New York Stroll
I saw a man, with a dog, making his bed in a brand new condo on Flatbush Avenue.
On a yacht moored in Battery Park, a man with a red turban was presiding to an intimate dinner, exposed to the Saturday passersby.
I was painting watercolours of the New Jersey sunset, and saw a solitary man catching a small fish from the pier.
And I walked to 23rd Street and 8th Avenue, to see if the Automat where (as told in Just Kids) Allen Ginsberg once bought a sandwich for Patty Smith, thinking she was a boy, still exists.
The faux Baldessari (a true story)
This was about twelve months ago in Paris, at about this same time of the year.
I went into a supermarket, around noon, and in the most mundane surrounding, my eyes were suddenly attracted by an unusual, while somehow familiar silhouette.
A very tall, white haired and bearded man, wearing a green turtleneck, slightly worn khakis, and carrying a cool tote bag, was walking down the alley, giving a gentle but slightly amused stare at everything that came his way. A benevolent giant, or a Dutch hippie, who reminded me somebody: John Baldessari, the great conceptual artist! Could it be him?
I had met him 17 years ago in NY. He had a show then in a galery in Soho, and I had shaked his hand, after he signed a small poster printed on tracing paper.
Although it was a bit surprising to see him in this dull Paris supermarket, it could be because of the forthcoming Basel Art fair, about to open in Switzerland a few days latter. It wasn’t illogical that he would have made a quick stop to Paris on his way to say hello to his dealers, or even to discuss a major retrospective at Beaubourg.
Mr. Baldessari… ? I hesitated to greet him among the other customers.
In the same way an insignificant black-and-white photograph on which is added a pale blue or yellow dot becomes a Baldessari, I contemplated how the whole supermarket had been turned into a Baldessari by the simple presence of the famous L.A. artist in its insignificant alley.
I wondered how many people had recognized him. While debating on whether keeping a discreet distance to respect his incognito, or approaching him to confess my admiration, I saw him strolling away with one or two whisky bottles in his tote bag, followed by a pigeon, in the direction of the Luxembourg garden.
I was delighted the whole day by this poetic vision, although already saddened by the prospect of never seeing him again, and having wasted the chance of a great encounter.
Nonetheless, two days after, on a sultry evening, I saw the man again. He was swaying on the boulevard, dragging his tote bag, his pants half unbutonned and covered with dirt, with a somewhat demented and defiant look on his face.
As if to add insult to my delusion, Art Basel was aproaching its end, and the bum who could then onwards commonly be seen in various states of decay, had become a fixture of the area.
Trisha Brown at Dia Beacon
This was a few weeks ago at the Dia Beacon Benefit.
The Michael Heizer sculpture, the most powerful and impressive piece one might see in an indoor art space, was open to the Art patrons so they could walk around the vertiginous holes. Physical confrontation with the geometric void was in fact so overwhelming that even the most self assured Art experts and trustees would only bend over in the most overcautiously manner, fearing loss of glasses, cellphones, or dignity (by having to be winched from the depth of Art by a crane).
When all the guests were finally safely gathered in the John Chamberlain room, Dia director Philippe Vergne announced that, as a surprise and special treat, Trisha Brown had decided that she will perform a dance piece herself.
She silently came out barefoot, and very slowly became to animate parts of her body at the contact of the other dancers. It started out in very light and delicate touches of fingers and palms. The graceful fragility of hands, wrists, and necks made for a moving contrast with the heavy metal, brutally bent and hammered car parts Chamberlain sculpture which stands next to the soft flexible bodies of the dancers.
A sartorial note : it was hard to figure out a dress code for this kind of event, when everyone has to get noticed while blending in the Art world. For men, the formal outfits were most commonly pastel cashmere tight cardigans, as if dressed for a picnic, while a few individuals met the occasion with bolder statements.
A rival hipster, Kenneth Goldsmith, made it on to several blogs wearing a paisley Thom Browne suit.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part II
I did my best to sit in front of the artist with the appropriate seriousness.
But when she lifted up her eyes, Marina didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic.
I felt like a forgotten lump of clay on a sculpture stand, half dry, and not very enticing, so that after a little consideration the artist finally decides not to use it.
I felt like another mile in the endless journey of a truck driver.
