at them while they slept? And why did the Aunties leave before I could say goodbye, did they not want to say goodbye to me? I kick myself for being unnaturally sad for the personification I have placed on them – it iss paper ephemera, a medium that I work with and write about a lot. This is the nature of temporary art. Graffiti-ed walls, alponas at wedding entrances, sand castles on the ocean’s edge, foam art on your latte, bedazzled acrylic nail art, red henna-ed hands – they are all meant to be enjoyed and then, quickly fade away. The fleeting nature of the Aunties feels like a personal attack – they were late to the party, and early to leave. And they didn’t wait, at least for me. But that’s how Aunties are, right? Getting angrily riled up by the wind, and floating away, to only stare judgmentally at the next thing. Aunties are, after all, on their own timeline.
