New Museum No No

Ok. So a couple of Thursdays ago, the much hyped about New Musuem threw a *little* party for media, artists, curators, and anyone else who could get past the bull at the door. Knowing said bull, and feeling like tonight was really NOT going to happen for me, I gave her underlings a half assed reason as to why they should let me in. Something along the lines of "I let *her* into a party once, and I'm hoping that you know, maybe you guys could return the favour???" They, knowing what would happen to their jobs were they to allow me, said an apologetic 'no' and I was left standing on the red carpet with nowhere to go but back out the door and into the cold November night.

But my dear readers, that night l found the cure for the "I didn't get into the New Museum party because the event planner hates/doesn't recognize me" blues. REALLY BAD ART. Face making, jaw dropping, cows dressed in western clothes with super big teets fawning over a buddha Ronald McDonald kind of art. Yes, the party at Opera Gallery in Soho (has ANYONE ever heard of this place) also had goons at the door, but they were much much nicer goons, who were easily won over with my winning smile. And this party had booze, lots and lots of booze. Which got me thinking....if turned down at one party in New York, don't sulk and curse the system, just walk three blocks and try try again.

Hey, where'd I go?

HERE I AM!

Seriously. Can I tell you how hard it is to keep up with a blog. I mean, I know most people think it's just a weekend hobby thing. But when you want to write something meaningful and entertaining, it's not exactly a Sunday morning exercise. And besides, I have good reason to be behind. I went to Peru. PERU! And can I also mention that I turned 30. 30!!!!!! That alone is enough to send a gal into silence. Who wants to hear from a 30 year old?????? But I refuse to be a hasbeen. Listen up. I am going to be crashing more parties, coercing more people into having their photo taken with me, and generaly getting into more trouble than usual. Why? Because I refuse to go down without a fight!!

Stay tuned........

xoxo

Oh Canada

Thanks to the Canadian Consulate here, a number of fantastic shows promoting Canada are held in the week leading up to Canada Day. I have to admit, not only were these shows an incredible example of the talent in our great country, but they're made even more fun when you're admitted backstage to all of them (thank you to Jeff at the Consulate for the star treatment).

June 30th was the performance I was really looking forward to; Sam Roberts Band and the Stills at Prospect Park in Brooklyn. George and I had spent the entire day moving apartments but still managed to finish up in time to catch the Stills play their entire set. Being Canadian, and huge fans of Sam Roberts, we assumed he would be headlining and that we had arrived just in time to see both bands. But this is America and The Stills, who spent four years in Brooklyn before moving back to Montreal, are a much bigger act. So while George and I headed to an ATM figuring we'd be back in time to see SRB, the show cleared out. By the time we got back the only people left were the Consulate guests, who (led in part by Pamela Wallin) were staging an impromptu after party. Although we missed Sam play, we were fortunate enough to meet him and enjoy a conversation. Sam is as Canadian as they come: incredibly polite, totally sincere, and looks like he's just returned from a hike in the mountains. I also have to admit that I've always had a bit of a crush on him (ever since that Brother Down video where he's adrift at sea and just crying out for someone to save him and give him a good shave) so it was a real thrill to meet him and discover he's completely down to earth.





The following day, July 1st, was bittersweet. George caught a flight back to Vancouver that morning and I spent much of the afternoon wishing I could hop on a plane myself and beat him there. Once again, the Canadian Consulate came to my rescue, this time with a tribute to Canadian Song at Joe's Pub. If you are ever a Canadian in New York on Canada Day, this is THE show to see. Local New York musicians (most of them expats) played covers of everything from Avril Lavigne to Neil Young. By far the highlight was Carol Pope singing her own tune, High School Confidential. I've never been more proud.

First Fridays

Every first Friday of the month, the Guggenheim hosts a little get together known as, simply, first Fridays. Sitting at home in Vancouver I remember reading about these parties and thinking how fun it would be to have a chance to go. Now that I live here, it's much more convenient. First Fridays are $25 a ticket and run from 9 pm to 1am, and with that long a spread, George and I figured we'd be right on time if we arrived at 11 to see the crowd, grab a drink, catch the end of the Nouvelle Vague show, and call it a night. Boy were we wrong.

Suffering through a line that snaked around the building and down the block were bankers, hipsters, upper east side society gals and a few youngsters hoping to grab a drink without showing ID. Standing in line has never been my cup of tea, so we headed over to the smoking area near the entrance to suss out the situation. As I befriended an art handler, George chatted with a lonesome fellow who looked like he was at the Guggenheim for the chicks. Turns out the Guggenheim security guards monitor entrance to the party by hand stamp, and not very good ones. Pulling out a pen and putting his artistic skills to good use, George was able to smudge a knock off on both of our hands. On our way in, we didn't even get a second glance.

