Marden Party

New York

Left: Helen Marden and Lauren Hutton. Right: Brice Marden. (Photos: Patrick McMullan)

On Tuesday, I attended the opening of the Brice Marden retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, followed by dinner. Even at the big first night’s celebration, one can usually ferret out the odd voice of dissent or complaint, but the tone here was strikingly warm, even buoyant. The only criticism I heard (if you can call this criticism): Why were the drawings (most of which were installed on the third floor, apart from the paintings on the sixth) hung so low? To my eye, the hang was uniformly handsome and made good heuristic sense—for instance, the first gallery is given over almost entirely to work from Marden’s first solo show at Bykert Gallery in 1966. It’s rather extraordinary to see these paintings assembled together forty years later.

Dinner was surprisingly agreeable, at least in my experience of fancy dinners of this kind. It was also unusually large. Speeches were overall on the short side, which was good because there were several. Board chairman Robert Menschel followed by Board president Marie-Josée Kravis both stuck to judicious thank-yous. Kravis was most complimentary to the artist’s wife: “Helen, everyone here at the Modern has learned a lot from you.” Gary Garrels, the exhibition curator—formerly of the Modern and now at the Hammer in Los Angeles—spoke about the character of Marden’s art and thanked lots of people. MoMA director Glenn Lowry thanked more people. Finally, Marden spoke, beginning with the comment “I used to be called a Minimalist,” the implication being that his own remarks would be terse. In fact, his speech was exceedingly gracious. He began by thanking Matthew Marks for imagining that such a show should and could happen (“Now here it is!”) and, having thanked his wife, Garrels, assistants, and collectors, closed with a loving comment regarding his daughters, Mirabelle and Melia. He also warmly singled out Robert Rauschenberg, for whom he once worked as an assistant: “We love you, Bob, and we love the work.” When Marden finished speaking, the entire room rose in a standing ovation.

Left: Melia Marden, Rivington Arms's Mirabelle Marden, and artist Robert Rauschenberg. Right: Alba Clemente with artist Francesco Clemente. (Photos: Julie Skarratt/Courtesy MoMA)

I think that the unusually convivial seating arrangements were in large measure Helen Marden’s doing. “I just wanted people to be seated among their friends,” she told me. It certainly worked out for me, as I was wedged between Hanna Liden, my official date, and our mutual friend Jessica Craig-Martin. Marden’s assistant Ash Darrell was sitting across from us. I heard that the three of them had enjoyed a swell time together last summer in Hydra, where they were all staying at the Mardens’ house. Surveying the room, I noticed the table of honor was given over mostly to family members, with the notable exceptions of Lowry and his wife, MoMA board vice chairman and Marden collector Kathy Fuld, and painter Chris Ofili. Mmes. Lowry and Fuld surrounded “Frankie” (aka Kid America, husband-to-be of daughter Melia), and Helen sat herself with Ofili. Matthew Marks, at an adjacent table, was originally seated next to a mysterious “Ms. Moore,” who never showed. Her seat was removed and Marks found himself tête-à-tête with Jeff Koons, who opined that the absent guest was surely film star Julianne Moore. But another guest was heard to quip “or Barbara Moore” (the perhaps less glamorous Fluxus lady).

I missed the second opening on Thursday, as I had a dinner engagement, but I managed to make it to the after-party in the North Cabana of the Maritime Hotel while the joint was jumping. Upon entering, I immediately found myself in the company of the Mardens and Marks; I should have liked to stay put, but this party was geared more to the jeunesse dorée—i.e., friends of Mirabelle and Melia—so I ventured into the crowd to see what fun was on offer. Well, for starters, glamour-girl-about-town Arden Wohl literally leaped into my arms. “Arden,” I screamed, “even if you only weigh a hundred pounds, I can’t carry you!” I asked her what she thought of the show: “Now I know that the flats came before the squiggles.” Artist Rita Ackermann was at the bar. “This is the party for the Bruce Nauman opening?” she asked, I believe disingenuously. I returned to the grown-ups for a breather. Marks pointed out that Mirabelle was wearing vintage Ossie Clark. When Melia stopped by, I asked her what she was wearing. “Zac Posen and vintage,” she replied. I initially misheard her. “You’re wearing vintage Zac Posen,” I said, scrunching up my face. “Write that down and I’ll rip your guts out,” she answered, without missing a beat. But her mother seemed rather amused. “I’m so glad we’ll be dead at the next retrospective,” Helen laughed. “Don’t be so sure,” Marks rejoined. “Considering your mother lived to be a hundred, you may see the next two.”

David Rimanelli

Left: Jeff Koons and Justine Koons. (Photo: Patrick McMullan) Right: MoMA president Marie-Josée Kravis with UCLA Hammer curator Gary Garrels. (Photo: Julie Skarratt/Courtesy MoMA)

Second Coming

New York

Left: Deborah Harry. Right: Fab 5 Freddy, Lee Quinones, and friend. (All photos: Michael Sharkey)

There was a moment—somewhere between John the Revelator and Tim “Left Behind” LaHaye . . . OK, the early ’80s—when the word rapture connoted something other than the faithful dead blasting out of their graves and flying to heaven before the Great Tribulation. That moment, mainstreamed by the Blondie song “Rapture” and its early MTV video, was the mingling of two previously separate New York undergrounds—hip-hop and punk/new wave. Uptown met downtown, black met white, turntables met guitars, graffiti met galleries. This was new, and as with most quasi-utopian cultural moments, it proved fleeting. But it did leave us a few fine artifacts (“Rapture”; Wild Style; the art of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring, and others) and launched or elevated a few careers (those of Bronx scenester Fab 5 Freddy, graf artists Lee Quinones and Futura 2000, and DJ/Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa, among others). Distant echoes of the scene can be heard today in the mash-up craze (good to great) and the butthead rap-metal of Limp Bizkit (unclean).

The bill—Deborah Harry and Blondie, Fab 5 Freddy, Lee Quinones—of Saturday evening’s attempt to “Recapture the Rapture” at Deitch Projects is promising, so I check my attitude at the door. On entering, I notice a disclaimer: Apparently, we’ll be filmed. The cavernous trilevel SoHo space is empty, save for a makeshift bar and some tables and chairs in the corner facing the stage. A mash-up of “Rapture” and the Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” plays continuously, with a DJ (not, sadly, Bambaataa or Grandmaster Flash) working the decks on the mezzanine. The now-quaint, low-budget, Basquiat-starring “Rapture” video is also looped, projected onto the far wall next to a loop of live Doors footage. Called “Rapture Riders,” the musical track, I later learn, was an illegal 2004 mash-up by UK-based Go Home Productions that found favor with Harry and Chris Stein, who then authorized a legitimate single release.

Left: Stylist Michelle Snyder with Le Tigre's J. D. Samson. Right: Rosie Perez with Darryl “DMC” McDaniels.

As hipsters and nightclubbers—budding to aging—file into the space, a tall, strangely recognizable man in a godfather hat decides to stand very close to me. As he checks his BlackBerry, I realize that it’s Darryl McDaniels, better known as DMC. Ashamed that I’d left my Adidas at home, I still get up the nerve to say the immortal words, “Aren’t you the DMC?” He looks at me quizzically, so I blurt, “I’m a fan from way back!” and he smiles and shakes my hand. “Who’s performing tonight?” he asks, as if he’d just teleported from another dimension. “Blondie,” I say, and he nods in recognition.

Leaving DMC in the place to be with his PDA, I go outside for a smoke. I spot a smiling, energetic Lee Quinones, who doesn’t look more than two years older than he did in 1983’s Wild Style, where he played graf bomber Zoro (himself, essentially). Impressive. Then there’s Jeffrey Deitch, immaculate in pin-striped suit and glasses, formally greeting people outside at the door. Mike Myers walks by with a younger woman, hardly pausing to regard the gathering scene.

