Elimination Round

New York

Left: “Into Me / Out of Me” artist Jen DeNike. Right: MoMA curators Klaus Biesenbach and Roxana Marcoci with MoMA director Glenn Lowry. (Photos: Keith Smith)

In a celebratory mood—or, more simply, relieved—following England’s victory over Ecuador in Sunday morning’s World Cup eliminator, I headed to Williamsburg café Marlow & Sons before decamping for P.S. 1 Contemporary Art Center, where Klaus Biesenbach’s latest curatorial gambit, “Into Me / Out of Me,” an extended meditation on the theme of “the imagined, descriptive, and performative act of the passing into, through, and out of the human body,” was opening alongside this summer’s round of smaller exhibitions. Though I was looking forward to seeing what was happening at MoMA’s outpost, the Brooklyn rendezvous proved difficult to escape. Not only were we perfectly placed to observe the rough ‘n’ tumble Portugal-Netherlands match, sitting under the screen with a plate of oysters was model Sasha Pivovarova, apparently sketching our upturned faces. And shortly after half time, in walked a deputation from nearby Roebling Hall, including artists Guy Richards Smit (new baby in tow) and Kysa Johnson.

Taking Portugal’s eventual triumph as our cue, we jumped in a cab and arrived in Long Island City at what looked to be the height of the festivities. OBRA’s architectural installation BEATFUSE!—this year’s Young Architects Program competition-winning design—arched over the courtyard but went largely unused as most visitors clustered around the entrance or lounged on the front steps. Biesenbach was the first familiar face I saw and he was gratified that his ambitious plan—possibly the most “museumlike” show that the institution has hosted to date, spanning forty years and featuring work by more than 130 artists—had come together (“I’m very happy we got all those loans”). But he was also visibly tired, and handed me a pair of beer tickets while steering me towards the bar. The skies looked increasingly threatening, so I ducked inside.

Left: P.S. 1 director Alanna Heiss with Joanna Steichen. (Photo: Keith Smith) Right: “Into Me / Out of Me” artist Wim Delvoye. (Photo: Michael Wilson)

Entering the closest “Into Me” gallery, I bumped into writer Paul Laster chatting with artist Wim Delvoye. Delvoye—in good voice, particularly on the subject of sculptors outsourcing their casting work to China—was represented in the show by a sculpture of a circle of life-size male figures, one of which seemed to be suffering from an instability that required a gallery attendant to clutch its thigh in a gesture of disarming tenderness. Also spotted doing the rounds were collector-philanthropists Raymond Learsy and Melva Bucksbaum, gallerist John Connelly, artist Jen DeNike (in spectacular shades), and P. S 1’s Tony Guerrero (smoking a fat cigar). The show itself is a suitably gutsy affair, with enough uncomfortably visceral moments to send all but the most hardened viewers away feeling distinctly queasy. Recalling David Beckham’s earlier, heat-exhausted heaves, I particularly enjoyed the vomitorium containing variations on an expulsive theme, from Mike Parr’s The Emetics (Primary Vomit) I am Sick of Art (Red, Yellow and Blue), 1977, to Martin Creed’s Work No. 548, 2006.

At around 7 PM, furiously reassuring each other that these works weren’t foretastes of the dining experience to come, my companion and I made our way around the corner to the no-frills Court Square Diner. We arrived to find the place already nearly full, and were beckoned simultaneously by DeNike at one end of the restaurant, artist Ellen Altfest at the other, and gallerist Janice Guy and James Cohan Gallery director Elyse Goldberg in the center. We went with the flow and joined the latter pair, already sharing a large spanakopita. Others, including artist Andrea Fraser, tried to squeeze in, but the booth was built for four. Fraser’s presence did serve to get us talking about the show again, however. “Did you see the work in the basement?” asked Goldberg. I realized, to my disappointment, that I’d missed it. “It’s all fucking,” she assured me, “just hardcore fucking.” I promised to go back, and also, I seem to remember, to get a tattoo and to start eating meat again. A visceral experience.

Michael Wilson

Left: Artist Su-Mei Tse. (Photo: Michael Wilson) Right: Artists Kalup Linzy and Shaun Leonardo. (Photo: Keith Smith)

Risqué Business


Left: Pompidou curator Christine Macel with Emmanuel Perrotin. Right: Artist Paola Pivi.

Excitement and excessive eroticism are generally what one expects from a Gelitin opening. But on Saturday night, competition in the Marais neighborhood of Paris was fierce, as the Gay Pride paraders flocked to the Bastille, just blocks from Emmanuel Perrotin Gallery. It was just like the good old days as half-naked celebrants chanted and waved placards reading “Trannies, dykes, pervs—we’re all wannabe sluts and proud of it!” and “Sodomy and fist fucking opens your mind.” When I related the latter slogan, Paola Pivi, who was exhibiting alongside the four-member Austrian collective, replied, “It has to be true!” The performance she orchestrated for the opening wasn’t quite as no-holds-barred, but certainly had its own risqué touch.

The almost-bare gallery and sumptuous adjoining garden were turned into a sort of petting zoo by a monochrome “living sculpture” that consisted of a herd of white animals. The public could walk among horses, fowl, goats, sheep, and albino guinea pigs that urinated and defecated freely on the gallery’s immaculate floor. When I asked why she chose colorless animals, Pivi admitted that she wasn’t sure yet, but suggested it might be a reference to the white race. I told her I was surprised she didn’t bring any polar bears, since she spends a good deal of time in Alaska. “The only one I found was stuffed,” she responded, “and I photographed it with the other animals, who got very nervous.”

Left: Gelitin's Florian Reither. Right: Paris celebrates Gay Pride.

Gelitin member Florian Reither and I discussed the incredible stunt Jean-Luc Godard had managed to pull off at the Centre Georges Pompidou with his non-exhibition. After having postponed his retrospective several times, Godard fired curator Dominique Païni and worked exclusively with the museum’s administrator. The director forced the institution to include a wall text explaining that the actual exhibition—scaffolding piled on the floor, blank plasma screens—was not the one he planned due to artistic, technical, and financial difficulties. Reither explained that the show is of particular interest because the huge collage painting included in the Perrotin exhibition was actually made up of pictures from a scatological performance intended for last year’s “Dionysiac” exhibition at the Pompidou, but staged in the gallery after administrative red tape made it impossible to enact at the museum. In order to better observe the piece’s details, guests were invited to sit on makeshift benches adorned with big whoopee cushions straight from the novelty shop. The prolonged farting noise was particularly embarrassing for classy ladies more accustomed to purely conversational hot air.

By the gallery’s entrance, Gelitin had erected a sculpture of an upside-down man bent double. Gallons of dark chocolate were streaming in a closed circuit from the figure’s anus to his mouth, by way of an enormous pair of testicles under which the public could dip fresh strawberries. “How delicious!” exclaimed the woman next to me.

Left: Designer Vanessa Bruno. Right: Artist Christophe Brunnquell with Yasmine Eslami.

As I headed towards the garden where Perrotin artist Jean-Michel Othoniel’s sculptures have pride of place, I ran into Catherine Grenier, yesterday’s favorite to become the new director at the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume. (It seems now that she will be passed in the final sprint by Fundación la Caixa’s Marta Gili.) I bumped into designer Vanessa Bruno, painter Jim Meyerson (who recently settled in Paris), critic Jeff Rian, choreographer Jennifer Lacey, fashion stylist Yasmine Eslami, and Christophe Brunnquell, who has just joined the gallery movie producer Claude Berri will soon open. Christine Macel from the Centre Pompidou was giving me the latest news concerning who’ll be the new head of the Musée d’art moderne de la Ville de Paris (it’s now between Christian Bernard or Bernard Blistène), but by this point all anyone wanted to do was to sprawl on the giant white sofa in the garden. Everyone seemed content to heed the statement Pivi had chosen for the title of her show: “No problem, have a nice day.”

Nicolas Trembley

Left: Paola Pivi's sheep. Right: Gelitin's Ali Janka.

Restraint Order

San Francisco

Left: Matthew Barney and chief fabricator Matt Ryle at The Stud Bar. Right: A guest chats with Björk. (Photos: Gene Hwang)

It was fitting that the opening of “Matthew Barney: Drawing Restraint” took place on the longest day of the year. The expansive show is yet another of Barney’s forays into broad themes and large space. It was also the hottest art event this town has seen in ages.

SF MoMA skews towards themed parties, but rather than “self-discipline,” the museum wisely used Drawing Restraint 9’s Japanese whaling ship to set the tone. The atrium was tricked out with a giant, zen garden-like arrangement of wood chips and twigs and resembled a giant crudité platter; servers circled with shot glasses of miso soup and plates of green-bean tempura. The vibe was surprisingly subdued, despite the star wattage. Barney, Björk, their daughter Isadora (carried in on dad’s shoulders), and a coterie of relatives—dad, stepmom, nephews—moved through the crowds calmly, and the artist graciously fended off the advances of forthright fans.

Rumors were rampant that Björk would perform at the opening, though from her casual demeanor walking through the galleries with friends, it seemed unlikely. She did, however, make a point to check out a short set by local soundmeisters Matmos, with whom she’s previously collaborated.

The exhibition itself scored well, as even the skeptics I polled admitted that the show, which had plenty of breathing room (most gallery walls were expensively removed), looked fabulous. The museum’s theater even received a Dolby sound-system upgrade to accommodate Drawing Restraint 9’s highly tweaked score. More than one person thought that it worked better than the artist’s 2003 Guggenheim extravaganza. Barney himself told me that it had turned out better than he expected—he was a bit concerned that the architecture wouldn’t be conducive to the making of Drawing Restraint 14, in which he scaled the building’s skylight portal to make a wall drawing, dressed as General MacArthur.

Left: Ed Gilbert, director of Gallery Paule Anglim, with SF MoMA trustee Helen Hilton Raiser. Right: Dealer Barbara Gladstone, middle, and Gladstone Gallery director Rosalie Benitez with friend. (Photos: Gene Hwang)

As the galleries filled and the music grew louder, more than a hundred guests retreated to the dinner at the neighboring St. Regis Hotel. All the major Barney supporters unseen at the reception were there. Barbara Gladstone sat at the table of honor, natch, along with SF MoMA director Neal Benezra and collector Dick Kramlich. At tables clustered nearby were Richard Flood, Shaun Caley Regen, the Walker’s Kathy Halbreich, curator Yuko Hasegawa (who originated the exhibition at the 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art, Kanazawa, Japan), and Benjamin Weil, who coordinated the San Francisco presentation before taking on the directorship of Artists’ Space in New York.

After typically long-winded remarks from Benezra, Barney gave thanks, especially to Hasegawa and artist Michael Rees, whom he described as an “important influence” before announcing that everyone was invited to an after-party at The Stud, one of the city’s iconic gay night spots. It was an interesting choice, being that Barney’s early, anally fixated works generated a sizable queer fan base, and this, it so happened, was the eve of gay-pride weekend.

Word of the party had spread quickly, and by the time I arrived at the bar, the line stretched half a block. Barney and Björk were in the DJ booth, with throngs of fans clogging the stage to stargaze while Matt Ryle, the artist’s chief fabricator and a major metalhead, loudly indulged his musical taste behind the turntable. The place was as steamy as the exhibition was cool.

Left: 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art curator Yuko Hasegawa (in cage) with Artists' Space director Benjamin Weil. (Photo: Glen Helfand) Right: Collector Rich Silverstein with SF MoMA trustee Carla Emil and collector Byron Meyer. (Photo: Gene Hwang)

Ultimately, the culture clash was less along gay-straight lines (the bar doesn’t have a regular Wednesday crowd), than between art types and young hipsters. I learned later that I’d missed the comical quick entrance and retreat of Benezra and stately trustee Elaine McKeon. Media-arts curators fared better—Weil and curatorial associate Tanya Zimbardo settled in with beer, while Hasegawa got a view of the sound booth from perhaps the most Barneyesque confined space: the disused jail cell-cum-go-go cage.

Surreal Life


Left: Tajan auctioneer Wilfrid Cazo. Right: Galerie 1900-2000's Marcel Fleiss and David Fleiss and auctioneer Wilfrid Cazo.

The “Hommage à Julien Levy Part 2” sale at Tajan on June 8 was laid-back yet stately, a schvitzy, slacker minuet. Levy (1906–81) is most famous as the dealer who brought the Surrealists to New York in the ’30s and ’40s. He exhibited Salvador Dalí, Max Ernst, and Frida Kahlo, among others, many for the first time in the US, and “discovered” Joseph Cornell, who was working for him at the time. The transition between Surrealism and AbEx could be said to have occurred in his gallery at 15 East Fifty-Seventh Street.

Why was this material for sale in Paris? According to Marcel Fleiss, who, along with his son David, was the auction house’s hired expert and is the proprietor of Galerie 1900–2000, “The Levy estate gave the sale to Tajan on the stipulation that we be the experts, because we were the only ones who could identify much of the material. They tried Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Phillips in New York, but they just couldn’t do it.” The Fleiss team were also the experts for first part of the “Hommage” in October 2004, which raised €6,500,000 ($8,175,021) and evoked, as the Tajan press material puts it, “the atmosphere of a Wild West showdown.”

Stepping into Tajan’s quarters, located a few blocks behind the Madeleine in a former bank, is like returning to 1925. The two-story space has a big, etched-glass skylight and a double staircase with coiled bronze cobras at the base of each balustrade. All this period charm underscored the Jazz Age strengths of the Levy collection. The sale lasted four-and-a-half hours, with two short breaks during which everyone rushed out to the courtyard and nearby cafes to smoke cigarettes and talk on their cell phones. When I breezed in at about 4:30 PM, the mood in the room was torpid. About twenty people were sitting in the audience and a passel of eight or nine young women in little black dresses was working the phones. Fleiss pere et fils were seated up front to the left of the auctioneer, M. Wilfrid Cazo, who is youngish, bearded, and frisky. “Que dit-on?” he kept saying to a given price. The big event, as Marcel Fleiss told me, was the Pavel Tchelitchew drawing Untitled (Portrait of Joella), 1937, estimated at €1,800–2,000 ($2,273–$2,525) going for €44,000 ($55,557). “The Tchelitchews in the 2004 sale sold for nothing,” he said.

In the second part, devoted to catalogues, magazines, and gallery announcements, the room, already hot from the skylight and lack of air conditioning, began to percolate. But there’s a market for this kind of modernist ephemera—especially in Paris and at a low-key celebrity sale such as this. Back issues of View and The Little Review were a steal, some going for under €100 ($126). The invitations and catalogues also remain alluring, like brilliant Conceptual Art games. Standouts were Salvador Dalí’s invite card “I sleep in a sensational art nouveau bed from which flows an uninterrupted fountain of milk” of 1936, estimated at €500–600 ($631–758), which went for €1,300 ($1,641). Another Dalí invitation, for a “one-week-only” 1941 Levy gallery show in Hollywood, was estimated at €100–120 ($126–$158) but sold for €800 ($1,010). Appropriators and time-traveling artists, take heed: This stuff is great source material.

The third part, comprising drawings, began at 7 PM, and here the effect was of a slow summer movie gradually coming up to speed. The tall, elegant French decorator Jacques Grange sidled in, and proceeded to peel down to a baby blue polo shirt and slacks. Anonymous jacketed men came and sat next to him, and it was ambiguous whether they were also bidding for him. Grange eventually won a beautiful drawing on blue paper by Eugène Berman and a very expensive—for this sale, at least—1929–30 Max Ernst collage titled . . . Et Tout est Inhumain. He may also have gotten more, but it was all done with such supreme understatement and savoir-faire that it was rather hard to tell.

The pack of young people on phones swelled to fourteen or so, and international interest—especially English-speaking—rose to a dull roar. Salvador Dalí’s drawing Sperme, 1939, depicting shooting cocks and luscious labia, and a small, fluorescent Matta painting (shown at Levy’s gallery under black light—how cool!), both far surpassed their estimates. Cazo introduced with “beaucoup d’interet” a classically aerated 1944 Gorky drawing. Estimated at €30,000–40,000 ($37,900–$50,534), it leapt from €50,000 to €100,000 in one and ended up at a whopping €180,000 ($227,390).

