Genet Sais Quoi


Left: Jonathan Schipper's plastic mould in “Still Ill.” Right: John Lovett, Rita Ackermann, and Alessandro Codagnone.

In this month of nascent lethargy, young Brooklyn artists with wilting petals would do well to see Momenta Art’s energetic group show “Still Ill.” A series of performances whose leftovers accumulate and linger in the space, it offers chastening evidence that some people, rather than fleeing to the beach, have decided to stick around and do something useful, or at least interesting. A man-shaped plastic mould in which a naked Jonathan Schipper had crouched on all fours made me feel I’d really missed something at the exhibition opening. “There were pools of sweat on the floor and steam was coming off his body,” Momenta’s assistant director Michael Waugh told me. Though the fluids had dried on the plastic man, his presence spoke of the ecstasy of rituals seen, and felt, firsthand. The remnants of other performances suggested more treats were in store. On this evening I was to see John Lovett and Allesandro Codagnone, the show’s curators, debut a performance about R. W. Fassbinder with Rita Ackermann. And fashion design duo Pleasure Principle was presenting an extended environmental piece on the gallery’s façade. It was worth braving the heat.

“It’s about football”—meaning soccer—said Pleasure Principle’s Adrian Cowen, of the homemade banner, printed with the letters “C.R.E.E.,P.” (derived in part from a song by The Fall) that was draped across the gallery’s front windows. Collaged audio of stadium chants blared, and a smoke machine farted intermittently. These indicators of devotion among European football supporters appeal to the British Cowen and his Roman partner Diva Pittala; the near-religious fever they suggest is intimidating to some while profoundly comforting to others. Football is a massive and divisive cultural force––like NASCAR in a way, but more tribal and poetic––that acted, in this context, as a neat and unpreachy metaphor for the more unsavory effects of unwavering belief. These ideas did not weigh heavily on me, though, and I must note that this was not, categorically, a night for doomsday fatalism. I sat for a long while with François, a fashion photographer on assignment from Paris, who was wearing a billowing Pleasure Principle creation seemingly modeled on a Klan robe or on hip-hop’s ubiquitous quasi-ethnic three-quarter-length white tee, or both. “I have been partying for five days,” François sighed from behind the sunglasses sliding down his nose, “and zis”—he tugged the shirt—“is keeping me going.” He retracted his entire body inside the cotton folds and shut his eyes, then smiled to demonstrate.

Left: Ackermann, Lovett, and Codagnone during their performance. Middle: Diva Pittala and Adrian Cowen of Pleasure Principle. Right: Momenta Art's Michael Waugh with François.

By the time Rita Ackermann appeared, the mellow early crowd of less than a dozen had swelled to thirty sweaty bodies, and I happily found myself in a back nook with the performers as they changed into their costumes. I blurted to John Lovett, who was shirtless, that I had never seen such a voluminous amount of body hair in my life; he laughed and thanked me, then said that he’d grown it especially for the performance. The trio vamped for my camera as Imitation of Christ’s Tara Subkoff, coming out of the bathroom, sang their praises. “You are a Fassbinder girl,” said Subkoff to Ackermann as she made her slow approach to the front. “I am Jeanne Moreau,” Ackermann uttered to no one in particular, at this point far more focused than either the fashion sprite or myself.

The piece was a response to Fassbinder’s final work, an adaptation of Genet's Querelle, an honest film about the crapshoot of sexuality, and the master would have been proud of its unadorned ambiguity. Lovett and Codagnone were in sailor costume, wedged in a corner and kissing passionately. Codagnone waved a switchblade behind the larger man’s back as Ackermann straddled a chair and watched. Codagnone untangled himself and engaged in a gentle waltz of foreplay with Ackermann. They walked off together. The jilted Lovett followed. It was all over in five minutes. Written across the wall was an R. W. aphorism—“Love does not exist, only the possibility of love”—that clearly means a lot to the trio, and by the time they had vanished it couldn’t have seemed more cogent. “Happiness is not always fun” is an R. W. saying that means a lot to me these days, but on this particular night, at least, the opposite had proven true.

William Pym

Mad Cowboy


Left: View of the parade, June 12, 2005. Right: Paul McCarthy. (All photos: A. Burger)

A quick flashback: Munich 1931. Adolf Hitler orders the construction of the Haus der Deutschen Kunst—a museum-slash-propaganda tool where Der Führer made public speeches, promoted his reactionary artistic agenda, and demonized Entartete Kunst (the Nazi term for avant-garde art practices). Fast-forward to 2005: In an uncanny reversal of history, today’s preeminent degenerate artist—Paul McCarthy—has been welcomed into the same fascist edifice.

Entitled “LaLa Land Parody Paradise,” the show was unanimously heralded around the booths of Art Basel as McCarthy’s most exhilaratingly ambitious—and haunting—exhibition to date. Heeding the effusive recommendations, I happily decamped from the fair (mindful that I had to return a day later to catch Basler Kunstverein President Peter Handschin’s annual picnic in a picturesque hamlet just outside the city) and embarked on a scenic five-hour drive past the Bodensee and the wooded hills of Bavaria to Munich.

Before I’d even set foot in the galleries, I was bowled over by the way McCarthy channeled the sinister historical charge of the building into his Bacchanalian enterprise. His first subversive gesture was to adorn the top of the HdK’s façade with a giant bouquet of red and orange inflatable flowers that looked like they’d been stolen from a Pasadena Rose Bowl float, thus neatly defusing the architectural fascism. (He also transformed an innocuous-looking architectural model of the HdK into a geranium planter in the museum’s lobby.) This signaled one of the main leitmotifs of the show: McCarthy took on the specters of Germany’s past while simultaneously importing (and lampooning) the most grotesque aspects of Americana.

Left: Exterior view of the Haus der Kunst. Right: Installation view of The Underwater World.

Achtung!” proclaimed the museum guard who took my ticket stub and handed me a lengthy legal disclaimer about the show’s offensive content and potentially hazardous constructions before waving me through to the monumentally scaled galleries. The show’s centerpiece was the unveiling of the sum of several years of toil: McCarthy’s much awaited “Western” and “Pirate” projects. In the former “Hall of Honor,” McCarthy installed his Fuck Fort—a vast plywood construction, part Alamo, part Auschwitz. Various props, beer bottles, vintage-looking cavalry costumes, and other detritus were scattered throughout the barricade along with several monitors documenting the live performances that took place inside the sculpture/set and in the environs of the Haus der Kunst during the show’s opening weekend. Hauser and Wirth had jetted in a planeload of McCarthy fans from Venice to attend the Saturday night opening and Sunday morning “Western Parade.” Some three hundred participants, including performers dressed in Wild West costumes, a procession of horse-drawn covered wagons, and a lederhosen-clad Bavarian oompah band, had turned out, giving new meaning to “Deutsche Amerikanishe Freundshaft.”

As Hans Ulrich Obrist later reported, the show was so powerful that none of the opening night revelers wanted to leave the museum galleries to attend dinner on the outdoor terrace. Gregor Muir, Hauser and Wirth’s London director, described the parade as “a truly joyful occasion, though tainted with an inspired sense of unease.” Kicking myself for not attending, I had to experience the whole thing vicariously through various video highlights, including: Cavalry troops parading like members of the SS in front of the Haus der Kunst, guzzling Bavarian beer, pissing, and jerking off on each other as part of an über-macho Aryan orgy—thereby advancing McCarthy’s conflation of National Socialist bravado and an imagined American West.

Left: Mechanical Pig, 2005. Right: Captain Morgan, 2005.

More than an hour into my visit, having barely digested this first body of work, I forged ahead to the Pirate Ship. I discovered numerous new sculptures (my absolute fave being a super-creepy, anatomically correct mechanical pig in the throes of REM sleep), drawings, performance stills, and some previously unexhibited appropriation works from the mid-1970s (which uncannily foreshadow Richard Prince’s oeuvre) related to the Cowboy/Pirate theme. Like the Western fort, the pirate ship evoked a Disney-style theme park ride gone terribly awry. No accident, as I read on the exhibition wall labels—the Pirate Project grew out of a discussion between McCarthy and his son Damon (who coauthored this spectacular new ensemble about Disneyland’s “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride). A life-size pirate frigate, an adjoining ‘70s-era houseboat (where Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, whose drunken Liz-as-Martha also crops up on the exhibition poster, was looped on a monitor in the cabin), and a technologically sophisticated labyrinth of moving chambers served as a set for the exhibition’s cathartic crescendo: An insane performance video projection titled The Underwater World. McCarthy’s visceral mise-en-scene of buccaneerism, invasion, torture, and depravity could not be any more politically relevant. To borrow from John Welchman’s thorough and enlightening catalogue essay, McCarthy’s “manic simulacrum” of “Pirattitude” offers a layered allegory of American excess in the heart of a deeply fractured, historically scarred European Union.