I thought of Marina’s performance as a living illustration of the philosophical concept of how Art looks back at us.
Was Marina hypnotizing me ? I became incredibly relaxed and felt a tremendous urge to sleep.
Images of the full MOMA collections were flying by in my head, along with highlights from the Prado and never-shown pieces from the Louvre reserve.
I watched black and white 16mm footage of early seventies performances, when girls in the audience wore printed miniskirt, and men with wide ties on fitted white shirts, spectacles and long beards, similar to those of today, but with outstanding genuineness.
I was woken up by a nightmarish vision of Marina’s « Dragon Heads », a series of pieces where she had big snakes all around her face.
How long had I slept ? Many of the visitors were in awe.
Walking out, I passed in front of a group of people who seemed offended. In doubt, I apologized for possibly snoring.
Marina Abramovic « The Artist Is Present », part I
It was not without anxiety that I went to « The Artist Is Present », Marina Abramovic’s exhibit at MOMA.
I had always feared that performance art would require a lot of patience, or specialized knowledge, like the kind needed to understand some japanese dances. And I’ve got this big book on Feminist Art with photographs of performances I’m glad to never have endured.
What to expect from a woman who, since the Seventies, has constantly exposed herself to danger, disgust or boredom, played with sex and Death? This morning, a friend remarked that Art is always about Death, but it’s one thing to do a gloomy painting, and another to cut yourself with knives, hold snakes, and scrub skeletons.
On a happy Spring Saturday afternoon, I finally joined a peaceful crowd of tourists and Art lovers at the museum.
On first entering the Marron Atrium, I saw Marina in her red gown. It was stunning.
She was sitting alone, her face in her hands, with the facing chair unoccupied. Standing on the perimeter of the rectangular area, visitors were silently looking, in awe, as if witnessing the last moments of a saint or a beloved outer space queen.
I personally felt sorry for Marina, that nobody would dare sit in the empty chair. Summoning my courage, I considered walking up to the table so that, at the very least, the artist wouldn’t be present for nothing.
But before I could commit, a short plump woman slipped in, moving with less noise than if she had been walking in her socks, and was already in the chair.
She was sitting stiffly, her feet firmly on the ground, her hands flat on her knees, with an expression of calm submission and awareness, as if attending an examination, or a yoga class for the first time.
Marina still had her face in her hands. Was she asleep ? Or in profound pain ? Or intolerably bored with the museum institution, or the idea of « Art » itself ? I sensed she might suddenly stand up, kick her chair, slap the participant’s face, and leave, never to return.
Instead, she slowly lifted up her head, and started to gaze at the woman.
Walking to the other side of the perimeter, I realized that what I had originally taken for a more condensed group of viewers was, in fact, a line. It’s not because Performance Art is imbued with the spirit of Seventies happenings, that there was no order here. Or maybe it was adapted to today’s standards of order. More likely, it was part of the ceremony and constraints within which the visitor was invited to take part. I asked for confirmation from a tall brunette in a very Salinger pale green dress, who was writing in a notebook.
Helen was an Art student in Maryland, and she had indeed been in line for 2 and a half hours.
- Are you afraid? I asked.
- Afraid ?… No. Well, I guess, yes, a little bit.
- I think it’s very brave!
Because who knows what’s going to happen, once one is left alone with his inner self under imaginary scrutiny?
In the distance, opposite to the person facing Marina, was photographer Marco Anelli. He sat behind a telephoto lens, similar to those used to capture wildlife, or celebrities sunbathing on a private island.
He has been documenting the performance since it began, and clocks the same hours as Marina. All his close-ups of participants are on the exhibit website, and it’s the most astonishing body of work.
A strange collection of faces, some illuminated, some in tears, some lost in the void, and a few trying to aggressively dominate. There’s even a priest (one wonders if he is mentally exorcizing the artist), a bewildered child, and a woman wearing a veil, so only her eyes can be seen (was she trying to say something?).
I pointed out to Helen that the people seated in front of Marina always mimicked her position. Although there was no rule clearly stated, it seemed not to have crossed anyone’s mind to slouch on the minimalist wooden chair.
While this made the art student slightly smile, I left her to her upcoming experience with the artist, and went to speak with Marco.
