My late-night Bushwick experiences over the past seven years have merged into a single composite memory: I get dropped off by a gypsy cab on a dark street named after a Dutch aristocrat, search for a DIY gallery-opening in the basement of a basement of an abandoned warehouse that I heard about from a friend who heard about it from an art handler at his LES gallery, and afterwards I head to Kings County Bar and continue to drink Yuenglings until early in the morning and then walk back to Greenpoint along Morgan Avenue avoiding shadowy drunk strangers and feral dogs.
Given this surreal recollection, it felt very strange to go to an opening last Friday night in Bushwick at Luhring Augustine Gallery, held in a large, manicured, out-in-the-open building. The blue-chip Chelsea mainstay recently joined the East Brooklyn slummer party by opening a spacious franchise at 25 Knickerbocker Ave.
The venerable gallery hit the party scene running by hosting a blow-out opening reception of Charles Atlas video projections that was almost like watching Darren Aronofskyâ€™s â€œPiâ€ minus Clint Mansellâ€™s score. As I milled about on the sidewalk I saw the the well-heeled segment of the art world having a midlife crisis. This was its Fiat convertible and the cool young mistress with forearm tattoos riding shotgun.
Bellwether or Outlier, one couldnâ€™t help wonder. My friend and I considered the dissonance between the gallery clientsâ€™ Citarellas on the Upper East and the Dominican bodegas dotting the streets around us.
â€œDoes this move mean that Chelsea is the new 57th Street; the Lower East is the new Chelsea; Bushwick is the new Lower-East and Ridgewood is the new Bushwick?â€œ
â€œWhat would the New Ridgewood be?â€
â€œA pile of bedbug infested mattresses behind a KFC in Hollis, Queens.â€
â€œMaybe a sinking trash barge in Long Island Sound. Extra exclusive because the whole abject scene would be time sensitive; if you got there too late youâ€™d be both out-of-the-know AND dead.â€
â€œFunny because itâ€™s not that far off.â€
I didnâ€™t end up at Kings County until 3 AM that night because I had to fly back to Wisconsin early the next morning to attend an art opening of a family friend at the Cultural Center back in Wisconsin. My mother-in-law was helping out with the decorations for the Medieval-themed art exhibition, complete with barrels of mead, monks, minstrels, and, despite my warnings that they were New World animals, oversized turkey legs.
Unlike most galleries in Bushwick, merely finding the Cedarburg Cultural Center isnâ€™t edifying; Itâ€™s intentionally easy to locate and its target audience is anyone who can fit through its well-decorated doors with close-toed shoes. It has a large sign out front and amply distributed posters at every diner, curio and fudge shop letting everyone who passes through town, young and old, square and hip alike, know when a spectacular cultural event will take place.
That evening I headed from my in-laws house to the Cultural Center â€“ not a three-minute walk even if I was obstructed by rogue dogs and drunken streetwalkers. When I arrived I chatted up several of the volunteers who were still prepping for the opening, rolling antiqued, walnut stained wine barrels and draping tables in scorched burlap to give the Sheetrocked and acoustic ceilinged interior the patina they must have imagined glazed the Middle Ages. It all seemed a bit like a stage production or scene from a Monty Python movie; even so, it was such an earnest and unpretentious spectacle that Guy Debord himself might have granted them amnesty.
Drinking from flagons and picking turkey from my teeth, I had to wonder whether such a charade, especially one which professed to be art, was without pretense. If pretense is false display, this exhibition was both pretentious and spectacularÂ by Guy Debordâ€™s own standards about represented reality.Â High crimes in some high-cultural precincts.
Throwing back the last of my grog and adjusting my coffee filter hat, I wondered whether it was more pretentious to prove how resistant one is to the spectacular by entering a race to the obscurest of bottoms, or to have an art exhibition in 2012 based on a theme lifted from a Bugs Bunny cartoon, especially when art has suffered through a 150 years of modernist purification and 75 of Frankfurt School warnings about the implications of received culture.
When the antiqued barrels were finally emptied of their spiced wine and the turkey legs were gone, me, a jester and a monk headed out for a nightcap. Looking down Main Street our choices were illuminated in the night: â€œC. Weislerâ€™sâ€ â€œR.J. Thirstyâ€™sâ€ and T.J. Ryanâ€™s.â€ Their signs radiated like supernovae, practically beseeching our company. No secret doors, no back alleys. I imagined how weird our motley cast of bouzingots would have looked shuffling down a desolate Bushwick street searching unmarked doors for the one opening to a secret demi-paradise of artfully crafted drinks and conversations.
With all this on my mind I dropped a joke. â€œHow many hip intellectuals does it take to screw in a light bulb?â€
A collective head shrug.
â€œIt’s an obscure number youâ€™ve probably never heard of!â€
A collective â€˜huh?â€™
Dave the monk ended the radio silence, â€œDid you hear about the artist who starved to death?….He didnâ€™t have enough MONET to buy food.â€
So obvious, I thought. So obvious, indeed.
A monk, a jester and an artist walk into a barâ€¦