After several hours immersed in McCarthy’s LaLa Land, I left the Haus der Kunst in a state of awe. While driving back from Munich, numerous practical questions percolated in my head: How did curator Stephanie Rosenthal convince her institution to take on such an expensive, sprawling, and “risky” show? How did the McCarthy Family manage to transport and install the contents of the Pasadena and Azuza studios in just one month? And why—as is repeatedly the case—does one of America’s greatest artists have to travel to Europe to find a fittingly expansive platform?

Alison M. Gingeras

Bridge Line

New York

Left: Neville Wakefield and Barbara Gladstone. Right: The scene at the opening.

Even Slater Bradley, who is thirty, was feeling old. For many at the Thursday night opening of Neville Wakefield’s “Bridge Freezes Before Road,” the summer group exhibition at Barbara Gladstone, this was the “young, hip show” of the post-Venice/Basel season, the “cool” place to be. And “cool” was the word for the “Greater New York 2005” generation swarming the gallery in low-cut dirndls and pastel shirts. Actually, the recent-MFA-grad crowd provided a neat counterpoint to the soigné middle-agers filling the Whitney the previous night to greet the arrival of Eugenie Tsai's terrific Robert Smithson retrospective. Smithson is the artist who gave the Wakefield show its raison d'etre, while Wakefield gave the Whitney show a contemporary context that perfectly reflects the growing influence of Smithson's outta-sight non-site sensibilities.

What is most cool about Wakefield's show is his pointed inclusion of our younger conceptualists' antecedents. (“It's either old or derivative,” he observed. “Like the rest of us.”) Plopped or propped among new or recent work by Dike Blair, Steven Shearer, and Adam McEwen are an actual Smithson (a 1968 “Double Non-site” set of photos), old and “new” works by a back-from-beyond John Dogg and—a big winner—a 1967 aluminum dartboard by Clive “Hellraiser” Barker that recalls Jasper Johns’s sculp-metal of the same period. Nearby, Wakefield had installed a 1974 bowling-ball-finish plank by John McCracken and a 1982 Jack Goldstein painting with a new Banks Violette-does-Smithson work (accomplished with Stephen O'Malley) that made good use of the salt left over from Violette's Whitney installation. Man-for-all-seasons Kelley Walker was especially grateful to find his politic chocolate-on-silkscreen paintings hanging above a 1996 Kippenberger dwarf and opposite a 1980 Chris Burden video. “It's good to see a show that acknowledges its history,” he said. Frankly, it was good to find a living artist who wasn't born yesterday.

Left: Chloe Sevigny and Slater Bradley. Middle: Kelley Walker. Right: Ricky Clifton with a painting by Erik Schmidt.

But the opening was notable for other reasons, like the number of women artists in the show (only three out of nearly two dozen total) and the many rival dealers present (mostly women: Nicole Klagsbrun dropped by, as did Janice Guy and Elyse Goldberg of James Cohan Gallery). For a few minutes, a genuine dust-up seemed possible as Jessica Craig-Martin tried to edge Gladstone and Paula Cooper closer to Mary Boone, who was openly ogling Matthew Day Jackson's charred-wood-and-vulture sculpture before moving in on Dan Colen's two pieces. (This was prior to the arrival of Colen’s dealer, Mirabelle Marden, from an opening at her own gallery, Rivington Arms.) Colen is hot this week, apparently. His upside-down “Holy Shit” spray painting was a crowd favorite, as was a German fokloric fantasy by Erik Schmidt.

At the Gavin Brown-style barbecue on Gladstone's year-old bamboo- and tomato-plant-hedged roof, everyone was as pleasant and well-behaved as the delicious evening air. (Brown arrived just as dinner was served.) No one got sloppy drunk, acted lewd, or agreed to disagree with anyone else. Everyone simply seemed glad to be noticed. Has all the money pouring into the art world made its denizens too comfortable to be as ticked off, playful, and daring as, say, Smithson? To be fair, I always try to consider work I see in galleries on its own terms. Why, then, do I keep walking away from perfectly intelligent shows feeling disappointed? Perhaps I want too badly to be impressed, or expect more than a nonpaying customer deserves. Maybe I love drama too much. I still love art. But with the inevitable and continual collapse of all boundaries, even nontraditional ones, maybe I just don't know art even when I trip over it, as I did the floor-bound documentation of Aaron Young's destruction of a $700 video camera on the steps of Versailles. On second thought, new art rarely looks the way it used to. Just like the rest of us.

Linda Yablonsky

Poster Children


Left: Silke Taproggle, Jérôme Sans, and Nicolas Bourriaud. Right: Mathias Augustyniak and Michael Amzalag.

Posters! Posters everywhere! That was my first impression upon walking into “Translation,” the new show at the Palais de Tokyo, where blue-chip contemporary art from the Dakis Joannou Collection shares the galleries with the work of French graphic design duo M/M Paris, of Bjork album-cover fame. The result of this art-design pairing? According to the press kit, it’s a “unique exhibition experience” aimed at defining a new kind of “altermodernism,” one that resists cultural and economic standardization and instead articulates “a mutant form of creole culture.”

“Haphazard and unplanned, that’s the way we work here,” explained Jérôme Sans, one of the Palais de Tokyo’s two directors. “The idea came up when we were planning two shows”—one with M/M Paris and one of major artworks from Greek tycoon Joannou’s collection. “In the end, we asked Michael Amzalag and Mathias Augustiniak”—the two M’s in M/M Paris—“to display the collection with their own design work.”

It’s a very Warholian move: Superimposing artworks over posters and carpets in an attempt to make formal connections or bring together topics that otherwise have little in common. For example: A dress by Yinka Shonibare with a Balenciaga advertisement; a strange, primitive, organic Ashley Bickerton sculpture with a series of posters produced for the Theatre de Lorient; and a supersized Vanessa Beecroft photo with images from a Calvin Klein ad campaign. The show is refreshing and certainly unique, even if I still think that abstraction—which the press release dismisses as high modernism’s failed attempt at a formulating a “universal language”—has not been thoroughly digested by art history and could use a little more elucidation. But then again, minimal abstract modernism is certainly neither M/M nor Jouannou’s cup of tea, so this probably isn’t the place for such a discussion.

Left: Jeffrey Deitch. Middle: Takashi Murakami. Right: Dakis Joannou.

I tried to imagine how Joannou’s collection would have looked without the M/M decor. “Just normal, as usual,” concluded French critic Eric Troncy, whose own shows often employ risky, narrative display strategies. In fact, it almost seemed that the posters—which are fucking great—were sometimes better than the artworks themselves. Who wins in a face-off between Guo-Qiang Cai’s sculpture (a sort of wooden flying machine) and Dominique Gonzalez Foerster’s “Cosmodrome” poster? Further questions: Are posters artworks? Are designers artists? I forgot to ask.

Alison Gingeras—one of the curators of “Monument to Now,” which presented part of Joannou’s collection at his DESTE Foundation in Athens last year—added that she was amazed that some pieces that didn’t work that well in Athens look great here. For example, in one gallery, Nari Ward’s accumulation of baby buggies, music by Mahalia Jackson, a Christopher Wool text painting, and “Utopia of Flows” posters (made by artists including Liam Gillick, Thomas Hirschhorn, and John Baldessari for “Utopia Station” at the 2003 Venice Biennale) were all piled up like ingredients in a Big Mac. Somehow it works.

I wondered if the artists were OK with all this. “I don’t know, we didn’t ask them,” said Amzalag. “It’s a private collection. We can do what we want.” But the artists in attendance seemed happy enough. Michael Bevilacqua didn’t mind that his piece was next to works made by Australian aboriginal artist Ningura Napurrula and Shahzia Sikander’s Persian miniatures, which themselves were mounted on posters featuring strange, funny figure drawings. Talk about multicultural connections.