Plenty of attention was also paid to to lesser known female Dadaists and Surrealists such Mina Loy and Léonora Carrington. Work by Loy, a poet and painter married to the Dadaist writer and boxer Arthur Craven (and Levy’s mother-in-law), is particularly sought-after these days, and a small drawing sold for over six times its high estimate. I was drawn to strange figurative drawings by Muriel Streeter, who not many people seem to have heard of—not even the Fleisses. Only Marie Difilippantonio, the curator of the Levy archive from Newtown, Connecticut, could explain: “She was Levy’s second wife and very beautiful. After she divorced Levy, she had a full artistic career, painting cacti in Arizona.”

All in all, the sale was a French reinflection of American material and revealed a great deal about one of the most essential chapters in American art history, which in this period was becoming the dominant narrative of Western art history. Levy’s role in this was central, and the fact that such incunabula is now being dispersed in Europe suggests that the tables have turned yet again.

Taking a Stand


Left: Dealer Tim Blum with artist Takashi Murakami. Right: Curator Daniel Birnbaum. (Photos: Sarah Thornton)

In the immortal words of John Baldessari, you don’t go to an art fair, you survive one. On Tuesday, just before the VIP opening of Art Basel, I stood with collectors—some worth billions, others just millions—all anxiously clutching their gray, credit card-size passes. When the clock struck eleven and the crowd started to move, avid collector David Teiger half-joked, “Sarah, you’re not shoving enough!”

By 11:30 AM, the upper floor was mobbed and the Rubells were already locked in a family huddle on the atrium stairs. Despite the cliché that an art fair is no place for an artist, the few I encountered seemed to be managing better than most. British artist-filmmaker Isaac Julien, who was taking a gentle stroll with Professor Colin MacCabe, was unflappable: “Basel is serene compared to the Cannes Film Festival.”

Later that day, LA artist Christopher Williams told me, “The fair reveals the arbitrariness of artistic success. The prices are confounding. Man Ray's work is cheaper than mine." Non-exhibiting London dealer Cornelia Grassi also put the morning into quick historical perspective: “If everyone else is shopping, I’m not into shopping. I’m a recession girl.”

Left: Kaspar König with Francesco Bonami. Right: Christie's International Co-Head of Post-War and Contemporary Art Amy Cappellazzo with Carnegie curator of contemporary art Douglas Fogle. (Photos: Sarah Thornton)


Of course, high prices mean protracted negotiations. Many sellers were venting their frustrations about potential buyers, but only intrepid London dealer Sadie Coles would go on the record: “With some collectors, you can see their entire relationship with their mother in a single negotiation.” Many collectors expressed anxiety about dealer rejection. Others effused love. I observed one satisfied customer, Michael Ovitz as it happens, patting a dealer on the back as he intoned, “Your life is like a Richard Prince nurse painting.”

By afternoon, everyone was completely gaga. The professional pressure, the relentless social interaction, and the jetlag-fuelled, alcoholic insomnia had taken its toll. As one curator sighed, “I’m on a twelve-day trustee tour. I need a rest home.”

That evening, I headed to a dinner at a Thai restaurant with an outdoor terrace overlooking the Rhine and found myself seated with curators Francesco Bonami, Daniel Birnbaum, Massimiliano Gioni, artist Tom Burr, and Artforum senior editor Scott Rothkopf. While the curators complained about the rigors of appreciating art at a fair, Bonami turned to me and quipped, “I trust my eye. It is so good that I don’t need to look at the art.” Bonami was on a roll, entertaining the troops in staccato English. The evening ended with Birnbaum paying homage to Arcimboldo paintings by adorning himself with cast-offs from the communal fruit plate.

Left: Donovan Gilliard with artist Kehinde Wiley. (Photo: William Pym) Right: Gallery Daniel Buchholz codirector Christopher Müller with artist Christopher Williams. (Photo: Sarah Thornton)


I had set aside Thursday morning to conduct a little experiment—an inspection of the stands of the six dealers who sit on the all-powerful Art Basel Committee—the one that decides who is invited to and who is blackballed from this lucrative event. Other dealers grumble about the power and privileges of the holy half dozen, but don’t dare speak up for fear of retribution. Of the six jurors, there was one elegantly-hung stand—that of Belgian gallerist Xavier Hufkens. He had quality secondary-market property and remarkably unembarrassing emergent work—no mean feat on the floor where modern masters rule. By contrast, London’s Annely Juda Fine Art looked a tad Portobello Market, over-hung with smalls and with a 1971 Anthony Caro parked out front. Annely Juda participated in the very first Basel art fair (back in 1970) with a Christo solo show. That’s nice history, but some will surely question the gallery’s continued position between all-powerful Gagosian and all-credible Marian Goodman.

On two of the four remaining stands, I was amused to discover flagrant violation of fair rules. Mai 36 Galerie from Zurich had two abandoned paintings in open boxes leaning against the wall, while Galerie Verna (also from Zurich) let a couple of extra works by Richard Tuttle languish on the floor. Art Basel clearly stipulates that works must be properly installed so, unless it’s a McCracken plank, no leaning is allowed. On Stockholm's Nordenhake stand, a pillar obstructed a full view of a large Spencer Finch painting on paper. If there isn't a rule against such aesthetic offenses, there should be. While at the booth of Berlin's Esther Schipper, in one of the most coveted locations of the fair, works subtracted from each other ruthlessly as a Carsten Höller wall installation, a Ceal Floyer sound sculpture, and a Matti Braun video were forced to fight it out in the same small front space.

As I was leaving the fair, I heard that Larry Gagosian had finally arrived. He touched down from New York in his G5, spent three hours tallying on the stand, and then flew off to London. (Is it me or is he more and more like Howard Hughes?)

Left: Professor Colin MacCabe and artist Isaac Julien. (Photo: Sarah Thornton) Right: Dealer Javier Peres. (Photo: William Pym)

“No one loves a free meal more than the rich,” said a stubborn man who wouldn’t let me use his name. After a swanky dinner at the legendary Donati restaurant, the younger half of our table headed over to the bar at the Kunsthalle, where one finds a lot of B+ dealers—or a lot of everyone come to think of it—looking to get laid. Some had just returned from the dinner and “stadium premiere” of Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno’s film, Zidane: A Portrait of the 21st Century.

Even though the fair wasn’t yet over, some friends decided to bestow the “Martin Kippenberger Award” for the worst-behaved dealer of Art Basel 2006 to Philippe Segalot. (Last word on that story is that Segalot gave Perrotin $300,000 as compensation for getting him kicked out of the fair last year.) Past winners of the Kippie include Patrick Painter, Per Skarstedt, and Tim Blum. These guys won for completely different, equally heroic reasons: asleep on the stand, superhumanly shit-faced, insane dance-floor pogoing that resulted in a broken foot. The Kippie criteria are officially erratic and unclear. Nepotism may be a factor, but the furtive awards committee—like everyone else—looks forward to reconvening at the Frieze Art Fair in October.

Shopping List


Left: LISTE director Peter Bläuer. Right: Swiss Award winners curator Daniel Bauman and artist Maï-Thu Perret.

A few blocks away from Art Basel, which had just opened its Art Unlimited and Art Statements sections to the sound of pounding techno, LISTE's preview party kicked off at 5 PM Monday in a rock ’n’ roll style that was more beer-and-wiener than champagne-and-petits-fours. This “alternative” fair now seems out of touch with the expectations of new collectors who associate contemporary art with high-end design, fashion, and the international jet set, prompting most visitors to comment on how very “underground” the event. “Frankly, I wouldn’t know what to choose. At least at Art Basel everything is up on white walls.” No one even thought to ask which artist was behind the live broadcast of World Cup games that drew a large audience of non-art-world locals—or how much it was selling for. Looking a little lost, some young investors from Paris asked me repeatedly whether works were trendy or passé. Maybe they would have been better off heading back to the regular fair, as comforting in its way as the Parisian concept store Colette, where even the most avant-garde creations are assimilated into its “lifestyle” selection.

There is neither air-conditioning nor black VIP passes in the old Wartek brewery that houses LISTE, and the galleries and the works they’re showing are somewhat of a change of pace from the sanitized, private-jet-and-corporate-fair world of contemporary art. Easygoing fair director Peter Bläuer told me how delighted he was to host more galleries this year thanks to the “LISTE Annex,” a tent set up next to the main building. I agreed with Marc and Josée Gensollen, highbrow psychoanalyst collectors from Marseille: The annex, which gave galleries like New York’s Foxy Production and London’s Sutton Lane a chance to exhibit in Basel for the first time, is a pleasant space.

