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Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky

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Collected Agenda with Lydia Sviatoslavsky

Drawing on the diary as a medium of both confessional interiority, and visceral engagement with the physical world - guest edits ask creative people to share What They Did and What You Should Do. Introducing Lydia Svlatoslavsky: ( Instagram ) ( VERA PR) Photo: Samantha Sutcliffe Lydia Sviatoslavsky is a writer and publicist in New York. I first found Lydia last spring, when I began to see the label VERA PR attached t

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Drawing on the diary as a medium of both confessional interiority, and visceral engagement with the physical world - guest edits ask creative people to share What They Did and What You Should Do. Introducing Lydia Svlatoslavsky: ( Instagram ) ( VERA PR) Photo: Samantha Sutcliffe Lydia Sviatoslavsky is a writer and publicist in New York. I first found Lydia last spring, when I began to see the label VERA PR attached to a striking number of new and cool projects - I emailed Lydia and we met at SARA’S and then at Time Again, where she told me more about VERA; “independent, free from bureaucratic oversight, representing the unsung and unconventional”. In under one year, Lydia has cultivated a community of intellectually and creatively rigorous clients. She does not shy away from the wonderful gritty edges of things, and this, coupled with an ability to translate these things and make them accessible to a wider audience, has led to a lot of interesting work. VERA PR has represented clients including Uncensored New York , Chris Zeischegg , and Jack Skelley . Lydia also writes and edits the blog Discipline & Anarchy . WHAT LYDIA SVIATOSLAVSKY DID Sunday, November 3 Minutes after I slide into the booth at Palmetto, my friend leans in conspiratorially. “I’m on the wagon tonight.” It takes me a moment to register what he means. I eye his fuschia mystery drink, suddenly suspicious of its contents. “Tomorrow it’ll be one month.” I’m impressed by his restraint. The last time I saw the guy we were sharing a silver spoon in a bathroom at Le Bain. When I mention this, he offers a resigned smile. “Brat summer’s over.” I nod affirmatively as mezcal burns the back of my throat. “If I want to be a writer, I can’t keep drinking.” That also probably applies to me, I realize. I continue sipping. When we arrive at Forever Magazine ’s issue launch party, the topic of self-restraint resurfaces. “I’ve given up on men,” a tall blonde woman confides. “No more casual sex.” My friend nods in agreement. I admittedly can’t relate. All this talk of abstinence clashes violently with the tenor of the party, cheekily proffering Americana in all its glorious excess: Beer! Burgers! Hot dogs! Tits! I watch in silence as several guys deepthroat hot dogs. The muted specter of Trump looms from a TV screen nearby. I’m firmly off the wagon but not feeling especially patriotic. Monday, November 4 A stranger shuffles by my window around 8 AM. Several construction workers are here to repair a leak on the roof of my apartment building, and the deck that hugs my bedroom window happens to be their launching point. If I was an exhibitionist this might be more interesting. Any level of privacy in NYC feels like a luxury, so the sudden loss of it feels minorly devastating. I probably just need a coffee. I walk to a nearby café. The signage is hardly visible, the interior austere. You have to consider these things as a member of the laptop class. Trendier options are almost always at capacity. I settle in with a black coffee and breakfast bagel and face my inbox. My insistent inbox. I run my own PR agency, one that represents unconventional and underrated artists and writers. When people ask me how I got into this business, I usually offer a garbled clip from my biography, but really I just like the company of strange fruit. No, but for biography’s sake: My background is in literature and arts journalism. To supplement my arts writing after college, I worked as a freelance assistant to a varied cast of authors and journalists, offering research, editing, copywriting, fact-checking, web design, transcription, and social media support. What seemed to plague writers most, I noticed, regardless of their level of experience and talent, was that itchy nuisance known as marketing and outreach. The question of packaging and pitching oneself. I understood their distaste. I was resistant to it myself, but I found I could do it quite well on behalf of others, especially if their work excited or inspired me in some way. After moving to NYC, I noticed something that bothered me. In my view, the people who were doing the most innovative, meaningful, and truly transgressive work were not among the handful of names that seemed to garner the most attention. Let’s just say…the cream was not rising to the top. (Sorry, but you’re not gonna catch me reading a book titled My First Book unless it was written by someone in the single-digit age