“DISRUPT” MAY BE SILICON VALLEY’S favorite verb. Coined in the 1990s, the phrase “disruptive technologies” evokes the elimination of middlemen and the ousting of market juggernauts. But two decades later, we’re learning that the “empowerment” encouraged by such disruption isn’t always equally distributed. (Just Google “AirbnbWhileBlack.”)
If anything, what’s been “disrupted” most in the Bay Area are communities. Skyrocketing rents have notoriously pushed former city dwellers out to the last stops on the BART lines, only to have the displaced drive back into the city every day to Uber around the people who now live in their homes.
So perhaps it’s a relief that in its new expansion, SF MoMA avoided disruption altogether, sticking to a time-tested script when tailor-making its trophy case for the new old-money collection of Donald and Doris Fisher, founders of the Gap. A bastion for Bay Area blue-chip (with, as one curator tartly described it, a reigning “friends of Nancy Reagan” aesthetic), the Fisher Collection formerly housed its Warhols, Richters, Kiefers, and Ellsworth Kellys in Gap headquarters. In 2009, after detractors quashed plans to build the collection its own museum in the Presidio, the Fishers turned to SF MoMA, negotiating a one-hundred-year loan of the collection, a deal sweetened with a substantial contribution toward the construction of new galleries to showcase the bounty.
Left: Charles Schwab, chairman of the SF MoMA board. Right: Artist Rashaad Newsome, performer Justin Gomez, and SF MoMA curator Frank Smigiel at ArtBash.
At the helm for the overhaul was Snřhetta, the Oslo-based architects behind the September 11 Memorial & Museum. The addition nearly triples the space of the museum’s existing building, which was designed by Mario Botta as a postmodern pastiche centered around an “oculus” that scrolls up from the red brick base like a giant lipstick tube. Snřhetta’s crumpled, asymmetrical facade is supposed to hang over its predecessor like a cloud of fog, but it read more like a massive ice shelf, bearing down on the Botta building in its drive toward Yerba Buena Gardens.
The Botta effectively demoted, the museum’s de facto new oculus is the Fisher Collection. The nineteen exhibitions on display during last month’s preview kept rigid divides among the Fisher Collection, recent donated and pledged works from the museum’s Campaign for Art, and SF MoMA’s existing collection. The segregation meant missed opportunities for forging meaningful bonds among new acquisitions and a lot of retread territory. Like classic crewneck tees, when the Fishers found something they liked, they bought it in every color. Their collection galleries look like the results of multiple single-artist Google Image searches, with works from disparate eras lined up with little to no context to connect them. Some paintings—notably the Kellys and Agnes Martins—thrived in this kind of hang; others—the Baselitzs—were just bewildering.
When I tried to describe my impressions to Sam Orlofsky, who was busy manning Gagosian’s brand new outlet directly across Howard Street, he confessed: “I haven’t made it over yet, but so far everything I’ve seen looks amazing on Instagram.” Maybe that was the problem. In the morning press conference, chairman of the board Charles Schwab had lauded the SF MoMA as “smartphone friendly.”
Left: MoMA PS1 director Klaus Biesenbach with SF MoMA curator Gary Garrels. Right: Gagosian Gallery's Anna Gavazzi Asseily and Sam Orlofsky.
If the collection is an extension of a selfie, then what’s really on display is the museum’s collector base—largely white, largely conservative. Much has been made of the unfortunate placement of Charles Ray’s stainless steel sculpture of a slumbering homeless woman immediately in front of the first room of non-white-male artists. (Difference = poverty?) But Sleeping Woman’s proximity to the Christopher Wool painting might be worse. SF MoMA holds some impressive cards in its hand. What if instead of catering to the standard blue-chip they had reshuffled the deck, laying out the conflicting lineages of a city once identified as the countercultural capital of the world: Jay DeFeo, Jess, Wallace Berman, Emory Douglas, Martin Wong, even Wayne Thiebaud or Robert Bechtle? “Come and see me,” Lynn Hershman Leeson’s surrogates coo in her hilarious 1970s-era Commercial for Myself, on view alongside Ant Farm in one of the noticeably smaller, darker galleries of the Botta building. I wish I could have seen more of Hershman Leeson. As it was, California figured in most prominently as a backdrop, the muted, mutable setting behind Sandy Phillips’s sweeping survey of landscape photography (though upcoming shows of Bruce Connor and Anthony Hernandez could correct this omission).
To help us digest all of this, SF MoMA hosted a preview luncheon on the rooftop terrace. I skipped the dining tables and joined staff curators Rudolf Frieling and Dominic Willsdon in the garden, where we had a clear view of the city’s skyscrapers, including the Art-Decadent PacBell building. “That’s Yelp now,” Willsdon mused. Frieling pointed to another skyscraper: “LinkedIn.”
While Big Tech may have secured the skyline, there was still a lot on the ground that sang to “old” San Francisco. After the preview, I dropped by an afternoon cocktail celebrating Isaac Julien’s “Vintage” at Jessica Silverman, where Cesar Garcia, Carolyn Ramo, and Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn made moon eyes at outtakes from the artist’s sumptuous 1989 film Looking for Langston. Next up was the Kadist Art Foundation for a performance from Carlos Amorales’s ongoing “Cubismo ideológico” series. Amorales pounded the floor as Philippe Eustachon howled into a microphone, while the audience—including curators Hou Hanru, Evelyne Jouanno, and Jens Hoffmann—winced approvingly. “It’s like stumbling across Red Krayola in the 1960s,” Julian Myers noted with a sly smile.
From Kadist, I followed Hou and Jouanno to Southern Exposure, Laura Owen’s solo at the Wattis, and openings at Minnesota Street Projects, an ingenious gallery incubator meant to help patch up the city’s art community. Founded by collectors Deborah and Andy Rappaport, the converted warehouse offers steeply discounted gallery space and rotating project rooms, one of which featured a special guest-gallery appearance by Andrew Kreps and Anton Kern. Also on view—though for now, only by appointment—was David Ireland’s former house–cum–total artwork at 500 Capp Street, which had been rescued from the auction block by patroness Carlie Wilmans after tip-offs from Ann Hatch and curator Madeleine Grynsztejn. “We’d love to open it as a museum, but we’d never be able to meet all the requirements,” Wilmans confessed, nodding to the artist’s habit of cannibalizing the house’s foundations for material to make his quirkily subversive domestic interventions. Still, its extensive restructuring has left it ripe for dinner parties, a hallmark of Ireland’s practice.
The following night, SF MoMA feted its expansion with an ArtBash, setting liquored guests loose in their sprawling new museum. Inaugurating the White Box was Rashaad Newsome’s vogue showcase FIVE, which—when coupled with Alonzo King’s LINES Ballet corps gyrating atop the shrimp buffet—hit target titillation for the patron set. The artist crowd—which included Trevor Paglen, Tacita Dean, Barry McGee, Takeshi Murata, Zoe Crosher, and Julie Mehretu, who will produce two wall drawings for the museum’s foyer—drifted in and out of Tom Marioni’s The Act of Drinking Beer with Friends Is the Highest Form of Art, which was telling it like it is from the third-floor sculpture terrace.
That same night, across the bay, the Oakland Museum of California was drawing crowds of its own with a rowdy evening of open-mic performances and a “War Hoop Flash Mob,” all part of the kickoff for this year’s Open Engagement. The itinerant annual social practice conference began in 2007 as the thesis project of artist Jen Delos Reyes. Fashioned as its own kind of disruptive social technology, the weekend tackled its theme of “Power” using surprisingly similar terminology to SF MoMA’s patronage drive, including the well-worn bromide of “engaging audiences.”
Good intentions aside, by taking on “Power” so baldly, the conference also foregrounded some of its mechanisms. My very first event launched from the provocative hook that “Environmental Art (Social Practice) is for white people with no skin in the game,” and rapidly devolved from there. Another panel ended with the white-identified presenters sharing heartfelt stories of how they came to recognize their privilege, while their nonwhite cohort sat silently until the Q&A. At a roundtable stacked with six formidable women, the microphone was inexplicably bogarted by the sole male. Adjunct faculty from California College of the Arts staged multiple microactions to draw attention to their unlivable wage, but the unsustainable industry of art schools was left largely unchallenged. (Indeed, one UC school was there to workshop a new social-practice MFA.) The controversial introduction of an admission fee—eighty dollars, or fifty-five sans keynotes —and the oblique selection criteria for presenters (several of whom were no-shows) prompted protests, which Delos Reyes coopted by making her own “Boycott Open Engagement” T-shirts. She said she borrowed this tactic from Beyoncé, but, like Jay-Z’s absolution at the end of Lemonade, it somewhat undermined the spirit of the project.
But there were also genuinely inspired moments, not the least of which was the experience of being in the museum itself. Under the guidance of curator René de Guzman, the OMCA is finding creative, unpretentious ways to tell the unique histories around Oakland, whose own legacy is riddled with high-profile power struggles, many of which were name-checked in the museum’s crowd-pleasing feature “Altered State: Marijuana in California” (where I watched a young father grapple with whether or not he should help his kid reach the nose-holes of the “smell-station,” with its samples of “Grandaddy Purple,” “Pennywise,” and “Sour Diesel”).
Among other program highlights was “From Houdini to Snowden,” the Center for Tactical Magic’s exegesis on magic as a relationship predicated on an unequal distribution of knowledge, observing that Houdini’s most successful tricks were in escapology. (As artist Aaron Gach snarkily put it, “Now why would the masses want to see someone escape penal confines and overthrow authoritarian oppression?”) Similar themes rippled through ARTs East New York’s “Anti-Gentrification Tool-Kit,” where the crowd was all whistles and snaps as ReNewLot’s Tian Mao outlined steps he took to group-finance homes within his block of BedStuy. Those snaps turned to shudders when Mao mentioned Airbnb amid his funding strategies. (As if we weren’t all there but for the grace of guest rooms.)
Left: Center for Tactical Magic's Aaron Gach at Open Engagement. Right: Artist Jill Miller at Open Engagement.
Of course, the real power of the event collected around keynotes by Suzanne Lacy and Angela Davis. While Lacy kept it tight, eloquently surveying her latest projects, Davis opted for a more freeform, multimedia-driven delivery, that, quite frankly, made it hard to tell to what extent she was fucking with us.
Let me start over—she’s Angela Davis. That fact alone is enough to pack the house, and rightfully so. The meat of her argument, which centered on Marcuse, Kant, and Nelson Mandela’s idea of “softness” as “political potentiality,” touched on the paradoxical elitism of the democracy operating not only within Open Engagement, but also at the heart of all these “disruptive technologies.”
Davis took time to lament Hillary Clinton’s grievous “off the reservation” gaffe, as well as the closing notes of Kendrick Lamar’s otherwise astounding Grammy performance, criticizing his overlay of Compton and Africa. “Africa is far greater than one element of our origin story,” she snapped. “I guess here I could also talk about Beyoncé, but everyone’s talking about Beyoncé, so…” But the crowd wasn’t letting her get off that easy. “Let me repeat,” Davis began carefully. “You can enjoy something intensely and at the same time be ambivalent about it. I can appreciate the steps Beyoncé has taken, but there’s a corporate capitalist culture there that has to be critiqued.” So, who wins Davis’s seal of approval? Prince and Nina Simone, whose “Mississippi Goddam” Davis suggested was the true anthem of the civil rights movement.
The Q&A went as these things are wont, with a lot of telling of one’s truth and very little forming of one’s question. One woman announced that she had opened an organic farm, then wandered off into her conflicted feelings about her partner being white. “It’s great that you have an organic farm,” Davis intoned, weightily. “Look, there’s no two-week intensive for racism. We’re all implicated and we have to recognize that the work we are doing now might not be apparent for many generations. The frame of the world doesn’t consist of the day we are born and the day we die. This is collective work, this is community work, and it stretches across generations. We’re in community with people who have yet to be born.” Talk about power—that was the most disruptive statement all week.
Left: Bay Area Video Coalition's Lauren Marie Taylor with artist Jenifer K. Wofford at Open Engagement. Right: Artists Lunar New Year, Tatyana Fazlalizadeh, and Jess X Chen at Open Engagement.
EQUIPPED WITH NEW BALANCES (sneakers-as-fashion were made for Istanbul) and an iPhone with international data, I landed at the opening of Produce, the third SPOT Production Fund biennial, late last month, just a few hours after touching down at Atatürk airport. Even though I had visited the city before, I remained in need of cultural decoding, and not just the headset I donned for simultaneous translation during the mostly Turkish-language program.
Directed by SPOT cofounder Zeynep Öz, a former assistant curator of Ashkal Alwan’s Home Works festival in Beirut, Produce replicates the Home Works model on a smaller scale. (In Turkish, the festival is named Domates Biber Patlican, literally “tomatoes, peppers, eggplant,” the region’s signature vegetables and the title of a famous 1980s pop tune.) The event comprises commissioned works, exhibitions, films, talks, and performances that address issues in the area. This year’s theme, “The Game Settled into a Cagey Midfield Match,” took football as a metaphor for the political climate in Turkey and its neighboring countries. It also served as a cheeky reference to conservative president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s past as a semiprofessional soccer player.