Back inside, Quinones and Fab 5 Freddy climb onstage. They had previously done three mural-style paintings now affixed to the wall behind the stage, and it appears they will be tagging and altering them with spray paint as the music plays. One painting is a CBGB tribute, with caricatures of original Blondie members Chris Stein and Clem Burke and the epigram “Every generation has to answer the exigency of their time.” True dat. As Lee and Freddy start modifying the paintings, members of Blondie pick up their guitars and jam along with the mash-up. It’s all very ad hoc. Nobody announces anything, and there’s no clear “beginning” of the show.

Left: Jeffrey Deitch with Deborah Harry. Right: Artists Dash Snow and Chris Johanson.

Finally, Harry gets onstage—strawberry-blond pageboy, black thigh-high boots—and starts . . . rapping? Yes, after a fashion. What she lacks in flow, she makes up for with enthusiasm. “Where are the break-dancers?” she shouts. I agree. Without real dancers in the house, none of these nostalgists, club hoppers, and gallery lizards will realize that this is supposed to be a dance party. In fact, I had just realized it myself—the event is modeled after those cameo performances by star musicians at early-’80s discos. Over a third of the now-full house seems to be operating a camera of some sort. Everyone waits for something to happen, but it doesn’t, really. Nobody, but nobody, dances. People slowly start to leave, and the performance, if it ever really started, ends.

I could go on about how today’s obscenely expensive New York could never support the vibrant parallel undergrounds “Recapture the Rapture” celebrates, but I won’t. Even with several of the era’s leading lights in the house, the rapture was gawked at like a historical curio, not recaptured.

Andrew Hultkrans

Left: DJ Junior Vasquez. (Photo: William Pym) Right: MoMA curator Klaus Biesenbach with writer Karen Marta and Felix Gonzalez-Torres book editor Julie Ault. (Photo: David Velasco)

“Oh no, it’s empty,” exhaled the ringleader of a quorum of petite, pointy-shoe-clad young dynamos outside the labyrinthine Park restaurant in Chelsea. The posse then discussed killing an hour at Barneys or abandoning the affair altogether—before the reveal: “Is this the Andrea Rosen party?” Well, it was and it wasn’t. Last Wednesday’s public do in the Park’s back bar was dubbed “A Celebration of Felix Gonzalez-Torres,” and the special, cosmic gist of the whole affair, honored nobly and surprisingly selflessly, was that the artist, tonight, was more than just cause for celebration. He was the host, too. Cosponsored by Rosen (who oversees the Gonzalez-Torres Foundation) and boutique book imprint steidldangin, the night was, on paper, promotion for a glorious new monograph on the artist. Yet the room lacked the confetti and hurrahs that make conventional book parties resemble Victorian ship launches. A few copies were on display, and a stack of take-home promotional posters perched in flat-footed tribute to the artist’s now-canonical visual vocabulary. Beyond that, it looked like any weeknight at a bottle-service boutique bar. There was an open tab for the first hour, enjoyed mostly by local assistant gallery directors out after work and a range of artists from fashion- to fine- (I spotted Glen Luchford, Andres Serrano, and Philip-Lorca diCorcia) who mingled among them. It felt clubby insofar as workers at shift’s end might enjoy a round at their local; there was a settled tone and an instinctively agreed-upon level of energy and interaction. Clearly, it wasn’t the Andrea Rosen party expected by the girls upon whom I’d eavesdropped outside, since they were on their way out before I’d made it all the way in.

Left: Artist Andres Serrano. Right: Dealer Andrea Rosen with curator Carmen Zita. (Photos: David Velasco)

I sat for a moment with the book’s coordinator, Marion Liang, on a hideous, gnarled Nakashima-in-Aspen bench. “This book took three years to make because we wanted to paint an insightful portrait of a man who’s already an icon, so every image, every word was selected to be extravagant, elaborate, new, and true.” Did this explain, I inquired haltingly, why the book includes a republished conversation with Tim Rollins? Liang smiled and eyed me, sympathetically, for a while. “It is all about Felix.” A 4/4 thunderstorm of bass heralded legendary New York beefcake Junior Vasquez in the DJ booth upstairs, and Liang graciously excused herself to follow the throb. “Felix was interested in what it meant to be democratic, and he respected what it meant to be popular,” publisher Pascal Dangin told me in clear explanation of the unusually inclusive and art-deal-free tone of the evening. Rosen bounded over and grabbed him. Old friends, they spoke of Dangin’s recent wedding and his desire to publish a cahier commemorating the ceremony and everything that went into it. “It’s a great idea,” exclaimed the dealer. “We all forget. We can’t help it,” she added. The comment brought solemnity to the moment, but celebrating was the thing to do. “Come on, let’s go dance, Pascal, I’ve been dancing for twenty minutes!” Off they went. They were paying for it, after all.

By 10 PM, the expansive downstairs bar was stacked three-deep, with a few dozen guests hovering around spotlit corner tables. Among them were the book’s editor, alternative-art historian Julie Ault, and Miwon Kwon, one of the commissioned essayists. Seeking intellectual reprieve, the road-weary editor implored me to ask “nothing too heavy, please.” “Andrea keeps asking me to go upstairs,” she exhaled, “but I’m so tired. There are people here I haven’t seen in fifteen years.” “They weren’t even people we knew through Felix,” Kwon agreed, describing their wonder at the enduring spell cast by Gonzales-Torres on this pocket of New Yorkers. “Felix was doing his thing, and we were all, just, around, meeting around him.” I peeked upstairs and saw a crowd of folks in their forties pulling shapes and perspiring to a priapic bongo break that Vasquez seemed able to maintain forever, leaving, for once, the youngsters entirely on the sidelines.

William Pym

Left: White Columns curator Amie Scally with Andrea Rosen Gallery's Teneille Haggard. Right: Marion Liang, head of publications for Box Studios. (Photos: William Pym)

Bankable Assets


Left: Ellipse Foundation chairman João Oliveira-Rendeiro with Ellipse Foundation curator Alexandre Melo. Right: New Museum chief curator Richard Flood with Ellipse Foundation curator Manuel E. González and dealer Barbara Gladstone. (All photos: Miguel Amado)

After promotional events held earlier this year in New York, Basel, São Paulo, and Madrid, Lisbon’s rentrée was marked last weekend by the long-awaited opening of the new art center devoted to the recently developed collection of the Ellipse Foundation. Chaired by collector and banker João Oliveira-Rendeiro, the foundation was endowed with around twenty-five million dollars in order to create, as he put it, “one of the most important collections begun this century.” Leading Portuguese curators Alexandre Melo and Pedro Lapa, along with curator Manuel E. González, formerly head of the JPMorgan Chase Art Collection in New York, have spent the last two years combing fairs and biennials, bringing together a substantial body of work that was unveiled Sunday to five hundred invited guests. As suggested by the exhibition title, “Open House,” there were numerous acquisitions to review—“perhaps too many,” as Melo later confessed—since the show’s organizing principle seemed to be “here’s what we bought.”

Portugal hasn’t attracted this level of attention from the international art world since the opening of Porto’s Museu de Serralves in 1999, and after a ride to Cascais in a chartered bus that allowed for coastal sightseeing, the recently converted twenty-thousand-square-foot warehouse on the outskirts of Lisbon was soon packed. Revealing where the money is being spent, several high-profile New York dealers were in attendance, among them Marian Goodman, Barbara Gladstone, Angela Choon of David Zwirner, David Leiber of Sperone Westwater, and Steve Henry of Paula Cooper. Other public figures included members of the Portuguese political and economic intelligentsia, President Sampaio among them; Madrid gallerists Pepe Cobo and Elba Benítez; and curators and artists Richard Flood, Ulrich Loock, João Fernandes, Louise Lawler, Julião Sarmento, and Glenn Ligon. It seems that few Portuguese artists and curators were invited; as Melo stated, “The collection isn’t about local production.” True enough, as only 9 out of 126 artists in the collection are Portuguese. But neither does it seem to concern key national institutions and players, as collaborations seem only in the works with international private foundations and museums.

