Art Parties

I heard he even felt out of place at his own parties.

Art parties are mostly excruciating. People dressed in black, or better yet, black leather. Matching jackets on cold nights like last night. I went to one last night hosted by the artist R. Land, and although I am sure he was there, I didn’t meet the guy. Didn’t really meet anyone as a matter of fact. Saw some folks I hadn’t seen for awhile and that was nice. The local politics writer for the local entertainment weekly who was the girlfriend of a guy I used to be in a band with, and another woman who has reached virtual legend status with a group of friends that I met living in the town I lived in before. It was cold outside and way to hot inside in the studio. One smattered from wall to wall with the art I would call ‘unique’ – manipulated photographs of kittens one with a paw brandishing its middle finger etc. A TV in the corner played artist manipulated videos complete with subtitles of men and women in passe undergarments in sexually provocative poses and scenarios, doing things that at a glance looked like sex but really wasn’t upon further investigatin. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, and in the end decided that that was precisely the reaction that was intended. Despite the fact that it was so cold outside, the party had reached a critical mass and sent people spewing out the door with cold Black Labels in hand. My claustrophobia in such situations got the better of me and I found the cold outdoors, complete with King Crap (Port-O-Let) to be refreshing after about 6 or 7 minutes of the party. Besides that’s where the smokers always are and the party conversation alwasy seems to be better where the nicotine intake is occuring. The strange thing about it all is that the ones of us that were inappropriately dressed for the weather, only at best with a long sleeve shirt and the occasional sweater, seemed to be the ones that found the outdoors to be the best place. All of those black leather coats (there was no coat check girl) filled the space before it was all over and even getting to the bar was difficult to do over or around the wallish mass of cowhide. Ther were no mylar pillow cloud balloons. Even the mention of Andy or the factory would have surely gotten sneering glances and jeers. To be honest, it was good to see the people I saw, and as far as art parties go, this was one of the better ones (conversation managed to achieve a modicum of genuineness. But I can never seem to get around the odd feeling at these things. that everybody really wishes that they have the life that they act like they have at these things. That we are all really that cool. I guess I gave up on ‘cool’ a while ago, and being there made me feel as odd as I imagine the snails on my porch feel this time of year.