range.) The artists and writers I admired most were relegated to the underground and, in some cases, subject to censorship or hasty dismissal by traditional media outlets. They were not ‘press-ready,’ armed with MFAs and weaponized decorum. They were not adept at glad-handing or crafting an email (and why should they be??). American artist Raymond Pettibon sums this up nicely : “Art schooling is a socialization process, and there is a lot of unspoken, tacit knowledge. I wasn’t interested in the careerism part of it, getting ahead…The bureaucracies of the museum world, universities, academics, that sort of professionalism I don’t think did me any good. But in the end, they don’t run the show.” Right. Institutional decoration and decorum are useful assets in the arts, but they don’t run the show. I’d like to think talent wins out over a longer time horizon. TBD. Anyhow, that’s where I come in. To those who want an alternative to the cold, formulaic approach to PR representation…HMU. If I like what you’re doing, I will handle it with care. ⇺⇺⇺ I have an inquiry call with a potential client later today. She’s an internet culture reporter whose work has proven to be consistently prescient. I admire her writing. We circle each other on zoom, gauging our compatibility. I like her. When we part ways, I return to my inbox. (In spite of my best efforts, I guess I’m a person with an Email Job.) ⇺⇺⇺ A package is waiting for me when I get home. I love when I order something on a whim and promptly forget about it, only to receive it in the mail days or weeks later as an unexpected gift. This time it’s Elizabeth Wurtzel’s memoir, More, Now, Again . I love sad bitches that’s my fucking problem !! Tuesday, November 5 Election Day. Collective anxiety hangs heavy. I trudge to the polls in the afternoon. My local polling place is stationed inside an elementary school gymnasium, where I’m met with an unsettling level of enthusiasm. These heavily-controlled environments make me uneasy. Everywhere I turn, a sweatered poll worker is flashing me an encouraging smile and pointing me this way and that. I have a sinking feeling these well-meaning ladies are hurtling towards devastation. This ain’t gonna be pretty. After failing to match my own signature (and therefore failing to verify my own identity), the chap dispensing ballots urges me to give it another shot. “This happens all the time,” he chirps. Great. That’s reassuring. When I produce a closer match, he hands me my ballot and balks when I politely decline to take an “I VOTED!!!” sticker. I cast my vote and get the hell out of there. By the time I get home, I’m feeling pretty depleted. Just in time for a zoom meeting! My friend recently launched a business called Successful Spontaneity that offers communication training through improv, heavily influenced by the teachings of Dr. Joe Dispenza and Artist’s Way author Julia Cameron. The last time we went out for dinner, she invited me to be a trial client. She texts: “Think of what ‘demon’ you’d like to tackle.” (Um. Which one??) After I reveal the sorts of things my inner ‘demon’ tells me on a daily basis, she steps into the role of my harshest judge, repeating my own self-inflicted insults back to me. I’m surprised by how easy it is to defend myself, smoothly poking holes in the cruel orator’s logic. The exercise feels playful but there’s some real heat behind it. “I think you need some fucking perspective,” I deadpan, and she briefly breaks character with a delighted shriek. Less than a half hour later, my mood has completely shifted. I’m humming with energy and a new sense of lightness. Of course, this is doomed to be fleeting. It’s only 4 PM. Across the country, Americans gripping sweat-slicked pens are altering the course of history. I don’t plan to attend any election watch parties because I have an evening client meeting. (Admittedly, this is a convenient excuse. Regardless of the outcome, I’m not poppin’ champagne tonight.) But J. unexpectedly saves me from a solo night in, sweeping me out to a neighborhood wine bar, where we reflect on a true American treasure: Dr. Steve Brule. Esteemed newscaster and bipartisan hero. J. has more faith in the Dems than I do. “They didn’t produce an appealing candidate,” I murmur. This is obviously an understatement. We’re huddled on my bed with hard ciders and a cheese plate. A small gesture of fanfare. On PBS Newshour, we watch newscasters visibly losing their morale in real time as the polling data rolls in. Faiz Shakir — senior advisor to Bernie Sanders and executive director of More Perfect Union — is making some of the best points at the table: “Life expectancy, the ability of a middle class person to pay for college, pay for housing…This isn’t just the price of a loaf of bread. It’s economic freedom. The ability to believe that my kids will do better than me. That pain requires disruption of government. Our side is offering the status quo…It’s not appealing.” “To be clear, [Harris] absolutely still has a mathematical path [to victory] as we speak,” another newscaster pipes up shrilly. No one’s buying it. It’s