Left: Artist Glenn Ligon. Right: Dealer Marian Goodman and Serralves Museum director João Fernandes.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but notice everyone’s enthusiasm as they wandered the vast space. Flood repeated, “Very impressive,” then asked me where he could find “that wonderful Mike Kelley sculpture,” as he wanted to show it to Gladstone. I led them to the upper floor, where we encountered González, who graciously accepted their congratulations. Gladstone was effusive: “The collection is incredibly sophisticated. The selection of works is very good—installations, photography, and video that reflect the spirit of our time.” María de Corral, cocurator of the last Venice Biennale, agreed. “Everything looks great, and there are so many major works that are so difficult to purchase today,” she said, referring to a group of photographs from several Pictures-generation artists. There seemed to be something for everyone, from Thomas Hirschhorn’s large-scale installation to Mona Hatoum’s delicate floor sculpture. However, mingling with a wider range of guests, it quickly became apparent that established male artists from Europe and America dominated, raising a few awkward questions. While Oliveira-Rendeiro and company guided the president around the galleries, I had the chance to talk with Choon, who had ample reason to appreciate the foundation’s efforts, explaining that Stan Douglas’s new project, based on a famous Kurosawa movie, is being funded with Ellipse money.

The festivities continued in an old fort overlooking the Cascais Bay, one of Portugal’s most stunning natural wonders. A storm had just blown through, and, with torches leading us through the “Citadel,” the venue proved a perfect environment for dinner. New Yorkers enjoyed Portuguese dishes like mussels in three-sweet-pepper vinaigrette, and I enjoyed my conversation with my tablemate David Leiber, who mentioned that his gallery is negotiating the sale of a Bruce Nauman to the foundation and that he vacations at nearby Algarve regularly. After a welcome speech by Oliveira-Rendeiro and a charming fado concert, a party area was unveiled; Lawler, artist Vasco Araújo, and gallerist Cristina Guerra lit up the dance floor. The revelry didn’t last long; perhaps the late meal and early-morning flights conspired to end the night for many just as it was beginning. Visibly satisfied, Oliveira-Rendeiro elucidated how the initial investment fund, along with the aborted negotiations with the Museu de Serralves to host the collection, had created the Ellipse Foundation, as well the difference between this private initiative and the Berardo Museum, due to open next year and partially funded by the public sector. I asked about the future. “We still have more or less half of the acquisitions budget, so the collection will grow and new shows will present works usually inaccessible in Portugal,” he said. After greeting Melo, he concluded: “Today is just the beginning of this project.” Knowing I would never find my way back to Lisbon, I accepted a friend’s offer of a ride back into town. At the door, the cherry on top of the cake: Wrapped up in a cloth bag, a catalogue beautifully designed by the ubiquitous M/M (Paris) was being offered to each guest. Perfect bedside reading.

Miguel Amado

Left: I-20 Gallery's Paul Judelson and artist João Onofre. Right: Collector Alexandra Pinho and artist Louise Lawler.

High and Dry

São Paulo

Left: Dealer Pablo León de la Barra and artist Marcelo Krasilcic. Right: São Paulo Biennial curator Lisette Lagnado. (Photos: Rafal Niemojewski)

Muggings, pickpockets, carjackings, red-light robberies, and drive-by shootings are just some of the tourist attractions listed in my guide to São Paulo. Sadly, Brazil’s largest city (the world’s second most populous) is better known for its high crime rate than its high-minded art biennial, the second oldest after Venice. This goes some distance in explaining why Prada and Marc Jacobs were little in evidence and eight-megapixel cameras remained locked in hotel safes during the low-key opening of its twenty-seventh edition. I wasn’t the only person who had adopted “the chameleon strategy,” which, according to my guide, offers the best chances of survival in the urban jungle.

Following the Brazilian government’s policy of encouraging alternative fuels, guests were greeted with a bottle of spring water instead of the obligatory warm white wine. The lack of alcoholic drinks didn’t help the austere atmosphere that held sway in the purpose-built pavilion by legendary Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer, though it did allow for a sober look at the art. Several friends from London, unable to cope with unlubricated viewing, were seen slipping out to a nearby bar.

Entitled “How to Live Together” and curated by a team headed up by Hélio Oiticica scholar, writer, and independent curator Lisette Lagnado, this installment of the half-century-old biennial saw the welcome eradication of the outmoded national presentations that have haunted the exposition since its inception. With Roland Barthes and Oiticica as guiding lights, the show favored socially conscious practices and engaged themes by now all-but-synonymous with the contemporary biennial—the city, identity, cultural creolization, each especially relevant to multicultural Brazilian society. The show freely combined the usual suspects (Rirkrit Tiravanija, Monica Bonvicini, Tacita Dean), historic contemporary figures (Marcel Broodthaers, Gordon Matta-Clark, Dan Graham), and young names (Roman Ondák, Loulou Cherinet, Servet Koçyigit). The biennial’s set piece was definitely Nikos Charalambidis’s Social Gym, 2006, a carnival float filled with policemen and samba dancers, while the neighboring installation by Thomas Hirschhorn looked blunt and generic (and was, for me, the show’s biggest disappointment). After four hours on-site, I further experienced the Brazilian melting pot in the biennial’s unofficial hangout, a karaoke joint in Liberdade, one of São Paulo’s most lively areas and home to the world’s largest Japanese community outside Japan.

Left: Exo curator Lygia Nobre (center) with friends. Right: Edificio Italia. (Photos: Rafal Niemojewski)

The following day, the most daring visitors took advantage of the opportunity to lunch with artists from Rio de Janeiro at Jardim Miriam Arte Clube, which was hosting one of the biennial’s educational projects in the middle of the remote favelas (aka shantytowns) on the city’s south side. I was among those who opted for a different kind of thrill, having accepted the invitation of Ligia Nobre, curator of the EXO residency at Niemeyer’s monstrously beautiful Edificio Copan, to watch the sunset from its rooftop. As if the views from the thirty-second floor weren’t enough, an hour found me higher still, on the forty-second floor of the neighboring Edifício Itália, for a cocktail party thrown by an international consortium of dealers—Galeria Fortes Vilaça, kurimanzutto, Alexander and Bonin, Sikkema, Jenkins & Co., and Stephen Friedman Gallery—to celebrate the participation of their artists in the biennial. This party, where the gallerists were happily rubbing shoulders with members of several museum acquisition committees (including Tate’s), was certainly the place to be for those who enjoy mingling with friends in high places.

On Saturday night, I began my weekend follies at the party hosted by São Paulo–born, New York–based photographer Marcelo Krasilcic, who fell short of his initial goal of gathering dozens of Marcelos in one place but did a great job of bringing in the young, rich, and beautiful. The jollity continued on Sunday at the church-cum-nightclub Gloria (reminiscent of New York’s Limelight), where artist Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster was showing her latest video work, accompanied by a deep-house sound track and the “best caipirinhas in town.”