The Beirut influence was clear throughout. “It’s a small city with a big presence,” said participating artists Roy Dib and Ahmad Ghossein, both based in the Lebanese capital. Istanbul, by contrast, is a large city with a tightly concentrated art scene, with most art events drawing a crowd of only a few dozen people. Produce devoted much of its program to lecture-performances interweaving history, personal anecdote, and a kind of magical realism, a genre codified by artists like Lebanese-born Walid Raad and Rabih Mroué. Ghossein and fellow Beiruti artist Haig Aivazian were two such lecture-performers presenting existing work at Produce. The roster also included Turkish participants such as Ali Taptik and Suna Kafadar; the former’s explored the transformation of his neighborhood of Osmanbey from a bourgeois quarter to a textile district, while family history, symbolism, and feminist theory formed the roots of Kafadar’s talk about lettuce.
As with Home Works, exhibitions form the backdrop to a week’s worth of discursive programming around the city. Three small group shows were installed along the main drag of Istiklal Caddesi, also the site of a suicide bombing just the month prior. Small presentations of previously exhibited “reference films” (by Turkish artist Inci Eviner and Greek artist Maria Papadimitriou) and guest-curated projects (by the Istanbul Biennial’s Özkan Canguven and Aichi Triennial’s Daniela Castro) complemented the commission program. Seven works produced by SPOT for the festival were installed on two residential floors tucked in the back of El Hamra Han, a covered arcade with stalls of cheap merchandise. The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it facade of the early-twentieth-century building almost disappeared among the glittery shops of Istiklal and Taksim Square, whose gentrification catalyzed the Gezi Park protests of 2013.
The commissioned artists were young, and so was the crowd on opening night, as twenty- and thirtysomethings packed into the three shows. The art in El Hamra Han touched on the unmistakable role of history and artist-run spaces, represented here by torna, a project space headed by Merve Kaptan in Kadiköy across the Bosphorus. Other works considered the simmering issue of gender inequality, like Çiçek Kahraman’s Dara Birnbaum–esque, GIF-like montage of homoerotic Turkish fighting scenes from ’70s films and Sena Başöz’s series of “Nurse” performances. The vernissage ended with a packed performance of Brazilian artist Ricardo Cŕstro’s cathartic, glitter-speckled Cards on the Table, where participants “danced like fire” and hurled glass vials of paint at a wall.
At an afterparty at COOP, several people asked me how the US media had covered the recent bombings in Turkey. They were rightly critical of my home country’s gloss on the Middle East. To be fair, though, misinformation goes both ways. A bearded designer told me it would be “so funny” if Trump were elected, “Until he bombs us, that is. But Bernie Sanders is winning anyway, right?” Sadly, not quite. Upstairs, the crowd danced to American hits from ’60s soul through Prince’s “I Wanna Be Your Lover.” Thoroughly jet-lagged, I returned to my hotel at Taksim Square after back-to-back Brooklyn bangers by Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Biggie Smalls. Finally connecting to stable Wi-Fi, I realized that Prince had died and I didn’t know. Maybe it was because everyone was speaking Turkish. Or, more likely, the death of an American musical icon didn’t register with the same shock in a country faced with the possibility of war.
Left: Produce's Film and Production coordinator Elif Uluca and Blitz Theater Group's Giorgos Valais. Right: Saturday Mothers protest.
The political polarization was impossible to overlook, even during a week of relative calm. On Saturday morning I set off for SALT Galata, the sole venue in Istanbul these days of the multipronged art and research organization directed by Vasif Kortun. My heart thudded as I encountered star-and-crescent flags unfurled from business windows and police in riot gear along Istiklal across from Galatasary Lisesi, just blocks from the March 19 bombing. I had stumbled upon a protest organized by Saturday Mothers, a group who have met weekly since May 1995 to mourn the loss of nearly eight hundred “disappeared” people from the Kurdish region. This week’s protest also coincided with National Sovereignty and Children’s Day, a day that leftists want to abolish and conservative parties want to continue celebrating.
Övül O. Durmusoglu, a curator based between Berlin and Istanbul, explained that Children’s Day was viewed as particularly distasteful this year, given the child sexual abuse carried out in apartments rented by the Ensar Foundation, an NGO backed by Erdoğan’s AKP party. Over drinks on the roof of Grand Hotel de Londres, a lovably shabby-chic hotel that seems not to have renovated its decor since its opening in 1892, Durmusoglu pointed out Isil Egrikavuk’s thirty-second video projected at the top of Marmara Pera Hotel several hundred feet away. Produced by Durmusoglu’s organization YAMA, Egrikavuk’s video flashes text roughly translated as the tongue-in-cheek directive “Eve, finish your apple!” followed by an animation of a woman becoming the fruit. Three days after the opening, the video was removed by officers from the Beyoglu Municipality.
“The woman question,” as well as religion’s role in policing gender and sexual norms, was raised repeatedly over the weekend. A straightforward lecture by Zeynep Oktay explained the discipline of religious studies—outlawed in Turkey, to the surprise of many audience members. A sports-themed commissioned dance-theater performance by Onur Karaoğlu narrated a homosexual encounter between an American and Turkish man in the ’70s that ended in violence (yet was cast, strangely, with a man and a woman).
The week’s headliner was Athens-based Blitz Theatre Group’s Late Night (2012), presented in Istanbul for the first time. The ninety-minute work about the universal trauma of war is punctuated by statements about love and loss in wartime, stripped bare of political details: “In those days, as soon as we would hear the planes roar, we would go out and dance.” Vancouver-based art historian T’ai Smith, who delivered a brilliant lecture on Duchamp’s work in relationship to turn-of-the-century “fashion capitalism,” argued afterward about the company’s brilliant use of irony. Yet it was clear that the conceptual theater makers aimed for an emotional resonance beyond Brechtian tactics. At a late post-performance dinner over plenty of raki— the Turkish version of ouzo—cofounder Yorgos Valais pontificated on the nature of love, otherness, and the evils of Tinder. Yet he was quick to admit he was “never a hippie.” At a closed workshop later in the week on the subject of a fictional “Institute of Global Solitude,” Blitz’s Christos Passalis explained, “We are not interested in theory as performance. We are interested in cultivating intuition and atmosphere.”
My final night in Istanbul was capped off by Netherlands-based Yuki Okumura’s performance tying together the themes of translation and ghostly, enduring presence. In an under-construction hotel adjacent to a new upscale restaurant called Colonie, a short walk from the Istanbul Modern, Okumura staged a lecture he wrote about the legacy of On Kawara. The talk considered Kawara’s conceptual oscillation between absence and presence. Substituting both Okumura and Kawara’s bodies were seven native Turkish speakers delivering live translations of Okumura’s English text that they listened to on headphones. The interpreters—a mix of professional translators and amateurs—seemed in a trance, eyes closed as they concentrated on the text they were hearing for the first time. “I really felt the presence of the artist,” said Sena Basöz. Okumura, for his part, sat alone at Colonie during the performance. Afterward, he greeted us anxiously and asked, “So, how many people showed up?”
