BRANT WATCH

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An all-inclusive yet clearly, for legal purposes, satirical and made-up website for brant brothers sightings, news, gossip, rumors, photos, and other necessaries. Original concept by Scott Indrisek, a slovakian socialite. For legal purposes, written and hosted by someone else entirely.

This production still for boutique perfume brand Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness captures Italian motorcross hopeful Lenny Capadappa and Peter II sweatily sandwiching pickle heiress and aspiring actress Lana Porcine. Porcine (whose Facebook page lists “Natalee Halloway” as a personal inspiration) plays the role of a disheveled teen clubgoer being greedily nibbled, poked, and groped by two hormonal strangers who, driven mad by the scent of her perfume, proceed to literally devour her in CGI sequences created during post-production. “It’s like a metaphor for how the way we smell can make our lives better,” Porcine surmised, though she did express some discomfort and confusion that her character ends the commercial as little more than a puddle of steaming, vaguely human material on the floor of a nightclub, said puddle being greedily lapped at by Capadappa and Peter II, who have at this point sprouted pointed CGI ears and pronounced facial hirsuteness, an art director’s approximation of the insatiable lupine yearning triggered by Bestial: Indignity: Desire: Bitterness, which retails for $819 per 10 ounce bottle at Barney’s.

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"Now I become Death, the destroyer of worlds," muttered a sweat-drenched Peter II, his irises pinwheeling through the fifth hour of a massive DMT trip at Mi Scusi, the members-only club in Milan co-owned by Silvio Berlusconi. (The Brant family was in Milan so that Patriarch Peter I could ink a deal with Sausages 4 Everyone, the locally-based meat delivery superchain.) "Part of me wants to lower my arms, but part of me knows that if I lower my arms, I’m going to lose the, like, mystical relationship I have to the ceiling at the moment.” Mi Scusi, known primarily for featuring underage girls in short skirts dancing on unexplained box-type structures, has in recent months become something of a haven for psychedelic drug users. “It’s not a question of ‘How are we going to score?’ ” explained Peter II’s friend Leo Pompino, pictured here in white jeans. “It’s more like, ‘Is there any chance we’ll get out of here without someone forcibly shoving a hallucinogenic compound down our face, against our will?’ To which the answer is always No, no we will not.”

In the club’s VIP room, Peter II regaled a rapt crowd with a story about how he once worked at McDonald’s for half a weekend, as a joke. The trust fund-based artist Max Snow turned in an iPod DJ-set comprised solely of Kanye West’s “Black Skinhead” on repeat. By the morning hours the dance floor of Mi Scusi was littered with abandoned purses, scraps of hair weave, crushed lipsticks, and various pieces of ripped clothing. “There’s about a season’s worth of Law & Order: SVU in that room alone,” one clubgoer commented before returning to the overly bright street outside. 

BRANT WATCH EXCLUSIVE

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In this Brant Watch exclusive photograph, a visibly befuddled and distraught Patriarch Peter I is caught in the back-corridor bowels of Art Basel, seemingly unsure of where, and perhaps even who, he is. ‘I’m in a bad place,’ he whispered, shivering against an invisible breeze. ‘I wake up in a strange bed, I put some ‘clothes’ on my ‘body,’ I’m forced to walk around and converse with other supposed ‘human beings,’ but everything feels so hollow and fake, and one day—I swear—I’m going to punch through this veil of illusions and finger whatever’s on the other side.’ Patriarch Peter I had attended the major international art fair with his family, but he seemed unaware of their whereabouts. ‘You want to know what hell is?’ he asked Brant Watch. ‘Hell is having two kids who literally refer to you as ‘the ATM,’ as in ‘have you hugged the ATM today?’ or ‘better go pretend to love the ATM for five minutes before he stops spitting sweet hundos out of his fat face.’ Hell is having a wife who refuses to sleep with you more than once every six to eight months, and who has assembled a scrapbook of nude photos of herself that she gives to you, when you’re particularly handsy, along with the directive to ‘dear God go take care of yourself in the third floor bathroom already,’ a wife who, when she does deign to relieve you personally, in the Biblical sense, acts as if she’s performed an act of charity worthy of Mother Fucking Teresa. Hell is having to pretend that Nate Lowman is actually an artist. Hell is having to obsessively refresh and recheck a certain website ever since they made light of my manboobs. Hell is—’ At this point Patriarch Peter I suffered what appeared to be a minor epileptic fit, after which he removed his Cole Haan shoes and, putting them on his hands, began to enact what can only be described as an experimental puppet dialogue. ‘Sometimes life is grand,’ the left-hand shoe squawked. ‘And sometimes life is so, so sad,’ replied the right-hand shoe, drooping in an approximation of serious depression. 