On my last day in São Paulo, I paid a visit to Galeria Vermelho to taste the latest work of Danish collective Superflex—an energy drink developed on a “fair-trade basis” to undercut and expose the monopolistic practices of multinational corporations artificially suppressing the prices of guarana, the raw material used to produce the most popular Brazilian sodas. During the tasting, guided by Galeria Vermelho’s charismatic cofounder Eliana Finkelstein, I discovered its crisp flavor and a distinctive spice of controversy. Originally slated for presentation in the biennial, the work was removed after the president of Fundação Bienal de São Paulo judged that it was against the “purposes foreseen in the laws of the foundation” (i.e., it could upset his colleagues from the powerful drink industry). Regardless of its artistic and countercapitalist qualities, it tasted great and, unlike any corporate, industrially produced guarana, provided a natural power boost for the rest of the day. The afternoon spent in Vermelho’s slick but cozy interiors, designed by Paulo Mendes da Rocha (winner of the 2006 Pritzker Prize), left me with a conviction that this gallery is definitely one to look out for in the future.

Left: Artist Thomas Hirschhorn with gallerists Monica Manzutto and Jose Kuri of kurimanzutto. Right: Curator Dan Cameron. (Photos: Rafal Niemojewski)

That evening, the biennial’s crowd split into two groups: Those bound for the Frieze Art Fair rushed to the airport, while the rest of us headed to the coast in search of the mandatory Brazilian tan. Only minor accidents, caused by the caipirinhas, were reported; made with cachaça, the local sugarcane alcohol, they were served absolutely everywhere but the biennial.

Sound and Theory


Left: Gallerist David Risley and David Risley Gallery's Nick Runeckles. Right: Clay Machine Gun. (Unless noted, all photos: Michael Wilson)

My Frieze Art Fair experience began gently this year, with a leisurely Thursday lunchtime stroll around Camden Arts Centre’s exhibition of sugar-sweet paintings by LA-based artist Laura Owens, the near-empty gallery contrasting nicely with the frenzy that I imagined underway in and around Regent’s Park. My next stop, Tate Britain, felt similarly relaxed; the Turner Prize show was still pulling punters, but not enough to make getting close to current favorite Tomma Abts’s subtle, diminutive canvases problematic. Viewers lingered thoughtfully over installations by Mark Titchner and Phil Collins and generally managed more intelligent commentary on Rebecca Warren’s lumpy sculptures than, on the evidence of a concluding video interview at least, the artist herself is capable of. All very civilized.

After a coffee break, I hopped an eastbound tube for the opening of shows by Matthew Monahan and Katy Moran at Modern Art, and the mood began to shift in a more predictably riotous direction. Vyner Street—now home to a string of galleries including Vilma Gold, David Risley, Fred, Canal, and VINEspace—was packed and noisy by 7 PM as people staggered from one space to the next, sucking down a beer or three at each. As I caught up with my hosts for the trip, an urgent drumroll and a squall of discordant guitar signaled the beginning of a cacophonous storefront set by Clay Machine Gun, an up-and-coming girl punk band featuring the Clash’s Mick Jones’s daughter, Lauren.

From there it was back west for music of a different stripe at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. Programmed by Cerith Wyn Evans—whose solo exhibition filled (and, in the case of the main downstairs space, stripped architecturally bare) the elegant gallery—the invite-only evening event drew an animated multigenerational crowd of art-world faces and fans including fashion designer Pam Hogg, writer Stewart Home, gallerists Martin McGowan, Max Wigram, and Christabel Stewart, and artists Wolfgang Tillmans, Angela Bulloch, and Simon Popper (“crush of the London art world,” according to my companion). After a look around, we filed into the theater for a performance by No Bra, a statuesque androgyne who ranted sardonically over a bare-bones electronic backing. Wyn Evans lapped it up; I was less convinced, so . . . east again for the Zoo Art Fair after-party at the Tabernacle Bar & Grill, where curator Gavin Wade and slimvolume publisher Andy Hunt were tearing up the dance floor in a style that bordered on the alarming.

Left: No Bra. Right: Hotel Gallery's Christabel Stewart, filmmaker and designer Marcus Verner Hed, and artist Alexis Marguerite Teplin.

Come Friday afternoon, it was time to get serious, at a Frieze Talk titled “New Performativity?” in which art historian and critic Claire Bishop attempted to nudge curator Francesco Bonami, writer and curator Eda Cufer, artists Elmgreen and Dragset, and artist Surasi Kusolwong toward discussing the supposed emergence of “a new type of performance-based art that takes its meaning from both the context and the performers.” Bonami, first to speak after Bishop’s dense introduction, made it clear that he wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly when it came to what he took the topic to imply: “Performance in an art fair is boring. I don’t want to see Harold Pinter at the Hauser & Wirth booth.” “I divide the world into pre-boredom and post-boredom,” he continued, unstoppable. “I try to avoid boring things and boring people . . . but I can’t avoid myself!” A little close to the point, he described the death of James Lee Byars: “I think it was a great performance: to die eating a potato. A small potato!”

Elmgreen and Dragset, the duo responsible for the “doubled” Klosterfelde booth at last year’s fair, were more straitlaced, concluding “we have to take this circus seriously and find ways of making it more interesting.” And Cufer was more earnest still, opening with a complex theatrical metaphor that segued into a description of the strategy of “overidentification” that NSK, the Slovenian collective of which she is a member, first developed as a strategy for critiquing the totalitarian regime under which they lived in the '80s. Finally, Kusolwong outlined a history—of Thai performance art—that remains largely unwritten: “We don’t have ‘art history.’ There are maybe three curators.” Questions from the audience (which included a forthright Marina Abramovic, seated front and center) elicited an observation from Elmgreen that the activities of bored dealers and competing collectors on hand at the fair made for performances in their own right, while Cufer insisted that “in order for a performance to be successful, it has to mess with the real world.”

A few hours later, after a full day at Frieze and start-up alternative Zoo, I was more than ready for some real world. Perhaps Claridge’s, arguably London’s poshest hotel, wasn’t the place to find it, but that was my destination, for a dinner hosted by David Zwirner, Matthew Marks, and Maureen Paley. Funnily enough, Bishop had had the same idea, as had performance critic and curator RoseLee Goldberg, who introduced me to artist Francesco Vezzoli. My tablemates included British artist and collector Naglaa Walker and two young critics from New York called, I think, Jerry and Roberta, both of whom were mightily impressed by the fair, London’s museums (“You should see the Velázquez at the National Gallery”), and the city in general.

Left: Curator Gavin Wade. Right: Artists Susan Philipsz and Eoghan McTigue.

A chat with White Columns director Matthew Higgs en route to the bar convinced me that I should try to catch the end of the first night of the two-part Frieze Music event at that landmark of metropolitan cheese, the Hippodrome. “Sunn 0))) at the Hippodrome?” he chuckled, incredulous. “How can that not be weird?” Weird it may have been, but by the time I arrived it was also over, so I redirected myself east yet again to Shoreditch club Plastic People, home of dubstep night Forward, for the launch of the debut album by Skream! Once inside, the sheer bass-heavy intensity of the sound, emphasized by the conscious refusal of standard disco lighting, made for the least visual but most striking cultural experience of the weekend.

After the Flood


Left: Gwyneth Paltrow. (Photo: David Velasco) Right: Maurizio Cattelan. (Photo: Sarah Thornton)

“Art is in the wallet of the beholder,” said author Kathy Lette on Tuesday evening. “I wish that rich people had a longer attention span. It’s easier for them to look at a painting than read a book; you can’t frame The Satanic Verses.” Just then Salman Rushdie emerged from the posh crowd that had converged on the Duchess Palace to celebrate the opening of Anish Kapoor’s show at Lisson Gallery. When I asked him what he thought of the exhibition, Rushdie reflected: “Anish and I share an interest in the continuing power of myth, and I respond strongly to the sensuality of his forms, particularly his ability to remain—what?—lyrical even when he works on an immense scale.” While the literary master was talking, I couldn’t help but be distracted by a scene taking place over his shoulder: Barbara Gladstone in tears, grappling for the words to describe the overwhelming impact of the work to Kapoor himself. “Oh, oh, oh
. . . it’s divine,” she eventually mustered. A round of bear hugs ensued, while a cynical onlooker commented, “She’s just upset that Lisson is making the money on this one.” Nicholas Logsdail, owner of Lisson Gallery, wrinkled his nose when I shared the venal quip, then, after four seasons of facial expressions, he said grandly: “The show is incredibly moving. It evokes the centerless . . . boundless . . . swirling volume of the cosmos."

