The Last Days of Chez Deitch, Part II

Line of people waiting to get into Deitch Projects, at opening night, Shephard Fairey, May 1, 2010.

Like his gallery openings with their crowds of people in the streets, Jeffrey Deitch himself is equal parts NYC and LA ,and always has been, sans silicone and fake tans. At Shephard Fairey's opening on May Day, Mr. Deitch wore a characteristically pastel pink suit, and (as seen on YouTube) caught swearing with a venom not unlike that of Ari Gold in "Entourage", Mr. Deitch will fit right into LA.

Left: barricaded at the entry, nervous people fret.

Shephard Fairey's opening, on a warm Saturday evening, was a scene straight out of "Exit at the Gift Shop". Crowds lined up hours before the start of the official opening, and the line was an event in itself, stretching around the block, 10 hipsters thick , and slow to move. Opposite the line was an unfettered block party, with fancy motorcycles whose shapes, colors and collaged naked ladies vied for attention with the staid flat graphic art within the gallery.

Posing and preening among the motos were a group of bedazzled, bejewelled, be-tatted, and sometimes bearded gents, presumably the owners of the bikes, though they could have been a bunch of models from the anti-Hell's-Angels department.

Celebrities abounded, including Tyson Beckford (left), quick to arrive and to depart. It all seemed strangely of another era--80's fabulous-- but sadly without the substance inside. I like the idea of Shephard Fairey much more than the reality: someone whose hard-working street art style has blossomed into a full-fledged commercial career, thanks to a certain Obama poster, and of course buoyed by Deitch's happy collaboration. Fairey was likable in "Exit through the Gift Shop", which I highly recommend as a parable about art-world hype. In that movie, an unlikely protagonist [thrift-shop owner-turned artiste] becomes a semi-celebrity due to a massive marketing campaign, yet his work rips off every other street artist and pop artist, including Fairey himself.


Fairey also recycles many a Pop and propaganda idiom, and happily admits to it, but inside a gallery his work suffers. So-called street art serves a purpose and attains a power that circumvent the Deitches of this world. The international nature of the art itself is even more fascinating, and its demographic is far wider than that of most "fine" artists. Mr.Deitch has had a long history of working with graffiti-based artists, and among these, Fairey's work is the tamest. And as for Mr.Fairey, who would turn down an opportunity at having Tyson Beckford, motorcycles, and fancy dogs at his opening, not to mention lines of eager beavers trying to get in?

Left: installation view of Shephard Fairey, "May Day" exhibition.

The Last Days of Chez Deitch, Part 1

Left: Rosson Crow at Deitch Projects, 3/4/2010.

Jeffrey Deitch's departure from our fair city for LA has been much-chronicled, and although I've charted a 50/50 hit rate with his artists (still much higher than most galleries), the element I'll miss most is the medieval-pageantry aura of his openings. While I only caught Jules de Balincourt on a quiet Tuesday, I found the openings of Rosson Crow, held during the first day of Armory Week, and of Shephard Fairey, held last week on the heels of a currently-playing movie featuring Fairey [Exit at the Gift Shop], to be extravaganzas of glamor.

Right: Graffiti-top, brick wall pants, man about town.

Left: Keith Haring tunnel with contemporary urban texting dweller.

But to be accurate, the glamor was of a certain very democratically-accessible sort: celebrities, collectoristas [one part fusty collector one part fashionista], and young kids with neon colors and ripped t-shirts all co-mingled and pretended to ignore each other. With all the hubbub of a movie premiere but without the velvet ropes (although the long lines at the Fairey show necessitated a special VIP-only line complete with bouncers), each opening reminded one of a Fellini-esque fete--yes, not quite circus-like, but certainly I'll miss my little pinch of Deitch's Dolce Vita.

Left: photographer waiting to snap as Rosson Crow greets fans.

Right: Rosson Crow's ball gown, all poufs and trains.

Rosson Crow's paintings were in themselves a tribute to art-worlds past: titled "The Bowery Boys", each painting was an homage to Bruce Nauman, Keith Haring, and other 80s stars, as well as subway trains, and now-gone places such as CBGBs. The meta-celebration of "Better Days Gone By" was everywhere--but in the person of a confident young artist who seduces with vibrant splashes of paint (detail at right) and loud bangs of ambition, one felt a kinship, and a re-imagining, rather than a sad eulogy or empty envy of the glitz and grit of the 80s art scene. Deitch's desire to cycle through (some say devour and spit out) younger artists was at least for this one evening an example of a benevolent dictator throwing a bread and circus for his subjects; and what a wonderful circus it was. Among the crowd were the equally young prodigy designer Zac Posen, Rosson Crow and several other ladies wearing the bright warm hues found in many of her paintings, onlookers in baseball caps or high heels, all in a gleaming white space that one has to ascend into, as if into a privileged inner cloister.

Left: matching lady-in-waiting.

Damien Hirst is the Devil--Not

On a frigid Saturday night, Gagosian's Madison Avenue gallery hosted a greatest hits version of the Brit marketing genius's oeuvre. Coatless hatless creatures stood in line to get autographs, while a few strays actually went downstairs to look at some of the celeb-free art (although John McEnroe dutifully strolled through before departing).

Right: detail of "Judgment Day", gold-plated case with 30,000 manufactured diamonds.

Left: Damien Hirst [with fabulous rings] signing autographs:" Who should I say it's for, Dahling?"



Spotted in the madding crowd were: the naughty photographer Terry Richardson, Mr.Pineapple Express James Franco, Johnny Mac, Mick Jagger, Takashi Murakami, Jeffrey Deitch, and GoGo himself. Power art-biz/show-biz huddles were everywhere, with Mick talking to Mac, Mac talking to GoGo and Deitch, and Mick happily posing for pix with Hirst.

Right: Mick Jagger hugging Damien Hirst.

Left: Gagosian artist Takashi Murakami.

It's too easy to have something snarky to say about aptly-named Damien Hirst. Although he hasn't yet been featured in The Simpsons, Hirst has nonetheless become ubiquitous in mass culture. And while his show had as grandiose a premise and title as ever-- "The End of an Era"-- the sad collection of old and new works showed a consistent path of diminishing returns.

Right: Damien Hirst's cow sticking its tongue out at the oblivious crowd.

In the center of the main room was a vitrine eponymously titled "The End of an Era", with a cow head recycled from an earlier sculpture entitled "The Golden Half". While claiming to acknowledging his own conceptual dead end, Hirst was still trying to market a career arc that started with a bang [Death, God, Big Ideas] and has since become an end game whose outcome is now only measured in dollars. And despite the brouhaha at the opening, and the range of works from 2006-2009, there was quite a large number of unsold works.

Left: Gem paintings in gold frames, behind glass, reflecting the packed room full of gem-wearers.

Aside from his trademark paintings of pills, butterflies, and spots, Hirst continued his obsessions with wealth with his Vegas-y arrays of diamonds and zirconias in gold cases. Paintings of famous diamonds on black backgrounds with gold frames were dead on arrival. But all eyes were on the golden glitz, as the Golden Calf was old hat. Of course my eyes were on the hoofs of the humans.

Right: Equestrian chique.

Below: "You Cannot be Serious!!" John McEnroe to Larry Gagosian, with Mick.

Below Right: Endless work for Mr.Hirst.

Below left: Detail of butterflies encased in paint.






"Damien Hirst: End of an Era" at Gagosian Gallery through March 6.