Come into the light. All are welcome.

Chelsea Gallery hop with my daughter. Doug Wheeler’s light installation at David Zwirner. I might go back by myself but this time smoke a big fatty beforehand.

Roy Colmer’s Doors at Lisson Gallery. Black and white images of Manhattan taken from November of 1975 to September of 1976. Thousands of them.

~~~~~~~~~~

bins

November 1, 1994

Cindy wanted to smoke some weed and go the Village Halloween parade. Sounds like fun but I’ve got the flu and can barely move.

Ellis, Oswaldo and I had tickets to see Simpatico at The Public. Written and directed by Sam Shepard. Great cast. Ed Harris, Beverly D’Angelo, Fred Ward, Marcia Gay Harden. We met at Acme on Lafayette and lollygagged around. Got there right at 8:00 and it turns out curtains on Saturdays are 7:30 and 10:00. They wouldn’t let us in. The run is sold out (of course it is) so that’s that. We walked over to 2nd Avenue to see Interview with a Vampire but it’s opening weekend so THAT was sold out, too. So we went to Pizzeria Uno. We had a lot of laughs. The three of us sat there and laughed for hours.

Cindy and I went to Sweet Basil’s last Friday. I don’t see a lot of live jazz and didn’t think I’d like it but we had a great time. We sat right under the musician’s noses. I like being so close I can see their fingers move across their instruments. We were on the Blue Note guest list. The cover charge and drinks were paid for. I felt important. When the checks arrived everyone around us started fumbling for their wallets but I just signed it and handed it back. People stopped for a beat and looked at us. Lots of Japanese tourists. The Eurotrash maître d treated us like shit.

My phone rang and when I picked it up and said hello they hung up. Sometimes I’ll call Laura’s number just to hear her answering machine greeting.

Went to the Met with Ann. She’s irritating in regular life but she’s a different person in a museum. It’s her element. She’s brilliant. We went to the Asian galleries and she told me about the Buddha statues. She explained what the hand positions mean and about the dance they’re frozen in. She was equally knowledgeable in the Egyptian galleries. I wanted to throw her to the floor in front of Kharushere’s mummy and have my dirty way with her. Smart is sexy. We sat in Central Park and watched the leaves float down. We saw a terrible sci-fi movie. Stargate. I didn’t want to see it but I’m a bad negotiator. Whenever I see a movie with someone I always defer to them. If there’s something I really want to see, I go alone.

I’m on a temp assignment. I sit in a cubicle and do my boring work and nobody talks to me. I’m lonely. A bunch of them went out after work Friday but I wasn’t invited. The women are all sad Catholic virgins who listen to Barry Manilow albums.

What Instagram has taught me so far

I’ve been on Instagram for about nine weeks and here are a few things I’ve learned:

  1. Everyone is having a better life than I am.
  2. No, they’re not. It just seems that way. It’s the place where people put on their best face.
  3. Real photographers use a proper camera. They don’t muck about with a mobile phone. Technologically speaking, mobile phones can’t touch a real camera. Yet.
  4. The trend in photography is to saturate photos with so much color and gleam they look like ads for LSD. Why does that feel like an appropriate reflection of our times?
  5. People are too lazy to write a pithy word or two in comment sections. Emojis are the last refuge for the verse-challenged.
  6. Instagram has revealed that I might have a latent addictive personality disorder. I check it far too often. I’m hoping the newness wears off soon.
  7. I’m disappointed over my desire for more followers. It’s not dissimilar to when I first started blogging. I got over it here. I’m sure I’ll move on there as well

~~~~~~~~~~

My bride and I went out Saturday night to see comedians John Mulaney and Pete Davidson. I enjoyed Mulaney but found Davidson vulgar and unfunny. In all fairness, we are not Davidson’s target audience. The same people who find him funny are the same folks who’d attend Coachella, which is something I’d never do.

