
Ingrid Sischy
IT’S LATE SUMMER in 1980, and Ingrid and I are in Venice outside one of the Biennale parties. A crowd of collectors, dealers, and artists are jostling on the narrow sidewalk between the canal and an elaborate gate to a palazzo where the party is being held. At the entrance, two severe women with buns and clipboards ask for our names. “Ingrid Sischy. I’m editor of Artforum,” Ingrid says. Even I think she looks about nine years old, so I’m not surprised when they ask for ID, which she doesn’t have. “Very sorry, but we can’t let you in without ID,” say the gatekeepers in unctuous unison. Ingrid is