The next day at 10:45 AM, I was standing on a long ramp with three hundred or so Very VIPs waiting to gain admittance to the fourth annual Frieze Art Fair. Apparently, the organizers want the fair to be a more serious art event, so they devised a new “tiered” strategy of crowd control: one thousand big spenders welcomed at 11 AM, fifteen hundred members of the press admitted at 1 PM, three to four thousand run-of-the-mill VIPs received at 2 PM, and then finally the onslaught of partygoing “private viewers” permitted at 6:30 PM. I’d bagged a plus-one for 11 AM, so I didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of a press pass.

Suddenly, the pack was moving, and once through the white block barriers, the Top One Thousand were zipping about, in and out of booths. When I asked art consultant Andrew Renton about his initial impression of this year’s fair, he said: “It’s bigger, better, stronger, faster, richer. Sorry, can’t talk now.” However, at Frieze, where most of the art on sale has been made since 2000, dealers and collectors of more established art were enjoying leisurely promenades, and in general, the pace felt more relaxed than Basel's.

Left: Artists Idris Khan and Candice Breitz. (Photo: Sarah Thornton) Right: Gallerist Victoria Miro. (Photo: David Velasco)

Art stockpiler Alberto Mugrabi was sitting for his portrait in an installation called “Painting for Pleasure and Profit” on the White Cube stand, where Jake and Dinos Chapman would, for £4,500 plus VAT, paint your picture in half an hour. The room was adorned with pub wallpaper, dimly lit with two hanging light bulbs, and hosted by a gallery assistant acting as a receptionist. “You’re at 4 PM with Jake,” she said as if booking a cut and blow-dry. “Isn’t this a lark! You must be able to squeeze me in,” said a tall blonde for whom the painters’ fee was clearly small change. Customers for this quick art-labor exchange seemed happy with the results. Upon seeing his portrait, one subject exclaimed, “It’s the dog’s bollocks!” Dinos nodded in agreement and offered, “Yeah. It’s the mutt’s nuts.”

Just then it started to rain. In fact, it bucketed down, and the torrent was deafening. Dealers looked to the heavens, anxious that leaks might damage their wares, while collectors worried, “It’s like Noah’s ark . . . Maybe we’ll be stuck here forever.” Once the downpour petered out, climate conditions were still a major topic of conversation, as the tent heated up and humidity stayed at 98 percent. “Although it’s called Frieze, it’s a ‘hot’ fair—in every sense,” grumbled one sweaty wag.

By this time, I’d found myself in the back-and-beyond of aisles F and G—a mixed neighborhood of younger galleries, many from LA’s Chinatown and London’s Bethnal Green, where I saw party pieces like Untitled (Red White and Blue), 2005, by Ryan McGinley, a photograph whose focal point is a giant, flaccid cock (in the Team Gallery booth), and Hell Mouth, 2006, by Spartacus (aka Lali) Chetwynd, an enormous, roaring gorilla head made out of cardboard boxes (on Herald Street’s stand). Vilma Gold had priced its art in guineas (as part of a conceptual project by artist Michael Stevenson). Turner Prize nominee Mark Titchner’s Ur Text, 2006—a kinetic sculpture similar to Ergo Ergot, 2006, installed at Tate Britain’s Turner Prize exhibition—was going for the bargain price of nineteen thousand guineas. In the same hood was the Wrong Gallery. In the corner of their minimal white cube sat a Down syndrome androgyne in front of three objects. The work was jarring; it forced you to shift gears and reflect on the hedonism, superficial beauty, and vacuous velocity of the fair. “The extra chromosome changes your perception of time,” whispered one respectful viewer.

Left: Studio Museum chief curator Thelma Golden. Right: Salman and Milan Rushdie. (Photos: Sarah Thornton)

With that, depression set in, and I ricocheted aimlessly around the stands like a numb pinball. I bumped into a secondary-market dealer who told me, “Prices are out of control. I just bought a large late Warhol painting for the cost of a Neo Rauch work on paper.” To which his friend deadpanned, “But that’s not surprising: Warhol was not from Leipzig.” I bounced off a collector who said, apocalyptically, “The art world is running out of material,” then landed at the feet of a curator who commiserated: “The market is like a sex addict, looking for perversity. The whole idea of something new has become old and crusty.”

After a couple of glasses of champagne and a double espresso, my energy picked up. I grabbed the arm of an old buddy and we went in search of the much-talked-about Mike Nelson installation, which, despite its large scale, was nowhere to be found on the map. As we wandered through its series of photographic darkrooms that stank of developing chemicals, the installation reminded us of the diligent production of art in the midst of this mayhem of consumption. Sometimes, it is not so much what you see as when and where you see it, and in this context, the work, entitled Mirror Infill, acted as a curative balm. It also got me to thinking about how darkness is a luxury at a blindingly bright fair where the works are flashed for maximum wow. In fact, the environment was so bright that one might be able to identify a new, fair-specific version of Seasonal Affective Disorder—shall we call it FAD?

After the uneven artistic chaos of the tent, it was a relief to be invited to dinner at a collector’s home, which I’d heard was resplendent with “carefully selected ooh-and-aah works.” Down the street from the fair and around the corner from Jay Jopling’s house, the apartment was a bit “like being in Paris with a tiny bit of Park Avenue.” Inside, I found some twenty of the world’s most significant collectors of contemporary art—all on their best behavior, respectful of the intimacy of the invitation. One man carefully wiped the mark left by his wineglass off the 1938 Jean Royere coffee table. When I asked our French-born hostess about the logic of her guest list, she explained that it was not about “la crème de la crème, but rather just my friends,” adding that “there is something wonderful about having people in your home who give a damn.” In the drawing room, a Philip Guston self-portrait consisting of a giant bloodshot solitary eye with very small ears (Head, 1975) was a good reflection of our collective condition after such a long day. As I gazed admiringly at Robert Gober’s Tilted Playpen, 1986, which our hosts told us they’d bought over ten years ago, a collector joined me and quipped, “Because of prices, we’re going younger and younger.” I was introduced to Allan Schwartzman, perhaps the only art adviser present, as “the great-white hunter of art consultants” and learned from a self-deprecating collector who’d received “an A from Rosalind Krauss” that there’s “nothing more dangerous than someone with an MA in art history.”

Left: Artist James Rosenquist. Right: Artist Dinos Chapman. (Photos: Sarah Thornton)

The next day, I sauntered into the fair just in time for a fabulous late lunch at the Urban Caprice, then attended Liam Gillick’s talk, “Factories in the Snow,” for what I hoped would be more nourishment. Alarm bells rang early when, in his preamble, the artist confessed that he found his own promotional blurb to be so “slippery” that he couldn’t keep the description “in his head.” He spat out something garbled about taste, then proceeded to list “420 points” generated by a brainstorming session with his students at Columbia. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he hadn’t, at the last minute, decided to do a performance—an Andrea Fraser–style parody of a scrambled postmodern ramble. Thought-provoking phrases did pop out of gobbledygook, like “the artist’s ability to be in a whirlpool and not commit to a trajectory,” but he failed to elaborate. Forty minutes into the session, a heckler whined, “How much longer?” Gillick replied, “It’s just an hour. It’s OK. I’m going to be fine. It’s findings. I’ll stop at six. Some things arrest you and some things don’t.” Gillick had offered his talk as a gesture “completely opposed” to the “superdistracted context” of the fair, but his “unedited, disorganized throwing up of cultural stuff” simply echoed the way that art fairs toss up their offerings. Without a narrative or explanatory structure, with next to nothing to hold on to, the talk—like the fair—was yet another spectacular exercise in forgetting.

