Last week, after an exhausting afternoon in Chelsea (by afternoon I mean an hour and a half, which is the max I can handle of Chelsea at one time, btw Robert Adams was my favourite show this time around) I went to Marlene Dumas’ opening at David Zwirner of which I was psyched about because I’d never seen her solo show before, and of course I was psyched to see her again too. The opening, to be expected, was hectic, so it was hard to look at the show as a whole, instead shuffling through crowds to see each piece. Kind of nice though to have those paintings, of which I feel more and more real mortality in them (and more grace too) to be surrounded by drinking and talking people everywhere. But to see the show properly, I have to go back when the place is empty and deathly still. Of course the first person I spot in the crowd outside was Dominic, the director of De ateliers (my former residency), sulking around and slurping beers…I thought to myself how lovely it was that he came all this way for her, and I was strangely touched by it. Later on we found Avery Preesman and his gf so it turned out there was an ateliers entourage after all. You could see Marlene all pretty in a shiny golden dress and birkenstocks that matched her hair, flushed from being interviewed in a corner that felt very hot full of people. From an empty stomach, I was tipsy after two couple beers at the opening; later she called us ‘tomato types’ from the way our faces reddened. I want to steal that line too, my mom calls me a chili pepper...
Afterward, my gal pal Dineo Bopape and I were invited to the dinner of which we were just given an address. I thought we were going to some fancy restaurant in the east village… we walked in and a lady took my coat, I thought it was strange she didn’t give me a number for it. Then as I walked upstairs I was greeted by this open domestic modern space full of art, I still thought it was some kind of fabulous concept restaurant. It was super comfortable, I only realized it was a collector’s house when I sauntered past some Lisa Yuskavage paintings off a mantel into the library with multiple copies of the same artist books, and a video installation of three televisions on the floor. OH- it’s David Zwirner’s house *lightbulb*. It was pretty fab/absurd to eat dinner next to what I thought was a Jason Rhoades shelf-like (domestic sized) sculpture, a Neo Rauch (museum sized) painting in front, to the right a whole room emitting pink neon light that I forgot to even check out, and open bar catering, all dangerous combinations for an impressionable emerging artist as I, very well behaved. By the end of the party Marlene, her South African friend, Dineo and I ended up holding hands, dancing and singing back up to Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’ and forgetting the words to Bob Dylan’s ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’ by a piano while everyone else patiently waited for us to finish. Then we jumped in a cab and sang all the way to a bar voor late night frites met mayonnaise, oysters and cocktails… the next day I lost my voice.
