Private View

Click above to view a scanned image of this article as printed in Flux magazine(2005)

PRIVATE VIEW
“Sprüth Magers Lee has the best glass door of any gallery in London,” she said, mispronouncing it sprooth majors lee.
I corrected her, emphasising the hard ‘g’.
“Shproot – margers - lee.”
“Yeah, when that door clicks shut ... it’s perfect.” Somehow we no longer cared whether our superficiality was ironic or the real thing.
“How’s New Mexico?” I asked. She’d gone because Karen Wright’s editorial in Modern Painters had been about travelling internationally to view artworks in ideal locations. I knew because I’d read it too, but I liked her not knowing that I knew.
“Gorgeous,” she said. “It’s like, if you’ve never seen a Barnett Newman here, you’ve never seen a Barnett Newman ... ever,” practically quoting the editorial down the phone at me. “Anyway, Matthew, you must update me on everything that I’m missing in London.” Clearly bored.
“Well, there was the Kiefer Private View at White Cube.”
“I was at that with you, silly.”
“Uh?”
“Remember? We thought we saw Norman Rosenthal getting out of a taxi and then it turned out to be a fat scowling old drunk with his tie hanging thin-end-out and then it turned out that it was Norman Rosenthal.”
“Oh yeah,” I remembered, “and Tim Marlow kissed Michael Craig-Martin on both cheeks.”
“Yes. So now tell me about the things I wasn’t at, please.”
“The Schumacher PV at MOT?”
“Oh God, in that nightmare industrial estate tower-block?’
“It’s smart inside," I offered weakly. “Anyway, Fortescue Avenue’s PV was the same night and they’re close so I did both.”
“That area is so depressing,” she groaned. “‘The eastend is a total chore, admit it,’
“Well, gentrification is ... slow.”
“It’s been fifteen years! Hoxton is bearable in places, but Bethnal Green? Jesus. If I never have to walk down Cambridge Heath road again -’”
“You never do! Once a month you take a taxi from Victoria Miro to Modern Art to Maureen Paley and -”
“- yes, yes, I know,” she laughed.
“Paley’s PV was the next day actualIy but it was really dull. Fortunately, I had to leave early to get to Studio Voltaire before eight.”
“Anything at Saatchi’s? The painting thing?” She was feigning ignorance, wanting to hear things she already knew.
“Artforum held a party in the Saatchi Gallery for the end of Art Fortnight and it coincided with the opening of the Triumph of Painting Part Two.”
She made an extended, “Oh,” sound, as if all was explained, “you had an invitation?’
“Yes,” I lied, because it didn’t seem worth explaining the intricate blag.
“Any good?’
“They built a champagne bar in the middle of the main gallery, and the staff were wearing t-shirts printed with one of the Ackermann paintings from the show.”
“How … pointless,” she said, oddly, although I agreed, since everything is pointless, ultimately.
“Then the next night flowers Central PV’d the Kidner show.”
“And the Arndean?” she asked.
“Hm?’
“The thing at Arndean on the same night as Flowers.”
“What thing?”
“Two doors down!” she exclaimed.
“I didn’t see anything. Maybe it was round the corner.”
Mock infuriation, “Matthew. Cork Street is totally totally straight. How can you not have noticed that party? You must have walked right past it.’
I wanted to change the subject. The guestlist girl had seen my camera and forbidden it because, “we already have Tatler in.” I put my camera away. Still blocked. “This is a private party.” Vicious. Merciless.
“I was in a hurry. Kemistry had a PV the same night.”
“Good?”
“It was okay. Very Hoxton. You know I don’t relate to that.”
“And you go to the PV anyway. You’re so committed!”
“Then Alison Jacques PV’d Sam Salisbury. Stella Artois, with a bottle-opener tied to the ice tub.’
“You had to open your own bottles?”
“Hmm,” that was rather lax on Alison’s part. “I had to leave early anyway for the Haunch of Venison PV. Changing Mind ... Change of Mind. whatever it’s called, and — Oh my God — what a contrast!” my voice rose, undeniably camp, “Five brands of beer, bellinis, G&T, afternoon punch...”
“I don’t care about the drinks! Who was there?”
“ - a mini marquee, with actual catering, like, actual nutritional food, new potatoes, burgers, all free, and-”
“You sound like a homeless person."
“-Haunch of Venison yard was literally full of people-’”
“Who?”
“Anthony D’Offay.’
“He goes to everything. Who else?"
For no reason, I told her about a black Pug sat on a chair at Haunch. Weirdly I’d also seen him at the flowers Central PV, snarling at a life-size sculpture of himself. She got confused, thought I was talking about a person, that ‘Pug’ was a racial epithet.
Then on Thursday bombs were going off on underground trains. The news turned my stomach over: there were seven private views I’d planned to see that night. Would they go ahead? I phoned round the galleries and got answer-machines. That means cancelled, surely? The tube completely closed. London at a standstill. Live TV coverage. Hoards of people walking home. Would taxis be charging double, triple? There was no way of being at all those PV’s without taxi-ing door-to-door. I tried to accept; the PVs were cancelled. All-night anxiety. Next morning I called again to check. Victoria Miro and Sadie Coles had gone ahead. Nausea. The explosions had pricked a sense of self-preservation, nothing more, but this? I was numbed. My crass insulated coolness was no match; they’d gone ahead. Why wouldn’t they? I felt soft, naive.
“- then on Tuesday I did five PVs in one night.” So what?, I was thinking, last thursday I could have been at seven. I’d looked forward to telling the story.
“Which ones?” she asked.
“A group show at Union, but I could only stay twenty minutes, the Jerwood Space opposite was having a private thing which I definitely couldn’t do because I had to be in Cork Street by six-forty-five for Beaux Arts and Gallery ‘27’, then finished at Lisson, which was really the only good one, except I don’t remember Beaux at all…”
“Anyone at Lisson?”
“Anthony D’Offay again. Julian Opie."
“Wearing?"
"I didn't see Gillian Wearing."
"No, what was Julian Opie wearing?"
“Um, smart, you know, good colours for his skin tone. He was at Timothy Taylor too, in a matching shirt and suit jacket, sort of duck-egg bluey greeny grey."
“I think I know who you mean. Are you sure it was Julian Opie?”
“Yes,” I said, in a voice that obviously meant. “no."
“Has that Realism exhibition opened at Albemarle?"
“Last night. Did you know Edward Lucie-Smith curated that? He was arriving later but I had to get to the Timothy Taylor PV for 7pm. They were both so hot. These galleries need better air conditioning. I was sweating.”
“Poor baby.”
“I know,” I was laughing,“desperate times.”