Magnificent Saladin Triumphs Over Galleries
to friends: "Hey, look at this! I didn't know anyone actually bought art at these places!"
What did he think? These are mini-musuems, run for the drinking pleasure of those who stagger around in search of free hooch?
I've gotten to the point where I'd rather go see the art I want to see on a late weekday afternoon or a Saturday, when quiet assessment of the effort is possible.
The problem is that when a friend has an opening, you need to be supportive. You need to brave the crowd and show up; normally, these events are pleasant because it's a group of people who know and like one {read on ...}
What did he think? These are mini-musuems, run for the drinking pleasure of those who stagger around in search of free hooch?
I've gotten to the point where I'd rather go see the art I want to see on a late weekday afternoon or a Saturday, when quiet assessment of the effort is possible.
The problem is that when a friend has an opening, you need to be supportive. You need to brave the crowd and show up; normally, these events are pleasant because it's a group of people who know and like one {read on ...}
by The Gallic Cossack
There's nothing more fulfilling and flattering for an artist to be at the opening of his or her gallery exhibit, and have a drunken refugee from "Gossip Girl" stagger in, wave her plastic go-cup, and shout "where's the free wine!?"
This has happened in my presence a number of times. Once, the young lady in question had already lost one shoe and was still undeterred in her search for more free alcohol. Best of all, she was followed by her nebbishy boyfriend, who undoubtedly put up this elegant behavior because he knew he'd be gettin' sumpin' sumpin' later that magical evening.
As someone who lives in the Chelsea gallery district, shows in galleries within the district and writes about the habitués of same, I have to admit I've gotten tired of collective opening nights. They've become a bad combination of Mardi Gras peopled with "Sex and the City" wannabes, traipsing around, not caring about the art, just how much free, bad wine they can get.
In fact, one of my favorite stories about how unreal and misguided many of the people who stagger around the galleries involves a gallery owner, my wife and some art. Having purchased some small pieces in our friends gallery, we decided to bring them home that night and have a drink at our place with the gallery owner. As we were walking home, each of us carrying a piece, a youngster called
There's nothing more fulfilling and flattering for an artist to be at the opening of his or her gallery exhibit, and have a drunken refugee from "Gossip Girl" stagger in, wave her plastic go-cup, and shout "where's the free wine!?"
This has happened in my presence a number of times. Once, the young lady in question had already lost one shoe and was still undeterred in her search for more free alcohol. Best of all, she was followed by her nebbishy boyfriend, who undoubtedly put up this elegant behavior because he knew he'd be gettin' sumpin' sumpin' later that magical evening.
As someone who lives in the Chelsea gallery district, shows in galleries within the district and writes about the habitués of same, I have to admit I've gotten tired of collective opening nights. They've become a bad combination of Mardi Gras peopled with "Sex and the City" wannabes, traipsing around, not caring about the art, just how much free, bad wine they can get.
In fact, one of my favorite stories about how unreal and misguided many of the people who stagger around the galleries involves a gallery owner, my wife and some art. Having purchased some small pieces in our friends gallery, we decided to bring them home that night and have a drink at our place with the gallery owner. As we were walking home, each of us carrying a piece, a youngster called
Check out "Nice Girls," a showing of Irina Davis' painted photographs at Sputnik Gallery, 547 West 27th Street, 5th floor (212) 695-5747. This is "Tanya 2, 2008"
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