Slide Show


Left: Artist David Weiss and curator Daniel Birnbaum. (Photo: Rolf Marriott) Right: Artist Carsten Höller. (Photo: Nicolas Trembley)

Dear Diary, by the time these lines appear, I may no longer be walking among you, as I have promised myself I will overcome my fears and dare formidable slide number four at Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall.

To understand my plight, let’s backtrack to Monday morning, when I climbed aboard the Paris-London Eurostar with British journalists Sean James Rose and Jonathan Wingfield (on their way to interview Demi Moore). I was looking forward to a week stuffed full with art.

From Waterloo station, we headed straight to Tate Modern for the preview of the latest ginormous work in “The Unilever Series,” Carsten Höller’s Test Site, 2006. The installation comprises five nearly vertical slides you enter from different floors and exit as much as 180 feet below. As journalists began popping out at the bottom like flailing rag dolls (the speed of descent is a bit of a surprise), queries tended to run toward safety issues; a German funny lady (and critic) pointed to a bruise on her arm and asked whether it should be considered art.

Höller, as charming—and perverse—as he is brilliant, tried to convince me that the slides were no more dangerous than walking down a flight of stairs, and that risk, in any event, is part of our human condition. “There are those who take risks, and such an experience can change their lives. And there are those who just watch, and all of this will look like a Brancusi sculpture.” Apparently Höller felt a bit of trepidation about taking on the commission, but he ultimately took the plunge: “Now I’m afraid I’m bound to be Mr. Slides for the rest of my life.”

Left: Dealer Eva Presenhuber. (Photo: Nicolas Trembley). Right: Peter Fischli and friend. (Photo: Rolf Marriott)

A life-changing experience sounded good—but maybe later. I was already running behind, so I skipped the slide—and lunch—and hopped on a Damien Hirst–decorated clipper boat headed for Tate Britain, where Turner Prize curators Gair Boase and Lizzie Carey-Thomas were to lead a little tour. Manning the fort, Phil Collins—a Turner nominee, alongside Tomma Abts, Mark Titchner, and Rebecca Warren—was hard at work on his office within the exhibition; he was interviewing “people who’ve appeared on talk shows, makeover shows, or reality shows who’ve had a negative experience or feel like it's ruined their life.” (For those it may concern, contact

I made it back from Millbank just in time for the preview of “Flowers & Questions,” the Fischli & Weiss retrospective curated by Tate Modern’s Vincente Todolí with Bice Curiger of Kunsthaus Zürich. What can I say? The show has it all: humor, philosophy—and art. The much-loved duo had made the trip from Zurich with families and friends and friends’ families in tow. Tate director Nicholas Serota summed up the mood in his smooth-as-silk toast when he shared an anecdote about a flight full of Fischli & Weiss fans and UBS patrons, as if they were a football team. Even Eva Presenhuber, the artists’ Swiss dealer, declared, when I showed her the picture I’d just snapped, “Unbelievable! I actually look happy!”

At 9 PM, I slipped away quietly to join the sit-down dinner in honor of Höller at Delfina, the restaurant that until recently shared quarters with an artist-residency program. Held by Höller’s three galleries—Gagosian, Esther Schipper, and Air de Paris—it was clearly the place to be; more than one wag said that the fair itself couldn’t outdo this one! Good to know the best was behind us—and the circus hadn’t even begun.

Left: Artist Pierre Huyghe. (Photo: Nicolas Trembley) Right: Tate director Nicholas Serota (at right). (Photo: Rolf Marriott)

Flanked by Miuccia Prada, Germano Celant (whom I mistook for Fabrizio Bertelli), and a host of curators, Höller was enjoying the moment. And so was everyone else. Guests were even happy to suffer the interminable wait for the taxis that would ferry them to Volstead, the members-only club where Air de Paris, Matthew Marks, Larry Gagosian, Eva Presenhuber, and Esther Shipper hosted a joint after-party for the two Tate shows. The music was so-so, but the mood made up for it. Who knew the art world could be so happy? I forgot to ask Prada whether the slide Höller had made for her Milan office had changed her life. Now I have no choice: slide number four. I will do it . . . tomorrow.

National Obsessions


Left: Parkview International's Vicky Hwang, Serpentine codirector of exhibitions and programs and director of international projects Hans-Ulrich Obrist, and Red Mansion's Nicolette Kwok. Right: Artist Josephine Meckseper. (All photos: Sarah Thornton)

National identity was “the new black” in London last week, as local art-world superpowers the Serpentine Gallery and the Saatchi Gallery went head to head with their respective blockbusters, “China Power Station: Part 1” and “USA Today.” First, I set out for Battersea Power Station, a Grade II–listed ruin that sits on the south side of the Thames about a mile upriver from Bankside Power Station (better known as Tate Modern). Serpentine director Julia Peyton-Jones, elegantly accessorized with a flashlight and work boots, took a group of twenty patrons on a tour of the exhibition. We started in the giant cavern of Turbine Hall B, where we listened to a selection of sound works, went through two fabulously dark and dank floors of video projections, and then ascended to the top of the industrial cathedral to find ourselves in a vast room dominated by a Great Wall of apples. Peyton-Jones confessed that she’d taken Chinese elocution lessons in order to pronounce the diphthong-laden names of artists like Jia Zhang-ke, Cao Fei, Pi Li, and Yang Fudong, who were the show’s highlights. Although only a dim-sum sampling of the art, it was an awesome adventure that reminded me of my days researching raves.

After the tour, we convened in the Ito Pavilion for a dinner hosted by Nicolette Kwok’s Red Mansion Foundation. There I talked to Vicky Hwang, whose family plans to transform the thirty-six-acre Battersea site into a hotel, shopping, and leisure complex by 2012. Once seated, I was pulled into the high-speed orbit of curator Hans-Ulrich Obrist. We spent much of the evening reveling in Obrist’s mission to “protest against forgetting” with art historian Edward Lucie-Smith, whose Movements in Art Since 1945 was a key resource for Chinese artists in the ’80s because it was the first book about contemporary art widely available in the Communist country. Lucie-Smith treated us to some forty years of tragicomic gossip (about hommes fatals, suicides, artists, and prostitutes)—unfit for print but impossible to forget. Later, reminded of the national theme, I asked Obrist, “How Swiss are you?” He responded with a snappy dissertation on multilingualism and urbanism that ended with the charmingly batty disclosure: “I was born in the studio of Fischli & Weiss.”

The next night, I was off to the Saatchi Gallery’s temporary home in the Royal Academy of Arts. There were no paintings in “China Power Station” and no videos in “USA Today.” Much has changed since Saatchi’s “Sensation” show of YBAs took place under the RA’s roof nine years ago. Saatchi is no longer perceived as a collector; his primary identity is now that of an innovative secondary-market dealer—a symbolic figure who reveals more than anyone else that there are no rules in the art business . . . except that painting sells. Word around the exhibition was that “Charles has made more money out of art than advertising” and that the work in the show was “hit-and-miss but brilliantly packaged.” When I asked one collector whether he didn’t prefer the title “Uncertain States of America,” he responded: “No, it’s too complicated. ‘USA Today’ has the simplicity of 'The World’s Favourite Airline,’ the line Saatchi penned for British Airways.”