THE LAST PLACE I expected to see art by Tony Cragg and Jenny Holzer was in downtown Las Vegas. What was I thinking? The whole town is a global city of art—or, rather, artifice. Here’s the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. There’s the Roman Forum, the Doges Palace, a castle for a latter-day King Arthur who gives you easy odds.
“I think the worst crime you can commit in Las Vegas is irony,” observed artist Jessica Craig-Martin. We were there to document a project by Ugo Rondinone for the Art Production Fund—but first things first. We set to work doing what everyone in Vegas does—kill time. Only instead of bowing to the depressing twilight of a casino, we moved into the sun on the hotel strip to hunt for secondhand treasure pawned by people who had lost their shirts. (Diamond-studded cock ring, anyone?)
Imagine a town where the most tasteful piece of architecture is a Trump International Hotel, and you understand what we were up against. Then again, the barrage of glitz is partly what inspired Rondinone to place Seven Magic Mountains—his biggest and brightest public artwork to date—among the snakes in the Mojave Desert, ten miles to the south.
To make it happen, APF cofounders Yvonne Force Villareal and Doreen Remen practically had to move mountains of their own. From design to execution, the project took five years and required the cooperation of competing federal, state, and county agencies and the support of MGM Resorts. They also needed the engineering expertise of the Las Vegas Paving Corporation, which moved thirty-three forty-four-thousand-pound limestone boulders from their quarry to the site, hard by Jean Dry Lake, stacked them in pillars roughly thirty feet high, secured them to the land, and prepared the access road from I-15.
Now the May 9 day of reckoning was here. Come cocktail hour, two hundred guests invited to a champagne reception by the APF and the Nevada Museum of Art, its producing partner in this scheme, would board tour buses from the Aria Resort and Casino to a half-acre of desert dotted with creosote and cactus. On the way, we passed a road sign that read, SEVEN MAGIC MOUNTAINS, NEXT EXIT. No clue to motorists whizzing by at 85 mph that it signaled art ahead, not another casino.
Tiny spots of bright color appeared in the distance. Against the McCullough mountain range behind it, Rondinone’s stuttering line of hot pink, sea blue, pitch-black, sunset orange, blinding white, hard silver, grass green, chartreuse, and magenta totems looked a little like a leftover encampment from Burning Man—or fossilized visitors from a Planet Mardi Gras.
“They’re way more phallic than they were small,” said Sadie Coles, referring to the domestically scaled “mountains” her gallery in London showed last fall. “I must tell Ugo.” Barbara Gladstone was more than pleased to be among them, if the broad smile that never left her face was any clue. Dealer Eva Presenhuber also came along for the ride, dressed in an orange blouse to match the boulders in that color. Never mind that the invitation had suggested white cocktail attire and “desert appropriate” footwear. NMA trustee Denise Cashman also arrived in a dress as pink as the stones, and platform sandals.
“It’s even better and more beautiful than we expected,” said APF director Casey Fremont of the artworks, before mingling with Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art director Tarissa Tiberti, NMA trustee Bill Prezant, curator JoAnne Northrup, and Fremont’s parents, Shelly and Artnews CEO Vincent Fremont. “Isn’t this wonderful?” Fremont mčre said.
Actually, it was hot and windy, but once the sun began to set, the irradiated colors of the stones deepened and grew ever more luminescent. They really did seem magical, especially marooned out there in the brown desert. The dry lake has played a significant role in the history of contemporary art before. It not only was where Jean Tinguely and Niki de Saint Phalle exploded a sculpture in the 1960s but was also the spot where Michael Heizer dug two of his earliest works of Land art, in 1970, both now gone.
Rondinone didn’t know that when he chose the site. It just made the most sense for an artwork that would have to compete with the magnificent expanse of the landscape and also be suitable to Las Vegas, he said. (It will stay on view for two years.) The person who led him to it was G. Robert Deiro, aka Count Guido Roberto Deiro, the man who located several sites for Heizer, including Double Negative. “I’ve worked with Michael for many years,” he said. “We’re close.”
Another piece of art history walked by in the shoes of Gianfranco Gorgoni, the photographer who documented all of Heizer’s work in Nevada, as well as art by the likes of Joseph Beuys, Richard Serra, Dan Flavin, and Walter De Maria. He was doing the same for Seven Magic Mountains. Out here in the desert, the avant-garde still lives.
Looking more like a country-and-western star than a museum executive, NMA director and CEO David Walker began the opening ceremonies. “You never know where you’ll find public art,” he said, before passing the mic to Force Villareal, Prezant, the CEO of MGM Resorts Jim Murren, and various government officials. Finally, Rondinone gave one of the most tactful speeches I’ve ever heard. It complimented everyone present in blissfully straightforward terms. “Let the magic begin!” he concluded. “Viva Las Vegas!”
And back to town we went—to dinner at the Bardot Brasserie on the Aria’s mall-like mezzanine. Seven palm-size stones, each painted a color that Rondinone used on “7MM,” as people were calling it, were for sale at the door, discounted for the evening at five hundred dollars each. Beth Rudin DeWoody snapped up a complete set.
Prior to this evening, the APF had scandalized some in the art world when it unleashed a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for the Rondinone project. The raised eyebrows asked why an artist represented by several blue-chip dealers, with numerous collectors around the world and the support of a museum, would need to elicit further donations from the public.
“First of all,” Force Villareal told me, “Kickstarter came to us and asked if they could feature Seven Magic Mountains on their platform.” The idea, she said, wasn’t to shame Rondinone’s gallerists or patrons, but to involve the local community and attract them to the site. “The response has been great,” she said, adding that the fifty thousand dollars Kickstarter brought in was a drop in the bucket of the $3.5 million total, including unsexy costs for permits, road improvements, carving, and engineering. The rest she raised privately, which wasn’t easy. “No naming rights!” she said.
Donors were all around us. Members of the philanthropic VIA Art Fund had a table to themselves. So did the crew from Las Vegas Paving. I asked project manager Danny Fitzgerald how this job compared to his usual work. “It was the total opposite of what I normally do,” he sputtered. “Usually, I have to break up stones into little pieces, not bring boulders weighing forty-four thousand pounds down the road and pile them into towers! That was new.” Frankly, for a man who helped to build the wild fantasies of Las Vegas, it didn’t seem such a stretch.
“It made me feel so happy!” exclaimed Sandra Fairchild, a consultant who had secured the permits from the Bureau of Land Management but was introduced to me as a former US Army soldier and a crack shot. “They don’t understand art,” she said of the BLM agents. “That’s partly why this took five years.” On the other hand, she added, art has been out there for millennia—in the form of petroglyphs, thousands of them, on the natural mountains beyond.
