“What are we doing here?” The attendees were on the other side of sixty, and Lacey, observing the clothing of the men, with their gold-button blazers, plaid pants, and striped shirts topped with starched white collars, said to me, “Are they all admirals?”
Talley came over to us and gave Lacey an extraordinarily warm greeting, hugging her like an old friend. I suppose the adventure they had shared made them comrades. “Isn’t Morandi marvelous!” he said. “Every one is the same and every one is different. I opened the season with him because he is uncriticizable! I’d like to hang him in a room with Edward Hopper and see who could outsilence the other. Lacey,” he continued, “if you ever get bored at Sotheby’s, call me. I could use you in all kinds of ways.” Lacey knew there was no double entendre in Barton’s invitation, and she felt flattered.
Angela and Sharon rolled in, looking like dressed-up secretaries, which they were, and I could read on their faces the desire to back out the door, hoping no one would notice. But we corralled them, did an obligatory walk around the gallery, and then were standing on the street in perfect September weather, now officially on the town. I realized we were really on the prowl not for art, but for a party. We took a taxi for luxury and charged into the steaming heart of Chelsea, energized and wearing our best outfits. People spilled out into the streets, and the gallery fluorescents did, too, lighting up the sequins on dresses and other glitterati. The plastic wineglasses were appropriate here, where at Talley’s they seemed like a lapse in critical thinking.
The gallery names downtown stood out from the stolid uptown houses: Exit Art, 303, Atelier 14, Deitch Projects, Feature, Generous Miracles, Metro Pictures. Some of the names sounded more like bars than galleries, and there was a parallel. Here, the attractive waitresses were the attractive gallery girls, the macho bartenders had become the less-than-macho gallery guys, and the customers’ eyes were ever darting around the room, searching for eye contact. The spaces had the buzz of a noisy restaurant, and there were lots of handshakesand kisses for people who only ran into each other at these events. The art on the walls—or on the floor—was duly noted, but if a cynic wanted to make the case that the art was there as an excuse to socialize, he could.
Our group hit about five galleries, in and out, in and out. There were paintings that were intentionally bad, which was an easier goal to reach than those trying to be intentionally good. One gallery had an artificial flower sprouting out of the ceiling; another gallery’s interior was coated with dense wax the color of rosé wine, in which the artist had scratched the names of all his rivals; and another gallery had a robotic machine that either saved or destroyed snapshots according to the whim of the viewer. Some of the art made Lacey laugh, some she admired, some made her turn to me and make a vomit sign with finger in mouth.
One artist with the pseudonym (it was natural to assume) of Pilot Mouse had taken over a gallery and installed… another gallery. We viewers went in one at a time, and inside was a simulation of an uptown gallery, complete with gallerygoers—really guerrilla actors—who walked around and looked at the antique store paintings on the wall. It was, I supposed, a comment on gallery going, though I don’t know what the comment was. The actors uttered phrases like “The artist is commenting on the calculation inherent in our society” or “The artist is playing with the idea of dichotomies.” These phrases were the smarty-pants version of a car dealer’s “This little baby only has eight thousand miles on it and gets fifteen miles a gallon.” But Pilot Mouse had created something intriguing: I felt a mental disorientation knowing that everything in the room was fake, including the people, especially having just come from a
Talley came over to us and gave Lacey an extraordinarily warm greeting, hugging her like an old friend. I suppose the adventure they had shared made them comrades. “Isn’t Morandi marvelous!” he said. “Every one is the same and every one is different. I opened the season with him because he is uncriticizable! I’d like to hang him in a room with Edward Hopper and see who could outsilence the other. Lacey,” he continued, “if you ever get bored at Sotheby’s, call me. I could use you in all kinds of ways.” Lacey knew there was no double entendre in Barton’s invitation, and she felt flattered.
Angela and Sharon rolled in, looking like dressed-up secretaries, which they were, and I could read on their faces the desire to back out the door, hoping no one would notice. But we corralled them, did an obligatory walk around the gallery, and then were standing on the street in perfect September weather, now officially on the town. I realized we were really on the prowl not for art, but for a party. We took a taxi for luxury and charged into the steaming heart of Chelsea, energized and wearing our best outfits. People spilled out into the streets, and the gallery fluorescents did, too, lighting up the sequins on dresses and other glitterati. The plastic wineglasses were appropriate here, where at Talley’s they seemed like a lapse in critical thinking.
The gallery names downtown stood out from the stolid uptown houses: Exit Art, 303, Atelier 14, Deitch Projects, Feature, Generous Miracles, Metro Pictures. Some of the names sounded more like bars than galleries, and there was a parallel. Here, the attractive waitresses were the attractive gallery girls, the macho bartenders had become the less-than-macho gallery guys, and the customers’ eyes were ever darting around the room, searching for eye contact. The spaces had the buzz of a noisy restaurant, and there were lots of handshakesand kisses for people who only ran into each other at these events. The art on the walls—or on the floor—was duly noted, but if a cynic wanted to make the case that the art was there as an excuse to socialize, he could.
Our group hit about five galleries, in and out, in and out. There were paintings that were intentionally bad, which was an easier goal to reach than those trying to be intentionally good. One gallery had an artificial flower sprouting out of the ceiling; another gallery’s interior was coated with dense wax the color of rosé wine, in which the artist had scratched the names of all his rivals; and another gallery had a robotic machine that either saved or destroyed snapshots according to the whim of the viewer. Some of the art made Lacey laugh, some she admired, some made her turn to me and make a vomit sign with finger in mouth.
One artist with the pseudonym (it was natural to assume) of Pilot Mouse had taken over a gallery and installed… another gallery. We viewers went in one at a time, and inside was a simulation of an uptown gallery, complete with gallerygoers—really guerrilla actors—who walked around and looked at the antique store paintings on the wall. It was, I supposed, a comment on gallery going, though I don’t know what the comment was. The actors uttered phrases like “The artist is commenting on the calculation inherent in our society” or “The artist is playing with the idea of dichotomies.” These phrases were the smarty-pants version of a car dealer’s “This little baby only has eight thousand miles on it and gets fifteen miles a gallon.” But Pilot Mouse had created something intriguing: I felt a mental disorientation knowing that everything in the room was fake, including the people, especially having just come from a
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