“No, I’m not on the fucking list!” I said impatiently (minus the foul language, of course) to the clipboard-wielding twentysomething that stood between me and the Richard Kidd launch at The Dactyl Gallery on Grand Street last night. Normally, I’m all for the faux-elitist velvet rope pretension of Soho—then again, normally, I’m on the list. But I had just stood in line at the Deitch Project, hoping to get all glitterfied by the Dazzle Dancers, only to be turned away after waiting more than an hour. And now, left to roam the cobblestoned streets with no back-up plan, I decided that Dactyl would make for an adequate consolation.
Once inside, after I had paid my respects to the bar, I got into a long conversation with a guy doing PR work for the featured Italian wines (the name of it I don’t recall, because it never crossed my mind to ask), but so far the only adjectives he had received from the other gallery crawlers were “acceptable” and “watery.” The Kidd show was titled “Boiling Down The ’80s,” and they weren’t kidding. It featured a handful of B&W wall-art framed by hot pink artist’s tape and a pair of skater half-pipes converted into clothing racks for two-dozen signature pink T-shirts. The word “fuck” was used several times, but it had been marked out. Was there a great deal of censoring going on in the ’80s? Was the f-word taboo? How many drinks had I had anyway? Eventually, people began showing up in little groups of three and four, covered in glitter and deliriously happy—apparently, they had just left the Dazzle Dancers show and had no problem flaunting it. I took a few moments to think the worst of them, I don’t know if it was plain and simple jealousy or righteous indignation toward their front-door fortune, but the first thing that came to mind was “F*ck them!”
Photo by John Jenkinson