Prolong vs. Prologue: Cold Feet & Wet Ears

Despite my faux-nee (but well-meaning) attempts at affluence/at aptitude/to talk like I am all up in (& about) the sleek, glass-swiveling circles of art criticism - a pseudo-foreign world where one stands on the pillar of his own art-prowess & can perhaps gaze down a bit condescendingly, if he has built his corinthian high enough. I have always felt the divide between my swollen tongue and the silver-cast ones of the 'intellectually sharp 'n savvy'. (This is the term I am best able to apply. It's a matter of poise - not status- if anything: plain, hella conviction ).

I have never even so much as mustered the ballz to knock the abstract expressionists - which I hear is not too hard to do. Still, without having my roots firmly embedded in the philosophy of Pollock, how could I feel entirely sound commenting?

So. Tuesday at the Chelsea Arts Tower found me rigid, chewing my swollen tongue into a further state of ineloquence; beached sealife/longing to return to my embryonic fluid.

A couple of months back I was inclined to: manifest a little fruition out of my infa(n)tuation with the idea of being in the 'NYC art scene,' using my madd skillz to artfully penetrate "the great minds & talents of our generation"

Hmmm:
1. What does that even mean?
2. Our generation still feels fresh out of the womb, like our figureheads are learning to toddle. Not that we are not prolific and innovative, but the backwash of whatever life's-milk we were fat-fed on left a strong sense of irony on our tongues. Thus, our ironic tastes.*
3. Though it is intriguing to observe how styles are embraced or rejected from generation to generation, that had little do with anything when it came to this exhibition that I was going to in Chelsea.

I made my way to the Chelsea Arts Tower, smoking heavily and trying to bite down that feeling that I needed: notes scribbled up and down my limbs, a tele-prompter, a "plus one" in order to not feel awkward, a better knowledge of social propriety at such events, and a handkerchief to de-glisten my face flesh.

I was pseudo-relieved to see the managing editor of the magazine. (We'll call him Marwood. I firmly believe in blog-pseudonyms.)

I was glad that I would be not be playing the symbolism version of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey the entire evening, aimlessly hoping to wind up in the right place and say the right thing. However, my precious pride didn't allow me much in terms of entreating him for guidance, either. But, cowboy up, etc.

Re-Accession: For Sale By Owner
Curated by Philae Knight and Amanda Steck

There is a considerable degree of empowerment in grasping two fistfuls of the current situational fabric & making collaborative quilts, regardless. Our economic times couldeasily be enough to douse spirits, but the FLAG Art Foundation embraced the circumstance, exploring the results of the economic pitfall & featuring artists undoubtedly influenced by it.

As Marwood and I circulated around the space - & I briefly told myself not to scuff the wood floors - I (not quite) fondly recalled transporting Devon Dikeou's What's Love Got To Do With It? pieces from SoHo to Chelsea in the most impressive down-pour I have seen since moving to New York. We might have taken a canoe, really. Anyway, I became momentarily religious when running the packaged pieces from the car to the Chelsea Arts Tower. (I am a stubby, clumsy critter: a hindrance & danger to the installation of art everywhere).

Now the pieces were perfectly arranged on the wall beside the elevators, a collection of replicas of lobby informational boards from various exhibitions. Those little cases, black felt and white plastic letters, now struck me as the manifestation of nostalgia and preservation - an appropriate emblem to mount in the face of an artistic re-accession.


So. Here it is: I am some slippery critter, wet behind the ears, polishing off my years at Sarah Lawrence College and gnawing my way through...quite the fine-dine-vinyl-wine-cookie. I sleep in Brooklyn & spend some fair hours as an intern (embryo) for an art publication.

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*generation "HIPSTER"?


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@ Chelsea Arts Tower: I should add that my wine glass, once in hand, was never empty. & there were many guests. Diligence personified. Snaps to those who make the 'swivel&circulate' possible.