If not for their non-glare, graffiti-resistant paint, Rondinone’s artwork might be seen as bringing coals to Newcastle. Not by him. “It’s like putting Land art together with Pop art,” he said.
The following morning, for context, Craig-Martin and I went with Rondinone on a hunt for Double Negative, about ninety minutes away. His other half, poet John Giorno, was also in the SUV, with Presenhuber and her sister Gertrude. This was their second try. Two days earlier, with only a GPS signal for a guide, Rondinone had driven them around for hours and never come across it.
Left: Land art site locator and Seven Magic Mountains project manager Count Guido Roberto Diero. Right: Nevada Museum of Art director and CEO David Walker.
Double Negative isn’t on a map. It doesn’t send out signals. So this time, we headed out with explicit directions from the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. (The museum owns the work, thanks to a gift from Virginia Dwan, the legendary dealer and collector who funded and bought the work originally.) MoCA director Philippe Vergne had assured me an easy-peasy time.
We had a little trouble finding Mormon Mesa. It was harder to see the road leading to the site. Everything around us looked the same, so Rondinone drove with the rim of the Virgin River gorge in sight. “This is how many art people it takes to find a piece of Land art,” Craig-Martin said, as we went this way and that. But we were close and everyone knew it. I could feel Rondinone’s excitement. I had it too. And suddenly there it was, the northern cut—a rectangular gash extending down a sandy fifty-foot slope and leading out to the gap dividing it from its twin on the other side.
“I can’t believe we made it!” Rondinone shouted, and down the slope we went, sliding into the cut, its formerly razor-straight walls now badly eroded, if Gorgoni’s 1970 photos are any indication. “You can see how he sliced them,” Giorno said, looking down from above. The structure and the colors of the stone were almost ornate. “I’m glad we came,” Rondinone said, “but the point is really about finding it.” He spoke too soon. We still had to get back to Vegas.
Probably it wasn’t a great idea to try this kind of thing in the noonday sun. The ignition locked. This is how many art people it takes to start a car, I thought, while Giorno tinkered and the rest of us baked. Finally, the engine came to life and off we went—until, out of nowhere, the gorge loomed into view, and we had a six-alarm shriek of a Thelma & Louise moment, with a narrow escape that I’ll never forget.
Land art is amazing. The scale. The beauty. The audacity. No wonder Rondinone wanted to take part in this tradition. “Goodbye, Double Negative,” he called out. “You brought a lot of joy today.” ’Nuff said.
ON A RECENT SUNDAY—mock hatred of Brooklyn (the boonies of Red Hook), galas (the third annual Village Fete), and bad weather (spitting rain) being fodder for all the talk I’ve heard before—imagine just how pleasing it was to find that the “cultural elite” (those paying anywhere from $1,000 to $2,500 for seats at the Pioneer Works dinner) and the civilians and noncomped alike (PR Girls, reporters from Artnews) found something real to get riled up about.
“Three out of eight planets are in retrograde!” said a man seated on one of three white picnic benches around the backyard bonfire that is the reason my borough-inappropriate Altuzarra dress is now at the dry cleaner’s. (Stella Schnabel: “You’re the kind of writer who can’t pronounce anything, aren’t you?” when I did my “It sounds like Al Jazeera” thing.) I might have enlightened the man that it’s five planets, had he not already fallen out of society’s graces by introducing himself thusly: “I’m an artist. You’ve probably heard of me.” As to pickup lines, no man of interest bothered with the common refrain of “smoke follows beauty,” instead focusing his attention, as the truly famous should, on other famous men. “I don’t want to lose the opportunity to work with my hands,” said Peter Sarsgaard, staring deep into the flames. “I know,” said Girls actor and fellow Brooklynite Ebon Moss-Bachrach. “I know just what you’re talking about.”
“Mercury is in retrograde,” said a girl with the list when I first walked into the party at 6 PM and she couldn’t find my name. (I did not opt for the SoHo-Brooklyn shuttle; I was on the press list.) If I were to be especially generous, I would gather that she mentioned Mercury’s in retrograde because it’s so often associated with computer glitches and technological mishap and that was Pioneer Works’s PR push for the night: “This year’s benefit emphasized innovation, supported by a burgeoning partnership with Google, who created site-specific virtual reality stations where guests could paint, sketch, and sculpt in 3D using the new Tilt Brush App.” No one said much of anything about the VR. A man hired by Google redacted his entire interview, and he was sweating so much about revealing information that to me didn’t sound revealing, I’ll just leave it out. Reality is entertaining enough for me: I added my name to the VR station list, right after an elderly man who was enthusiastically explaining the structure of DNA to his leggy blonde companion cut him off with a bright-toothed “INTERESTING!”
Left: Choreographer Bill T. Jones with Brooklyn Museum director Anne Pasternak. Right: Artist Carol Bove.
The Met gala, the following night, was also on a science kick—“Manus x Machina: Fashion in the Age of Technology”—though that invitation-only experience cost 29/30th more per ticket than the Pioneer Works fete. Limited googling would suggest that the guest lists didn’t overlap. Except perhaps in mind-set; i.e., delusional thinking only truly great philanthropy can foster. (Artist and Pioneer Works founder Dustin Yellin on the new partnership: “I think Google is really cool. I don’t think they got into it for money.”)
A few things from the dinner party I’ll chalk up to astrology’s thwarting imperative, despite the fact that I apparently willingly overstayed the event, clocking in at four hours and fifty-two minutes, wandering from tiki bar to backyard to the $300/photo booth (monopolized by Swizz Beatz and Alicia Keys): a placard for “Jake Gyllenhaal” at the head of a table catercorner to me with an empty chair in front of it. Sister Maggie was in attendance. (For what it’s worth, this behavior isn’t without parallel: She graduated from Columbia, while Jake dropped out after two years.) The food that, to my knowledge, passed not my lips: roasted bass, dandelion pesto, oysters.
Speaking of aphrodisiacs—and hard-working PR women—I missed my “exclusive” with Monica Lewinsky. I had been told she was “very nervous about reporters,” but she was willing to make an exception since I’m “an art reporter.” My dinner seatmate, the writer Ben Lerner, and I worked out that I could finagle a question about Walt Whitman past the Eagle Eye of PR, what with Whitman’s recently unearthed columns championing the Paleo diet and fretting about “manly virility.” (That Bill, per the Starr report, gave Monica a copy of Leaves of Grass continues to delight.) Personally, my interests tend to skew conspiracy: the Clintons’ alleged theft of art from the White House when they moved out. Talk about humanizing Mrs. Clinton with young women—a klepto! Upstairs, Stacy London, the host of What Not to Wear with the signature Sontag stripe in her hair, detailed her interests to a tarot reader stationed outside the leafy tiki lounge: “I just want to know where I’m supposed to be on the temporal end of things.” By the time I exited the packed bar, a new woman had taken her place. “What kind of energy work do you do?” she asked the reader. “All kinds. All of the kinds.” They exchanged business cards.