over. Trump swaggers onstage around 3 AM EST and delivers a predictably sleazy speech, offering the usual medley of vacant hyperbole before clumsily praising Elon Musk’s (red) rocket as if he’s on the bottle at a dinner party: “And I saw that rocket, I saw it coming down…beautiful shiny white…and I saw it come down and turn around…and it came down and down and I saw the fire burning…I’m looking at the screen and seeing this crazy thing going around and coming down…and it put it straiiiight and it came down so gently and wrapped those arms around it and just like you hold your baby at night, your little baby…” These moments of incoherence and utter detachment from the gravity of his position on the world stage are met with confused titters from the audience. The collective “HUHN?” inexplicably followed by roaring cheers reminds me of Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho’s State of the Union address in Idiocracy , amplified further when Trump turns the mic over to UFC president Dana White. Guess it’s a boy’s night! Fun. May the biggest dick win. Clearly there’s not much at stake here. Global relations…wealth disparity…ongoing genocide…the fate of human civilization…should be chill. At the end of the day, dude has Vibes. He shoveled some fries at McD’s once. He gets it. Wednesday, November 6 Just collecting my thoughts today. When in doubt, I turn to the journalists I trust: Chris Hedges. Glenn Greenwald. Matt Taibbi. All of these journalists are heavily credentialed and have gone independent by choice to evade censorship by larger media outlets. Chris Hedges is a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, author, and Presbyterian minister. He worked as a foreign correspondent for the New York Times for nearly two decades before resigning in 2005 after the paper attempted to muzzle his critique of America’s invasion of Iraq (Check out his “Requiem for the New York Times ” here ). He’s written a ton of insightful books, including Empire of Illusion and America: The Farewell Tour (both of which predict Trump’s rise to power). The best thing I read today is his essay, “ The Politics of Cultural Despair .” Glenn Greenwald is a journalist, author, and former lawyer who broke the Snowden story while he was employed at The Guardian . If you’re still (somehow) wondering WHY Trump won, check out this quickie 7-minute video of his: “ Media BAFFLED by Trump Win .” Matt Taibbi is an author, journalist, and podcaster. He covered politics for Rolling Stone and is the closest thing we have to a modern-day Hunter S. Thompson. More recently, he released the Twitter Files (via Musk) in collaboration with several other journalists, including Michael Shellenberger and Bari Weiss. He also happens to be hot. You can watch his election recap here . ⇺⇺⇺ Twitter/X is annoying as fuck today. Some of you guys need to consider, like, taking a brisk walk and braving eye contact with strangers. Thursday, November 7 I meet up with the host of this very blog (Hi Chloe) at O’Flaherty’s opening of The Bitch , featuring works by Matthew Barney and Alex Katz at a new location on Allen Street. The space itself is beautiful. A barren tree at the foot of the staircase stretches heavenward, penetrating the second level of the exhibition. The art itself is sparsely scattered, and it’s not entirely obvious where the exhibition begins and ends. Honestly, the most memorable thing I see in there is not part of the exhibition. An Aussie friend of Chloe’s pulls up a security cam video of himself having a seizure and presents it proudly to our small group of onlookers. I watch as he hoists himself out of what appears to be a pool before dropping to the ground and convulsing, violently slamming his head onto the concrete. Within seconds, a woman rushes to his aid. We watch it on a sickening loop. “It looks like you’re possessed,” I observe as I watch him spasm on the small, grainy screen. He turns toward me, suddenly aware of my existence. “That’s what it felt like! I remember thinking, like, ‘Why am I slamming my head on the ground?’” Later, at Bar Valentina, Chloe tells me the seizure was likely a result of his biohacking experiments. “He buys untested research chemicals on the internet and injects them,” she explains. I’m struggling to wrap my head around this, simultaneously struggling to wrap my lips around my towering cocktail straw. This is becoming a pattern: I manage to unwittingly order some of the most obnoxious-looking drinks available. It’s never a demure, thin-stemmed glass. It’s never something you can grip with a cunty little pinkie in the air. No, tonight my mezcal spritz has arrived in what appears to be a tulip sundae dish, adorned with mint leaves that fan out like peacock feathers. You’d think I’d be able to intuit these things better as a former barback-bartender, but I’m often shocked by the spectacles I’ve chosen for myself. Cocktail selection aside, I appreciate Chloe’s openness. I’m kind of amazed by the sheer range of topics we cover over the course of two hours: politics, (w)age gap relationships, the hazards of autofiction, salvageable