Left: Collectors Marc and Josée Gensollen. Right: Miuccia Prada.

From the basement to the attic, walking through LISTE is like making one’s way through a fascinating maze, and finding New York’s Daniel Reich, Warsaw’s Raster, and Athens’ The Breeder giving off a relaxed vibe along the way. Big-ticket sales occur less frequently here than at the main fair, but everyone manages to sell everything just the same. One example is Aloïs Godinat, a new Swiss star in the making. Fresh out of the Ecole cantonale d’art de Lausanne, Godinat won the Prix de l’assurance National, whose jury includes Adam Szymczyk (of Kunsthalle Basel) among others. Godinat isn’t even represented by a gallery, but in the National booth red dots were found next to each of his works.

I couldn’t see everything, though, as I had to run to the Swiss Awards ceremony. Every year, the federal cultural office bestows prizes to under-forty artists, critics, curators, and architects who are citizens or residents of Switzerland. In the hall across the street from Art Basel, a plethora of pre-selected artists presented works to be evaluated by a jury presided by Parkett founder Jacqueline Burkhardt. Seizing an opportunity to associate themselves with young artists, many private companies sponsored the event. There was the Kiefer Hablitzel award, the Prix mobilière Young Art award (which went to Isabelle Krieg), the Rotary Club award, and this year’s newcomer, the Georg et Josi Guggenheim award (to Philippe Decrauzat, who didn’t show up to accept it). Given the somewhat limited selection, some winners received several awards, like artist Maï-Thu Perret and curator Daniel Baumann, and the thirty-award ceremony, presented in Italian, French, and German, Switzerland’s three official languages, dragged on. As in years past, everyone was decidedly tipsy by the end, and the final recipients received only distracted applause.

Left: Artist Aloïs Godinat. Right: The Breeder gallery.

The truth is that a large part of the audience had already absconded to a nearby side street, where one could drink some local white wine. Only the stalwart brass band was still in place, sounding the trumpet every time a winner climbed up on stage to pick up their certificate. The Oscars it ain’t, but the cash prizes usually amount to at least 20,000 Swiss Francs ($16,295). This year, Marc Bauer, Thomas Galler, San Keller, Marküs Muller, Yves Netzhammer, Didier Rittener, and Elodie Pong presented strong pieces. The market reacts so quickly that some winning artists were already represented by galleries within the official art fair, like Vidya Gastaldon—a “statement” presented by Paris’ Art:Concept. Ironically, some established Swiss stars like Fischli & Weiss didn’t win. “And I even bought Jacqueline Burkhardt several beers,” confided David Weiss with a laugh.

That evening, I met Sylvie Fleury, Guillaume Sultana (of Baumet Sultana, which has a magnificent selection of Walter Pfeiffer pictures at the moment), and Nicolas Hug from design purveyor La galerie Scandinave, with whom I ended up deciding not to go to the Design Miami fair. We just couldn’t see the point in visiting seventeen known-quantity galleries to stare at €250,000 ($315,664) Prouvé tables, and chose instead to have a drink at the opening of “Improbable Classics #1,” a temporary Prada boutique designed by hometown heroes Herzog and De Meuron. Its concept is to sell special products from old collections that were never put on the market—or something like that, it wasn’t fully clear—that nevertheless exemplify “the very essence of Prada,” as Ezra Petronio put it. Petronio is the director of the Work in Progress agency and was in charge of creating packaging for this occasion along with a series of BASEL 2006 T-shirts. I loved my ten minutes of extreme shopping, during which I looked frantically for the register while listening to an energetic White Stripes/Snoop Dogg remix by Frédéric Sanchez. It was so loud that the police, no doubt alerted by neighbors, came to shut down the event much earlier than originally planned.

Left: Dealer Guillaume Sultana. Right: Swiss Award winner artist Vidya Gastaldon.

So I popped in to the traditional tavern across the street for a quick meal with Suzanne Koller, creative director of the fashion glossy Self Service, before visiting the temporary Comme des Garçons guerilla store situated near the restrooms at the Gare du Nord. But Basel’s relationship to fashion is still problematic, it seems, and a sign announced that the police (always the police!) had closed it for security reasons, bringing our evening to a premature close.

Flower Power


Left: Art Basel director Sam Keller with artist Andreas Gursky. Right: MoMA trustee David Teiger with artist Ernesto Neto. (Photos: Sarah Thornton)

I don’t know if you’re superstitious when it comes to art junkets, but if the first art-worlder I spot is a creep, I take it as a bad omen. The sight of Ann Temkin, fielding a couple last-minute cell calls as she inched her way along the clogged line to the American Airlines check-in desk, was, by this admittedly unscientific criterion, a decided relief. The MoMA curator confessed to being a bit grumpy for all sorts of good reasons, the least of which were a grueling travel schedule and a twenty-five-year Harvard reunion from which she was just returning. Her mood must have accounted for the contrarian edge with which she greeted the perfectly amiable airport banter of Amy Cappellazzo, Christie’s International Co-Head of Post-War and Contemporary Art, as we converged at the gate. I enjoyed this early Heathers moment, as Capellazzo discreetly steeled herself for a week of cafeteria Darwinism—then exacted swift revenge as she boarded ahead of us with the front-of-the-plane passengers.

Speaking of cafeteria Darwinism (or perhaps café Darwinism, given the fancy company), the fair’s most glittery dinner was, to everyone’s surprise, unseated. I mean, it looked seated—set tables, flowers, restrained guest list—but there were no place cards. The evening’s co-host, MoMA director Glenn Lowry bellowed “Dinner is served!” through the Schaulager’s cavernous halls—better than trumpets! Hopping to, I entered the dining hall too early with the always-affable Baroness Lambert at my side. She panicked first: “No cards?! I like to be taken care of and will sit next to anyone I’m told to—except David Zwirner.” Hmmm. Her sentiments were quickly seconded and thirded. Not about Zwirner, the maverick New York dealer whose artist Francis Alÿs was being fêted along with Tacita Dean, but rather about open seating. The only one who seemed to approve was Marc Glimcher of the Pace gallery dynasty, who confessed, with an endearingly self-deprecating shrug, that he would be sitting with his parents anyway.

Left: PaceWildenstein's Arne Glimcher and Douglas Baxter. Right: Dealer David Zwirner. (Photos: William Pym)

A little background: In addition to the art fair of art fairs, Basel boasts a number of top-flight public art institutions and (if you include neighboring Zurich) a handful of top-flight galleries as well, all of which inevitably mount their strongest shows in anticipation of the international foot traffic. Schaulager, in its third year scarcely old enough to be numbered among them, is already giving the rest of the art planet a run for its money. Founded by another Basel institution, Maja Oeri—her Hoffman family and its collection has long sustained the Museum für Gegenwartskunst—the privately funded space, whose name translates to “storage locker,” has turned its Herzog and de Meuron-designed plant over to major retrospectives by the likes of Dieter Roth and Jeff Wall. This year a pair of focused shows devoted to the work Francis Alÿs and Tacita Dean add two points to a still-perfect score, and provide a fitting occasion for the fair’s toniest party.

Who was there? The proverbial everyone—though, strictly speaking, it’s a huge fair and this was not a huge dinner. In the way of dealers there were the heavy-hitting Swiss, of course; the aforementioned Zwirner (for Alÿs); Marian Goodman (for Dean); the Pace clan; everyone from a short stretch of Twenty-Fourth Street in Chelsea; and, oh yeah, at table one, the Acquavellas. Command central also boasted the rest of our co-hosts: Lowry was joined by MoMA board president Marie-Josée Kravis (who has lately filled the very big shoes of her predecessors with aplomb) and her husband Henry, Schaulager president Maja Oeri and her hasband Hans Bodenmann, and board member David Teiger, who scored a cake and candles at dessert for his birthday. And, of course, honored artist Dean—Alÿs, perhaps out for a walk, was nowhere to be seen.

