The New York Times
February 10, 1995
Weekend, pp. C1, C19.
When Art Puts on a Party -- A Guide to Gallery Openings
[Excerpts]
By William Grimes
Painters and sculptors create, for the most part, in
solitude and silence. Ideally, their works are contemplated
in the same way. But that is not how they are thrust upon
an unsuspecting world. In late-20th-century New York, art
takes its first bow in a room as loud and crowded as a
commodities trading pit and as smoke-filled as an off-track
betting parlor. The fruits of genius are toasted with
Chilean chardonnay and honored with offerings of suspect
cheese. For a mad two hours, artists, critics, hangers-on,
insiders, befuddled outsiders and outright scroungers
mingle, collide, preen, dish, fawn, toady, snub and, as a
last resort, take a fleeting glance at the art on the wall.
This ritual, played out hundreds of nights a year in
galleries great and small, uptown and downtown, is known as
an art opening. It is held, as a rule, the night before a
show officially opens, or at the end of the show's first
day. It is given as a courtesy to the artist who, after
toiling long and lonely hours in his studio has earned a
chance to stand in the spotlight and bask in semi-sincere
praise. For a brief, intoxicating moment, the heavens will
align properly and move the artist to his or her rightful
place: the center of the universe. ...
For their supposed beneficiaries, the artists, openings are
equal parts agony and ecstasy. On the plus side there's
praise, attention and an opportunity to see the work -- and
have it seen -- outside the studio. On the minus side, the
work and the artist are painfully exposed. ...
The fear is well founded. The excited buzz of conversation
at an opening, when it actually turns to the art on the
wall, is often a cocktail of malicious witticisms, snide
remarks and put-downs that later evolve, in post-opening
gab sessions over dinner or drinks, into full-length
scorching critiques.
First, though, the artist must be congratulated. This is
the touchiest part of the ritual. It is important for
friends and acquaintances to establish physical contact
with the artist and make it clear that they have done their
duty by showing up. (To make doubly sure, interested
parties sign the guest book at the gallery's main desk,
which the artist and the dealer will scrutinize the next
day.) It is bad form, however, to cut in while the artist
is doing a snow job on a potential buyer, buttonholing a
critic or curator or licking the shoes of a more important
artist.
The minimum acceptable burnt offering is "Congratulations."
But this is also the formula when you hate the work but
can't leave without saying something. "The show looks
great" suggests that you don't actual]y despise the work.
Good friends will elaborate a bit and single out a painting
or two for more specific praise, which the artist often
interprets as an implied criticism of the rest of the work.
Worst of all are the well-meaning souls who start out with
warm congratulations and proceed to explain, in great
detail, why the composition falls apart in several
paintings.
If the congratulators sometimes falter, perhaps it's
because they sense that the clock is ticking.
"I don't want to spend 30 minutes talking to someone about
their lower-back problem," said Joe DiGiorgio, a landscape
painter. "Both people's eyes are traveling around the room
anyway, looking for someone they should be talking to or
making contact with."
Often, the encounter between artist and congratulator
becomes a test to see who can be ruder to whom thereby
clarifying status relations. No wonder everybody needs a
drink.
Laura Nash, who makes illuminated Fiberglas sculptures,
recently got a creepy feeling of deja-vu when a race of
aliens appeared on a repeat episode of "Star Trek: The Next
Generation."
"They had dark, severe suits, baggy but tapered at the
ankles," she said. "They were very tall and thin and had a
look of cold disdain. I thought, 'Gee, this looks just like
the art world.' " ...
February 10, 1995
Weekend, pp. C1, C19.
When Art Puts on a Party -- A Guide to Gallery Openings
[Excerpts]
By William Grimes
Painters and sculptors create, for the most part, in
solitude and silence. Ideally, their works are contemplated
in the same way. But that is not how they are thrust upon
an unsuspecting world. In late-20th-century New York, art
takes its first bow in a room as loud and crowded as a
commodities trading pit and as smoke-filled as an off-track
betting parlor. The fruits of genius are toasted with
Chilean chardonnay and honored with offerings of suspect
cheese. For a mad two hours, artists, critics, hangers-on,
insiders, befuddled outsiders and outright scroungers
mingle, collide, preen, dish, fawn, toady, snub and, as a
last resort, take a fleeting glance at the art on the wall.
This ritual, played out hundreds of nights a year in
galleries great and small, uptown and downtown, is known as
an art opening. It is held, as a rule, the night before a
show officially opens, or at the end of the show's first
day. It is given as a courtesy to the artist who, after
toiling long and lonely hours in his studio has earned a
chance to stand in the spotlight and bask in semi-sincere
praise. For a brief, intoxicating moment, the heavens will
align properly and move the artist to his or her rightful
place: the center of the universe. ...
For their supposed beneficiaries, the artists, openings are
equal parts agony and ecstasy. On the plus side there's
praise, attention and an opportunity to see the work -- and
have it seen -- outside the studio. On the minus side, the
work and the artist are painfully exposed. ...
The fear is well founded. The excited buzz of conversation
at an opening, when it actually turns to the art on the
wall, is often a cocktail of malicious witticisms, snide
remarks and put-downs that later evolve, in post-opening
gab sessions over dinner or drinks, into full-length
scorching critiques.
First, though, the artist must be congratulated. This is
the touchiest part of the ritual. It is important for
friends and acquaintances to establish physical contact
with the artist and make it clear that they have done their
duty by showing up. (To make doubly sure, interested
parties sign the guest book at the gallery's main desk,
which the artist and the dealer will scrutinize the next
day.) It is bad form, however, to cut in while the artist
is doing a snow job on a potential buyer, buttonholing a
critic or curator or licking the shoes of a more important
artist.
The minimum acceptable burnt offering is "Congratulations."
But this is also the formula when you hate the work but
can't leave without saying something. "The show looks
great" suggests that you don't actual]y despise the work.
Good friends will elaborate a bit and single out a painting
or two for more specific praise, which the artist often
interprets as an implied criticism of the rest of the work.
Worst of all are the well-meaning souls who start out with
warm congratulations and proceed to explain, in great
detail, why the composition falls apart in several
paintings.
If the congratulators sometimes falter, perhaps it's
because they sense that the clock is ticking.
"I don't want to spend 30 minutes talking to someone about
their lower-back problem," said Joe DiGiorgio, a landscape
painter. "Both people's eyes are traveling around the room
anyway, looking for someone they should be talking to or
making contact with."
Often, the encounter between artist and congratulator
becomes a test to see who can be ruder to whom thereby
clarifying status relations. No wonder everybody needs a
drink.
Laura Nash, who makes illuminated Fiberglas sculptures,
recently got a creepy feeling of deja-vu when a race of
aliens appeared on a repeat episode of "Star Trek: The Next
Generation."
"They had dark, severe suits, baggy but tapered at the
ankles," she said. "They were very tall and thin and had a
look of cold disdain. I thought, 'Gee, this looks just like
the art world.' " ...