I was curious to know if he was taking pictures randomly or instead, choosing the moment. He said he usually waited at least 10 minutes. Then, he explained, people’s faces changed, something was unleashed and revealed.
In the meantime, the line has reduced. Soon it was my turn. I walked to the chair, and my heart beating, I sat down.
In Conversation with the Central Park Coyote
A few nights ago, I was crossing the Central Park. There was a school party at the ice skating rink, and in the distance you could hear the booming music. It was on a lonely path just by the pond that I saw the coyote, standing very still, and looking straight at me. I had read about the coyote in the park in New York Magazine, but thought it was an hoax aimed at making their readers believe in urban magic while they’re in line at Whole Foods.
- Hi, said the coyote.
- Man, I thought you were an hoax ! But now I can see you’re for real, and you even speak !
- Dude, do you like Indian music ?
- … ?
- I mean, do you believe in reincarnation and all that shit?
I always thought reincaranation was an hoax as well, but I didn’t tell the coyote, not to hurt his feelings and beliefs.
- The last time I was born, he went on, was in the middle of Walter de Maria’s Lightning Field. Until I was a grown up I thought it was genuine Nature, and then somebody told me it was Art. From that moment on, the landscape lost all its mysteries. I thought about moving to L.A., but finally decided to walk all the way back to NYC. I first went to the Bowery, where I was a cool cat in the Fifties, renting a studio next to de Kooning, and advising Robert Frank on « Pull my Daisy ». I was on and off through the sixties, and became a regular at the CBGB where I replaced the Ramones drummer for a set once when he was too drunk to play. But in 2009, the Bowery was no more a place for me. And I took the 6 train – which in the early eighties, I had tagged entirely - up to Central Park. Here I can hide in the bushes and get Smart Water from the pond. I also study Uptown people, since I was more familiar with the Downtown crowd. Of course, there are loads of tourists, but the whole town became touristy anyway. Well, NY is no more what it used to be. It’s all fake and loud, a big shopping mall mainly populated by self-obsessed dogs. Only the architecture remains.
Seeing him becoming bitter, I asked him if the Joseph Beuys coyote in « I Like America and America Likes Me » was a relative.
- No, but I knew him, he replied. He was such an asshole (meaning the coyote, not the famous artist). He certainly was not qualified for the job, totally illiterate with Art, and besides that a real wimp. But he had a strong drive for celebrities, and schemed to be cast for the role. In fact, another coyote, a true wild one, had been selected, but he went on the loose a few days before the performance started, and had to be replaced by this phony at the last minute. I’m glad he got hit by the cane a few times. See, being locked in a cage with Beuys was not like being in an hotel room with Jeff Koons.
- Have you seen the Abramovic show at MoMA ? I heard it’s really impressive.
- Not yet, I hope they’ll let me in. I was refused at the Whitney Biennial.
I wondered if he ever gets bored with monotonous days in the park ?
- I have lots of activities. Escaping from the cops. Stealing sandwiches from uptown kids while their crews of nannies gossip together. Aboriginal art with dirt and stones. African wood carvings. And on Wednesday nights, I perform Native American dance, right by this oak. Free admission, no photos.
A Dreary Saturday in Chelsea
A tormented, Burchfield-esque vision presented itself on a Chelsea street on Saturday, when the sinister weather puts Art and gallery visitors to the test.
Somewhat less torturous Charles Burchfield graphite drawings are on view at the nearby D’Amelio Terras Gallery.
Hunting rubber boots, worn in various colors, brought a cheerful note to the dark mood of the day.
Melting snow left a handful of Art Lovers stranded on slouchy snow banks with little chance of rescue from gallery assistants.
Ironic wiring in a Banks Violette installation at Gladstone – a sculpture which somehow formally echoed my hat. Being in a mundane state of mind, I wondered how one could vacuum between the wires without messing up the piece.
« Band of Bikers » at Zieher Smith presents a hundred fading 1970s snapshots of gay bikers found by the gallery owner in his building basement, among the discarded belongings of a recently deceased tenant.
I wonder where Hell’s Angel cap went.
NY Fashion Week Fall 2010: Zero + Maria Cornejo
It was a bright winter morning. I walked on 11th Avenue towards 36th Street, along the construction-site fences, the uncleared sidewalks still covered with snow.
I even saw a tiny bird enthusiastically twittering on top of a blasting signal orange panel.