They announced that cell phones would be locked in a Yonder pouch so the show couldn’t be recorded. The pouches are unlocked on your way out. We didn’t want to deal with all that so we left our phones at home. We sat at the dinner table and tried to remember the last time we left the house for a night out (or ANYWHERE) without our phones and we couldn’t. Initially, I was concerned that not having my phone might give me an anxiety attack but do you know what? Dinner + show – phone = emancipation. We didn’t miss it one bit. An uninterrupted dinner was a genuine pleasure.

~~~~~~~~~~

After all these years, having kids finally pays off. I waited a long time for this day to come.

Oliver and Alice say hello. They want you to know they’re fine. Send treats.

Hop hop hop

I took my 12-year old on a Chelsea gallery hop. The 17-year old is out of the game. She has a Saturday gig and a boyfriend now. There’s no room for gallery hops with Dad. Eventually, I’ll lose 12-year old too and be back to wandering around these galleries alone. I’m not hurt or insulted. It’s the nature of how things work.

I think she was a bit bored. I occasionally caught her standing in a corner staring at her phone instead of the art. I think she enjoyed the time spent with Dear Aul Da but I’m not sure how she feels about art. I either opened a world for them or turned them off to art permanently. It could go either way. But you have to make the introduction. What happens after that is out of my control.

This is Anthony McCall’s fetching light installation Split Second at the Sean Kelly Gallery.

I’m like a parrot. I like shiny objects and light is my favorite medium. Light + mist is even better.

A young child ran into the light and I couldn’t resist a pic.

James Turrell is the grandmaster for me but this is a very fine example of McCall’s ‘solid light’ works.

This room of shoe oddities tucked in the back of the Marlborough Gallery is Towards An End to Biological Perception by Genesis P-Orridge. Animal lovers beware.

My daughter didn’t spend any time looking at these. She found them disturbing, spun around on her heels and walked straight out, which I understand. But *I* liked them.

The larger part of the gallery is filled with Davina Semo’s large scale sculptures in All The World. Along the floor are heavy cubic bales that anchor chains linked to bells cast from bronze.

I didn’t want to get thrown out so I asked permission to ring the bells and they said it was OKAY. So you can imagine what that lead to.

Brightly colored reflective acrylic sheets studded with ball bearings hang on the walls throughout.

I was reading a review in ARTnews, which is something I rarely do. ARTnews sucks all the joy out of art. The reviewer said of the piece in question:

For an oeuvre that is so self-consciously synthetic, the overall experience offers a surprisingly potent meditation on attention, lifespans and mortality itself.

What does that even MEAN? I have a very base, visceral reaction to art. I look at it. Does it make me have a proper laugh (in the good or bad way)? Is it beautiful to behold? These are my criteria. It’s why I hate political art.

Hallucinate

I’m enjoying my first genuine health crisis. That I made it this far in life without one is my luckiest break. I, literally, haven’t slept through the night since mid-August. I wake up two or three hours after I go to bed with stabbing pains. I move to the floor next to the bed so as not to disturb my bride. I curl up like the family dog and try to go back to sleep. The floor is hard so I’ve set a couple sleeping bags and blankets down and that helps. I usually fall back to sleep around 3:30.

I wake up shortly after that with terrible dreams. In one, the cure to my ailment could be found if I gathered one million gallons of water. I called everyone I know to help me gather water but nobody had the time to pitch-in. Another was a work-nightmare (of course). An excel spreadsheet with indecipherable numbers, endless tabs and an impossible deadline. One morning, the pain was worse than usual. I was scared and dreamt I’d better call someone in case I was dying but there was no one to call. I didn’t know my doctor’s number and knew he wouldn’t pick up at that hour anyway. Who else could help me? Who had the knowledge to alleviate the pain? No one. That’s who.

These other-worldly dreams would be interesting if they weren’t accompanied by the very real pain. I think it might be the meds. None of the pills I take do a damn thing for me but I keep swallowing them anyway. They’re about as effective as eating M&Ms for medicinal purposes.

The fall theater season is underway. I’ve had to eat two previously-purchased play tickets because the thought of sitting for 2+ hours in one of Broadway’s Marquis de Sade seats is unbearable. I couldn’t do it. This Friday I have a ticket to a production starring Glenn Close down at The Public Theater in the village. It’s a tough ticket to get so I’m going to try and suffer through. I can always bail out at the interval.

I used to have remarkable recuperative powers. I can’t imagine what’s happened to compromise them.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Alberto Giacometti exhibit at the Guggenheim surprised me in the bad way. I’m a fan of his work but seeing the rotunda filled with it was numbing.

I’ve always loved seeing one of his slender man pieces at an auction or museum. I love that they sell for tens of millions. That shouldn’t have anything to do with the aesthetics of the piece but it all factors in.

It was too much. Half as many pieces would’ve been fine.

~~~~~~~~~~

I’m genuinely sad to see summer end. I like the longer days, the life in my backyard, the beach. But I won’t miss the overly-air conditioned venues. My office and bus are like meat lockers. My bride keeps the thermostat set to Pluto. Plus, I look forward the the aforementioned theater season. And football.

~~~~~~~~~~