David Byrne wore a blue suit. Fitting that he didn’t seem to be having that good of a time, having written the gala theme song: “Same as it ever was / Same as it ever was / Same as it ever was.” I didn’t miss the million times in a lifetime chance to talk to celebrities who don’t care about art about art. Liv Tyler, wide-eyed like a deer, like someone who seems physiologically incapable of lowly human emotion, who’s known Yellin since they were sixteen: “Oh God. I don’t know if I own any art.” Then, perking up, “I have photographs! Does that count?” Her friend assured her that photographs are art. “And I have some of Dustin’s things, but I think they were gifts,” she continued carefully. Maggie Gyllenhaal, now that I compare them, also talks with the slow, crystallized enunciation of someone who can count on being interrupted before anything that could plausibly be defined as a “conversation.” In fact, a friend did interrupt, and they giggled at her response to the art question: “Malerie Marder is a photographer that…used to date my husband, and we have a lot of her work.”
Don’t get me wrong, Dustin Yellin: Even Brooklyn isn’t without astral pull. “Dustin Yellin is the greatest hustler south of Harlem,” the MC reminded us at the dinner auction, perhaps misguidedly. Or maybe not. As Thomas Mann said Degas said, “An artist must approach his work in the spirit of the criminal about to commit a crime.”
ARRIVING IN NICE, I boarded a Tesla driven by a chauffeur who looked like a young Isabelle Huppert wearing a silk pantsuit and a five-hundred-dollar Hermčs Kelly bracelet, named for Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco. This principality, the second smallest (after the Vatican) and second most densely populated (after Macau) sovereign state in the world—3/4 square mile holding forty thousand people—was our destination. After thirty minutes of whipping past palm trees lining an immaculate coast road, we finally reached a snarl of Italian sports cars, scaffoldings, and high-rises, upon which my driver announced: “Welcome to Monaco: We are under construction!”
The occasion for my visit was a confluence of activities timed with the debut of artmonte-carlo—yes, another fair, this one organized by Art Genčve at the Grimaldi Forum in the center of town (not that everywhere isn’t essentially the center of town). While my hotel was technically in Beausoleil, France, the other side of the street was Monaco, and Wednesday night it only took about five minutes to traverse the country via two hundred ancient steps leading down to 11 Columbia gallery, opposite the Forum.
Fresh off dual museum shows in Los Angeles, a Robert Mapplethorpe opening was winding down and wandering up the block to a local institution called Cafe Sass for a dinner hosted by Franco Noero. The ruby-tinted Riviera brasserie has a blown up black-and-white photo of the owner with Lady Gaga by the bathrooms, and French lounge singers reminiscent of inebriated aunts doing Top 40 covers from Adele’s “Hello” to Nicki Minaj’s “Starships” by the piano up front. I sat down with a crew that had come fifty paces from the Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM): curator Cristiano Raimundi; Ayr’s Alessandro Bava, who was finishing the exhibition design for a Francesco Vezzoli exhibition opening the following night; and Vezzoli’s squad of assistants (the artist relayed by text that he was nursing a back injury in the hotel). Occupying two building on opposite ends of town, the museum’s Villa Sauber is directly between Cafe Sass and artmonte-carlo. The nation is like a dollhouse.
Left: Curator Chris Sharp (left). Right: Nouveau Musée National de Monaco curator Cristiano Raimondi and Fiorucci Art Trust director Milovan Farronato.
As dinner turned to dancing, it became apparent that the foreign businessmen and local ladies in sequin dresses had been looking for one another all evening. I was introduced to someone described as a princess of former Yugoslavia, and I noticed how very much intact is the monarchy of Monaco: Above the bar, just as in every establishment, there is a faded portrait of the crown prince and princess, prominently placed like a picture of Ataturk.
Thursday afternoon the Monaco art scene converged on the Babylonian-chic home of collectors Anne and Pierre Nouvion" nofollow="nofollow">Pierre Nouvion in Cap D’Ail to celebrate the fair, scheduled to open the following day. The out-of-towners arrived: Pinault Foundation’s Caroline Bourgeois, Air de Paris’s Florence Bonnefous, Lulu’s Chris Sharp, Galerie Gmurzynska’s Mitchell Anderson. Polite conversation plinked in the modern sitting rooms and by the jade infinity pool and on the lawn overlooking the Mediterranean. As the day’s heat settled we returned to town to visit the home of London-based Italian collector Nicoletta Fiorucci, who had just finished renovating an apartment in the landmarked Trocadero building into what, for now, is mostly being used as an ad hoc gallery to restage a Riccardo Paratore show. Titled “Simulacrum Next Door,” some chambers are built with the artist’s purplish, distressed Barcelona furniture knockoffs, into which are etched intimate snippets of text messages. Lilies sprout from mirrors as surreal wall adornments. And in keeping with a salon style, small works from Fiorucci’s collection have been placed throughout other rooms: Morandi drawings, a Bernadette Corporation print bearing the monogram BC, and, tucked into a closet, a Sylvie Fleury shopping bag that reads CHANEL: 31, RUE CHAMBON. An international array of well-heeled Monegasque friends toured the show, or paused on the veranda for a serene view of the sea. A dachshund responded excitably to the popping of a bottle of Ruinart. There was speculation that he might be addicted.
artmonte-carlo opened on Friday. You might not call a fair “site-specific,” but galleries certainly customized their selections with blingy offerings fit for this city of gold. At Almine Rech, the same Fleury Chanel shopping bag, and a rainbow John Giorno: PREFER CRYING IN A LIMO TO LAUGHING ON A BUS; around the corner at Art Concept : Paris, an almost twenty-foot-long limo by Adam McEwen printed to a kitchen sponge, and a gold-plated sapling by Michel Blazy. There was a grid of thirty books coated in gold by Peter Wuthrich at Christian Stein Milano / Casamadre Napoli and a gleaming Jacob Kassay painting at Cortesi Gallery. In the downstairs salon, nearly equal real estate was given to nonprofit and artist-run spaces. The winning stand came from this section: Mexico City’s Lulu, with a solo presentation by Brooklyn-based Parisian painter Victoria Roth, whose quasi-abstract drawings appear both furry and intestinal.
The Vezzoli show had previewed the day before. The galleries are hung with portraits of Marlene Dietrich, faux works in the style of masters like Modigliani, Matisse, Magritte, Bacon. That night the artist was present for a durational performance in which he channeled the diva, corseted into a black velvet Prada gown, seated in the back of the cinema in an upstairs gallery, watching films of her, as her, for nearly six hours as a never-ending queue peeked into the room to join in watching or for photos.