Patriarch Peter I’s publicist later issued a statement that the Patriarch had experienced a brief bout of psychosis catalyzed by a bad piece of sea urchin sashimi. The publicist denied the existence of any self-made, book-length marriage aids (though he did, in a press release, cop to personal episodes of “onanistic indulgence during my high school years relating to the Guns n’ Roses video for ‘November Rain.’ “)

"Safari chic!" swooned Harry, bits of leopard pancreas gristle still stuck between his incisors. "Nothing gets my pulse racing faster than, like, exercising dominion over violent beasts of the wild. Okay, so like giraffes are pretty pacifist, but a leopard would rip your face off.” The young Brant is photographed here at the Pachinko Wildlife Grounds & Casino in Kenya, alongside heiress Davina Pachinko, who wears a one-of-a-kind transparent skirtgirdle lovingly sewn from the intestinal linings of 30 African Wild Asses. Joining them is Brant superfan and hanger-on Terrence Blastfort, a last minute addition to the family’s exotic sojourn. “To tell you the truth,” Harry later whispered to a reporter, “I’m getting a bit scared. Did you ever see The Talented Mr. Ripley? I have serious suspicions that Blastfort is about to get a bit Tom Ripley to my Dickie Greenleaf. Last night I woke up in the eco-lodge and he was just sitting on the edge of the bed, petting me, telling me that I have ‘the most delicate clavicle.’ But maybe that sort of stuff is normal where he comes from in Missouri or whatever.”

The rest of the Brant family, including Patriarch Peter I and Peter II, were several miles away, knee-deep in the heroic mud of endangered creature-slaughter. Pachinko’s grounds are liberally stuffed with a bounty of animals—most of them controversially treated with Valium nuggets to create a ‘slow-motion, video game-style shooting experience.’ By the end of the weekend the paterfamilias himself had racked up an impressive litany of kills: 14 giraffes, 3 Addaxes, 2 Aye-Ayes, and a Pygmy Chimpanzee in a Pappea tree.

A slightly queasy Peter II mugs for the camera outside the Oval Office, accompanied by socialite and Samsung Galaxy Note 2 heiress Deirdre Cackle III. The occasion is the launch of Michelle Obama’s “America 3.0” program, a new initiative for the American education system. “I’m mainly here from, like, a protest standpoint,” Peter II said, pausing to check a suddenly unruly gag reflex. “I got this mass email saying she’s all about, like, indoctrinating kids in how awesome gay marriage is, and also how meat is murder and everyone should eat a macrobiotic vegan diet. Which is, like, those are decisions kids should come to themselves.” 

"Petey’s just a little nervous being here," Cackle III confided, "after that whole Twitter incident and the, you know, A-S-S-A-blah-blah-blah thing. But the President has been really darling; he came out and personally delivered a tray of sashimi just for us." 

The evening was fairly sedate, centered around a PowerPoint presentation in which the First Lady laid out her objectives for kindergarten education, none of which seemed to feature same-sex fisting or tempeh. Attendees couldn’t help but remark on Peter II’s descent into a lighter shade of pale, eventually evincing such a pallor that a security guard was forced to physically assist “some fucking vampire boy turning fucking translucent,” as he later put it. Barack Obama himself was quite understanding, despite the disturbance. “It must have been something he ate,” the President said.

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Brant family friend and Filipino demolition magnate Johnny Lothario poses next to a portrait of himself by Kenny Scharf, an obscure American artist best known for once knowing Keith Haring. The portrait (painted with diamond dust and lamb’s blood and set within a 24K solid gold frame) cost $1.9 million, a small fraction of Lothario’s net worth. “I made twice that blowing up a shanty town outside Manila last year,” he gloats, “not counting the clean up cost to retrieve scattered body parts.” The piece is one of 300 self-portraits that the rich collector has commissioned for a series known as “Onanism”; other participants include Julian Schnabel (who broke 1,000 plates to create a 10 x 10 foot painting of Lothario in the nude) and Lawrence Weiner (who removed a segment of lathing roughly corresponding to the collector’s height and width from his basement gallery.) “The concept behind ‘Onanism,’ is simple,” Lothario said. “I’m basically jerking myself off and asking the whole world to watch. Which I can do, because I’m incredibly fucking wealthy.” All of the pieces will be installed in a 90,000 square foot private gallery designed by Rem Koolhaas, Frank Gehry, and Zaha Hadid, working for the first time in tandem. The gallery will be surrounded by a moat landscaped by Diller Scofidio + Renfro, with other “security” measures designed to keep the riff-raff out. “This is a fucking disgusting country, so poor,” Lothario explained, in the midst of a John Currin portrait sitting. “But I like my little bubble.”