I thought he was announcing spring, in advance of his kind.
I had never been in this part of the city, and the small industrial buildings, the repair garages, the newly built high-rise condo against the Hell’s Kitchen backdrop in the distance, and the wide-open spaces reminded me of some verses from Apollinaire’s poem Zone.
J’ai vu ce matin une jolie rue dont j’ai oublié le nom
Neuve et propre du soleil elle était le clairon
….
Les inscriptions des enseignes et des murailles
Les plaques les avis à la façon des perroquets criaillent
J’aime la grâce de cette rue industrielle
Hosfelt Gallery — on the second floor of an automotive parts and car repair shop — is a beautiful, luminous space, with a pure, natural light that seemed the perfect translation of Maria’s spirit.
NY Fashion Week Fall 2010: Insulated Fashion at Moncler
One hundred or so living models were standing on a 4-story scaffolding structure installed on the golf driving range on the Hudson, wearing the latest Moncler collection.
The futuristic, neo-military opera-style installation reminded me of the aesthetic of some of the Thierry Mugler photographs campaigns from the late 80s.
The coldness was extreme, and only well-equiped Fashion people could stay on the tall balconies to study the models and confront chilly winds blowing from across the river in the New Jersey dark skies.
I was glad to wear my vintage Moncler, and a French ski team hat from Brooklyn Flea market that I had bought the previous weekend to attend the Fashion shows.
This is where I met Ricky, who was freezing, simply wearing a cordoroy jacket and his marine boat captain’s cap.
- This is almost model cruelty, he said, alluding to the Artic endurance test unfolding on the scaffolding.
However, this was to forget the high-tech yet stylish insulation of the Moncler design (you can ski in warmth and still feel like a page from Wallpaper magazine).
- Don’t worry, I told him, these pretty young things feel as hot as if they in a Purple fashion shoot.
Celebrating Fashion Week with a glass of hot chocolate
Damien Hirst’s “End of an Era”
Damien Hirst is one of those rare artists who once in a while produces an artwork that gains more instant awe than that of a new Ferrari parked on the street.
And he is one of the few artists today who challenge Money and Power with means that speak at equal level to the most wealthy and powerful.
A master of Vanitas, he always find entertaining ways to remind the viewer of Death, or that diamonds, no matter how many or big, are nothing.
“Judgement Day,” a thirty-foot long gold cabinet filled with 30,000 manufactured diamonds, is an ironic slap in the face of the shallow, while a consolation for the broke.
Viewers in front of “Painful Memories/ Forgotten Tears.” Gold plated, glass and cubic zirconia.
Ancient Greek philosophers — and more recently, psychedelic gurus — used the same rhetoric to one-up kings and rich merchants, but somehow with less efficiency than an entire shark, or a bull’s head, submerged in formaldehyde solution.
Terry, the master of Fashion vanitas, was there !
The exhibition is called “End of an Era.” I don’t know if it refers to some political or financial analyses about the end of our era, or if it states that a particular body of Damien’s own work, had come to an end.
Although the opening was on a Saturday, the uptown gallery (limos waiting outside) was buzzing with famous artists and important people.
The only way to know if somebody was less well-known was to see if he was taking pictures of others. Come to think of it, a lot of people were actually taking pictures of each other, like at an entrance of a Fashion show.
This neck-tie works well with dots.
Rose’s necklace amusingly echoed the diamond paintings.
Damien was surrounded by people asking for autographs and handing to him various books or objects to be signed. A skateboarder even had a Damien dots new skateboard signed. I couldn’t see if he drew a big skull on it, as he did for some others of his fans.
Like Karl, Damien wears lots of Gothic rings : skulls and gargoyles.
A simple post-it signed by Damien
Larry talking with Mick
It turned out that the only discreet viewer was the real rock star, Mick is in a dark crewneck sweater worn under a navy suit. Why does he looks so cool ? Of course, he has seen it all, even Jean-Luc Godard filming the Rolling Stones recording “Sympathy to the Devil.” But while “One+One” could have been the coolest documentary, JLD got carried away by vanity, French intellectualism, or some girlfriend’s advice, and added all these revolutionary theories sequences that required so much coffee for the viewer.
Unlike Damien’s works.
Mick walking along « Judgement Day ».
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