The laid-back afternoon preview for members of the press and VIPs was atypical for the Palais de Tokyo; the museum’s public vernissage would not take place until later Wednesday evening. Jeff Koons played dad, pushing a buggy around the show, and was nonchalant upon discovering his stainless steel version of a Mylar balloon (Moon, 1994-2000) reflecting a series of posters based on the number Pi produced by M/M in collaboration with Dutch fashion photographers Inez van Lamsveerde and Vinoodh Matadin. (“I never know how to pronounce that,” commented a museum educator.) Underfoot was a carpet by Philippe Parreno and Pierre Huyghe originally designed for Etienne Marcel, a Paris restaurant.

Left: Installation view with Jeff Koons's Moon, 1994-2000. Middle: Piotr Uklanski. Right: Michael Bevilacqua.

As usual, Takashi Murakami was followed by a TV crew—Arte, the French network, this time—but the artist seems comfortable with the attention. His dealer, Emmanuel Perrotin, was perhaps the only stressed person at the preview, nervous that Inochi, Murakami’s sculpture and a recent addition to the Joannou collection, was not protected well enough. “Well, it costs between €500,000 and €1,000,000 in an edition of three,” said Silke Taproggle, a Blum & Poe director in town from L.A. (The gallery produced Murakami’s film starring the super-skinny alien boy.) “Look at its anus,” said Perrotin, “So strange!” “Who,” I asked. “Silke or Takashi?” “No! Inochi!”

Piotr Uklanski seemed very happy too, and introduced me to Staffan Ahrenberg, who produced Robert Longo’s Johnny Mnemonic and who is helping the artist on his upcoming feature-length Western. Gingeras introduced Hans Ulrich Obrist to Bill Bell, the famous west coast soap opera producer, collector, and friend of Jeff Koons who recently asked Tadao Ando to design a house for him in Malibu. Ando perhaps has time for a new commission or two, since it was he who was designing the ill-fated Pinault Foundation in Boulogne before Monsieur Pinault, fed up with the French bureaucracy, announced he was taking his collection to Venice. We were all thinking about the statement released that morning by French Minister of Culture Renaud Donnedieu de Vabres, hinting that he might be willing to fund the renovation of the unfinished Palais so that Pinault’s collection could be installed there, at least temporarily.

But as Sans pointed out vis-à-vis the 30,000 square feet of still-raw space: “It looks like Beirut and will take at least two years to complete.” In the meantime, “Translation” is a great show.

Nicolas Trembley

Buzz Words


Left: Christoph Büchel, Fliegender Händler, 2005. Right: Blair Taylor with artworks by Nate Lowman.

Art Basel is all about word of mouth—collectors and curators alike seem driven by it, as they spend four frenetic days running from booth to booth and show to show, to see/discover/consume the hottest thing. Cell phones fuel the buzz: my first SMS communiqué, received upon touching down in Basel Monday evening, read: “It’s so much better than the Arsenale!” The surging hoards had arrived from Venice, famished for some aesthetic stimulation and further art schmoozing. As I tried to make my way through the crowd at the Art Unlimited opening to see if my text-message tip was true, I realized that the Venice-Basel comparison is particularly warranted this year. Not only is the cavernous size of Art Basel’s special exhibition hall reminiscent of the Arsenale, its scale poses a similar curatorial challenge. The cacophony of artistic wares created a sense of uninspired curating similar to this year’s Biennale. There was a smattering of painting, some performance, a few monumental sculptures, and even a feminist statement or two (though thankfully no Guerilla Girls installation), while outside on Messeplatz, the public art projects ranged from the ridiculous (Tunga’s gigantic outdoor chessboard with “teeth” as pawns) to the vaguely-amusing-yet-anecdotal (Atelier Van Lieshout’s Bar Rectum) to the conceptually sublime (Allan Kaprow’s Fluids piece, reenacted courtesy of Hauser and Wirth).

Given the maximum-density crowd, it was impossible to have a rigorous look at any of the artworks, and soon it was time to scoot off to dinner at the Gundeldingerhof, Basel’s foodie mecca. Generously hosted by Barbara Gladstone, the seventy or so guests were representative of Art Basel’s target audience: A mix of well-informed, gregarious collectors (I had the pleasure of chatting with Matt Aberle and David Appel most of the evening), museum trustees (e.g. MoMA’s Harvey Shipley Miller), celebs (e.g. Marc Jacobs), and curators (e.g. Beatrix Ruf, James Rondeau, Richard Flood, Douglas Fogle, and Olga Viso). The evening’s conversation oscillated between the Michael Jackson verdict and the collective disappointment with the Biennale. As expected, there was a bit of social one-upsmanship when it came to discussing what everyone did during the two-day break between the end of the professional days in Venice and the opening of Art Basel. Those who attended the opening of Paul McCarthy’s “La-la land parodie paradies” megashow at Munich’s Haus der Kunst emphatically raved about it; others opted for the private view of “Bidibidobidiboo” curated by Francesco Bonami for the Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo in Turin. There was also the opening of MADRE Napoli, a new museum of contemporary art, that featured installations by Francesco Clemente, Anish Kapoor, and Jeff Koons. The intimate circle of Benedickt Taschen spent the weekend at the Villa d’Este on Lake Como attending his nuptials to Lauren Weiner. Jeffrey Deitch later reported that it was a beautiful, tasteful ceremony; the only risqué touch was a lap dance by “International Burlesque Star” Dita Von Teese (a wedding present to Mr. T from Mrs. T). And a few of the art-weary (myself included) as well as the real jet set had opted to squeeze in a mini-break over the weekend.

Left: Allan Kaprow, Fluids, 1967/2005, installation view. Right: Atelier Van Lieshout, Bar Rectum, 2005, under construction.

After dinner most of the serious collectors headed home for a good night of sleep. The old adage “the early bird gets the worm” is borne out in Basel, though at dinner rumor had it that über-collector François Pinault and private dealer Philippe Segalot (disguised as art handlers, according to a report published this weekend in Le Monde) had already preshopped the entire fair—something that happens every year, natch. A few of us (the nonshoppers) took a cab to the Kunsthalle’s bar to inaugurate a week of serious partying.

Tuesday morning, I decided to avoid the stampede into the fair’s vernissage to see a few shows in town in relative peace and quiet. The summer lineup at Basel’s contemporary institutions was varied and high caliber—from the Jeff Wall retrospective at the Schaulager to Simon Starling at the Museum für Gegenwartskunst. Having adored Karen Kilmnik’s show at the Fondazione Bevilacqua La Masa in Venice, I turned off my cell phone for the first time in two weeks and made my way to the Haus zum Kirschgarten (a jewel-box historical museum dedicated to Swiss domestic life), where Kilmnik had hung her divine paintings and made deliciously subtle interventions in the museum’s period rooms. The next stop was the Kunsthalle Basel for a sneak preview of their June lineup from director Adam Szymczyk and assistant curators Silke Baumann and Simone Neuenschwander. I loved Carl Andre’s “Black Wholes” show (featuring a massive new floor sculpture and a selection of his text/poem pieces) and an exhibition of works by Artur Zmijewski, the artist representing Poland at the Biennale this year. It contained an excellent selection of early video and sound projects, but the tour de force was the creepy room-size sculpture used as a set for Repetition—Zmijewski’s riveting documentary film, now showing in Venice, that features a timely (think Abu Ghraib) recreation of the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment.

Left: Installation view of Artur Zmijewski's exhibition. Right: Installation view of Carl Andre, 44 Carbon Copper Triads, 2005. Both exhibitions at Kunsthalle Basel. (Photos: Serge Hasenhöhler)

After a leisurely lunch in the sunny Kunsthalle garden, I was prodded into making my way to the Messe to determine the veracity of my latest text messages. (One read: “Leipzig painters on the decline!”; another, “Poland is the new Scotland.”) I breezed through the blue-chip offerings on the first floor and made a beeline up the stairs to see the winners of this year’s Baloise Prize, awarded annually to one or two artists in the fair’s Art Statements section, an enclave of younger galleries and artists. While former Forcefield member Jim Drain (presented by New York’s Greene Naftali) and London-based 2005 Beck’s Futures Prize nominee Ryan Gander (presented by Amsterdam’s Annet Gelink Gallery) were the winners this year, my hands-down favorite was Nate Lowman at Maccarone, inc. His punk rock aesthetic combined with politically pointed work was absolutely apropos in such a setting. The most context-specific work—and the only one not for sale—was a t-shirt (obtained by the artist from Kenneth W. Courtney's “Ju$t Another Rich Kid” website) that read, “I fucked Richard Prince.” Worn during the inauguration by gallery director Blair Taylor, the t-shirt subtly acknowledged the current market infatuation with Dick Prince as well as his uncanny ability to maintain his mystique in the eyes of the young and hip.