At the fair: Dealer Victoria Miro (left) and dealer Jeffrey Deitch (right). (Photos: William Pym)

I scored David Weiss (of Fischli & Weiss) and super-collector and MoMA light Kathy Fuld as dinner partners. In Fuld’s case, the “super” before collector means great as opposed to just lots, and Weiss, an éminence grise of the Swiss art world, is a disarmingly original thinker and talker about art—not only his own but generally. Someone once said that if Tacita Dean didn’t exist Lynne Cooke would have had to invent her, a remark that is unfair to both the artist and the curator—and I cite only to admit that I may have fallen prey to whatever small kernel of truth is buried in the witticism. I have not given Dean’s work the attention it deserves, but after half an hour of Weiss’s suggestive commentary I vowed to use this Basel visit as an occasion to take the overdue plunge. Weiss, to give you the flavor, says things like: “It is very, very difficult to make art that has no irony.” Then he pauses and adds: “It may also be very stupid.” He was not, by then, speaking of Dean. As it happened, he was worrying, like an old-fashioned Greenbergian, about the perils of kitsch. Of course, F & W’s work is not old fashioned, and, indeed, for an artist for whom the tourist snapshot constitutes creative ground zero, his concern constitutes a refinement worth thinking about.

“Fun” is a favorite word in the F & W lexicon, and they use the term with post-Warholian promiscuousness—which implies, of course, that requisite irony. Fischli, speaking of fun, had just then returned to our table with Beatrix Ruf, of the Kunsthalle Basel, and Mendes Bürgi of the Museum für Gegenwartskunst. Conscious they had been gone for while, Fischli feigned a “just-had-a-joint” dopiness. Are we having fun yet?

At the fair: Dealer Lawrence Luhring (left) and artist John Armleder (right). (Photos: WIlliam Pym)

Everyone said their goodnights with many jokes about Americans and their early bedtimes, as the likes of Andreas Gursky, Klaus Biesenbach, Fischli, Weiss, Ruf, Bürgi and who knows who else headed for the Kunsthalle and a nightcap or a dozen. I doubled back to say a quick goodbye to Temkin (in a good mood now), and my thoughts turned to our inaugural airport run-in—and an opportunity for literary closure. Cappellazzo, sporting a country blush and (like both of us) in an ambivalent mood at take-off time, was bemoaning the blooms she would miss at her weekend place back home on account of the Basel tour. Despite the glamorous repast, great art, and good company, on day two her sentiment was ringing in my ears. She’s right: If your passion is peonies and your duty Art Basel, you’re basically screwed.

Make-Up Dealer


Right: Dealer Bill Acquavella with Lucien Freud's David and Eli, 2003-04. Right: Dealer Marian Goodman and artist Thomas Struth. (Except where noted, all pictures: Sarah Thornton)

It’s a joy to walk around an art fair before the feeding frenzy begins. With a day to go before the opening of Art Basel, the stands of confident Swiss dealers, like Bruno Bischofberger and Ernst Beyeler, were still stacked high with crates. Other established gallerists were fine-tuning their hang and tinkering with the lighting, while those who’d only recently gained access to this elite club were so completely prepared that they looked ready for Armageddon.

Every year collectors attempt to sneak in before the fair opens to obtain an early grab at the art. Art Basel maintains a zero-tolerance policy and forced French dealer Emmanuel Perrotin to sit out this year because he gave exhibitor’s passes in 2005 to supercollector Francois Pinault and private dealer Philippe Segalot. Rumor had it that this year Segalot had hired a Hollywood makeup artist then roamed the fair bald, without eyebrows, and with a scar on his cheek.

Fair director Sam Keller works hard. In the hour in which I shadowed him, he praised artists in French, cracked jokes in gesticulating Italian, and got into a cool debate with an irate gallery owner in German (she was upset that another dealer had been awarded a much-coveted front-row spot). I believe I even heard him say, “Shalom.”

The politics of booth placement can be arcane. Last year Gemini Editions somehow managed to bribe a technician to reverse the direction of the escalators so that collectors would ascend to their display rather than descend to it from the VIP room. Endeavoring to keep the peace, fair management decided that Gemini should switch positions annually with Cristea, a fellow editions dealer.

Left: Dealer Barbara Gladstone. Right: Dealer Jeff Poe.

Keller had a good chin-wag with artist Subodh Gupta. Apparently the entire Indian contemporary-art scene was descending on Basel in support of Gupta (the first resident of India to appear in Art Unlimited, courtesy of Geneva’s Art & Public) and Nature Morte from New Delhi, making its debut in Art Premiere.

As we wandered through the stands—sometimes whizzing, sometimes doing a painstaking work-by-work inspection—dealers congratulated Keller on his appointment as director of the Beyeler Foundation. “It was an offer I couldn’t refuse,” enthused Keller. “Ernst Beyeler has always been my mentor. It feels like home. I grew up kissing in that park.”

Amongst the fair’s biggest trophies by living artists, one could see Lucien Freud’s David and Eli, 2003–2004, on the Acquavella stand (asking $7.5 million); a 1981 Jasper Johns crosshatch skull painting on offer for $6.5 million at Richard Gray; Georg Baselitz’s “first upside-down painting,” made in 1969, going for $3 million with Aurel Scheibler; Jeff Koons’s St. Benedict, 2000, up for $2.2 million with Gagosian; Mark di Suvero’s giant Ulalu, 2001, which greets visitors at the fair entrance, offered by Paula Cooper for $1.8 million; and Takashi Murakami’s 727-727, 2006, priced north of a million on the Blum & Poe stand. The forty-four-year-old Japanese artist’s stock will no doubt rise when all hear that he has left Marianne Boesky to work with Larry Gagosian in New York.

I took leave of Keller and headed over to the Art Unlimited building, the biennial-style addition to the main fair where English artist Jonathan Monk told me, “Next week they’ll be flogging tractors in here. But who’ll sponsor their VIP bar?” James Rosenquist was in the room, affably chatting about his monumental painting, while Carsten Höller’s team polished his metal merry-go-round. LA artist Martin Kersels summed up the carnival ethos and pachyderm proportions when he looked tenderly at his Tumble Room sculpture and Pink Constellation video, both 2001, and said: “Buying my work is like acquiring a big pet, probably a pink elephant, because that’s what you see when you’re drunk.”

Left: Dealer Paul Gray. Right: Dealer Paula Cooper.

Just hours before opening to international VIP collectors, drills, hammers, and sanders could still be heard. It took a while to realize that I was listening to Ceal Floyer’s Construction, 2006—recordings meant to evoke the process of installation. As I chatted with Floyer, one of her three dealers entered the stand. She introduced him as “one-third of the Bermuda triangle . . . I mean, holy trinity.” Backstage in Basel, artist-dealer relations are a spectator sport.

One heartwarming aspect of the fair is that the placement of Art Statements, the solo showcase of young dealers (who pay less for their stands but face the fiercest competition to get one), is hugely improved by moving it into this hall. More importantly, with Martin Westwood representing the Approach, Mungo Thomson for John Connelly Presents, Terence Koh for Peres Projects, Gardar Eide Einarsson at Team Gallery, and Matthew Brannon for David Kordansky, this may very well be the most mature and innovative Art Statements ever. However, as the twenty-eight-year-old Kordansky quipped of a work over in the Unlimited section, “If I sold that piece and got a quarter of it, it would be the equivalent of two, maybe three good years. The word ‘unlimited’—what does that mean? A limitless flow of cash?”

On the Waterfront


Left: Biennale of Sydney director Charles Merewether. Right: Museum of Contemporary Art director Elizabeth Ann Macgregor. (All photos: Charles Green)

“I can’t relax yet, I’ve got at least eight more venues to open,” confessed a grim-looking Biennale of Sydney director Charles Merewether at a chilly Wednesday-morning press preview as installers and electricians raced across the cavernous spaces of Pier 2/3. Set at one of the few nineteenth-century harborside warehouses not converted into condominiums, this has always been a spectacular but problematic setting for art. Here and slightly anxious artists crouched by their suddenly miniature works. A wound-up Merewether marched off to oversee the last touches: no labels or captions to identify the art as yet, though the postcolonial and global themes of the biennale—“Zones of Contact”—were obvious. I spotted Scottish art critic Peter Hill, and together we boarded the shuttle bus moving media representatives between venue launches, for this biennale is spread far across the city.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art, director Elizabeth Ann Macgregor apologized, “I’m really sorry about the weather.” Sydney, normally sunny and subtropical, was suddenly freezing. Wall labels and didactic texts were complete here; one Melbourne curator noted the absence of artists’ nationalities on these, which gave viewing a quiz-show spin. The exhibition aims “to change the way we see the landscape of contemporary art,” Merewether asserted in his second speech of the day, with concentrations of artists from Central Asia, the Balkans, and the Middle East. I found artist Imants Tillers (about to have a huge retrospective at the National Gallery of Australia) next to his enormous new painting, Terra Negata, which is composed of his usual grid of small canvas boards and a spider’s web of visual quotations—from a Gabriel Orozco painted skull to appropriations of Australian Western Desert artists’ cursive designs. According to the usually laconic Tillers, this was the “unpromised land,” and we turned around to face Dutch artist Lidwien van de Ven and her austere photographs of Palestine, the promised land. Director Merewether still looked grim, perhaps anticipating more speeches and openings; “it isn’t finished yet,” he reminded me.

