Millions of artists create; only a few thousand are discussed or accepted by the spectator, and many less again are consecrated by posterity.|
-- Marcel Duchamp, Houston, Tex., 1957
Larry Gagosian did something way out of character at Jeffrey Deitch's SoHo stock opening featuring Yoko Ono and Sean Lennon -- Gogo arrived early, hung out for three hours, and was alone in Deitch's Grand Street space, when Elizabeth Phillips locked the doors at 9 p.m.
We almost felt sorry for Gaga -- people didn't readily mix with him -- Gogo the wallflower, even.
And even Gagosian never welcomed the kind of steady all-night stream of scenesters feting Deitch/Yoko. Maybe Larry, like the fox in the chicken coop, just wanted to poach one of Deitch's hens.
As for the art, Ono's tree-sprouting coffins, at Deitch's 18 Wooster Street garage, are undeniably powerful in the best Fluxus blend of concretism and ether.
Clearly, this is Ono's best piece since her extraordinary Chess installation (recreated by Steve Harvey at Baghoomian in 1993). She only fails when she draws or paints, as in last year's show at Ubu Gallery.
As for sculpture, conceptual and installation, dare we say that Ono (and Fluxus) deserve the full MoMA treatment.
Even more amazing: Sean Lennon, who has become the physical twin of his father -- the same S-shaped posture, the goofy grin, bright, squinting eyes, and prominent teeth. Give Sean credit for his courage, too, in stating that a U.S. government "Manchurian Candidate" assassin murdered his father.
Mama Yoko recently journeyed to Budapest with new best buddy Donald Baechler, whose work she's been buying by the truck-full from Tony Shafrazi.
Maybe Baechler should change his handle to Don On!
The stars spend Christmas alone.
-- old showbiz axiom
This senior curator, with major recent New York museum shows to his credit, also recently curated two classic gallery shows for that high profile dealer.
The day before his second uptown classic closed, Mr. Dealer called Mr. Curator into his office saying,
"Nothing's sold. We won't be able to pay your fee." (This, in spite of the fact that Mr. Dealer is backed by a worldwide consortium.)
Mr. Curator flipped, a la Reservoir Dogs, and invoiced Mr. Dealer anyway, who ripped it up.
We hear Mr. Curator had even called Roberta Smith four times, until she came in and gave "Show X" a rave in the New York Times. A collector saw a piece depicted in Roberta's review and bought it. Mr. Dealer commented, "It's only $45,000!"
What's more Mr. Dealer allegedly may be concealing another sale from Mr. Curator, who's flabbergasted that Mr. Dealer would cut off his nose to spite his face, over a trifling amount of money.
But then that space Mr. Dealer took over was losing $2 million a year for a decade, and he's under orders to slash costs, even if it means stiffing a distinguished art-world mover like Mr. Curator, recently praised to the skies for his efforts by Michael Kimmelman in the Times.