A friend of mine who works at an art gallery which shall remain nameless (as we are not interested in giving them any undue publicity--someone might actually read this blog one day) admonished me the last time I went to a show, for the unspeakable crime of having too good a time. (The DJs had played Jump, so I jumped.) Later I was told that it was a "gallery, not a party", which I found laughable/insulting/humiliating, as the place was covered in graffiti, everyone was drunk, there were two DJs on the decks and not a soul over the age of 35. I've also been coming to their shows religiously for the last two years and I think by now I can tell the different between a formal vernissage and a party. That was a party if ever I saw one.
So I said basically, "Fuck yo gallery's couch nikka" and on Friday night, although the nameless gallery was also having an opening, I opted instead to head out to Kreuzberg's Bethanien, which had DJs and booze and people under 35 and even balloons, although the balloons are supposed to be art.
The show was good, very chill, relaxed vibe. All the freaks in town came out to play; I should have gotten photos of some of the people but I was feeling a bit tactful that day and decided to give the weirdos a break. Most of the art was pretty standard hipster fare and not really worth noting, besides a see-saw bed and a table set for 12 with whatappeared to be white chocolate flatware and food, which was in the process of melting under twelve individual heat lamps. 
The space itself was gorgeous, I'm not sure how old the building is, but it looked like some sort of baroque-era secondary school or something; there were little girl's rooms. You know what I mean by Little Girl's Room? The kind with super uncomfortable or even metal toilet seats, paper that takes off your ass skin, puke-colored paint, trough-sink, powdered soap, the distinct aroma of guilt and secrecy? Oh you don't? Me neither...I was just testing.
In attendance were: Sabrina and the 'Stoph
Andrea's hot 29-year-old art teacher boyfriend who looks like Kurt Cobain
Sabrina's totally creepy and perverted-looking ex-boyfriend from high school, named (the Angel) Gabriel
and of course, me!
(Does it reek of desperation that the only pictures I post of me are the ones I took myself? Oh well, I suppose it'll stay between you, me, and the rest of cyberspace.
This was one of the cooler pieces I saw. The blob in the middle is actually a smoky spire which was spiring up into outer space (by that I mean it was like, moving.)
Let's have a peek inside...
Aww, it's a totally cute little model town! I wonder if in addition to the fire and ruined buildings if there are any dead bodies or dog poop along the sidewalks... just like in real-life Berlin! OK, not the dead bodies. But poop. Lots and lots of poop.
All that work for a bit of a shadow against paper. I want to stay home on artist's grants and play around with popsicle sticks all day too. Fuck.
This dog was such a soldier, I started to wonder if the was a piece of art. Turns out he is just the most patient and attentive dog EVAR. S/he was waiting on his/her master to get out of the loo. Also check out the tight pants, Keds and Chucks in the background... yeah, it was that kind of party. Sigh. The hipsters are starting to get along with the rastas and the punks though so there'll be no more Berliner versions of West Side Story in the near future. Should make for interesting parties this summer.
Jumping ahead to Saturday night. My Australian friend Cookie has done the officially tackiest thing I have yet to see at a barbecue slash picnic. We've all heard of people putting ranch on pizza, fries on burgers, tartar on fries (I am guilty of three out of three of the above) but seriously potato chips on a cheese sammich? Ew to the maxx. She was like "don't knock til you've tried it" and I was like "well I've not tried sky diving or deep-fried candy bars but that's because unlike you I have an instinct of self-preservation, you're not getting any younger you know... how's your cholesterol?" then lit my 38th cigarette of the night. Nothing like a little hypocrisy to spice up an alcohol-free Saturday night. Bleh.
Here's the culprit and her husband sharing a bottle of wine out of plastic cups. You can't tell from this picture but Graham is officially the most English person you have ever met. He's dry and proper and isn't into a whole lot of public displays of anything which isn't dry and proper. He is super smart and has a rad sense of humor though and he runs around like a kid when it snows. Good shit.
No matter how long I make art, hang out with artists and art enthusiasts, or attend art events, there are some things I'll never even be able to pretend to understand. The open road? Random shots of people buying stuff at the grocery store? A building standing firmly on its foundation? The sky failing to fall? Why am I wearing headphones when there is no dialogue or music on the video? Sometimes I think I just need my MTV (kidding, kidding). I didn't want to let on that I didn't get it. Art shows are always a bit Emperor's Clothing-y for me.
1 comment:
The is a big picture of lips on a board downtown Montréal, and for years I tought that it was a publicity for something but I had no clue what so ever for what, turns out years later I learn it represent the museum of new art of Montréal. I love you face when you are looking at the video of the open road, still hoping for something at first, and then at then end, for you're like, nope, I laughted so laudly, it's a good thing I was in front of my computer and not at the art exibition.
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