This was one of many performances unfolding as part of Monaco’s inaugural Nuit Blanche—organized by Jörg Heiser with Cristina Recupero and Leonardo Bigazzi—on Larvotto Beach, on the Boulevard Princesse Grace, and elsewhere throughout the city. A cast of Tino Sehgal interpreters roamed the Japanese Garden as Doug Aitken orchestrated the skywriting of a mystic spiral overhead. “It’s strange,” Aitken said after, as we took seats at a beach bar in the sand with Hans Ulrich Obrist, Suad Garayeva of YARAT Contemporary Art Space in Baku, and the cast of characters who had been ping-ponging around villas all week. “Yesterday I was in Detroit, getting a tour of destruction by an art student, and now we’re here.” As if on cue, the next performance began, by Christian Waldvogel, in which a very expensive toy stationed on a platform in the bay, a helicopter, was blasted with water and lights as it struggled to take off, casting an incandescent spray into the air until it broke free and disappeared into the sky.
The following evening was the capstone of an opulent week, in which Prada feted the exhibition with a lavish cocktail party at the museum. Midway through the evening, outside the pink and seashell belle époque palace, the lights dimmed and the music cut. A figure appeared from a balcony: the unmistakable visage of Fassbinder muse Barbara Sukowa. Glassy and haunted, like a Vezzoli adoration of a woman such as she, the actress indifferently draped herself from the windows as she sang four songs by Dietrich in German. The entire party was rapt, or you might say the entire nation: After all, the guest of honor was Princess Caroline herself, modern and unassuming, watching this decadent little opera.
Left: Marie-Claude Beaud, director of the Nouveau Musée National de Monaco, with Serpentine artistic director Hans Ulrich Obrist. Right: Francesco Vezzoli as Dietrich.
THE FIFTH EDITION of Frieze New York arrived last week in a frenzy of the best gallery exhibitions in years. Gerhard Richter? Whoa. Anish Kapoor? Okay, wow. Richard Serra? Gotta say. Josh Kline, Jordan Wolfson, Alicja Kwade, and more. Way more. Way!
The air was ten degrees cooler than it should have been on Wednesday, May 4, when Frieze opened for VIP previews, raining as usual. Everyone complained. No one stayed home.
Getting through Midtown gridlock to the East Ninetieth Street ferry for Randall’s Island took an hour. On the ferry, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it was Venice.
That didn’t work.
Next year, maybe Frieze can set up in the ruins of the loony bin on Roosevelt island. Seems fitting. And reachable by tram.
Inside the big tent, people wanted to know what the new Frieze/IMG partnership was really about. Many hoped it would bring the fair closer to Manhattan. The Javits Center, one rumor had it. IMG produces sports events. Should we be thinking Madison Square Garden?
At Marlow & Sons, one of the overcrowded and overpriced pop-up canteens at the fair, Frieze cofounders Matthew Slotover and Amanda Sharp were talking to a reporter and playing their cards close to the chest. “I like to underpromise and overdeliver in life,” Sharp allowed.
Maybe Frieze could move into the old, Eero Saarinen–designed TWA terminal at JFK? It’s farther away, but at least it’s an artwork.
Sascha Bauer, a collector, positioned himself at the front of the Massimo De Carlo stand, as if he were the dealer. “It’s nice that they keep the number of VIPs here for the preview low,” Bauer remarked. What? The aisles were nearly impassable. I saw swarms of others from New York, Dallas, London, San Francisco, Basel, and Turin. They were dressed better than usual this year. Does that mean anything?
Somewhere in the crowd was a pickpocket whom Frieze Projects artist David Horovitz had hired to “gift” unsuspecting fairgoers with small sculptures. Moving targets, all. Speaking of targets, it was only a matter of time before someone brought a firearm into the fair. Artist Christopher Chiappa hid a rifle trained on the aisle behind the peephole in a wall at Kate Werble’s stand. “I think it’s good for a fair,” Werble said. “There’s always an undercurrent.” Of what? Violence? Perversity?
In the fair’s Spotlight section—for twentieth-century art—museums were among the first-line buyers. At P420 Gallery, MoMA landed two “acoustic drawings” from 1973 by ninety-year-old Milan Grygar. The Pompidou Foundation snapped up the 1970s Mary Kellys at Pippy Houldsworth. That was a long time coming.
Foksal Foundation Gallery had not-to-be-missed drawings by Henryk Stażewski and the late Polish surrealist Erna Rosenstein. Stażewski was an important figure in Warsaw. He also painted his shoes. Near the south entrance, MCA Chicago chief curator Michael Darling was conferring with Stéphane Aquin, his counterpart at the Hirshhorn. Art fairs really are best for talking about art.
What if Frieze pitched its tent in Central Park, at Wollman Rink? Let Donald Trump pay for it.
Left: Comme des Garçon designer Rei Kawakubo. Right: Artists Pat Steir, Richard Tuttle, and Kiki Smith.
In the Frame section—“the kindergarten of the fair,” as one dealer put it—Portikus curator Fabian Schöneich, who organized it with curator Jacob Proctor, said, “This is not a group show. It’s eighteen solo proposals.”
One artist, Liu Shiyuan, created an immersive House of Propaganda for Leo Xu’s booth, where sayings like “Take Great Care Not to Miss the Small Things” were printed on an array of gaily patterned fabrics. I felt lost in translation.
The grid is far from dead. But for her American debut on the floor of Săo Paulo’s Jacqueline Martins booth, Brazilian artist Deborah Bolsani installed paintings on standing lids from cardboard boxes to look like tilted headstones.
Newly minted author Simon de Pury, at the fair to promote The Auctioneers: Adventures in the Art Trade, stopped to Instagram the gold-toothed Michele Lamy, who was dressed in Rick Owens topped by a headdress of stubby antlers.
But wait. Clothing designer Nhu Duong, wearing a voluminous black leather Comme des Garçons motorcycle jacket, was standing on Cooper Jacoby’s steel mesh platform at David Lieske’s Mathew Gallery when who should swoop into the Jack Shainman booth across the aisle but Rei Kawakubo—in a gold motorcycle jacket. Moment!
Seconds later, Hamilton producer Jeffrey Seller swung into view with Art Production Fund cofounder Yvonne Force Villareal. “Congratulations!” I said, wondering if I could ask for tickets. “Thank you!” he said, friendly as all get-out. Then he was gone.
Société’s booth was wall-to-wall refrigerators filled with white bottles of Soylent.
What’s Soylent? It’s gag-worthy liquid food designed by and for millennials who think sitting down to wonderful meals with friends is a waste of time.
Artist Sean Raspet, whose invisible subjects are flavors and smells, had mixed a new prototype for Soylent. Dressed in wrinkle-free, temperature-resistant gray uniforms by Duong, he and the gallery staff were giving the stuff away. “Nothing for sale!” shouted dealer Daniel Wichelhaus. Good luck with that.