character defects, the challenges of working in PR, familial influence, and a whole host of weirdos. The running theme seems to be a shared sense of ambivalence. We’re still piecing it all together. Friday, November 8 Tonight is Christopher Zeischegg ’s book launch party. Chris is a client of mine, and I’ve been planning this event for months now. Apocalypse Party Press recently re-released his novel The Magician , a contemporary horror novel that garnered a rabid cult following when it was originally published by Amphetamine Sulphate in 2020. The Magician is a dark, hallucinatory journey through California’s fractured dreamscape, a melding of horror and autofiction based loosely on Zeischegg’s post-porn life. Chris, who I haven’t yet met in person, is visiting from LA for the event. The lineup is solid: artist-writer Tess Manhattan , Cursed Images author Reuben Dendinger, and Chris himself. A screening of The Magician short film (inspired by the making of text) will follow the readings. Later, Senegalese experimental hip hop artist iD-SuS will take the stage. I’m excited. I’m also anxious. Back in September, I booked the event at Sovereign House. Sovereign House has become rather infamous among people who concern themselves with scene politics in downtown NYC. Suffice it to say, the venue has right-wing affiliations . So, mere days after the election, I am ONCE AGAIN ASKING my friends, followers, and performers to willingly enter MAGA territory. There were actually several practical reasons I chose Sovereign House for this event, including but not limited to the venue’s convenient location and its willingness to host and offer an open bar in spite of my having no event budget whatsoever. Notably, the venue is also known to be open to a broader menu of “dissident” artists and writers. Zeischegg’s book and short film are decidedly NSFW. I couldn’t expect to bring this content into any cutesy little venue and hope for the best. No, I needed to know ahead of time that I wouldn’t risk inciting moral panic when a bound, naked Zeischegg appears onscreen with a cock in his mouth and a forcep-gripped firecracker(?) in his ass. After the election, I was feeling increasingly uneasy about this decision. I have friends on both sides of the political spectrum, but I wanted to clarify my own position. I was told this wasn’t necessary, that it would actually draw more attention to the venue’s questionable affiliations. I couldn’t stomach the ambiguity, though. I wanted to reassure people that they were welcome to attend. In spite of my distaste for talking politics on social media, I posted a statement. (Dear god, a STATEMENT.) Look, much has been said about the political bent of the guys who run this place. What people fail to mention is just how asocial, stilted, and ineffectual they are. My early dealings with Sovereign House were comical. When I asked X (I’d rather not flame anyone by name) whether they’d be willing to host a musical act, he told me it would depend on how “clouted” they are. Sick. I told him I’d “keep that in mind.” In early October, I alerted him that I was interested in booking iD-SuS. He didn’t ask further questions. In late October, when I asked whether there’d be anyone to assist with sound, he replied, “Fuck. I didn’t know there was a music performance. We didn’t discuss that I don’t think. I guess I should have checked the event description.” When I show up at the venue to set up for the event, X is accompanied by another guy who doesn’t seem to say much. He looks at me briefly before skittering off into a dark corner. I am reminded I am in the company of men who don’t know how to interact with women. Cool. As I said earlier, I can stomach a little strange fruit, as long as they’re not outright creeps or assholes. X tells me the guy who skittered off is our bartender for the night. “Sorry he doesn’t look more alt,” he says with a straight face. “I found him on Twitter. The last guy quit.” I haven’t been there long before X wants to know who I voted for. I groan internally. Are we really doing this right now? “Gun to head, who would you vote for?” I give him the answer he doesn’t want to hear. (Later, he reassures me I’m “based.”) X hovers behind me as I assess the projector situation. My laptop is an older model, incompatible with their projector setup. The owner’s laptop will work for the purpose of the screening, but he refuses to let anyone else use it. “I’m gonna need an adaptor,” I tell X. X passes the message along to a short, nondescript guy who seemingly materializes out of nowhere. I assume this is another one of X’s lackeys, only to realize later that he’s in fact the owner of Sovereign House, Y. When Y returns with an adaptor, the plug resembles the same incompatible plug attached to the projector. “Yeah, that won’t work either…” I say, acknowledging the obvious. He regards me with prickly distaste. “You’ll have to try screen mirroring.” (He has yet to greet me, introduce himself, or acknowledge the nature of the event.) I admit I’m not the most tech savvy. He exhales sharply before taking my laptop