Left: Artist Burnaby Furnas with dealer Marianne Boesky. Right: Art historian Edward Lucie-Smith.

After the shaky reception of his last exhibition, “The Triumph of Painting,” Saatchi has returned to his core competence—emergent art—by showing thirty-seven young American artists (YAAs, I assume), about twenty of whom had flown in for the opening. I asked several if they felt their work represented America today. Inka Essenhigh said yes with a big smile, then pointed to her paintings and explained, “This one is New York, and that one is Columbus, Ohio.” Kristin Baker said hesitantly, “Sure . . . My work is about spectacle and the fine line between catastrophe and beauty.” French-born dual citizen Jules de Balincourt admitted, “I feel like an American who is permanently a tourist. The show is like the melting pot. That’s the beauty of America.”

The YAAs seem to have a different attitude to commerce. None harbored illusions about the nature of this show. One even joked that it was good to see his work here because he might not see it again until it was up for auction. Another laughed, “Everything is for sale, but Charles seems to be enjoying himself.” As painter Barnaby Furnas admitted, “I think Charles is more up on New York artists than I am . . . which is a bit disconcerting.”

Josephine Meckseper seemed a little shell-shocked that her photograph of a beautiful redhead smoking a match had been plucked for the cover of the sumptuous, large-format “USA Today” catalogue, which bore a striking resemblance to those published by auction houses. About the fire at the RA in August and the Momart blaze that destroyed a portion of Saatchi’s collection two years ago, Meckseper volunteered, “I was a minor pyromaniac as a child. It’s a coincidence. Charles and I both have a history of fire.”

Left: Artist Adam Cvijanovic. Right: Artists Jules de Balincourt and David Hockney.

Predictably, Saatchi was absent from his own opening. A few days earlier, I gained access to the exhibition during installation. Builders were still working hard on repairing the water damage caused by the fire, and I eventually found the elusive dealer-curator strutting through his half-hung rooms. “Please don’t think me rude, but there are other people who can talk about the art better than me,” he said preemptively. “Just one question,” I implored. “Do you feel British?” Saatchi let out a deep sigh. “Do I support England when they play Germany? Yes. What else could I feel? I’ve lived here all my life. But those kind of boundaries don’t matter as much as they once did, and nationalism is very bad taste.” I was about to be dismissed, but having snatched a moment, I hazarded a second question: “May I take your photo?” Saatchi looked at me like I was out of my mind, as if I’d asked him to strip naked and dance the cancan. “It would help promote the show,” I ventured. But this only fueled his photo phobia, and he declared with finality, “I don’t care about promoting the art that much!”

Tropical Punch

New York

Left: Philadelphia Museum of Art curator of contemporary art Carlos Basualdo. (Photo: David Velasco) Right: Maya and Simone Klabin. (Photo: Patrick McMullan)

Tuesday’s unveiling of the latest installation of “Tropicália,” a traveling exhibition of Brazilian art inaugurating the new Arquitectonica-designed wing of the Bronx Museum of the Arts, was greeted with much pomp and circumstance, including a ribbon-cutting ceremony featuring Mayor Bloomberg. But I missed all that. Instead, I ducked in just before the preview’s official closing time, finding myself alone with international art intelligentsia Okwui Enwezor, Louise Neri, and “Tropicália” guest curator Carlos Basualdo. “Not everything is working just yet,” Basualdo apologized, but he needn’t have worried, as the show looked exceptional nonetheless. Artforum contributor Linda Yablonsky swept in just before cutoff, too. I waved and watched her carefully slip off her shoes and disappear into Hélio Oiticica’s massive installation, like Bas Jan Ader in a pantsuit.

The advantage to arriving late, I learned, was getting a personal tour from Sergio Bessa, the museum’s soft-spoken director of education. He pointed to Lygia Pape’s bowls filled with aniline-dyed fluids. “You can sample them if you like.” I passed. Though I'm a scrounger by nature (I always take a candy from Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s piles, even if I don’t really want one), the clear droppers and Kool-Aid-colored liquids incongruously brought to mind both relational aesthetics and Jim Jones. The show’s 250 objects seamlessly blend activism and formal innovation, offering an excellent launching point for the newly refurbished museum.

All the best pomp was at that evening’s celebratory dinner, cohosted by Brazilian ambassador José Alfredo Graça Lima, New York’s consul general of Brazil, at the Upper East Side home of collectors Simone and Paulo Klabin. (“They own Rio,” I had been discreetly informed.) In the small, competitive, ludicrously wealthy society of collectors, there are good eggs and there are bad eggs. The Klabins, by all appearances, are the former—a glamorous, vivacious family who lead relatively normal lives, albeit lives decorated with a Holzer, a Flavin, a Judd, and a gorgeous Soto. What’s it like raising two children with contemporary art? “Like a language, they must learn about it. These days, before we go to look at work, they ask: ‘Is it going to be “Dia art” or “Met art”?'” Simone responded.

Left: Curators Okwui Enwezor and Louise Neri. Right: “Tropicália” artist Eli Sudbrack (of assume vivid astro focus) with Tim Goossens. (Photos: David Velasco)

When dinnertime arrived, the guests made their way to the luxurious multiroom dining area downstairs, where all the best gossip seemed to be conducted in Portuguese. Apparently, the ambassador is Buddhist, so the buffet featured plenty of vegetarian options. Making my way over to Graça Lima, I asked if he’d ever taken advantage of his diplomatic immunity. “Oh no,” he laughed. “Consulates don’t really get that. Only the embassy in Washington, DC.”

The party began to buzz with the arrival of Eli Sudbrack (the brains behind assume vivid astro focus), sporting a psychedelic one-piece by Brazilian designer Neon and firmly holding onto boyfriend Tim Goossens—the night to Sudbrack’s day—who was dressed in “a mix of Hedi Slimane and myself.” Having recently designed a small line of bags and accessories for LeSportsac, Sudbrack is no stranger to fashion. Another “Tropicália” artist, Matthew Antezzo, had clothes on the brain, too. “These pants are from a thrift store in Westport. They’re size 6 women’s,” proving that even these days, ambitious consumers can track down good design for a bargain.

The evening wore on, with uniformed waiters serving cups of “Romeo and Juliet”—delicious, thick strawberry jam and cream. I sat with Paulo Klabin, onetime owner of a renowned Brazilian gallery, who spoke about the numerous books on physics and of science fiction lining his shelves. “Physics is better than art,” he proclaimed. In this market, it’s also a lot cheaper. As the artists bid their adieus, I decided to make my exit as well. You should always leave the party before they turn off the Villareal in the foyer.

County Fair

Newport Beach, CA

Left: Sonic Youth at the opening of the 2006 California Biennial. Right: Susan and Leonard Nimoy with OCMA director Dennis Szakacs. (Photos: Carla Rhea, courtesy OCMA)

The drive down to the Orange County Museum of Art (OCMA) for the 2006 California Biennial revealed a landscape peculiar to this corner of the world: palm-tree-lined freeways choked with SUVs, a vast plateau devoid of landmarks except the spires and lights of giant malls, and the palpable feeling that everything not made of stucco was made of plastic. The OCMA seemed almost consumed by this vast sea of tract homes and office parks, and though few of the artists showing inside are from “the OC,” the culture inside the museum finds a way to deal with the California culture outside, a mélange of the sunstroked superficial and the ingeniously irreverent. Walking in from the parking lot, I ran into one of the biennial’s curators, Rita Gonzalez, standing near the velvet couches of Kianga Ford’s sound installation (which, with the noise of the crowds, I never managed to hear). Gonzalez, who works at LACMA, was invited to join the exhibition team after Irene Hoffman left midresearch. “Everyone’s coming in with road rage,” she observed, sipping from a martini glass filled with sickly sweet fruit liqueur.

