You know, sometimes you know exactly what the day is gonna be about. You have a list of tasks, meetings, emails, calls to return. I love those days. And at times, you still have things to do, but you end up sitting in the couch bathing in the sun, wondering what to pick next. And you think of stuff, then forget. Then remember. Then forget again.
Ya. That’s my today. Right now. On my right side: iPad with House of Cards paused, Charlie Hebdo - the $8 copy everyone bought when we were all Charlie-, the partially read The Other Side of the Couch by Gary Small and Gigi Vorgan, iPhone evidently, and a HUGE Dyptique candle. Then on my left side, my daily schedule printed on non-recycled paper (bad girl.) And Diana’s colorful and way distracting bookshelves. It’s nice to have a Brooklyn stay cation at Diana’s <3 So now, I’m debating. Whether I’ll flip the pages of The Big Penis Book -again- or L'art en Question. For the record. My original plan for today’s writing session was Jerry Saltz + the wifey, Roberta Smith. But then I got sidetracked. I mean, how can you not?
A couple of nights ago, my GF and I spent an hour in bed… reading this interview of the art pair. Is it just me or do they really look like they’re blood-related? Not the point, but thought I would ask. And goddamit. It kinda ruined my tasteful hatred towards Saltz. I mean, I still believe he’s slightly misogynistic, and will kind of never really think of him as anything because he didn’t understand the power of Wolfgang Laib’s piece at MoMA - and in general. But fuck me, he is kinda funny. And abrasive, duh, we knew that. But in a good way. Oh jeez. I feel compelled to justify myself (not my love) by giving pros and cons. I mean. That one day at The Hole sealed the deal for me a long time ago.
A long time ago being what, a year and a half? Ya. Tops. Maripol and I were at Le Trou (French for you know what) doing - doing what? Oh yeah, I think she was bringing a framed piece of hers for the Area show. At that time, I was working daily on publishing Maripola X. So we leave her loft to get some fresh air and head to Le Trou, where Salt’n’Pepper was having fun. That would be Jerry Saltz and Glenn O’Brien.
Glenn and Maripol worked together a LONG time ago to give life to Downtown 81. The first time I met Glenn was outside of Maripol’s building. A flash back and a flash back and a flashback. Bare with me? I had just moved to NYC, had been kicked out of my BFF’s apartment after 2 weeks, and had been offered a protective wing (do we say that in English?) by Maripol, whom I had briefly met in Paris a couple of years before. 2009, and it’s winter in NYC. Maripol is having a film crew coming to the loft, and is expecting lots of people to show up for a party that would be part of « Des Jeunes Gens Modernes. » It was pretty fucking cool. Edwige was singing « Ne me Quitte pas » while James Chance was at the piano. But if you’ve seen the movie, I can shut up about it. People were supposed to show up at like, 7pm. Someone rang the door at 6:30pm. Maripol yelled, and screamed some more, and asked me to go downstairs, and to under no circumstance let the intruder come up that early. Sure, I’ll do that. I open the building’s front door, where a guy with white hair is standing. His cold blue eyes give away a half-dead half-angry impression. He is now looking at me, with what I’ll then learn is his signature face. Disdain. Not a good start, my friend. « I’m sorry, but you can’t come up yet. It’s too early. » followed by « No, I don’t know who you are. And it does’t change anything. » I’m pretty sure that this is the moment when the stars aligned for me, high up in the sky. ‘cause a few months later, I was paid to tell people to go home. Simonez, thank you again for that very very cool job. I’ll do it all again. Like, it was so much fun, I’d probably sink my own company to work the door of a club with you again. Mostly so that I can be reminded how insane it was to be offered bribes and jewelry and money. But enough. Jerry Saltz, that was it.
Well long story short. I forgot it all. And until I get to improperly meet him, I might consider liking him just a bit. That’s it. No arguments. Just feelings, man.