In my ongoing quest to become as trashy an intellectual as possible, I’ve been trolling Tumblr-land to find images of dudes with tattoos and/or nipple rings because I want both. Everyone, gay and straight, thinks getting a tattoo is a great idea, duh. But almost every straight person thinks nipple rings are awful, while gay guys universally think they’re the sexiest thing ever. And since I want to be trash-tastic, I’m considering it. After all, who doesn’t like a pierced precariat?
Anyways, this is the first image of many that I will be rolling out, so gird your loins for some bearded, pierced, and tattooed hipster bait brought to you by yours truly, who’s been going through a fag-life crisis since turning 30.
So I’m going to the opening of Charles Harlan’s “ISHTAR” tonight at Venus Over Manhattan, which I’m kind of excited about (and which I previewed recently for ArtReview), as well as the opening of my friend Margaret Lee’s show “Closer to right than wrong/closer to wrong than right, “at Jack Hanley beforehand. So I thought, fuck it, I’ll make a day of seeing some art, which I hardly ever do, simply because I either don’t have the time or don’t really care, opting instead just to go see shows I’ve pitched.
Secretly, though, I love “gallery hopping,” and even more secretly - and which I shouldn’t be admitting here, since it will tarnish my downtown credibility - is that I love to gallery hop in…Chelsea. CHELSEA…
CHELSEA!!! (cue cracks of thunder)
…that land of big-money artists in big-money white galleries. Did chunks rise from your throat? Did you crawl back into bed and close your eyes? Did I just become a straight white male? Did I just get fired from PARTICIPANT?
The last time I was in Chelsea I was reviewing Cyprian Gaillard’s exhibition at Barbara Gladstone, and I decided I’d pop into Pace because I forgot it existed, and there was another big-dick, big-machismo straight male artist on display, who has the biggest dick of them all: Richard Serra. I actually had a good time. It was the first time I witnessed a Serra work in the flesh, so the art history nerd in me got giggly. I couldn’t help it. And then across the street there was a horrible show, I can’t remember the gallery now, because it was like a lot of Sally Foster gift wrap. But worse.
Regardless, Chelsea is the kind of place that’s constantly surprising you, because there are so many big-name artists everywhere. You can literally go next door, or up some stairs, and witness two textbook practitioners making, sometimes, pretty good work.
On my agenda today: Joel Shapiro’s show at Paula Cooper, which I’m reviewing for Modern Painters. I’m strangely excited about this one, primarily because it’s so resolutely minimalist. It’s like minimalism 101, which I’m a whore for. I actually didn’t know the dude was still alive. He’s a name you hardly see, so associated is he with the art of the 60s. As I wrote to my editor, “He’s such an old-gaurd artist people forget about—which is in and of itself interesting…”
Also on my agenda (and which is not in Chelsea) is Julie Ault’s “Macho Man, Tell it To My Heart” at Artists Space, a display of Ault’s personal art collection. I’m interested to see how she’s used the space, and the space itself, which is so lovely since they refurbished it into an old-school, New York-like loft. It’s the kinda space you should have sex in.
We’ll see what else turns up. I plan on going into a lot of galleries, just for the fun of it. It’s okay to have fun.
I found this website article, written by some white bitch, about how you can make your Butt delicious-looking. She says wisely, “if your Butt is engaged, it will change!”
Somehow, I haven’t engaged my butt enough for it to look like this dude’s ass, which is certainly perfect looking. I want a perfect ass (what I have now barely constitutes an ass), so I guess I better get cracking on these five exercises, the best stills of which I’ve uploaded here.
Looks kinda like porn, no? Look at that ass! It should be stuffed and put on a mantle.
My tattoo dream.
Just kidding, I would kill myself. What a gross belly.
Happy Birthday Alisa Baremboym!!
It’s nice, when you’re feeling very sad, to be able to sleep on your friend’s comfortable couch, especially when they give you an Ambien and watch Spoils of Babylon with you until you all sort of drift away without realizing it. I had horrible art world dreams, in which I was curating a screening series that no one liked, but woke up this morning to breakfast in…couch.
I had been on a Scruff date yesterday, which went horribly, and then I met up with Brie and Caleb at our mutual friend’s birthday party on the Upper West Side, in a spectacular apartment. Everyone seemed to be coupled, if not married. It honestly made me feel like the portrait of dysfunction - in regards to sex, dating, and everything. So I wanted to be very far from there, even though it was a lovely party.
So I let Brie and Caleb take care of me after crying intermittently through the night, even though they are the definition of perfect. Of course they aren’t, no one is. But they’re in love, which is something, and they take care of each other. That sounds pretty perfect to me.
A Margaret Cho morning, acting as Kim Jong Il, before I get back to writing my fingers off.