Left: The (GBE) Modern booth, with a sculpture by Anselm Reyle and a neon work by Martin Creed. Right: Jeff Koons, Diamond.

After taking in the Statements section, I began to wander around the various other contemporary offerings on the second floor. Belying the view that art fairs are morally corrupt and devoid of soul (e.g. Jerry Saltz’s post-Miami Village Voice missive), the quality and variety of art on display at this year’s fair was extremely edifying. It seems that galleries and artists alike put maximum effort and thought into assembling top-quality works in relatively well-curated displays. There was almost too much good work to digest—so much so that the fair might deserve a “serious” review. In the handsome-booth category: Gavin Brown’s surprisingly coherent and grown-up presentation of his stable (with a superb new abstract sculpture by Anselm Reyle, who also looked good at The Modern Institute’s booth), David Zwirner (great Chris Ofili triptych and Iza Gensken sculptures), kurimanzutto (Mexico City’s usual suspects along with a good new Gabriel Orozco sculpture), Massimo de Carlo (exquisite minimalist “paintings” from Manzoni to Pivi), Gladstone Gallery (loved her Fontanas and Boettis), as well as Sadie Coles, Regen Projects, and neugerriemschneider (to name but a few veteran exhibitors). There were also excellent singular works. A few of my favorites included: Wilhelm Sasnal (the word “WARSAW” burned into the wall of Foksal’s booth), Christof Buchel (9-11 Muslim prayer rug/car sculpture/installation at Hauser and Wirth), Jeff Koons (P-Diddy-size green diamond sculpture from the “Celebration” series at Gagosian), Urs Fischer (a new series of photos/drawings at Galerie Eva Presenhuber), and Reena Spaulings (a flag sculpture by the fictional artist/gallerist/heir apparent to John Dogg, shown by Galerie Chantal Crousel). The list could go on and on. But, having spent most of Tuesday afternoon at the fair, I started to OD, so at six o’clock, I unplugged altogether and made the pilgrimage to Munich to see the McCarthy exhibition for myself. After thirty-six hours in Basel, McCarthy’s “La-la land” sounded like paradise.

Alison M. Gingeras

Supersize Spree


Left: The entrance to Art Unlimited. Right: Performers with Doug Aitken's hardwood table.

At the Monday opening of the sixth annual Art Unlimited exhibition, Art Basel director Samuel Keller was quick to remind everyone, “The artworks here are for sale”—an announcement that functioned like the bell at the New York Stock Exchange, signaling the beginning of the week’s trading. Keller was making an important point, because while this section of Art Basel, held in a large hall next to the fair’s main space and devoted to large-scale works that do not fit in regular booths, looks like (and is) a curated exhibition—organized by Switzerland-based artist and independent curator Simon Lamunière—it’s still part of the fair. That means that galleries pay to play, but have no say in how their works will be installed. This year, one gallery’s representatives had decided at the last minute to remove their artist’s paintings because of a less-than-ideal placement, then changed their minds when threatened with a substantial penalty fee. Despite such unpleasantness, the galleries continue to pony up because Art Unlimited is superlative in all respects. Everything—not only the art, but the exhibition space itself (almost 130,000 square feet), and even the size of the doormen’s muscles—is just, well, bigger. And let’s not forget the ever-inflating prices of the artworks themselves.

With Swiss precision, everything was ready at 4pm sharp, and the show was inaugurated with a raucous combination of performances, music, and Moët and Chandon-a-go-go. When I called Lamunière on his cell phone to ask him to get me in—I had forgotten my pass—he was understandably a bit stressed, but also happy that so many artists had shown up to install their pieces themselves: “It means they understand that it’s not just a commercial thing—that it can be as important to show here as in Venice.” In total, seventy-two participating artists from twenty-seven countries were on hand. Marina Abramovic was lying naked on a shelf protruding from a wall, performing her Self-Portrait with Skeleton (price upon request at the gallery). “Look,” cried one woman, a Miami collector dressed in head-to-toe canary yellow. “She’s bleeding!” “No,” somebody corrected her, “she’s crying.” “Yes, but she’s crying blood. I wouldn’t like that in my dining room.”

Left: A muscled doorman outside the exhibition hall. Middle: A collector's dog with an official fair badge. Right: Gianni Motti's Broker.

Gianni Motti (who represents Switzerland in Venice) created Broker, a “living sculpture,” by putting a boy in a cage. The guy was in fact the Swiss national badminton champion. The locals were wondering, “Does he need money?” My concern was more practical: How could he get to the bathroom? Motti was the subject of much buzz, but not for this piece. Over at the main fair—not yet open but already visited by important, eager collectors—his bar of soap supposedly made with fat left over from Italian prime minister Sylvio Berlusconi’s liposuction was the subject of intense speculation. Twenty thousand Swiss francs at Zurich Nicolas von Senger gallery. “Does it smell good?” someone asked.

Doug Aitken was represented by two pieces and three dealers (Eva Presenhuber, 303, and Victoria Miro). For one work, he organized a sort of new-age concert with five people dressed in white drumming a hardwood table that he defined as “both a mesmerizing musical instrument and a place for conversation.” (It’s available in an edition of six, performers not included.) Florence Bonnefous, director of Air de Paris gallery, was a bit disappointed because she and Casey Kaplan were presenting a sound piece—Oh Egypt by Trisha Donnelly— but during the opening, a DJ was playing so loud that everything else was drowned out. “Might as well stop the piece and get a drink,” she declared.

It was all a bit much, of course, but the notable thing about Art Unlimited is that it offers the chance to experience installations that even institutions have difficulty showing. It was a pleasure to see Richard Artschwager’s Janus III (yours for a mere $150,000), to walk through Swedish artist Henrik Hakansson’s upside-down garden, with real plants and fog, or to jump on the wooden steps floating above a pool of water in an artwork by Matti Braun. From ‘60s pioneers like Walter de Maria, Joseph Kosuth, or Thomas Bayrle to young stars like John Bock, Martin Creed, and Jonas Dalhberg, the sixth edition of Art Unlimited was consistently strong. The juxtapositions were sometimes strange—for example a huge, color-saturated wall painting by Jean-Luc Moerman applied directly to the outside walls of Alan Charlton’s otherwise entirely gray 750-square-foot maze. But why not?

Left: Marina Abramovic's Self-Portrait with Skeleton. Middle: John Baldessari. Right: Ivan Wirth.

What was even stranger, I noticed, was the curious way people had begun referring to the works by dealers’ names, instead of artists’. “The Mennour piece is sold!” exclaimed a French critic. “You mean the Attia piece,” I answered, pointing out that the artist was Kader Attia and the piece was presented by Kamel Mennour Gallery. Oddest of all was the sensation of wandering through an exhibition and seeing a gallerist in front of every work, cooing, “It’s a great piece!” on repeat. But I got used to it.

When the party finished at 7pm, the armies of collectors who couldn’t wait for the opening of the fair proper at 11am the next day ran to vernissages for two younger, “edgier” ancillary fairs: First LISTE, and then, just a short ferry ride away (Venice dèjá vu) the Volta Show. The latter is in its first year of operation—it seems that alternative fairs are spawning their own alternatives. In any case, between the three, there should be something to suit every taste and, of course, budget.

Nicolas Trembley

My Hustler


Left: Francesco Vezzoli greets a friend. Right: Vezzoli in a still from Gore Vidal's Caligula.

On Thursday night, the Fondazione Prada is exhibiting Francesco Vezzoli’s 2004 film Le Comizi di Non Amore at the Fondazione Cini on Darsena, the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore; a cocktail party follows for Vezzoli and Rem Koolhaas, Carsten Höller, and Mariko Mori, all beneficiaries of Prada’s largesse (in one way or another) who are exhibiting in the Biennale. I’ve always been a fan of Vezzoli. Though he has had his share of notable admirers, for years now I’ve also noticed a remarkable knee jerk hostility toward him. Too smooth an operater? Too attentive to his career? Too smart for his own good? I can think of many worse offenders. In any case, the prevailing attitude may be changing with the warm reception accorded Gore Vidal’s Caligula, his best film to date, in the Italian Pavilion. Even erstwhile skeptics seem to have grudgingly enjoyed Vezzoli’s latest effort, which takes the form of a very funny short trailer for a remake of the 1970s porno-deluxe movie that screenwriter Vidal later unsuccessfully sued to have his name removed from. This “trailer” doesn’t lack for real stars, either: Helen Mirren as the Emperor Tiberius, Karen Black as Agrippina, Milla Jovovich as Drusilla, Benicio del Toro as Macro, and cracked actress and rock star Courtney Love as the depraved Caligula himself. Unlike most of Vezzoli’s earlier efforts, this one doesn’t depend especially on knowledge of the often obscure stars’ histories—one common critique of the artist that I find unconvincing. Why are people so lazy in the art world? But the backstory is interesting: For instance, the ultimately disastrous team who put together the original film, among them its producer, Penthouse publisher Bob Guccione, Jr., and, in Vezzoli’s words, “ass maniac” director Tinto Brass.

Le Comizi di Non Amore takes the form of a pilot for a reality/talk show, and features its share of big stars as well—Catherine Deneuve, Marianne Faithfull, Jeanne Moreau—as well as Antonella Lualdi, the star of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1964 film Comizi d’amore. At more than thirty minutes, this is by far Vezzoli’s longest film—almost tediously so. Upon leaving the screening, I discover that the party is in full effect, and search high and low for Vezzoli himself. I ask Jessica Craig-Martin why Vezzoli has such an iffy rap in certain quarters. “Why would anyone dislike Francesco?” she replies while busily snapping pictures. “He’s so smart and funny and witty, and besides he’s gorgeous.” I find him seated with Yvonne Force-Villareal (naturally a fan, I assume); he looks tired and very stressed, not his usual charming self. “I can barely stand, David,” he tells me. We arrange to speak the next day. As he writes down his number for me, the Wexner Center’s Sherrie Geldin comments, “Oh Francesco, you give your cell phone number out to everybody.” “I am a whore,” he replies with a slight smile.

Left: An Italian couple in Venice. (Photo: Jessica Craig-Martin) Right: Rem Koolhaas, Francesco Vezzoli, Miuccia Prada, Mariko Mori, and Carsten Höller.

I cannot find anyone I know who is going on to the night’s hot ticket, the party for this year’s U.S. representative Ed Ruscha, whose “Course of Empire” is featured in the American Pavilion, so I share a water taxi with Sam Orlofsky from Gagosian Gallery. (Word has it that Vezzoli will show with Gagosian, although I also hear that Mitchell-Innes & Nash are interested. And indeed both Lucy Mitchell-Innes and Jay Gorney, director of the downtown space that the gallery is opening on the site of the former Gorney Bravin + Lee, are in attendance.) We get seriously lost on our way to the Palazzo Papadopoli, where the Ruscha party, hosted by Larry Gagosian, is being held, but arrive pretty much right on time (albeit an hour-and-a-half late). A coveted blue wristband is supposedly the only means of gaining entry. “Where did you get yours?” I overhear someone say. “On eBay?”

Inside, the palazzo is very grand, but after so many events at Venetian palazzi the splendor is growing rather commonplace. It’s crowded, and, feeling quite dazed, I can’t make out all the famous people. I recognize Richard Prince and several Gagosian artists. Miuccia Prada is there with Vezzoli. My friend and fellow Artforum contributor Alison Gingeras introduces me to Franz West, with whom I enjoy a long conversation. Yes, he liked Gore Vidal’s Caligula, too. Michael York (of Cabaret and Logan’s Run fame) is there, still looking very good. A great lady of my acquaintance points out Stephanie Seymour, commenting, “Can you believe how much work she’s had done, and she’s only, what, thirty-eight?” The dinner is not sit-down—except for Cy Twombly’s room, which I never penetrate, and where presumably Ruscha, Gagosian, and other eminences are ensconced.

Left: Octopus, Paul Allen's yacht. Right: Shoes left dockside by Octopus visitors. (Photos: Jessica Craig-Martin)

As the Ruscha party winds down, there is something of a melée at the dock outside as guests frantically attempt to secure water taxis. Many are on their way to the Frieze party at the Palazzo Zenobio. The dock feels as if it might suddenly sink under the weight of so many rich people, so many jewels and blown-out hairdos, and so much power and influence. “Nick Serota stole our water taxi!” somebody screams. For the first time during this Venetian sojourn, I am feeling very tense.

The following morning I meet Vezzoli for breakfast on the terrace of the Hotel Westin Europa e Regina. “Tell me, was everyone in Comizi di Non Amore wearing Prada?” I inquire. “Actually, no one was,” he answers, “except Antonella Lualdi, because she is so fat. Miuccia was adamant that there should be no Prada product placement, but in this case I had to run over to the Prada store and buy a large black dress for Antonella.”

Later that day, I am hanging out at the fantastic villa that Jeffrey Deitch has taken on the Giudecca, right behind Palladio’s Church of the Redentore. Jeffrey has brought his entire staff to Venice, as well as the painter Kehinde Wiley and his boyfriend Donovan Gilliard; Bec Stupac, an assume vivid astro focus collaborator who will have a solo show with Deitch this fall, is there too, with her hula hoop. Bec is an eminent hula-hooper. Tim Noble and Sue Webster are also his guests, as am I, my stint at the Europa e Regina having ended. Jeffrey and I occupy the piano nobile, while the “kids” are shacked up on the third floor. “They’ve got into the habit of referring to the villa as ‘the house,’ which reminds me of MTV’s series ‘The Real World.’ The Real World Venice Biennale,” he comments.

Left: Jeffrey Deitch and Kiki Smith. Middle: Artist Tim Noble. (Photos: Jessica Craig-Martin) Right: 50th Venice Biennale director Francesco Bonami.

That evening, we leave en masse for the MoMA party at the Cipriani, celebrating the museum’s acceptance of the Judith Rothschild bequest, a multi-million dollar collection of works on paper assembled by Harvey Shipley Miller and his assistant, Andre Schlechtriem, with funds from the Judith Rothschild Foundation. The bequest, which includes works by the relatively young and untested as well as the blue-chip, has been a subject of heated speculation, and it was rumored for some time that the museum might not accept it. “Some of the trustees are very conservative,” one big-deal dealer, who understandably requests anonymity, informs me, before giving me her own lowdown on the situation. “For all the stuff they acquired, it will still fit comfortably in a few flat files at the museum. And if they want to, later on, the museum can sell off the Polkes and Richters and Tuymanses at auction.” The mood at the party, however, remains ebullient, and the general feeling is that Shipley Miller did a very good job. Everybody who was everywhere else in the last several days seems to be here. As I am leaving, I notice that the doorkeeper is giving Eddie Ruscha and his wife a hard time because apparently they aren’t on the list. “That’s Ed Ruscha’s son and his wife, and you really ought to let them in,” I explain to the majordomo. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Yes, I am really totally sure.” He lets them in.

David Rimanelli

Fairer Fare


Left: The entrance to the Giardini. Right: Artists Tino Sehgal and Gilbert and George. (Photos: Roman Mensing)

Who would have thought we’d be pining for the chaos of “Utopia Station”? This year’s Arsenale show, “Always a Little Further,” was a pared-down affair, but featured so much heavy-handed installation that it seemed a major throwback to the eighties and nineties. Indeed, with a veteran feminist agenda to boot, much of the work was well past its sell-by date of 1989. The fact that “best newcomer” prize was given to young Guatemalan body artist Regina José Galindo says it all: She shaves herself naked in public, creates a trail of bloody footprints in the streets, and videotapes her own hymenoplasty. Did Abramovic and Mendieta achieve nothing? As Tino Sehgal’s ironic prancing invigilators in the German Pavilion would say, “This is so contemporary!”

Left: Joana Vasconcelas’s tampon chandelier in the Arsenale. Middle: Sergio Vega's parrot phones. Right: Guillermo Calzadilla on a midnight vaporetto.

