My wife Debbie was kicking my shins under the table but I persisted. It was the late 1990’s and we were at a dinner party at the penthouse of Selena, our elderly art advisor, an expert collector known throughout the world of contemporary art for her ability to spot which artists were going to become “hot”. This was often self-fulfilling as her sponsorship of artists was enough to provide an initial spark of reputational buzz and momentum.
Selena always wanted Debbie and me to buy more “difficult” art. Pretty art was not Selena’s thing. But we bought art that appealed to Debbie’s eye, and sometimes that meant passing on pieces that subsequently rose in value. Art to us has always been consumption for our pleasure rather than an investment.
There were ten or twelve of us around Selena’s table that evening. She had a beautiful terrace overlooking Park Avenue, but like most penthouses her apartment was not large. Her collection was far greater than her wall space, so she was constantly rotating her art. That night, on the large wall across from me in the dining room was a priceless painting of an indescribably ugly face.
The indescribably ugly face was not a Lucien Freud, it was far uglier.
The conversation around the dining room table was inevitably about art, artists, and the art world. The people gathered were themselves either artists or gallery owners or other collectors. I was there because Selena adored my wife and had taken her under her wing.
None of the conversation was interesting to me. I knew then even less about contemporary art than I do now. So, I really had nothing to add. No names to drop, no opinions about who was an up and comer. The art talk whirled around me and I was lost.
When I was in a situation like that, I had a number of options. I could listen and try to learn. I could sip my scotch and let my mind drift until it eventually became pleasantly numb. Or I could amuse and distract myself by thinking of the thing to say that would be most jarring to the conversation while still obeying the boundaries of politeness. My invented conversational gambits usually stayed within my mind, rarely making it through my filters to be uttered aloud.
But this night was different. I’d sipped too energetically at too many scotches. Sometimes when I drank a bit too much, before the alcohol could numb me into silence, I would feel a jolt of energy along with a misleading sense of confidence in my charm and wit. Plus, the art chatter seemed pretentious to me. So, I decided to speak.
As I recall it, a young man in a bowtie was expounding on various artistic photographic techniques––and as head of photography at the Metropolitan Museum he had every right. It suddenly occurred to me that someone could take a photo of the valuable photos that the bowtie man was displaying on the walls of The Met.
I interrupted him. “Wait, when you have a photography exhibit, do you allow people to take photos of the photos?”
He said yes but no flashes.
I Ignored the bit about flashes. “But aren’t you worried about that? Isn’t a photo of a photo just as good as the original photo?”
“Aha.” I said to myself just as my wife delivered the first sharp-toed kick to my shin.
I think my question was so stupid that the bowtie man from the Met really didn’t know what to say. So, he ignored me.
But on the spot, or perhaps after a bit more scotch, I came up with a more devious strategy, one that I was sure would destroy all the pretensions of the cream of the art world gathered around the table.
“What if,” I said in another flagrant interruption, and here I imagine I had a smile or a sneer or some facial expression conveying a mix of mischief, triumph, and inebriation, “What if I went to the phone book and started calling up all the people whose name was Andy Warhol and then I commissioned the best artist of the lot to make art in the style of Andy Warhol? Why couldn’t I sell that art as an original Andy Warhol?”
I was certain I had them, these arrogant art world stars, certain I had burst their pretentious bubble. And I was shocked–––shocked––– that I was the first person to think of this brilliant scheme. Even better, not only had I thought of a way to mock any art that could be easily reproduced, but I’d also discovered that I could shift my legs behind one of the legs of the dining room table to avoid the increasingly painful kicks (but oh so loving in their intent to save me from myself) that my wife kept hammering at my poor shins.
To my Warhol scheme came a response. “Well, that would be illegal.”
I would defend my scheme like Socrates. “Why illegal?”
“Because it would be fraud.”
“But why?”
Because obviously…”
Time to show my business chops. “Caveat emptor,” is what I’d like to think I said. “I’d be selling an original work of art by an artist named Andy Warhol, right?”
No response so I continued. “I merely wouldn’t have specified which Andy Warhol. Maybe it would be Andy Warhol from the Bronx. But the buyer would have to ask, wouldn’t they?”
I recall someone saying something about asking a lawyer. I took that as a win.
My wife soon found a way to silence me. Perhaps she removed my drink or squeezed my thigh in a way suggesting not romance but extreme annoyance. Or maybe she just said, “David, that’s enough!”
And no, we would not be staying for coffee and certainly not for an after-dinner drink.
My wife was rightfully angry but she laughs about it now. I didn’t ruin her relationship with Selena, which continued to flourish.
Coming home from that dinner I think I had the same smile on my face as I’ve had writing this recollection. I have enormous affection for my thirtysomething self. Even when he was being stupid and drunk. Because for better or worse, to those who know me the best, the shields were down that night and I was being very much my untamed self.
David, I loved this essay! I always listen to your audio, which is equally wonderful. I was an art history major in undergrad and in the mid 1990s got my masters in Visual Arts Administration at NYU. Reagan era economic policy had a devastating effect on government funding for museums and other nonprofits who realized their leadership was under qualified to lead the business side of their organizations.
While they still rejected straight up business school graduates (MBAs), they were willing to make room for professionals who were well versed in the business side of the arts. This was also the dawn of the Internet which led to new copyright and intellectual property laws related to the reproduction of works online and the explosion merchandising offerings in gift shops.
In the mid 1990s Jeff Koons took art merchandising to new heights with his large scale sculptures, Balloon Dogs which sold at auction for record breaking prices for a living artist at the time. Koons conceptualized his sculptures but had artisans in his studio create the work. I thought your reference to selling an authentic Andy Warhol (albeit not by the famous artist) to be spot on for those ambiguous times in the art world the lines were blurred between artist and art work. I particularly loved my art law classes. Had your intentions been parody, you would have been legally protected against fraud and possible copyright infringement.
I’m at a dinner party in Houston 15 years ago. The talk moves from the realtor host’s three chihuahuas (I called them rat dogs but when one showed up at a house closing of mine in a dress - it WAS kind of cute) to a guest’s two bulldogs. The guest explained that several times a year, her bulldogs had to have their adrenal glands expressed and what that entailed. I’m not a fan of anything that requires human hands on canine genitalia. Period. I wanted to say loudly “So you or your vet are touching your dogs’ balls for their health- on a regular basis?!? EWWWWWW!” (I may be describing this procedure incorrectly but it’s too gross for me to care).
However, I remained silent and pretended this was all so interesting. 🤨 But I wanted to 🤮.
- a dog person (really). Be well all.