new-york

Walter De Maria

Heiner Friedrich Gallery

The fall season opens. No one’s much interested this year; people haven’t even gotten excited about the fall clothes collections, which are relatively more important to New Yorkers. Here and there the fringe elements climb into Punk skins, but it’s a façade of a difference. Things aren’t merely the same as last year, but pretty much the same as ten years ago. All that tautologous art has kept us at A equals A equals A; we haven’t gotten to B yet. One artist doesn’t even bother to paint this time around; just colored construction paper and two or three lines. A friend and I duck into a Soho bar to avoid the rain and the crowds. The sound system sends out Bob Dylan into the dark interior where people sit around with that look: confused, perhaps haunted. The couple next to us judges the comparative merits of Beatlemania versus the real thing. Others nervously anticipate the meanings inherent

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