The Arsenale was my first experience of this year’s Biennale, and it got off to an unequivocal start: A roomful of Guerilla Girls posters and a tampon chandelier by Joana Vasconcelas. This introduction couldn’t help but highlight the fact that much of the work in the Arsenale was by women. Given its dubious quality, I’d have preferred not to have registered this fact. Curator Rosa Martinez had recycled a fair number of weak pieces from her Moscow McBiennial (Pilar Albarracín, Blue Noses, Gupta Subodh) and added a whole lotta Hispanic Catholic baroque (Paloma Varga Weisz, Cristina García Rodero, Maria Teresa Hincapié de Zuluaga). Curatorial juxtapositions veered less towards fruitful analogy than conceptual whiplash. (Leigh Bowery and Mona Hatoum?) A number of artists had been encouraged to give up the day job and wrestle with something new: Gregor Schneider tackled the clash of civilizations by proposing to install a black cube Ka’Ba in Piazza San Marco (no! go back to Die Familie Schneider) while Ghada Amer abandoned her perfectly serviceable embroideries to make a ying-yang Zen garden by the docks. Conceptual concision and restraint were a rare treat (Emily Jacir, Micol Assaël) in a show otherwise resembling a back issue of Flash Art. As one Swedish curator said to me, “it’s a user-friendly disgrace.”

The afternoon brought a stroll around the Giardini: Queues for more elaborate installations (Annette Messager for France) and long video works (Artur Zmijewski for Poland and de Rijke/de Rooij for Holland), none of which really rewarded the wait. The off-site pavilions proved more successful: Central Asia offered a tight and cogent group show of ten artists; Pipilotti Rist made a deliciously sexy chill-out zone in the Church of St. Staë; Bedwyr Williams’s residency for the Welsh pavilion (an attempt to forge links between his homeland and Venice) provided the only genuine laugh in the whole Biennale—with the work, not at it.

Left: Leigh Bowery outfit on display in the Arsenale. Middle: RoseLee Goldberg and Jens Hoffmann. Right: Guerilla Girls poster.

Socially the whole event seemed less frenetic than in previous years. The combined strategy of cutting back on artists (from several hundred in 2003 to ninety-two this year) and imposing stringent press-preview entrance policies paid off: The vibe was calmer and more relaxed without the clutter of a zillion museum minions and kitten-heeled gallery girls. Even so, most parties ran out of drink several hours before they were due to end; I had to resort to a half pint of limoncello at the Frieze party. The best bellinis came courtesy of Art Review and Jens Hoffmann; the best outfits were at the Guggenheim (elderly Peggy wannabes robed in lurid hues and complex textures). For these smartly dressed punters, Martinez and María de Corral’s commercially digestible biennale-cum-art-fair was just the ticket. In retrospect, 2003’s curatorial excess and engagé impenetrability looked staggeringly radical. We need biennial displays to push “always a little further” than this year’s skin-deep feminist number-crunching.

Claire Bishop

Casino Advantage


Left: French Pavilion curators Suzanne Pagé and Béatrice Parent. Middle: Annette Messager with the Golden Lion for Best Pavilion. Right: Pierre Cardin.

Representing one’s country at the Venice Biennale is undoubtedly an honor. It can pump up an artist's career—but it can also take the wind out of one's sails. There is no other exhibition in which artists must stand at their own front doors, so to speak, making themselves available to critics and passersby. “Like prostitutes,” said one visitor to the Giardini. The up side: “Those who used to think you were full of shit might suddenly love you because it’s ‘your moment’—or because you have the right dealer.” Artists know it’s just a game, but when it’s their turn they may find the going is tougher than they expected. Dutch duo de Rijke/de Rooij risked alienating devoted fans of their bon chic bon genre abstract films with a very disturbing play, recorded on 16mm film—but I loved it. On the other hand, Tino Sehgal, the hip young conceptual artist-slash-economist who, along with Thomas Scheibitz, represented Germany, failed to impress with his piece, which had performers shouting, “This is so contemporary, contemporary, contemporary!” Auf wiedersehen!

With her exhibition at the French Pavilion, Annette Messager seems to have picked up on the capricious nature of the whole affair. On the neo-classical façade, she covered the word FRANCIA with a neon sign that reads CASINO. Inside, in a three-part installation, she allegorized the Venetian figure of Pinocchio. Casinos are “places of pleasure and perdition, where you play with money,” the artist explained, cryptically intoning, “We’re on show even when we’re alone. I love the phrase ‘losers win.’” As for Pinocchio, the liar, the machine who tries to be human: “We all lie,” said Messager.

This year marks the first time that France has selected a female artist to represent the country, and Messager was duly rewarded with the Golden Lion for Best Pavilion. (Another Lion, presented by Walker Art Center director Kathy Halbreich, went to Harald Szeemann, and was graciously accepted by the late curator’s wife, Ingeborg, and daughter, Una.) In fact a feminist vibe was unsurprisingly pervasive. The rather flat and curiously anachronistic Arsenale exhibition, curated by Rosa Martinez, set the tone with an outsized Guerilla Girls poster that pointed out the woeful male-female imbalance of Biennales past. Statistics, we hate that.

Left: Bob Colacello and Gloria von Thurn und Taxis. Right: Una Szeemann with her father's honorary Golden Lion.

Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessey sponsored Thursday night’s official French post-opening dinner party—to the tune of a few hundred thousand Euros. Continuing its public-relations policy of having a finger (or whole hand) in every contemporary art pie, the luxury goods conglomerate had chosen nothing less than the Palazzo Ducale on Piazza San Marco for its fête, which felt a lot like a jet-set wedding. Few artists, but lots of designers and CEOs representing their multiple brands. At least the food was good. But I couldn’t help recalling the night before, when Jarvis Cocker, on the train to Venice to DJ at Thursday's Frieze party, ingenuously asked, “What’s the difference between this and Art Basel?” Nobody could come up with an answer.

Nicolas Trembley

Stone of Venice


Left: The Guerilla Girls and Yvonne Force-Villareal. Right: Gilbert and George with Rufus Wainwright. (Photos: Jessica Craig-Martin)

It’s a dismal truism that a writer’s life is hell, but it has its moments—like this one, as I begin my Venetian epistle on the terrace of my hotel overlooking the Grand Canal and the gleaming white domes of Santa Maria della Salute. John Ruskin had a no less splendid view of the comparatively austere but even more distinguished San Giorgio Maggiore from his window at the Danieli, where he habitually stayed when visiting the city he described in such loving detail in The Stones of Venice. But by just cocking my head thirty degrees to the left I have a fine vista of that grandest of Palladian churches too. Waiters are busily shooing away the pigeons that settle on tables, as well as the cuter but probably no less desperate uccellati that circle incessantly. Luxurious and desperate: Are these adjectives not adequate in evoking the atmosphere here during the Biennale’s opening week? But hey, the weather’s great, a glorious contrast to the 2003 inferno.

At 11am I meet Stefania Bortolami and Amalia Dayan, the glamorous former Gagosian directors who will open a gallery in New York together in September, at the Giardini for the first day of the four-day “preview.” We make a beeline for “The Experience of Art” at the Italian Pavilion, where Stefania introduces me to its curator, María de Corral, a relatively patrician presence. (Corral made Madrid’s Reina Sofia a venue of note during the roaring ‘80s.) She tells me that press information is available at the Arsenale. As if I wanted to hit her up for a catalogue! But she looks seriously weary and it isn’t yet noon. “No talking, just looking,” Stefania admonishes as we navigate the show. The many projections and videos in the Italian Pavilion make this feel more like the typical Arsenale installation (this year’s “Always a Little Further,” curated by Rosa Martínez, is no exception), especially because, overwhelmingly, they are a chore. The shadows of people nattering on their cell phones constantly pass by the often black-and-white, concerned projections: Concerned with something political, or racial, or genderish, and tedious. The great exception: Francesco Vezzoli’s new film, Gore Vidal’s Caligula, which looks like the succès fou of this Biennale.

It seems that dead artists are quite favored at Corral’s show: I counted Francis Bacon, Philip Guston, Agnes Martin, and Antoni Tapies—the last incorrectly, as Stefania informs me that in fact Tapies is still alive. The Bacons are great, the Guston’s tepid, the Martins rather less than A+. And Marlene Dumas, whose paintings occupy one gallery in the Bacon-Guston-Tapies enfilade, looks dead on the wall. As I recall, there was only one dead artist, Andy Warhol, in the show organized by Francesco Bonami and Daniel Birnbaum for the Italian Pavilion in 2003, which in retrospect looks all the more lively. Corral includes a great deal of contemporary Spanish art in her show, which is unsurprising but also telling in a bad way. Almost all of this work is of little consequence—odd, considering that Spain occupies an important place in the geography of modernism. Corral paired mostly black-and-white Agnes Martins with mostly black-and-white Joan Hernández Pijuans, apparently in the interest of fostering a dialogue—a failed one, as it happens, because the Pijuan paintings are simply awful.

