There’s no time to waste. Yes, there are that many stories to relate - I suddenly feel backlogged. So please allow me. That’s the way I’ll do it. I’ll tell it like it is. Like it happens to me, on a daily basis. As this world is my own. It’s my birthplace, my love place, my work place, and my own little hell, at times. But this hell is oh so entertaining. The perks of being a true insider; I get to hear, see, and experience all of that art frenzy with a very sharpened mind. So much you’re missing out on. So why not share it with you, rather than regularly give myself heart attacks.
To hell with it. You want personal, that’s as personal as it gets. I’ll do my best no to fall to the other side: over sharing vulgarity. My mom is Francoise. She is a painter. She also was a dancer. At the Crazy Horse, of all places. The cabaret that presents « the most beautiful women », see? Yeah. Harry, my dad, liked it too. He is a writer, a publisher, an art publisher, ran and owned art galleries in Paris and NYC, and started out as an assistant professor of philosophy in the 70’s. He’d get kicked out of the professors’ lounge as he looked too young, and his hair was way too long for him to be a serious person. That’s my direct family tree. No bros, no sis, thank god.
I’ve always been too young in age for whatever it is I’ve been doing. That’s what I’ve been told over and over and over. Not that it ever stopped me in any way. I started writing by accident, if you believe in those. Evidently, I, don’t. Actually no, here it is: I was published for the first time by accident. That’s more like it. I was 15. I had shadowed Harry to some big shot early art party, where he’d be making very irreverent jokes -his favorite kind- to people who either found him hilarious and acutely intelligent, or plain nuts. He’s a bit of both, if you ask me. Sophie Calle was there. We spoke to each other. I have no memory of what her words were, but I do remember my deep and violent anger after the short conversation. She had no humor. No self derision. And her self-centeredness couldn’t hide a serious lack of… On to the next. Natalie was there too. She was (still is, perhaps) working for an art review, Area. She had been trying to get Harry to write a story for them, the theme of the upcoming issue being parties. And all of a sudden, I am the one being asked to write the story. He had passed it on to me. Just like that. I did it. I wrote the story. I thought the only thing I’d love about it would be to see my name printed in a magazine. That didn’t do it for me. I stayed soft. But super fucking turned on by the writing process, I was. And by being published, and so young. That really did it for my little effervescent and aroused teenage ego.
For the longest time - I’m 28, so a little less than that- I’d follow Harry to those private viewings, gallery openings, after gallery opening dinners, and business meetings with poets, writers, and top-selling contemporary artists. I don’t even need to exaggerate. I’m talking about Tom Wesselmann, Chuck Close, Robert Ryman, or Helen Frankenthaler, to name a few. The latest strongly disliked me. Oh, the 90’s. I was 6 or 7 years old, and after I had told her I liked this (or that) painting a lot, she replied looking at my father: what does a 6 year old understand about art? In your face, kiddo. It’s no surprise I feel like I belong the most when surrounded by people in their 50’s though. And that hasn’t changed for as long as I can remember. My girlfriend is close to that age too. I’ll brag for one second. She is so fucking hot. Her intelligence, her kindness, yeah and her looks too, are the biggest turn-ons ever. But I’m losing my point. I have always loved those people. Loved them for being so raw, impertinent, and for never apologizing when they spoke their truth. See where I’m going with that?
Dear « art world », how did you manage to let go so easily of all that mattered? I could make that previous sentence a bit less dramatic, but drama is my best bet to get you hooked. Let me sum it up this way: what the fuck is wrong with you? Let’s dive in.