The weekend-long celebration began with an invite-only dinner, where wealthy local donors rubbed elbows with the future art stars this exhibition hopes to launch. When I finally found my place card after a confused hunt, my tablemate, Steve Hansen of China Art Objects, grimly joked, “Even the seats are curated.” Each table was a delicate ecology of patrons, young artists, their dealers, and a smattering of invitees from other museums and events such as inSite, San Diego; and the Contemporary Museum, Baltimore (a frequent OCMA collaborator). Above the bar, a video by Mario Ybarra Jr. played a frantic montage of the many hand-painted (and often multilingual) signs that populate Southern California roadsides. Philanthropist, actor, and painter Leonard Nimoy, sitting at the head table, was particularly taken with the Chicano artist’s work and seemed quite receptive to Ybarra’s pitch over dinner to lead bus tours of the local barrios.

Left: Biennial artist Kate Pocrass. (Photo: Andrew Berardini) Right: Biennial artist Kianga Ford with biennial curator Rita Gonzalez. (Photo: Carla Rhea, courtesy OCMA)

As if guided tours were requisite for any venture south of LA, the following day I found myself on a bus with San Francisco artist Kate Pocrass, whose “Mundane Journey” through Orange County attempted to find incidental beauty in the streets. Outside of Pocrass’s tour, the bus briefly stopped to see yet another hunk of Richard Serra steel at the Segerstrom Concert Hall, Orange County’s two-hundred-million-dollar attempt to prove that its corporate oligarchs can be philanthropists, too. I sat next to an elderly collector who wore the black pants suit and oversize Italian sunglasses representative of her breed. After bragging about her recent purchases of works by artists whose names I’d never heard before, she offered this insight when asked her thoughts on the biennial: “Let me put it this way, I haven’t seen anything I’d buy.”

Later that night, hundreds of local OC kids eagerly lined up outside the museum to see Sonic Youth perform at the official public opening. Before the doors opened, a private cocktail party thrown by Deutsche Bank was my excuse to spend some time alone in the galleries. To make sense of this large group show, the curators invented themes that dealt directly with some aspect of California art’s unique personality, such as “Fantasy Verité” and “Adaptive Identities.” Though sometimes derivative of their famous LA-art-school teachers, especially Mike Kelley and Charles Ray, the work of the thirty-one artists and collectives in the show displayed a multitude of imaginative solutions to the “problem” of California. For example, artists Marie Jager and Leslie Shows followed the strategies of science fiction and fantasy to their inevitably dire conclusions, capturing a California continually threatened by apocalypse. Jager’s work, a ten-minute video telling the story of a toxic purple cloud that kills everything in its path, complemented Shows’s collage paintings, which depict bleak landscapes whose textured ruins capture the sweeping beauty of spaces devoid of humans but not their influence.

As the opening chords of Sonic Youth’s set rang out, I headed back into the packed lobby. Bleached hair and nautical tattoos were the norm for the crowd, most of whom seemed to skip the art and shoot straight to the stage. Qualms among the artists about having a New York band at the California Biennial evaporated as the music gained steam. Near the end of the set, I caught up with the museum’s chief curator, Elizabeth Armstrong. “Orange County is brand-new, a suburban frontier,” she said. “And who knows, in a few years California may become so much a part of the international art world that this type of exhibition will become irrelevant. But right now, this place is really hopping.”

Friends with Benefits


Left: Whitechapel director Iwona Blazwick with artist Gillian Wearing. Right: Artists Sophie Calle and Damien Hirst. (All photos: Richard Strange)

“It was like a bomb site three weeks ago,” said Whitechapel director Iwona Blazwick. “If it hadn’t been for the generosity and punctuality of the artists, we’d have been nowhere. Even Lucian Freud promptly turned in his wonderful work, The Painter’s Garden, and he's notoriously hard to pin down. Back in 1987, Nick Serota held a seminal charity auction when he had my job. The chairman at the time told Nick that he wouldn’t be able to pay his wages, so an auction was the only way to go. This year’s auction will raise funds for an endowment to secure the gallery’s future.”

Last week, I attended the preview of the Whitechapel auction, titled “Defining the Contemporary,” where Blazwick, along with curators Bettina von Hase, Bina von Stauffenberg, Andrea Tarsia, Jack Kirkland, and Candy Stobbs, had installed the sixty-one spectacular pieces that will go on the block at Sotheby’s in New Bond Street on October 13. They hope to raise £2.5 million to supplement the £7.5 million already harvested for the gallery’s expansion and thus replenish the public space’s dwindling endowment. The disused Passmore Edwards Library, located right next door and the site for of the Dia Foundation–inspired development, played host to the exhibition and dinner. The library has a fine East End history: It was used in the early twentieth century as a meeting space for the Jewish artists and intellectuals—sculptor Jacob Epstein, painter David Bomberg, and poet Isaac Rosenberg—who laid the foundations of British modernism.

Downstairs were parquet floors, crumbling cornices, and much art-star spectacle. Tracey Emin arrived in tracksuit bottoms and talked a great deal, but had to “get off to the Holbein,” which was opening at Tate Britain. Damien Hirst, who was given one of his first serious exhibitions by Blazwick at the ICA, paid back the favor by donating Raffinose Undecaacetate, 2006—an enormous dot painting likely to fetch upward of £500,000. He dropped by in his current trademark, a black leather jacket studded with a diamante skull. He seems to be maintaining a more, shall we say, sober image by leaving most parties before they’ve begun. Richard Wilson looked in, too, but was opening his own exhibition at the Barbican the next night and so had to return there to tweak the installation of “my black cab, my burger stand, and my rotating caravan.” He explained, “They wouldn’t let me cut any holes through the Barbican walls, so I’m cutting holes through my own black cab.” Artist Gillian Wearing, dealer Nicholas Logsdail, and Sotheby’s dynamic contemporary team—Cheyenne Westphal, Oliver Barker, and Francis Outred—also showed up to keep an eye on the proceedings.

Left: Artist Gary Webb with dealer Jake Miller. Right: “Defining the Contemporary” curators Bettina von Hase and Bina von Stauffenberg.

Von Hase, of the Nine AM organization, was astounded by the munificence of the donations. “Gary Hume surprised us all by calling very early to say his painting was ready. Peter Doig offered his painting early on—it’s a thing of such exquisite beauty. Albert Oehlen made an early promise, as did Rachel Whiteread and Damien Hirst. They were all locomotives for us.”

Indeed, Doig’s first snow painting, Charley’s Space, 1991, is an exceptional donation. He kept it for himself but has now given it back. Not only does it “have great significance for us,” said the museum director, but it “marks the beginning of one of the most innovative and important projects in contemporary painting.” Doig clearly regards the work as one of his most important pieces; he borrowed its title for a 2003 exhibition of his paintings at the Bonnefantenmuseum in Maastricht.

Upstairs at around 9 PM, a roast-chicken dinner was served on three long tables for two hundred chattering donors, curators, dealers and other supporters in the low-lit old reading room, still lined with dusty, dog-eared books. No place names meant the dinner was informal and slightly chaotic, a refreshing change from the hierarchical nature of many London social affairs. Wolfgang Tillmans (“Wait, don’t take a picture of me in front of the Hirst”), Paul Noble, Gary Webb, and Oehlen stayed on for the three Perrier Jouët–inflected courses that culminated in Blazwick’s appreciative speech. Most agreed that she had gathered an extraordinary range of stand-alone pieces with the kind of integrity rarely found in charity auctions. The Heritage Lottery Fund gave the initial £3.67 million to get the ball rolling so, without a single reference to the hotly speculative booming art market, we merrily thanked God for gambling.