Left: Rufus Wainwright. Right: Guests entering Francesca von Habsburg's birthday party. (Photos: Jessica Craig-Martin)

I meet Amalia and Stefania for drinks on the terrace of the Hotel Bauer Grunewald—the best hotel in Hamburg, except it’s in San Marco. We don’t tarry, because the birthday party for Francesca von Habsburg (Archduchess of Austria to you) is apparently in full swing at the Palazzo Volpi. As we depart, I see Ron Wood, looking glamorously Death in Venice in a white suit that matches his spectral pallor, not to mention his Dirk Bogarde-black hair: Ron von Aschenbach. The Palazzo Volpi is beyond. I particularly admire the vast salon in which immense gilt-framed mirrors alternate with seventeenth- and eighteenth-century portraits of Counts Volpi. I stop to kiss-kiss Elizabeth Peyton and Tony Just, before making my way to another table, where artful paparazza Jessica Craig-Martin, her father, London painter and YBA éminence grise Michael Craig-Martin, Art Production Fund co-founder Yvonne Force-Villareal, and the photographers Todd Eberle and Vera Lutter are settling down for dinner. “Tim Noble and Sue Webster love Mother Inc.,” Stefania tells Yvonne regarding her art-world girl-power band. “They listen to it all the time. They know all the lyrics.”

Should we or shouldn’t we go to the Gilbert & George fête at the Palazzo Pisini Moreta? Yvonne rings art consultant Mark Fletcher. “It’s fun, really fun!” he exclaims over her mobile, which is equipped with speakerphone. So we go, arriving on the late side. As we enter the candlelit Palazzo, Rufus Wainwright is in the midst of a shortish—or longish, depending on your taste—set, which has gone rather underappreciated by all but a gaggle of the faithful, including cohost Jay Jopling, who is pressed to the stage. The party’s packed with people eager to congratulate the duo on their belated British Pavilion debut, but soon the crowd begins to thin. Those who remain happily supply details of the glittering soirée we missed preceding this “after party” hosted by the British Council. Apparently, while we were breaking bread chez the archduchess, some 150 guests sipped prosecco in the courtyard of the Ca’ Rezzonico and then proceeded to dinner upstairs, in a grand (even by Venetian palazzi standards) trompe l’oeil-resplendent salon, hosted by Sonnabend, White Cube, Lehmann Maupin, and Thaddeus Ropac. The guests of honor chatted conspiratorially with their long-time dealer and the grandest of art-world grande dames, Ileana Sonnabend, and with Sir Nicolas Serota (the Tate has recently announced a hometown retrospective for G & G). The evening’s highlight came when British Council Visual Arts Director Andrea Rose’s very sweet toast brought real tears to Gilbert’s eyes and the room erupted in a spontaneous standing ovation.

Left: Artist Justin Lowe and P.S. 1 curator Bob Nickas. Right: Jerry Saltz and P.S. 1 director Tony Guererro. (Photos: Larissa Harris)

Losing track of my party, I hook up with P.S. 1 curator and Artforum colleague Bob Nickas, who is the pasha of a clutch of young artists, among them Fia Backstrom, the curator of “Lesser New York,” and some Greater New Yorkers, including Justin Lowe, Jen DeNike, and Peter Coffin. Justin prevails on me to go with them to the usually reliable after-party spot Haig’s Bar—a mistake, it turns out, because by the time we arrive the booze has run out.

David Rimanelli

Naked and Rude

Los Angeles

Left: Chiho Aoshima and Takashi Murakami. Right: Michele Maccarone, Christian Haye, Pilar Tompkins, and Renaud Proch.

Friday night, West Hollywood. A Chateau Marmont manager has upgraded Lisa Yuskavage, still in town from her Wednesday dog-and-pony show with Lisa Cholodenko at the Hammer. Whisked from her rear-view room near a noisy elevator, she has now landed a gargantuan, six-room penthouse with a full-size kitchen in lieu of a minibar, ashtrays everywhere (in California!) and a nearly wraparound terrace. When I arrive to visit, the remote-controlled gas fire is roaring, the sun is setting over the hills, and life is rich and strange.

Saturday afternoon, while touring the galleries in Chinatown, along Wilshire Boulevard, and in Culver City, I keep recalling Cholodenko's observation—that the New York art world's sense of community does not exist in L.A.—and getting the opposite impression. Though L.A.'s art districts are as distant from one another as, say, Chelsea, Williamsburg, and Harlem, they appear to be attended by all the same people, many from Chelsea, Williamsburg and Harlem.

There wasn't actually a whole lot going on in Chinatown. Javier Peres was on the phone. Black Dragon Society was installing. China Art Objects was closed. But then I discovered the enclave of galleries across the road from LACMA. Frances Stark was hanging out with her baby at Marc Foxx (who is easy to hang with). There I see a couple of extra-diminutive Evan Holloway sculptures and several Brian Calvin paintings that look just like the ones I saw at Anton Kern a week before. There is a show of Thomas Nozkowski paintings nearby at Daniel Weinberg, some clean and cool Uta Barth photos at Acme, and flashy Leo Villareal light sculptures at Marc Selwyn. I tell you, it all feels just like home.

Back in the sunshine, I head to Culver City, astonished to find galleries holding concurrent openings. (Imagine this happening on a Memorial Day weekend in Chelsea.) Even the two natives who accompany me are surprised: A herd of Angelenos, out on the streets, walking! We start at Susanne Vielmutter's spalike space on Washington Boulevard, and are playing Sean Duffy's altered-turntables when Christian Haye walks in with Jenny Liu. They are taking a busman’s holiday from the opening of MC, Christian’s new operation with Michele Maccarone, just down the road.

Left: Flora Wiegman and Drew Heitzler. Right: Elizabeth Dee and David Quadrini.

On the way, we stop at Blum & Poe on La Cienega, where the young Japanese digital artist Chiho Aoshima, of Takashi Murakami's Kaikai Kiki and “Little Boy” fame, is opening a big solo show, with Murakami in attendance. Tim Blum reports he is selling Chiho's fasincating five-screen animation (a collaboration with Bruce Ferguson) for $65,000 (in an edition of five with one artist’s proof), while the walls and floor (wallpaper and printed vinyl) of a room-swallowing environment are priced separately, at $30,000 and $50,000 (sized to order). Standing beside Murakami, Aoshima is even less communicative than the fiberglass sculpture of a cross-legged, blue-haired, feather-skirted female in another room, but perhaps it is the work that should do the talking.

MC (formerly The Project) feels just as fresh, perhaps because the exhibition of videos by Kelly Nipper and Adrian Paci are from Galleria Francesca Kaufmann in Milan. (“We don't represent anyone here,” says Haye. “We just present,” comes the Maccarone rejoinder.) Across the street, Williamsburg transplants Drew Heitzler and Flora Wiegman continue counting down their twenty-one artist-curated group shows in their apartment-gallery, Champion Fine Arts. (They're on number six, curated by Craig Kalpakjian.)

There's a full-scale barbecue in progress around the corner, where Elizabeth Dee (of New York) and David Quadrini (of Angstrom Gallery in Dallas) opened the Chelsea-size Q.E.D. in a former film-storage warehouse. In the front: An Erick Swenson white deer-thing trapped in a “melting” glacier. Though we can see the Texas money walking around the other art by Kevin Landers, Wayne Gonzalez, Josephine Meckseper and more, I'm told some of the tanned collectors are from Honolulu.

Left: Dorna Khazeni and Michel Houellebecq. Middle: Michele Maccarone and Christian Haye. Right: Bobbi Pinz.

The next day, I return to the Hammer for a rare appearance by the provocative French novelist Michel Houellebecq. On the day that the French people vote against the European constitution, he is submitting to an interview by the author Sam Lipsyte that focuses on Houellebecq's obsession with H. P. Lovecraft. It seems doubtful anyone else there has read the horror writer since high school, but people begin to line up more than hour before start time—and guess who is first in line? Dennis Cooper and Bruce Hainley! Let no one say there is no community to the L.A. art world.

But when the lights go down, I wonder what planet I’ve landed on. Out comes a corpulent baggypants telling simply awful off-color jokes and introducing three separate strippers from a local burlesque show called “The Velvet Hammer.” (This act, it should be said, was a last-minute addition by Dorna Khazeni, Houellebecq's obsequious publicist and translator, not the museum.) I don't think anyone in the audience was prepared for this, especially when the third stripper emerges from the wings and turns out to be, well, a midget, dressed as a cowgirl. Her name is Bobbi Pinz. Never have I felt the voyeur within sit up straighter than when Bobbi, a terrific dancer, twirls her six-guns and strips down to her pasties and g-string, revealing her toned, if compact, body.