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Harry, clad in a burnished eelskin one-piece, demurely observes a conversation between Elizabeth Wurtzel and industrial fabricating tycoon Jeff Koons. The occasion is the launch of Wurtzel’s new self-published e-book, Girl With The Most Cake, in which she infamously discusses smoking crack cocaine in a Penn Station bathroom after giving David Foster Wallace a blowjob. “New York was a different place,” Wurtzel told Koons, repeating the phrase a total of 213 times while devolving into an ever more disturbing black hole of eyelid flutter and word slurrage. “That Penn Station anecdote made me think of choo-choo trains,” a wide-eyed Koons later told a reporter from the Observer. “Did you know I’m hanging a choo-choo train over the High Line? I like the choo-choo sound because it makes me think of energy and movement. Think of it! A choo-choo just hanging there, like a weird necklace from God!” Harry, noticeably bleary-eyed after disengaging from the duo’s conversation, repaired to the bathroom where he spent a few hours applying skin unguents and acid peels. “I rarely say this,” he told a reporter, “but I feel like my brain just got raped.”    

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The digital rendering above (leaked from the servers of Vibra-Dent Luxury Bod-Sculpting LLC) demonstrates planned anatomical modifications to be enacted on Harry Brant, exploiting the most advanced (and quasi-illegal) surgical techniques currently practiced in Switzerland. These include fuckurkling (in which residual fat from the underside of the arm is vacuum-sucked and reconstituted along the jawline); fibular distension via lurge-press (a painful, 48-hour process in which each leg’s length is extended by 7-8 inches with a mechanical press similar to that used to tamp down hot tar on the highway); aesthetic digit streamlining (a.k.a. “ugly toe removal,” in which the unappealing pinky toe is amputated in order to provide a more “goose-beaked” foot silhouette); and the introduction of a internal, no-seam pelvic compartment which—in layman’s terms—allows the entire male genital apparatus to be “tucked and stored” within the body, allowing for a minimum of tight-pant bulge and the dreaded SNS (squashed nut syndrome) that results from wearing size 0 women’s trousers. Harry’s publicist has stated that the above rendering, which floats his modified body against the backdrop of St Moritz, is “purely in the realm of the hypothetical” and that her client has “no concrete plans to undergo these alterations at this time.” 

THE VENICE SPECIAL

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Ah, Venice: The fishy reek of the canals, endless popping bottles of prosecco, whimsically multi-colored suits, and ever-present threat of soupy, airborne loads of pigeon shit. The Brothers Brant are photographed here with German street art dealer Hanz Verguenza, heir to the Schoffer microwave oven fortune, and (in red), British poet Blaine Poule, author of the independently published chapbook, My Crotch Is A V, Your Eye Is An O. (Sample stanza: “The cream on your / Exquisite Prada handbag is / not from any latte, dear. / Let me be the / turgid barista of your / fleshy Hermitage.”) Behind the quartet, actress Milla Ivanovich—famous for her roles in the video game-based films Pussy Centipede Death Fest 1, 2, 3, and 4—takes part in an endurance performance entitled “Chick In A Box: (Re)imagining (Con)sumerism,” situated on the lip of the Grand Canal. For the piece, which was sponsored by Swarovski and Ketel One, Ivanovich spent three days in a glass box being gradually buried beneath the weight of consumer packaging while subsisting solely on a diet of Beluga caviar. “It’s about the pressures of desire and this constant slobbering want, want, want,” explained Ivanovich, later wearing an eye patch after a corneal injury sustained from a flying Manolo Blahnik box.

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Peter II chartered a private jet-powered gondola to reach the National Pavilions, accompanied by celebrity curator Hans Ulrich Obrist and Marina Abramovic’s publicist, Klaus Biesenbach. He wore a skintight cotton top from Pal Zileri’s Fey Wetsuit collection and a barbershop quartet hat whose permanently jaunty tilt was achieved using water-based epoxy resin and Gorilla Glue. Obrist entertained the group with a story about how he once made $125,000 in 24 hours by delivering the same 10-minute lecture on “globo-tech future-functionality” in Zurich, Istanbul, Moscow, and Sydney. 