and showing me how to mirror my screen on the projector. “The green button expands the screen,” he tells me, avoiding anything resembling eye contact. It’s clear he thinks I’m a total idiot. “I’m not gonna be here later so you’ll need to remember that,” he says before shuffling off. Chris, who arrived in NYC at an ungodly hour the night before, bears witness to all of this. He is truly an angel throughout the whole charade, bringing warmth and levity to an otherwise strange scene. I’m relieved he’s taking it in stride, and grateful I have someone to side-eye when shit gets bizarre. I’m preoccupied with the projector conundrum when iD-SuS and his bandmates arrive for soundcheck. They have trouble getting into the venue and are regarded coldly by X and Y once inside. At one point, I see X flapping his arms around at them. I mistakenly attribute this to mental illness. I see shock on the faces of iD and his mates and assume X is simply being weird. Kooky. Later, I find out he was hissing at them to “shut the fuck up.” (For the record, I’d be willing to overlook all of the incompetence and go quietly if this shit hadn’t happened.) When I invited iD to contribute a statement, he sent me a song inspired by the experience titled “The Sovereign House Massacre”: My daddy gave me money So I could build a house My mommy gave me money cuz she about to OD on the couch One looks like a trophy one looks like a trout They both got parasites poking out the sides of their mouth I worked so hard for it but I didn’t have to do shit Never had to wonder what my fucking truth is I prance through life because everything is easy And I get upset when I don’t get my tv Got me fucked up When I’m in dime square that’s where I headhunt Wasps high end punch my low end thru their guts I don’t like to leave the house But I had great time Baggin bodies at the sovereign house Whitey I’m in your house Bitch I’m in your house Ima kick your ass out Ima fuck on your bed and piss on your couch Ima swing off the ledge Burning your bread put the Glock in your mouth Ima tell you to beg Ima tell you to crouch When I see red Don’t have no doubts VENUE CONCERNS ASIDE, it was an incredible night. Everyone on the lineup delivered killer performances. Dan Mancini jumped in to replace a sickly Matthew Donovan (himself an alternate to Izzy Capulong) as the evening’s MC (Thank you, Izzy, Matthew, and Dan!). Friends from distant social circles came out and mingled. I had the pleasure of meeting Chris and several of his friends, all sweet and enthused about the event. We sold books. We cleared the bar. We did the damn thing. WHAT LYDIA SVIATOSLAVSKY THINKS YOU SHOULD DO Check in with that one friend who’s not doing too hot. Because we all have at least one. Get comfortable doing shit alone. This is so sexy IMO. For better or worse, I’ve always been drawn to a loner. Someone who doesn’t need the security of a S/O or their squad of yea-sayers to go out and have fun. I also subscribe to this myself: Movies, shows, bars, parties, art openings, readings, whatever. Just go solo and see what happens. I’ve personally met some of my favorite people this way. In terms of dating, this method has historically won out over using the apps. Trust me. This way, the only guys (or girls) you’ll engage with will be the ones who have the courage to approach you, seamlessly separating the boys from the men. Find more rewarding forms of escapism. It happens way too often. I envision a wholesome night in for myself, maybe catching up on reading or finally committing to that movie I’ve been meaning to watch. I check a notification on my phone, black out, and hours later find myself mindlessly scrolling Instagram or watching Youtube videos. Gross. My advice: Pick up the book first. Silence your phone. Commit to the fucking experience. You’re turning to the black box for escapism, right? You wanna submerge yourself in thoughts outside of your own, yeah? Books do it better. Here’s an incomplete list of books that have successfully gripped me this year. (Disclaimer: The top 4 books on this list were written by current or former clients of mine, but the sentiment holds true!): Vivienne by Emmalea Russo The Magician by Christopher Zeischegg Scandals by Alex Osman Myth Lab by Jack Skelley The Burnout Society by Byung Chul-Han Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante Making Of by Mara McKevitt The Map and the Territory by Michel Houellebecq Mastery by Robert Greene Molly by Blake Butler Scumbag Summer by Jillian Luft American Victim by Meg McCarville Playboy by Constance Debré Faster Than An Erection by Reba Maybury Pregaming Grief by Danielle Chelosky A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell by Young Kim Go to Club Della Morte on Saturday, November 16th. The event will feature performances by Death Dance Music, Holy Wisdom LLC, Sacred, and The Suede Hello. All proceeds from ticket sales will go to The Bowery Mission for holiday meals and care. 7-10 PM at Sleepwalk (251 Bushwick Ave.). $15 per ticket. Hosted by Uncensored New York

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