At last I feel like a tourist. I can't imagine this performance taking place in a New York museum. (Well, maybe the Guggenheim.) The whole event is disturbing. “We hope to entertain and edify,” Khazeni tells me later. Can such exploitation be a good thing? In an art context, one tends to accept everything. A week later, I'm still wondering.

Linda Yablonsky

Inflated Hopes


Left: A view of the National Museum's temporary structure. Right: The crowd at the entrance, with Carlota Alvarez and Uta Meta Bauer in foreground with sunglasses.

After a long day traveling the outskirts of Oslo to visit various art institutions—the Vestfossen Kunstlaboratorium, the Preus Museum and Gallery F15 in Horten, and Momenum in Moss—I arrived back in the city Friday just in time to join what seemed like all of Oslo’s culturati at the crowded opening of “Kiss the Frog! The Art of Transformation,” the inaugural exhibition at the newly combined national museums of art, architecture, and design (now called, simply, the National Museum). The show features an international mix of art-world heavyweights (Jorge Pardo, Pipolotti Rist, and Kara Walker) and homegrown talent (Tone Hansen, Vanessa Baird, and designers Norway Says). Combining the museums was the idea of Sune Nordgren, who is now partly through the long process of developing a new home for the institution he directs. Despite having selected a site—a parking lot adjacent to one of the current buildings—no architect has been named, which is why Friday’s celebration was taking place in a giant Kelly green structure that serves as the museum’s temporary home.

As is to be expected when working within the strictures of governmental oversight, even getting to this point has been a long and difficult journey. Many people are looking to the National Museum’s consolidation process as a weathervane for the arts elsewhere in Norway, and several were eager to explain that a number of architecture firms had proposed plans in limited-entry competitions and that the government had spent a lot of money on these proposals before ultimately deeming each unsuitable. The tone of this discussion varied: Those closer to the institution’s machinations offered a weary, “What can you do?”-style politesse, while others (further down the line snaking around the block from the museum entrance) were a bit more blunt. “The government has no fucking balls,” offered one artist-collector later described to me as an “eccentric” who would nonetheless “likely be seated near the queen at dinner.”

Left: Inside the temporary structure. Middle: Preus Museum director Jonas Ekeberg. Right: The tunnel connecting the new temporary structure to the old museum building.

But the apparent radicality of the temporary structure’s design, and the willingness to award the commission to the young architecture firm MMW, offers hope that the government will have the courage to make a bold choice for the final building. Tethered to the ground like a zeppelin and affixed to the adjacent building via an enclosed walkway (like one of Michael Rakowitz’s paraSITE structures), the temporary museum is paired with a one-room pavilion—seemingly based on Future Systems’s design for the media center at Lord’s cricket grounds in London—elevated on a forest of white columns. I say “apparent” radicality because unfortunately I was never able to see if its unique design requires a creative rethinking of display strategies—the same hope often voiced for the Guggenheim Bilbao eight years ago. Prior to allowing anyone to see the exhibition on Friday evening, museum staff herded guests into the new structure’s courtyard to hear a series of welcome speeches; hungry and exasperated by the wait, I wandered off to dinner and returned two minutes too late to see the galleries, which closed three hours before the end of the party. I returned the next day, as a second invitation indicated that Her Majesty Queen Sonja would open the exhibition at five o’clock, but was thwarted again: When I arrived at 5:30 everyone was still lined up behind velvet ropes waiting for the Queen to arrive. Let’s hope Norway’s government acts with a little more alacrity when it comes to building a permanent home for the National Museum.

Brian Sholis

The L.A.-Word

Los Angeles

Left: Still from Francesco Vezzoli's Gore Vidal's Caligula. (Photo: Matthias Vriens) Right: Stephen Gyllenhaal and Lisa Cholodenko.

Ever since the obscene $254 million that The Gates brought New York made art tourism the new pornography, I've felt a little funny about traveling to other cities just to visit exhibitions. Of course, I wasn't jumping on a private jet to preview the Venice Biennale or to shop early at Art Basel. I was going to LA to attend the first National Critics Conference. So what if the lead-off speaker was a TV Hall of Famer (All in the Family producer Norman Lear)? The USC/Annenberg School for Communication sponsored the event. Surely I would be safe in the arms of academe.

Can you hear me laughing?

Actually, my week on the LA art scene was by turns surprising, stimulating, and sickening—in other words, totally fab. First, at the Broad Art Foundation in Santa Monica, I discovered where contemporary art is hiding. (The collection is 1,100 pieces strong.) The Warhols alone could put any museum to shame, but by the time I had plowed through the largest collection of Cindy Shermans in captivity, more Ruschas and Lichtensteins than I could count on two hands, and the world's most voluminous installation of Leon Golubs, I no longer cared about art. I needed air.

Staggering out to my rented Pop-mobile, a purple Kia, I drove off to join Francesco Vezzoli for dinner at Lucques, a posh, friendly place in West Hollywood with a pitilessly challenging menu: Grilled poussin with fava bean purée and suckling pig with saffron farro-lentil pilaf—stuff I'd never try at home. Thus sustained for the short night ahead, we repaired to the apartment building where he was staying—a bizarre cross between a Chinese temple and a Swiss chalet—for a Powerbook preview of Gore Vidal's Caligula, the video that Prada-backed Vezzoli will introduce in Venice.

Yes, Karen Black, Helen Mirren, and Courtney Love all appear in this thoroughly professional, ninety-second movie trailer for a nonexistent film. Still, the Milanese diva-worshipper has used it to bring his appropriation-esque art closer to institutional critique, of all things, drawing out the heart of art tourism as a theme-park amusement worthy of its own sex-sells-style advertisement. I laughed out loud several times—and felt nicely set up for the filmic bent of the Lisa Yuskavage/Lisa Cholodenko conversation at the Hammer the following night. Though the Hammer is part of UCLA, this event did not appear to attract any students. Instead, the audience included Rob Storr and, if looks mean anything, the real-life counterparts of characters on The L-Word (Anne Philbin, et al.), episodes of which Cholodenko (High Art and Laurel Canyon) has directed.

Left: Norman Lear. Middle: Eli Broad. Right: Robert Storr.

Against a backdrop of Nan Goldin photos, and scenes from Cholodenko's films and Fassbinder's The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, Yuskavage kicked off the program with a nod toward seduction in art, a goal that would be repudiated on the same stage only days later by the writer Michel Houellebecq. (More on that to come.) Noting that no sex in her movies was ever consummated, Cholodenko held the audience in thrall—mystifying, as Yuskavage was far more interesting (her father drove a truck for Mrs. Smith's pies) and articulate. “If you really believe in art,” Yuskavage said, “you don't seek a moral. I think artists should just fuck all and do everything.” (In art, she added. Not life.) At the dinner afterward, filmmaker Stephen Gyllenhaal (Maggie and Jake's dad) confessed that until Cholodenko showed some of Yuskavage's images, he didn't know who the artist was or why she was there. After that, he said, he loved her.

In this context, moral rigor could have suffered greatly. Instead, it triumphed in Norman Lear's Thursday morning address to the art, music, and theater critics gathered downtown at the Omni Hotel near Thom Mayne's new CalTrans building, the most astonishing piece of architecture I have seen since the opening of the Guggenheim Bilbao. An outspoken free expressionist, Lear exhorted us (artists and critics) to “speak truth to power,” a phrase that quickly took on “May be the force be with you” overtones among the crowd from New York. The following day, Eli Broad himself showed up for lunch. In a speech that baldly equated art and money, he shamelessly exploited the financial success of The Gates to promote “Arts + Culture LA,” his latest attempt to grow the downtown LA economy by marketing art as entertainment, rather than “an elitist pursuit.”

The very idea sent the higher-minded New York critics into paroxysms of outrage. “Inappropriate!” they shouted. The speech, said one, was like that of an actuarial intent on reducing art to numbers. But before any of the critics could speak any other truth to the power that is Broad, the most influential billionaire in LA, he was gone and they were flummoxed—an unusual sight indeed. As Lear put it, “It should be no secret that our country is awash in bullshit.” Oooh baby, I thought. May the force be with us.

(To be continued. . .)

Linda Yablonsky