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.

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. 

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A much-bruised, unidentified youth dodged yet another expertly flung baseball at the Brant compound’s Peg-A-Fuckin’-Ginger celebration, held annually since 1985, for reasons that no one fully agrees on. “I seem to remember a ginger prick we came across on the beach in Cannes,” Patriarch Peter I surmised, “one of those real gangly bastards, all ruddy cheeked and meek, with body hair like a bunch of fire ants. He kicked sand in my face, so I thought: Why not organize an event in which everyone throws lead-weighted baseballs at these fuckers?” Peter II took home top honors at this year’s edition, racking up 4 black eyes, 6 broken ribs, and 3 subdural hematomas. Florence + the Machine played a 6-hour durational cover of Simply Red’s “Holding Back The Years” organized by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson, who later admitted to being ignorant of the event’s specifics.  Harry, as usual, abstained—not out of ethical concern, but because “I throw like a freaking girl,” he said.

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Moments after his mistress Fernanda Pokum brutalized the cabana waitress at bottom right, Patriarch Peter I’s volcanic temper erupted on the chin of Argentine playboy Ju-Ju Palacho, who had just (jokingly, he assured) mentioned that the Patriarch’s “budding manbreasts” would one day “make perfect ski jumps for dainty, miniature leprechauns.” After his initially timid left hook, bystanders reported that Patriarch Peter I straddled Ju-Ju in the sand, delivering one punishing blow after another and generating a frenzied scene that “was like some shit out of Silence of the Lambs,” according to one witness. Hours after the violent outburst the pair had already made amends, and were spotted sharing a two-strawed Zombie on the patio of Fernando’s, St. Bart’s go-to spot for top-shelf novelty cocktails. The renewed friendship was likely the result of obvious financial  and interpersonal considerations: Patriarch Peter I is a majority investor in Yo No Lo Creo!, the oft-sued franchise of outpatient penile augmentation parlors that Palacho founded in Buenos Aires.

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Patriarch Peter I poses with a steely-eyed Leonardo DiCaprio at the Brant Foundation’s Mother’s Day Pig-Flaying. ‘Leo’ wears a rumpled blazer from Target X Ralph Lauren’s Great Gatsby collection and a Newsies 20th-anniversary commemorative cap; he flaunts goatee micro-cultivation courtesy of Sim-Jook Industries. “I’m not surprised that so many well-known individuals turned up here, despite the supposed holiday,” Patriarch Peter I said. “I’ve always held that celebrities are birthed by the Universal Collective, arriving here on earth through the vaginal canal of fame. They are, essentially, orphans. It’s a sentiment that Warhol would have approved of.” The shock-haired contemporary art icon was well-represented at the Pig-Flaying, with previously unseen selections from his “Death & Disaster” series, including silkscreens of Balinese castration mishaps and a Honduran blimp accident. 

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Harry, wearing a crotchet-embroidered baby-T designed by Ryan McGinness, stretches a recently waxed arm around billionaire Alan Lindehamm, erstwhile art critic and director of the vanity project, Penis Over Manhattan, whose quirky dual focus (vintage Tiffany lamps, and East Indian sculpture depicting tumescent male genitalia) has earned him the title of “most unpredictable art maven on the East Coast.” (Lindehamm rose to notoriety last year for an essay, entitled “I’d Rather Give Myself A Drano Enema And Then Punch Myself In The Face With A Dead Rabbit Than Go To Miami Basel,” in which he lambasted the “hangers-on and poor, groveling dumbfucks” who were “turning the once-proud fair into an orgy of slutty non-socialites with tons of student debt” and “shabby journalists who don’t even have health insurance” who “I hope will drown themselves in the ocean quickly so that the real people can go back to doing what they do best: Making and spending money.”) “I wrote that article as a considered, passionate thinkpiece,” Lindehamm said at the Brant Foundation. “After people got pissed off, I cleverly went back in time and recast it as social satire. I don’t see why no one understands that.” Lindehamm wears a suede Member’s Only jacket and a pair of color contacts expertly modeled on the eyes of Leonardo DiCaprio.

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Anton Kerbunkle III, 7, and Davis ‘Skipper’ Rhoades, 6, watch as employees of Quik-Mexicans-Now! (the contract-hire labor force that recently erected the Frieze Art Fair) tend to a series of roasting pigs on the south lawn of the Brant Foundation. The gruesome food sculpture, a clear homage to the oeuvre of Francis Bacon, utilized Corten steel stakes designed by Richard Serra, and a proprietary barbeque sauce curated by Cyprien Gaillard.

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"I wanted to look like a werewolf all hopped up on, like, Blink-182 had just, like, went fucking punkwild on my shirt and ripped it to shreds," said Harry, photographed here at the Met’s Annual Sad & Wealthy Ball. "The crazy thing is that this is, like, a $19,000 one-off T, so the little scraps I cut and threw out could probably have fed a fucking family of Guatemalans for a few months." The Brants were only a few of the A-list celebrities who got "punkified" for the hotly anticipated Met gala. Anne Hathaway, for instance, may have found a cure for her plummeting popularity: Wearing a sheer chiffon skirt, she showed off her platinum-dyed pubic hair, which had been artisanally shaved into the shape of an anarchy sign. Carey Mulligan sported a Chelsea girl hairdo and a henna face tattoo advertising the underground band A Million Dead Cops; Sarah Jessica Parker went edgy and referential by dressing as Dead Nancy Spungen, wearing little more than an XXL t-shirt soaked in actual lamb’s blood. Guests were thrilled to explore the exhibits that are part of the Met’s current show, "fRom cHaOS TO couTURE," which is underwritten by Hot Topic, Dorito’s, and Vita Coco; the show includes a life-size replica of the infamously nasty CBGB’s bathroom. ("Don’t tell anyone," Debbie Harry was overheard whispering to a friend, "but I just took a brutal shit in there.”) Fall Out Boy performed at the event, joined by Richard Hell and Iggy Pop for a set entirely composed of Crass covers. “I would say I’m ‘punk as fuck,’ yeah,” Peter II told a reporter. “I once punched a Barney’s salesgirl in the face for failing to separate my purchases in the bag with those little in-between layers of crinkle paper. I’d say that’s pretty fucking punk.” Patriarch Peter I attended the Sad & Wealthy Ball dressed as G.G. Allin—“something of a personal hero,” he explained, enigmatically, while adjusting the reins of his leather-and-metal scrotal harness.