It’s all about timing. “I’ve been dragging this around for years,” said dealer Toby Webster of a wall-bound ceramic by Liz Larner at the Modern Institute stand. “Today I could have sold it six times.”
Even though he isn’t mayor anymore, Michael Bloomberg made his ritual circumnavigation of the fair, shaking hands and waving hello. The current mayor, Bill de Blasio, did not appear. Probably, he couldn’t get there. No limo.
Back in Manhattan, Metro Pictures opened its doors after several months’ renovation with a show of new photographs by Cindy Sherman. New Yorker critic Peter Schjeldahl heartily approved. “There’s a new vulnerability,” he said.
“Did you see the pickpocket?” asked Frieze Projects director Cecilia Alemani? I hadn’t. “Check your purse,” she replied. When I got home, I found a silver sculpture—of kissing seahorses. Never knew!
Sherman wore red to her opening, and clothes she put together from junk-shop finds in her pictures, which she printed on metal using a heat-transfer process that is very like ironing a patch on a T-shirt. That relieved the images of frames and distorting glass, leaving no barriers between viewer and subject. Each, including one picture that features multiple personalities, looked just like women from my high school graduating class, forty years on. Uncanny.
Eric Bogosian came to the dinner at La Sirena in the Maritime Hotel. So did Pictures generation peeps Louise Lawler and Robert Longo, and Sherman’s older sister Betsy Leite, who had their own room in the restaurant while the other seated a passel of museum people—the New Museum’s Lisa Phillips and Massimiliano Gioni, the Whitney’s Adam Weinberg and Donna De Salvo, MoMA’s Roxana Marcoci and Klaus Biesenbach, the Studio Museum’s Thelma Golden, and collector Eli Broad, whose museum in Los Angeles is staging a Sherman retrospective from his own collection. “We’re really happy,” he said, and looked it.
Meanwhile, downtown, the Cultivist was celebrating its first anniversary in the Church Street Boxing Club, where the evening’s curator, artist Cheryl Pope, started things off in a knockdown sparring match with Shaun Leonardo. Way to vent!
Thursday brought such a bonanza it was hard to know where to go first. Before heading up to Gavin Brown to see new portrait drawings by Alex Katz, collectors Alain Servais and Eva Ruiz stopped into Josh Kline’s posthuman show at 47 Canal, and pronounced it the best in town – all too soon!
Daniel Buchholz had Cerith Wyn Evans. The twins Gert and Uwe Tobias made ceramics and tattoo-ready paintings for Team. Josephine Meckseper launched a new book at Printed Matter. Roni Horn and Julie Ault curated a text-only Félix González-Torres show for Andrea Rosen that was all about the ballooning presence of absence. Lehmann Maupin had a bright new crop of neons, paintings, drawings, and bronzes by Tracey Emin. And Tom Sachs had one of his best shows of lovingly handmade, common objects at Jeffrey Deitch. “It’s very neat,” commented collector Sandy Brant. “Tom has a reverence for clean,” Deitch replied.
As if all that weren’t enough, such high-level artists as Kerry James Marshall and Jack Whitten came to David Zwirner for a show of new paintings by Luc Tuymans, and a long line formed for Jordan Wolfson’s latest dialogue with perversity—a blaming and self-hating new robot that looked for love in every pair of eyes and pushed every emotional button around. “It would have been better if it was a woman,” said artist Sarah Morris. “That’s my opinion,” Wolfson said, “I just used my intuition.”
And to cap it off, Richard Tuttle organized and designed a breathtaking career retrospective for Pace with examples from twenty-six shows past. Breathtaking. “No one knows what’s real,” he said. “I’m using art to find out.”
Ten times the number of people at the gallery showed up for a buffet dinner at the Top of the Standard, where Marc Glimcher and Fairfax Dorn led the dancing to a Mexican band that had played at their wedding. It was, after all, Cinco de Mayo, and so the Americano naturally had a party hosted by Zona Maco founder Zelika Garcia. “I met Zelika when I was still a journalist,” said Art Basel director Marc Spiegler, while Gabriel Orozco mourned the increasing commercialization of the art world. “We need to have more subtlety,” he said. “New York is too shiny and noisy.”
Left: Photographers Vinoodh Matadin and Inez van Lamsweerde. Right: Dealer Sadie Coles and artist Jordan Wolfson.
Friday night brought yet more hard-to-miss openings, including a popup of monumental Chris Martin paintings in Ugo Rondinone’s Harlem studio and Richard Serra’s double-whammy at Gagosian, but when Gerhard Richter walked into his show at Marian Goodman and shook hands with Bruce Nauman, I was too stunned to leave. The sight of these two giants in art together felt historic.
“Epochal!” Rob Storr confirmed. The former Yale dean was wearing a black Stetson very like Nauman’s. Must be a generational thing.
Richter, meanwhile, was showing abstract paintings on both canvas and glass, and a hundred new drawings, all made in an explosion of energy last year. “At eighty-four,” said Richter’s onetime dealer Anthony d’Offay, “he’s still inventing.” Art historian and Richter expert Benjamin H. D. Buchloh put it another way. “It’s anti-painting,” he said.
“Haunting,” added Goodman of the drawings at dinner in the Rainbow Room, where the city view was obscured by thick fog. “It’s thrilling to see you back in the studio after many retrospectives,” she continued, in a direct address to Richter. “You can feel the exuberance.” Indeed. “After thirty-one years working together, I wish you a good life and continued pleasure in the practice of painting.”
I asked her if she remembered how she met Richter. “I wrote him a letter,” she said. I asked Richter if he remembered. “I do,” he said. “Marian came to the studio, and neither one of us knew what to say.”
Collector Marieluise Hessel, who had received ArtTable’s Distinguished Service to the Visual Arts award earlier in the day, was feeling especially happy. “I bought two Richters in the 1960s, when I was still living in Germany,” she said. “For $500!”
I caught the tail end of a dinner that Salon 94 and Maccarone were cohosting at Lafayette, for shows by Hanna Liden and Jimmy De Sana and by Corey McCorkle and Eva Kotatkova. French-speaking guests—Tuymans, Bernard Blistčne, Florence Derrieux—segregated themselves at Maccarone’s table, with Zwirner London director Angela Choon, Hammer Museum curator Ali Subotnik, and New Yorker art editor Andrea Scott. Liden, Nate Lowman, Rachel Chandler, and Chivas Clem huddled at the next with Laurie Simmons, Lorna Simpson, Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn, and the Guggenheim’s Nat Trotman at the next.
Separate tables make good neighbors, I guess.
Left: Art historian Tim Morton with artist Haim Steinbach and dealer Tanya Bonakdar. Right: Frieze cofounder Amanda Sharp.