Going to the ‘UNTITLED’ Art Awards was like going to the dentist; you know you might not have the best time but you feel obliged to go. Or is it more like a coworker’s baby shower?
Anyway, the moment we parked, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Was I nervous? Was I anxious? Or did I dread having to mingle with people I secretly loathed? It was no secret about how much I despised going to frou-frou events without a date. Hence, why Mr. Gehry was dragged along for the ride. I thought I might introduce him to “my world” and see how well he would fare in the trenches.
He majored in architecture so it wasn’t too far off for him. But architects were Armani. Artists were more Marc Jacobs.
Marc Jacobs wasn’t there, of course. He was probably too busy going to a similar schmoozefest in Williamsburg. But the fabulous people of the art underworld trudged themselves out from their converted loft apartments to attend one of the biggest galas of the year.
Being on the media list is always the way to go: no hassles at the door, you get the “wow, what could YOU be writing for?” looks and the complimentary drink.
Coming out of the washroom, I ran into Philip Monk, ex-curator of the Power Plant, standing awkwardly against a wall. We chatted about my dissent and I joked about not being nominated. He didn’t look amused. Awkwardness aside, I did get to finally tell him how much I enjoyed his teachings and how it was probably one of the best classes I had ever taken. I guess he clued into the genuineness in my voice as he flashed me a smile. A real smile too instead of the 18, 000 fake art smiles I had encountered in previous run-ins at these things.
I thanked him again and moved on. As soon as I walked into the viewing area, I ran into Mr. Polska, the infamous gallery owner who courted me for a few weeks. He looked great in his pinstripe blazer and new beard. He complimented me on my very expensive new grey blazer with silk-screened gothic letters (yeah yeah yeah, I’m fucking trendy alright?) and we kissed.
I introduced him to Mr. Gehry and he promptly left to talk to Jane Corkin (big-time gallery owner – wow, who ISN’T a big-time gallery owner these days?). Art people might be able to sit and look at slides for an hour or whip up a painting during solitary confinement, but during an art party, patience is checked at the door with the coats. ADHD is the new black.
We stood and watched a bit of the awards ceremony. Trying not to yawn, I walked over to Mr. Polska again and said really loudly, “this is so goddamn boring, please someone stab my eyes out.” He laughed (so did Jane Corkin by the way, whoo!) and I retreated to the bar once again.
Not only was I bored but I was amazed by the fact that I had just found out from an infamous gallery owner that another infamous gallery owner (who thinks I’m funny) just sold a photograph for a cool million. To Elton John of all people. Did you know Elton John is one of the world’s top collectors? He has everyone from Man Ray’s surrealist explorations to McGinley’s barf and cock pictures. The man has taste.
But enough art gossip, let’s get back to the boy. The awards were indeed boring me to shit and I was longing for the comfort of Mr. Gehry’s minivan so I suggested that we vamoose.
“Are you going to come over to keep me company?” “Yes I am. For a bit. I won’t stay long though…” ”Fine… I have an early meeting anyway.”
We made some art of our own shortly after we arrived back home. I gave him an award for Best Solo Show in a private gallery.
Wow, was that a metaphor or are you just happy to see me? Goodnight everyone.