Left: National Gallery of Victoria curators Jason Smith and Kelly Gellatly. Right: Artist Rebecca Belmore.

The buzz by then, though, was almost universally positive. Everyone was relieved the show looked at least interesting and at best very smart, especially after the anemic, universally disliked biennale curated by Isabel Carlos two years ago. Somewhere in the suddenly packed galleries were groups of jet-lagged visiting grandees, including 1990 Biennale of Sydney curator René Block and the next edition’s director, Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, but I couldn’t see them amid the crush of arriving interstate curators, including the National Gallery of Victoria’s Kelly Gellatly and Jason Smith. Queensland Art Gallery’s Julie Ewington was talking secretively to someone, possibly about of the opening in November of the next Asia-Pacific Triennial in a brand-new museum on the Brisbane River. By now conservators were everywhere underfoot with flashlights and wipes, checking final condition reports and looking for dust. MacGregor’s trademark Scottish tartan shoes were on, her usual focus lost briefly as Merewether gave his next speech; her vacant moment was captured by a young art-world dude with a video-equipped mobile phone. Rhana Devenport, the biennale’s public programs manager and just-appointed next director of the Govett-Brewster Museum (New Zealand’s only serious contemporary art institution), smiled so hard it looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

Another bus, this time to the Art Gallery of New South Wales, which has a love-hate relationship with the biennale. Well, mainly hate, for Sydney audiences remember rumors that the AGNSW massively truncated Block’s biennale. But AGNSW (called “Agnes” locally) had beautifully installed its capacious lower levels. During Merewether’s third speech of the morning, AGNSW curatorial head Tony Bond grinned broadly; I’d heard that his support for expatriate former Getty curator Merewether was crucial two years ago during the process of selecting a director. Paula Latos-Valier, who has managed almost all of Sydney’s biennales since their inception, looked anxiously at her much-used mobile phone. This is her last biennale. I couldn’t find anyone prepared to tell me her replacement.

Left: Dealer Barry Keldoulis and assistant. Right: Biennale artist Imants Tillers.

Finally, the opening parties—MCA first—which are legendary for tightly policed RSVPs. Inside, dealers held court and everyone ignored Federal Minister for Communications Senator Helen Coonan’s speech. Sydney audiences are notoriously unruly; this lot had absolutely no interest in what anyone had to say (least of all a federal minister about to rewrite the media laws in favor of Rupert Murdoch), looking instead at what everyone was wearing. Who were the three underdressed young women in pink gauze and blinking party lights? The dealer Barry Keldoulis was in a benevolent mood. MCA director Macgregor was worrying about the future already, clearly preoccupied with the idea that scarce biennale funds would be siphoned off to pay for the vast upkeep of Pier 2/3. Everyone was drinking very fast. I headed west along the winding harbor-edge back to the supposedly strictly invitation-only artists' party but immediately spotted two young students who’d smiled their way inside. By now Merewether was starting to relax, as even he could see the show will be a success. People were beginning to act over-friendly, slurring their gossip. But without an official pink plastic wrist tag to enter the VIP enclosure and hear more, I chose to make my way into the night.

Window Seat

New York

Left: On right, Helen and Brice Marden. Right: Sarah Jessica Parker. (Photos: Kathe Burkhart)

MoMA’s Party in the Garden evokes one of my favorite retro fantasy scenes as depicted in Woody Allen’s Manhattan: A sophisticated New York evening where Diane Keaton discusses orgasms and Nazis with her fellow intelligentsia, surrounded by blue-chip sculpture. Bella Abzug is honored for being Bella Abzug. And there’s an open bar. Not a little smugly, I anticipated a classy evening on all fronts: The echt-New York, adult moment imprinted on my brain since I was a wee, suburban Woody Allen fan.

I brought my veteran artist pal to compare notes. As we approached MoMA, a tootsed-up lady was having a smoke near the door, showing a lot of leg. She was a harbinger. Inside, more tootsed-up, half-draped people milled about the museum lobby. The “black tie” dress code, this evening, seemed to have been interpreted as “hooker bar mitzvah.”

“I’ve never seen so much skin in a museum,” marveled moi in my push-up bra, slit skirt and Miu Miu platforms, “and not too toned either . . . ” as I admired the healthy body images of the affluent-looking crowd. “They don’t have to look good,” said my fellow downtowner.

Left: MoMA president Marie-Josée Kravis with husband Henry Kravis. Right: Architect Richard Meier. (Photos: Patrick McMullan)

The garden was never more alluring. I took in the glam white tents, carpeted poufs to cushion dressed-up derrieres, a dance floor where the art patrons boogied near modern icons by Matisse, Maillol, and Henry Moore, and wondered if there ever had been a bar mitzvah at MoMA? A Modern bar mitzvah with Frank Stella centerpieces, music by Philip Glass, Barbara Kruger invites, a Koons in chopped liver, the whole simcha documented by, say, Tina Barney. Fabulous. If done tastefully, of course.

With “Grammy-winning R & B musician John Legend” performing after-dinner, according to the press release, tonight’s benefit for MoMA raised $25,000 per Patron table of ten. Outside in the garden, we “After-Dinner Dance” people were on the B-list. Rather than the highbrow witfest in Manhattan, “It’s a meat market for the upwardly mobile,” observed my friend. We literally had our noses pressed up against the glass, where we could see the fancy people and art-world players (Jeff Koons, the Mardens, Alanna Heiss) ingesting Glorious Food beneath a giant video screen from which Mayor Bloomberg addressed them, like Chairman Mao. “A writer is an eternal outsider,” wrote John Gregory Dunne, “his nose pressed against whatever window on the other side of which he sees his material.” How true. The gal from New York was supposed to get quotes so she was screwed, but your diarist was under no such obligation, and savored how, through the window, Rodin’s giant statue of Balzac, the connoisseur of upgrading, was the perfect repoussoir, surveying the scene like an undead hawk. Luckily honoree Sarah Jessica Parker arrived late and we snuck in behind her and did a little mingling with the “insiders.”

Left: Jeff Koons and Justine Koons. Right: Actress and MoMA trustee Anna Deavere Smith. (Photos: Patrick McMullan)

Tonight’s honorees were Joan Tisch, patron of the arts, and Miss Parker, who was teensy with a long face and nice—just like on TV. An active supporter of “charitable and political causes,” Miss Parker admitted, however, she “can’t afford to collect art,” when queried by the gal from New York. We were quite surprised to learn this. She just buys a few things from someone’s artist mom in New Orleans.

We were given a list of big names who were eating, but alas, with no photos, I couldn’t tell a Gund or a Tisch from my tush. Jackson Pollock lookalike Ed Harris, who played the famous dripper in the biopic, was there. Kim Heirston demurred when we asked to take her picture: “Because I’m going to Europe tomorrow.” Huh? The Mardens were affable and photogenic as always. It was faaaabulous.

Hanna and Her Sisters

New York

Left: Artist Hanna Liden. Right: Williams College Art Museum curator Deborah Rothschild, artist Jacqueline Humphries, and Hannah Bloomenthal.

I meet Carol Greene, Hanna Liden, and Charline von Heyl at Hertz. We’re on our way to Williamstown, Massachusetts, for the opening of an exhibition of paintings by Jacqueline Humphries at the Williams College Art Museum. It starts pouring almost immediately, so it takes us two hours just to get out of the city. Someone remarks that the woods in the vicinity of the Cloisters are a haven for crackheads. “Does crack make you want to have sex?” Carol inquires. “No, it just drives you into a bottomless black pit and makes you want to kill yourself,” Hanna answers. Several hours later, and still a considerable distance from our destination, someone remarks that maybe we should have scored some crack for the road; the beers and pretzels we bought at a gas station just aren’t giving us much of a lift.

