UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Thursday, March 11, 2004
First of all, I was misled, and I should have known better: The opening I went to last night was not the "real" opening of the Whitney Biennial. It was the suckas' opening. No rich people, no famous people, no artists, no plates of cocaine, no fingerbowls filled with liquid ketamine. Yeah, the fake opening. The first tipoff was the food, which the last time I went to a real opening at the Whitney it was an appropriately fancy spread of dinner-quality hors d'oeuvres, you know, with asparagus and smoked salmon and caviar and gooseberries and pickled lark's tongues and an ever-flowing fountain of bechamel sauce. Even the air conditioning sounded like hundred-dollar bills brushing together. Well, last night after an hour-long chainsmoking wait on the concrete ramp, J.Ro and I dashed down to the basement to find our dinner waiting: pretzels. Chips. Salsa. Fucking luxurious high-toned shit, too! Damn, is this Old El Paso? Suck it, Paris Hilton!
So the opening was for the rabble, but that's really where I deserve to be, so I couldn't complain. Plus it was free. Plus, for fuck's sake, isn't this supposed to be about art? Aww. Aren't you cute! Last night's opening was as much about art as a bukkake video is about tender, loving relationships built on mutual trust and respect. The parade of Extremely Hot People made the opening veer off-topic like a senile boss in a staff meeting. You could look at the art, but damn that girl is cute, and wow that guy is hot, and holy hot fuck will you look at that dress! And because the humid press of bodies was so sardiney-tight, it was often impossible to get a clear line of sight at an actual art object anyhow. Your primary mode of locomotion last night was shuffling, with brief bursts of sprint if you happened to spot a ten-foot lane of open floor in the direction you were heading. I ran into about 15 people I knew, at least two of whom I hadn't seen in over 10 years. Then there was the hot girl from Dayton, whose tipsy icebreaker of "hey, are you the guy from the bathroom?" warmed up the chilly smoking courtyard. As we tried to talk about art and Ohio, a bitter sculptor named Mike kept explaining why he wasn't bitter about the fact that he wasn't part of the Biennial, and he kept bumming smokes off me. But that's okay because I had just found a full pack of Winstons unattended and unclaimed ("found art," bwah) on a table littered with plastic cups and puddles of wine that had a decidedly boxy bouquet. I've hated museums ever since I spent a summer working at the MoMA's Information Desk. I don't like events with bad food and overbooked guest lists. My shoes were too new and were slowly grinding my tender toes into foot tartare. What is the purpose of an opening? Ah, I can hear you in the back, sir, saying "when I see an opening, I usually like to put my penis in it." That's very clever, but really. I was hungry, tired and sore after two hours of Biennial, like I imagine our brave soldiers in Iraq must feel at the end of a day of Defending our American Freedoms. But one thing can get me through almost any event: imagining the effect of inserting one -- just one -- zombie into the crowd, and watching what happens. 0 comments |
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |