The Venice Biennale is to the Art World what Milan is to the Fashion crowd. The romantic types should stay away, the company of heavy-weight collectors, ego-maniac artists and cynical critics is not for the faint-hearted. Not to mention the harsh competition between secondary market hipsters of all kind. I toughened myself weeks ago with special combat training and meditation. The programme includes mental visualisation of forcing entry to exclusive events, and surviving skills like grabbing cocktail food in hostile environment, and of course sleeping at the occasional crash-pad.
First, I wanted to drop by the French Pavilion to see what the great Claude Lévêque, author of the well known hilarious neon writing « je suis une merde » had planned for the national representation. But I decided to wait a few more days before visiting the more ascetic Bruce Nauman at the US Pavilion.
I was trying to concentrate on the Liam Gillick’s installation at the German space when I got disturbed by a woman talking loudly on the phone about what she was going to wear that night to François’s.
It irks me I had no invitation for the most sought after event : the opening of the Punta Della Dogana, the place François Pinault had founded to house parts of his immense collection and exhibit it to the public.
I didn’t get discouraged by the fact that more than a thousand influential people and Art lovers had received invitations but me, and once in my best attire, I tried to hail a water taxi.
Unfortunately, all the decent boats had been reserved for the invited guests.
I finally ran into a protesting artist, who in the manner of the artist Swoon had assembled various trash pieces into a floating barge. After negotiating a 150 € “suggested donation”, he accepted to take me on board. Although the crossing to the Giudecca normally takes a few minutes, we got caught in traffic on the Grand Canal, my shoes flooded and my pants washed by waves from the celebrities’ speed boats rushing by.
We choose to dock behind the buffet, a place that seemed most discreet. Alarmed by the giant black flag floating above our embarkation, or perhaps in fear of a sea-food risotto shortage, a guest fiercely ejected me back to the sea. I recognized Marc, and begged for hospitality. Although I had been refused entrance by a young arrogant P.R. assistant at her last show in Paris, Stella personally helped me up the pier, and handed me a welcoming glass of prosecco.
– So, how’s Tadao’s work ? I asked, Does it look good ?
But my new friends had disappeared, trapped in a crowd of admirers.
Spotting our host alone, I rushed to him, thinking it was good timing to greet him before the party takes off.
– ” Thank you for collecting so much Art,” I told him. “And this Punta is a really cool…”
– “Would you mind stepping back ?” a staff member interrupted me, “there are photographers at work behind you.”
There was a line to enter the Dogana. But once in, only the lonely were looking at the Art. I spent a long time studying « Fucking hell », the monumental Jack and Dinos Chapman masterpiece. An older man, dressed like a priest, was one of the rare visitors, like me, to show more interest in the works displayed than in watching tycoons and super-models.
– “Are you wearing Alexander McQueen ?” I asked.
– “No, it’s vintage Comme,” he replied dryly.
It turned out he was a real cardinal. His position, he admitted, made him a frequent invite to this kind of event.
– I suppose the Art world considers me a potential client, he said.
– Why do you think contemporary Art is usually based on jokes ? I asked.
– Well, life’s a joke, buddy, the serious bit comes after.
And he slapped my back. I was quite shaken, and went wandering in the next rooms.
There were rumors of a dinner hosted by Angela Missoni, in honor of (the less ascetic than I thought) Bruce Nauman, on a yacht. Following the crowd, I befriended a drunk oligarch who wanted to talk about his own collection.
– “I got them all,” he bragged, “the guy who does the handbags ! the nurse painter ! all of them !”
He was on the list, and we got on board together. The yacht was packed with the most beautiful girls, all shoeless so as not to harm the precious wood deck, which gives them a particular unusual dreamy coolness, but I intended to have at least one serious Art conversation and headed first to the celebrated artist.
I was at Gemma’s, sipping a third expresso after lunch in the afternoon heat, mentally editing an anthology of my own unpublished poems, when I saw this true goddess seatted right in front of me. She was playing with a kitten while giving phone calls. She teased the tiny feline and sometimes bit him on the nose. Once you had noticed it, it was impossible to keep your eyes away. It was a Balthus for grown-ups, or a Picasso for kids. She ignored me in the same way Art ignores people in a museum. I have no idea who this cat was. Somebody famous? A local artist? Any insights welcome.
This spring, herds of dudes are hitting the streets in tight short pants. I carefully studied the look, and it seems the more untanned the legs, the tighter and darker the short pants.When I say “untanned”, I mean the legs should look like they have been forgotten in the CBGB basement for 25 years, and a sales assistant at John Varvatos just excavated them from under piles of shoe boxes. It’s a smart urban look, good enough to attend civilized events and great for cycling at night if you’ve got no rear light.
And my own interpretation of the summerish look: