Purple Magazine
— Purple 76 Index issue 29

Wall amanda


self-portrait and text by AMANDA WALL

I woke up to an email from my boyfriend with a long list of questions, interview questions, and I’m really not into questions. Or emails. It doesn’t seem quite fair for him to be asking me about things he already knows and especially the things he doesn’t. He’s well aware of my secretive tendencies so I’m guessing this is a trick. It’s partially the self revealing that I dislike, but it’s also the self reflection, the trying to make sense of why and how I do things that come quite naturally, the self psychoanalism.

The truth is that I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately and I’m a bit burnt out, the questions are usually quite similar. The people want to know where I got my great style. I tell them about glam rock bands, I tell them about Fassbinder films. The people also want to know about the mysterious world of creative process, where I find my inspiration and I give a vague description of the importance of creating character, of brand identity, of giving a sense of emotion to inanimate objects. I tell them that I was born in Oregon, that I grew up in a rural, which is of course code for shitty, small town, about art school, about being a model. I do not tell them that I’m a loner, that I function best with a significant amount of solitude, that I can go days without seeing or talking to anyone. Those things seem a bit heavy for the people. I’m not complaining about the publicity, I like to feel like I might be an interesting person, I just wish they would stop calling me a Girl Boss. I mean, I’m happy to be recognized as a figure for the power of women in corporate America, but let’s just call me a regular boss the same title that the boys get.

I’ll tell you some things about me. I live alone in the top floor of a Spanishy duplex in Los Angeles. The Final Frontier, my favorite city in America sprawling with glamour, grit, sun, flowers, an air of desperation of people trying to make it big, or who were big and now aren’t, a crazy mix of culture, a real end-of-the-world scene. Psychotic sunsets nightly. The family that lives below me has been ignoring me for a year and a half and I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t like the music, my record player is on the floor, I could never find the right thing to put it on. Also I work from home so I’m always there. Packages arrive daily. Today it was two pairs of shoes from eBay, both old Prada, I’m midway through a patent leather phase. Right now I’m in my dining room eating an Asian pear that I sliced and put black pepper on, the table is a pink marble slab that I found on craigslist. The radio is on, it’s usually on, it’s been the classical station all month. I love to go grocery shopping. I might go later. I would love to have a reason to bake you a pie.

I started painting again recently. It’s going okay. I have a hard time finishing them though, it’s the starting that feels like enough of an accomplishment to me. I really have no desire to be an artist I just like having something to do. Sometimes I have feelings that I’d be really great at other things but I’m scared to find out that maybe I’m not so great. I hear it’s common to the human condition. Please note that I play no instruments, there are also no novels written by me. I like taking photographs. I’d like to make a film someday, I think I could own up to that, but it seems complicated, so many other people involved. I fantasize regularly about my own garden, a big fucking vegetable garden. Have you ever pulled a carrot out of the ground? It would blow your mind. There’s something incredibly satisfying about gardening, something human. My interests are increasingly in the more primal aspects of living these days — food, sex, shelter, and dare I say art, in no incriminating order. But I think there was another element to the hierarchy of needs, it was something about love.



[Table of contents]

Purple 76 Index issue 29

Table of contents

Purple Index 76

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