Jacqueline, her husband Tony Oursler, and their two-year-old son Jack are there to greet us when we finally reach the museum. Alas, we are too late to see her paintings; the Williams College trustees are coincidentally about to sit down to dinner in the gallery in which they’ve been installed. Charline cruises in without a word from the guards. I guess she looks classier than the rest of us. Jacqueline remains unperturbed; the paintings, she assures us, will look better in the morning light. Humphries’s dinner is being served at the house of exhibition curator Deborah Rothschild and her husband David. It’s still raining, but the prospect of foggy mountains and trees from the Rothschild house is spectacular. Charline and I take a short promenade through the graveyard that adjoins the property, striking campy poses among the obelisks and mausoleums. Dinner is perfectly pleasant, but Hanna and I steal off to our bedroom—like Jacqueline and Tony, we’re bunking at the Rothschilds’—for a divertissement. Evidently, we’re staying in their son’s bedroom, given the large amount of sports memorabilia and overall teenage-boy décor. Hanna and I rifle through the closet, trying on various athletic outfits. (Apologies to Rothschild fils; we put everything back as we found it, promise.) After this naughty time-out, we return to dinner, apparently unmissed.

Left: Artist Cecily Brown, designer Tara Subkoff, Hanna Liden, and Reena Spaulings' Emily Sundblad. Right: Artist Christopher Wool.

The following morning we say goodbye to our gracious hosts and convene at the museum. Jacqueline’s large abstractions, rendered in metallic paint on brazen metallic grounds, have been installed in a capacious octagonal gallery. “It looks really glamorous,” Charline remarks. We all agree that “glamorous” is a good word to describe paintings; “chic” maybe isn’t. I ask Jacqueline about the exhibition title, “Seven Sisters”: “I really hate titling shows, but I thought this was sort of funny. I was thinking of the Pleiades”—the seven daughters of the dispossessed Titan Atlas, condemned to carry the world on his shoulders—“but as Williams was an all-male school until the '70s, the allusion to the Seven Sisters women’s colleges seemed curiously apt.”

I also check out “Jackson Pollock at Williams College: A Tribute to Kirk Varnedoe.” The three paintings on display, especially Number 2, 1949, are major, but the wall text about the late MoMA curator, class of ’67, is risible. “Those of us who knew Kirk at Williams—who remember his cotton drinking suit printed with Budweiser labels—were naturally astonished to see him morph into an alpha intellectual and a sex symbol for the girls of Mensa,” writes Hal Crowther, class of ’66.

Left: Rivington Arms' Melissa Bent. Right: Curator Clarissa Dalrymple.

“Williamstown is so creepy,” Charline comments. I thought it was pretty. I preferred it to North Adams, some ten minutes away, where Mass MoCA is located. Carol insisted that we drop in, as one of her artists, Paul Chan, was showing there. Had I known that this was merely a group show (bearing a predictably dum-dee-dum curator-speak title, “Ahistoric Occasion: Artists Making History”), I might have demurred, but Carol’s driving. The real (bummer) surprise, however, is “Carsten Höller: Amusement Park.” In a darkened gallery the size of a football field, Höller has installed various old amusement park rides; lights blink on and off at tiresomely long intervals, and the Tilt-a-Whirl moves ever so slowly. “It’s a metaphor for . . . time,” Jacqueline says with a laugh. Supposedly, all the rides move in ultra-slow-mo, but I don’t notice, my tolerance for boredom having reached its limit. The real kicker, however, is at the rear of the gallery: a mirrored wall with a rectangular cutout giving a glimpse of the next room. I cringe. “That’s the signifier that he’s an intellectual,” Hanna adds contemptuously.

Back in Manhattan, Klara Liden (Hanna’s younger sister, an inevitable clarification) opens at Reena Spaulings. Inside the gallery, the avant-demimonde is in full force—Emily Sundblad, Rita Ackermann, Adam McEwen, Agathe Snow, Cecily Brown, Tara Subkoff, Nate Lowman, Clarissa Dalrymple, Meredith Danluck, etc. Given the crowd, it’s rather hard to see Klara’s three videos, slideshow projection, and site-specific construction. The latter is a sort of elevated bed, supported by police barricades that the artist “scavenged” from the streets, and then—and this strikes me as a feat of amazing prowess—carried back to the gallery on her bicycle. But the fuzz are always watching: During installation, three plain-clothes cops showed up at the gallery, where Hanna, lending a helping hand, was alone. “Closed for installation,” she said briskly, but then one cop flashed his badge. At this point, Hanna was feeling a tad panicky, but she gathered up all her forces of charm and Swedish diplomacy, and the authorities left after being assured that NYPD identification would be painted over in white. “It’s better this way anyway,” she tells me at the opening. “Less obviously, I guess, political?”

David Rimanelli

Geneva Convention


Left: Dealer Pierre Huber. Right: Artist Sylvie Fleury.

Attending exhibition previews at Le Magasin, Grenoble’s national center for contemporary art, one tends to run into lots of visitors from Geneva. They come as neighbors and have been well acquainted with the center since the '80s, when Swiss-born Adelina von Furstenberg was at its helm. The preview for “Video in the Pierre Huber Collection” or “Video in the Collection of Pierre Huber” (“We hesitated between the two options,” grinned Yves Aupetitallot, the current director) was no exception. Huber, the well-known art dealer and one of the leading personalities responsible for the renewal of Art Basel, is based in Geneva. In fact, I'd been planning to travel to Grenoble with another Genevan, Huber stalwart Sylvie Fleury, and I had been looking forward to racing through the valleys to Grenoble in the artist's black Porsche. I ended up settling for the high-speed train, but my consolation was the company of Franck Scurti, whose work will be featured next at the museum.

Last year the Musée des Beaux Arts in Lausanne (also directed by Aupetitallot) offered an impressive glimpse of Huber’s collection, with works dated 1980 to 2000. Huber, a self-taught connoisseur who started out as a sportsman, explained to Grenoble’s mayor while walking him through this exhibition that he had even participated in the 1968 Winter Olympics in Grenoble, which he claimed had helped him acquire a taste for competition. For a long time, he has been advised by the likes of Swiss artist John Armleder and curator and critic Bob Nickas, and he has built a collection comprising also over one hundred video installations, a few of which were the focus of this exhibition.

Left: Le Magasin director Yves Aupetitallot. Right: Artist Annika Larsson.

Huber wanted the show to have an educational character, an aim that was arguably reflected in the wide variety of screening formats included at Le Magasin, which range from the very large (Shirin Neshat) to the extremely small (Tony Oursler). Beautifully arranged in a maze of black rooms with wall-to-wall carpet, the videos are short enough that one can watch them all in one visit and together provide an overview of the genre, starting with an excellent historical piece by Nam June Paik. The work of Fleury, who finally arrived with artist Amy O’Neill (in an old BMW), stands out because the show marks the European premiere of her video Strange Fire (first screened at Patrick Painter in LA), in which she steps on Christmas ornaments in high-heeled shoes (“I bought them on sale at Menudier”). We talked at length about positive waves, meditation, and chi. . . . “Video in the Pierre Huber Collection” is mainly preoccupied with representations of the body, and these are variously concerned with S&M (Isaac Julien), the homoerotic (Annika Larsson), teenagers (Rineke Dijkstra), fragmentation (Zhang Peili), and gore (Sturtevant versus Paul McCarthy).

When the time came for dinner, we all made our way to a freezing-cold room where a slightly disgruntled Pierre Huber declared that he should have spent more money so that we could at least have had something warm to eat. I agreed, but was pleased nonetheless to see Florence Derrieux, who curated the Tom Burr retrospective now on view in Lausanne, and Fabrice Gygi, who was in Grenoble to work on a school-building renovation project. He was chatting with artist Anna Líndal about his upcoming trip to Iceland. Lionel Bovier—the dashing editor of JRP|Ringier, an ambitious new publishing house—explained how he broke his own record by producing the exhibition’s catalogue, modeled on The Family of Man and designed by Gilles Gavillet, in a mere twenty-one days.

Left: Artist Linder Sterling. Right: Cosmic Galerie's Frédéric Bugada.