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The Brants were especially fond of the installation in the Chinese Pavilion by the duo Wang Wang Dance, above, who presented several super-sleek sculptures depicting famous political leaders augmented with massive cartoon breasts. “I like that I can check my complexion in the areola,” Harry said. “It’s a very Koonsian effect.” One sculpture featuring Mao Zedong released rice milk from its nipples every forty-five minutes. “Art should always be this direct and powerful,” Peter II surmised. “I can’t stand that conceptual Marshall Douche Amp shit [sic].”

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Another Brant favorite was found in the Argentinean Pavilion, with a mixed-media exhibition from Pablo Cerca Cielo, who works primarily with shaved bunny fur, chandeliers, and crushed cans that once held Goya-brand pinto beans. “Joseph Beuys had felt and fat,” Cerca Cielo said. “I have my own materials, equally spiritual.” The installation, entitled “Nunca Olvidas // Chupa Mi Conejito” explores the legacy of the war in the Falklands. Cerca Cielo had planned to include a massive effigy of Margaret Thatcher composed of fur that had been urinated on by drunken campesinos, but the piece was detained in customs.

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"I think it’s about the stock market," Peter II said, discussing the massive and controversial sculpture by American firebrand Dustin Piccoliti, included in the “Encyclopedic Palace” exhibition. “I could picture this in the garden, maybe with that pudgy devil guy smushed up against the south wall of the compound.” Piccoliti himself earned a fair share of column inches at a Campari-sponsored cocktail event later in the week, erecting a D.I.Y. booth where the artist offered amateur prostate exams in an edition of 50.

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Not everyone was feeling the Venetian love. “I keep getting ditched by my own fucking kids,” Patriarch Peter I said, pictured above looking lost and forlorn on the lawn of the Swedish Embassy, the venue for “this fucking C-list party full of a bunch of nobodies,” he said. “I explicitly asked the boys to CC me on all party RSVPS, but are they fucking capable of doing that? They are fucking not.” He itemized the soirees that he had already missed—including a Luigi Bormioli event featuring nude aerial burlesque, and a Cristal reception for Sarah Tze with a Yoko Ono DJ set. “You know what I did last night? I went back to my room at the Aman Canal Grande at, like, 8 pm, and spent the night struggling, unsuccessfully, to avoid succumbing to a torrid Italian softcore movie that featured a one-legged gondolier and a buck-toothed whore. And then I surfed the BFA site to see what the fuck I had missed out there in the world.”     

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"I’m sort of having a flashback to a sweaty San Francisco summer back in  ’69," Patriarch Peter I chuckled nervously, flanked by Guido Schulutz, A-list leatherdaddy and inventor of The Hole Truth (TM), the first biodegradable, BPA-free artificial anus. "They called me the Reluctant Pony. I was just grooving the scene, trying to start up an amateur polo league with some of the so-called squares. If I’m being honest there’s a period of three months or so that I just don’t remember at all." Schulutz and the Patriarch are seen here at the launch of the Brant Foundation’s latest experimental project space, BrantNowFasterYes2.0, located in a former ketchup processing plant in Detroit. The concept is notable for its reliance on a single artist—Urs Fischer—who has been given almost unbelievable creative control (and an unlimited budget). "We call it instantaneous gratified creative spurtage, or IGCS," Patriarch Peter I explained. "Essentially what it means is that whenever Urs has an idea he’d like to materialize in the world—however insignificant or fleeting—we’ve put the machinery in place to fabricate and install within 24 hours, from conception to completion." Case in point: Fuckheaded Gremlin, 2013, a 60-foot tall bronze sculpture that had been created a mere three hours before the opening, based solely on an iPhone picture that Fischer had snapped of a puddle of vomit on a Dublin street. “This is also a highly progressive jobs initiative,” the Patriarch stressed. “Infamous for being one of America’s ‘dead cities,’ Detroit is ripe for a revival. We guesstimate that by 2014 a solid 87% of the local population will be employed, in some capacity, in the manufacture of Urs Fischer artworks.” A reunited Stooges performed at the launch event, turning in a searing set that ended with Iggy Pop literally slithering down the length of Fuckheaded Gremlin, his impossibly leathered skin barely chafed from the unimaginable friction.