Once inside, it was mayhem. Nouvelle Vague was finishing up a set, the 20 to 30 something set lined the rotunda, and the noise was close to deafening. We quickly grabbed some cocktails (mine at 9$ a pop) and headed up to see some of the works in the summer show "The Shapes of Space." My personal fave was the disco light room, not much if a piece but so much fun to dance on!!! As far as exhibitions go though, this one is pretty flat, and that's with the help of bubbly drinks. One of the best things about not having to pay for a show, is not feeling guilty when you leave after only being there for an hour. Will I be back for another "First Friday?"...maybe, as long as they don't change their door policy.....

Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so

Hands down, one of the busiest weeks in New York for me yet.

Monday, George and I saw Lou Reed at the launch of the Highline Ballroom. Rushing to arrive promty at 7pm paid off, and we were able to snag a spot right near the stage. I was surprised to discover that Lou is a real character. "Larry, pay attention to my hand signals and turn up the fucking vocals" is not a line in a song, but he threw it in there anyways. And although he had prompters with the the words on them (give him a break, he's getting pretty old) it was an incredible show. To be so close to such a music icon, well, you could just feel the energy.









The next night, it was over to the the Chelsea Art Musuem where I've been working on promoting an exhibition of photographs by the talented Japanese artist Miwa Yanagi. Every piece in the show is from the incredible Deutsche Bank Collection, which is committed to supporting emerging artists, and in North America, focused on works on paper. Yanagi's photographs are breathtaking, and speak to the roles of women in Japanese society while commenting on the misguided notions of beauty, power and desire. I am extremely proud to be publicizing this show, which is already getting attention from Art Actuel, French Photo and (fingers crossed) the New York Times.





On Thursday, it was time for the opening of Mr. (just Mr.) at Lehmann Maupin Gallery. Mr. is a protege of Takashi Murakami, and there's been a lot of buzz surrounding his first show in New York. I'm not a huge fan of the paintings, but the sculptures are really fantastic, and the giant head pictured here actually doubles as a room, complete with a small bed and girlie toys scattered on the floor. I missed the performance piece to head off to the Andreas Gursky show at Matthew Marks and the Glenn Brown show at Gagosian (where I met Larry for the first time).





Openings in Chelsea were followed by the Mr. afterparty at Park. Murakami (pictured with me and George here) let loose with some moves on the dance floor, while Mr. mugged for the press. Two hours into the party Patrick McMullan showed up, and he and I had a chance to talk about some of his upcoming projects, including a book about glamour that will be released in the fall. Everybody loves it when Patrick arrives, he kind of makes a party official. By the end of the night he had invited George and I to a party he hosts on Mondays. I think we might try to go - depending on how much sleep I get this weekend........

Subway no Way

I need to tell you. I'm exhausted. Not just a little tired, no, I'm like the walking dead. Sure, on the outside it's all fabulous parties and dinners at Matsuri in the Maritime hotel with two emerging French artists (who have a great show up at Max Lang) but when you're on the 4 train again a mere 10 hours after you got off it, things all start to feel a little much. In fact, I think I have a better understanding now of why New Yorkers are notorious for those nasty outbursts. It's the subway. All those people jammed together, stuck underground on trains that slow down CONSTANTLY for "train traffic ahead of us'. Oh sure, if you don't live here, you probably think the subway is some fantastic adventure - all mariachi bands, breakdancers and lounge singers. But take the subway every day and you're exposed to the underbelly, and let me tell you, it's not a pretty one. Case in point, the fellow who sat his entire ride making a star pyramid out of popsicle sticks, or chin-up guy who was actually working out on the bars that keep us all standing ( I know none of us have time to get to the gym, but COME ON!). And then there are the kids in fancy jeans and nice haircuts who walk through the cars selling candy for a school trip to Europe, or the Latino woman who hawks the latest Hollywood releases on DVD, or, my personal favorite lint brush guy, who in his old sweatsuit all the way from 138 street to Union Square rolled himself all up and over (and went through about 5 sheets in the process). I want to know. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? You fascinate and infuriate me and maybe that's why all of us on the subway keep to ourselves, reading our books or staring up into space, or if you've had a few too many late nights, catching up on our sleep.

Tar-Jhay!

I have to admit, I once had a thing for Isaac Mizrahi. In fact, he was one of the first designer names I ever lusted after in my teens. These days, Mizrahi is more well known for his cheap and cheerful Target line, a skirt from which I almost bought a few weeks ago. But there's something about buying Mizrahi For Less that just doesn't feel right. I'm a total supporter of designers making their creativity available for mass consumption ( Viktor and Rolf's looks for H&M, or Proenza Schouler for Target) but when it comes to Mizrahi, I have too many fond memories of wishing for the real thing, so that now, buying Isaac feels like toting a cheap Balenciaga knock off from Canal Street: not nearly as good as the real thing.