Later, Annika Larsson was explaining her piece to me when Frédéric Bugada, who played the part of a punk in Kim Gordon and Jutta Koether’s “reverse karaoke” (on view in another show opening at the museum the same night), turned to Claudia Cargnel, his partner at the Cosmic Galerie, and told her that he thought I didn’t like Annika’s work. Claudia looked at me and said, “Is that true? You’re naughty, you’re so naughty!” Before I dug myself in deeper, we all left to go to the Taxi-Brousse, a bar with a neo-Africanist theme, lost somewhere near rue Mozart. At the end of the night Pierre Huber drove away with longtime partner Robert Gomez-Godoy while critic Vincent Pécoil and I headed back to our hotel with an obligatory “See you next week in Basel!”

Nicolas Trembley

Left: JRP|Ringier editor Lionel Bovier. Right: Artist Amy O'Neill.

Subcultural Capital


Left: Gallerist Jose Freire with Sunn 0))) frontman Stephen O'Malley. Right: Gallerist Maureen Paley with Banks Violette. (All photos: Sarah Thornton)

“Lot o' beards in tonight.” The barmaid at the Bethnal Green pub at which I'd arranged to meet my companions was bemused to find her regular Friday-night clientele augmented by a contingent of hirsute music fans eager for a performance, orchestrated by artist Banks Violette, by the doomy, LA-based art-metal band Sunn O))) at Maureen Paley’s gallery. Decamping at precisely 6 PM, we found a small crowd of similarly styled folk forming a line outside the gallery. We joined it, and within fifteen minutes the line had tripled in length and anticipation was building fast. We knew only that the performance was scheduled to commence some time between 6 and 8 PM. By 6:30 or so, current Turner Prize shortlistee Mark Titchner, having that afternoon found out about the imminent closure of Delfina studios, where he is a current resident, was already weary of the uncertainty.

Soon thereafter, we followed Team Gallery owner Jose Freire in through the back door, earning jealous glares from a line that now extended around the block. Freire, bubbling with excitement, led us to an upstairs room where Violette had constructed a “ghost” of the band's own, functional setup. Guitars and amps (Sunn amps, naturally) had been cast in the artist's now-signature blend of resin and salt and the walls lined with dense graphite drawings. Paley was delighted with the elegantly atmospheric effect: “Magic, magic, magic.”

Back downstairs, Freire assured me that I'd know when the performance was starting because “the building will shake like there's an earthquake. They did a sound check a few hours ago and you could hear the windows rattling.” Only then did I notice a small sign outside the entrance to the lower gallery: “No entry until after performance.” Sure enough, again according to Freire, “Banks said he was going to do a performance that would make the building come down but no one was going to see it.” I wondered fleetingly whether the fans waiting outside, patience eroding, were privy to this information.

Left: Gallerist Rodolphe Janssen and Phillips de Pury & Company consultant Olivier Vrankenne. Right: Artist Paul Noble with collector Vicky Hughes.

“Can we store Banks's robe in here?” asked Alissa Bennett, the artist's wife, of a gallery employee seated in the office, gesturing with a voluminous black cloak. “Yeah, it's my robe,” her husband chipped in. “It's very important.” Vital apparel stashed, the couple melted away and I got talking to Noah Garson, a plumbing supplier who provides the aluminum tubing that Violette uses in many of his sculptures. “Plumbing supplying is what it is,” he admitted. “But working with Banks makes it so much more interesting.” A beaming Wolfgang Tillmans edged past us, and finally, on the dot of 7 PM, an ominous bass rumble signaled the start of the concealed action. Finding myself, for once, in the right place at the right time, I couldn't resist peeking behind the white sheet veiling the performance space. “This is sedate,” commented Violette, reappearing immediately behind me. “It'll get very loud and ugly.” Draped in black and wreathed in dry ice, the band were an imposing sight—even without the salt-and-resin coffin in which the guest vocalist, Mayhem's Attila Csihar, was sealed. As a thin crack began to edge across the ceiling and a lightbulb popped above my head, I thought it prudent to join the crowd in the exterior courtyard.

There, artist Lorin Davies and I squeezed through the throng surrounding the bar, spotting gallerists Rudolph Janssen and Christabel Stewart (of Hotel) and artists Sue Webster, Savage Pencil, a.k.a. Edwin Pouncey, and Chris Cunningham. I also bumped into an old friend, Anthony Sylvester, who, I soon learned, now does promotional work for Sunn O))) and other bands. But despite his close association with the musicians, even Sylvester was finding that the evening had already raised some unusual questions: “If you're not here to not see the band, what's your experience of them, then?” Collector Vicky Hughes conceded that “I'd like to be a voyeur. I'd like to be in the room with the band,” and some others seemed similarly frustrated by their deliberate exclusion (though Davies rated it as the band's “best visual performance”). An hour or so later, I was about to raise the issue with artist Paul Noble when the sound juddered to a halt and London seemed, for a moment, quieter than it ever had before.

Michael Wilson

Left: Artist Gardar Eide Einarsson. Right: Valentina Salaris and Alissa Bennett.

Parents Day

New York

Left: Author Sean Wilsey and critic Celia McGee. Right: Stephen Shore.

I caught the early end of Stephen Shore’s Wednesday-night opening at 303 Gallery as lots of late-afternoon sun filtered down Twenty-second Street. For most of Chelsea’s gallery hoppers, there was still time for a late-afternoon promenade; just in front of the gallery steps, Bob Nickas strolled by, presumably enjoying the last rays before making a more appropriately timed arrival, and designer John Bartlett slipped past, headed in the other direction. Stepping in alongside International Center of Photography curator Carol Squiers and collector Neil Frankel (dog in tow), I found Shore leisurely leading a small crowd of enthusiasts from photo to photo and pausing to sign the occasional book. Hardly larger than drugstore prints, the matted and framed images required the kind of intimate encounter that was aided by Shore’s personalized explanations. (Pointing out the fingernail shadow above a toilet lid in a New Mexico restroom, Shore found camaraderie with a fellow Rollei owner: “It’s the only camera with the flash underneath rather than over the lens.”) Along with a selection from 1972’s “American Surfaces” series (shown recently at P.S. 1) and a few larger prints from 1973’s “Uncommon Places,” Shore also exhibited a 1971 Super-8 video and, for the first time, pages from a “visual diary,” a scrapbook from his now-famous 1972-73 road trip. The artist described the works as “related in time” but noted that the video (his only Super-8 work) precedes the 1972 photographs but features “some of the same places in New York City, Amarillo, Texas, northern New Mexico, and Route 22 in New Jersey” that he returned to—this time with a still camera—over the next year. Maika Pollack, of Brooklyn’s Southfirst gallery, approached Shore to invite him to “Mystic River,” its current group show, organized around the feeling evoked by Shore’s 1979 photograph Merced River and based in part on an interview conducted with Shore by exhibition curator (and participating artist) Noah Sheldon.

Left: Author Francine du Plessix Gray. Right: Southfirst Gallery owner Maika Pollack.

Already late for a panel on “memoir” at SoHo’s Housing Works Bookstore, I hailed a cab downtown and slipped inside, where a modest assortment of book-club types listened intently to the discussion between best-selling authors Sean Wilsey (Oh the Glory of It All) and Francine du Plessix Gray (Them: A Memoir of Parents). Experts on hysterical mothering (Wilsey locates his mother somewhere between Norma Desmond and Joan Crawford), the panelists deftly fielded such questions as “What was the worst thing your parents ever did to you?” The audience thrilled to Gray’s proclamations, such as her top-down observation that, with the “example set by a government that is so steeped in lies,” we will also have “that Harvard girl who plagiarized a novel.” Interestingly, both Gray and Wilsey have family ties to the art world. Gray’s father, Alexander Liberman, was a painter in addition to being the legendary art director of Condé Nast, and her mother was an avant-garde hat designer; Wilsey’s stepmother, in what he described as her “crowning achievement,” recently raised money for the construction of the new de Young Museum in San Francisco. One of the first large-scale projects by architects Herzog and de Meuron in the United States, the museum has a very personal resonance for Wilsey. “One of the first pieces I ever wrote, in 1999, was about the two architects who built the museum,” Wilsey recalled. Wilsey’s mom doesn’t seem to have read the article, or, if she did, it failed to give her a deep appreciation for cutting-edge architecture. “She doesn’t know anything about culture,” he explained. “She wanted to have the museum’s marble floor ripped out because it wasn’t conducive to wearing Manolo Blahnik heels.”