On a misty Friday night, The New Museum combined the two things it does best—supporting and showcasing artists on the cusp, and throwing parties. Sponsors like Hendrick’s, Peligroso Tequila, The Standard, and, well, us, helped co-curators Ryan Trecartin and Lauren Cornell raise support for their 2015 Generational Triennial with what was fittingly dubbed The Next Generation Party. It was that kind of event that wherever you turned, a tray dotted with champagne flutes awaited (that is to say, good). DiS magazine provided their twisted brand of red carpet pomp: male and female humans in terrifying white bodysuits, all covered in logos, tongue-to-cheek. Upstairs in their Sky Room—which, with its wraparound balcony and white-on-white Clockwork Orange vibe, remains one of the best places to throw a party in New York—things took a a turn for the packed and sweaty. Teengirl Fantasy brought the noise, and Mykki Blanco, Klaus Biesenbach, Andrea Rosen, Terry Richardson, Lucy Chadwick, and Jeanette Hayes also came out to support Trecartin and Cornell. We can’t wait until the next one.
The New Museum party was a lot like a New Museum party. Of all the museums, my friends agree, the New Museum is certainly the most fun. We represent the key demographic of mid-20s, mostly Manhattan arrivistes who have a lot of opinions about art and no money to buy it. I would like to thank our sponsors, including Hendrick’s, Peligroso Tequila, The Standard, and—oh hi, this is awkward—BULLETT.
I’d also like to thank whoever provided the champagne, because someone is always “not drinking,” “except for champagne,” and on Friday, from nine to Cinderella-time on a misty Gothamy night, that someone was me. It was a good champagne night: Familiar, light. Full of someones. Someone’s always moving to Los Angeles. Someone always says they saw you at Basel, and you don’t know what they mean. Someone says, is that Jena Malone or that girl who interns at i-D or V or whatever, but she has a really great IRL presence.
Someone wants to know where all the performance art is, and I don’t know whether saying “look around, this is it” is still funny in the next generation. Probably not. Downstairs, though, you can take your picture with DiS magazine Red Carpet Services. They have dressed male and female humans in terrifying white bodysuits, all covered in logos, tongue-to-cheek. You can’t tell apart the shape. “It’s not even cameltoe,” says a girl to her boyfriend. “They don’t have enough pubic hair.”
There is a girl wearing plastic bags over her Prada (???) shoes, indoors. She has been waiting all year for this rain. There are people I recognize from V-Files parties and a Mykki Blanco shoot. There’s Klaus Biesenbach, immediately described to me by an undisclosed BULLETT staffer as “the top silver fox,” but I disagree, because there is also Andrea Rosen. There’s Ryan Trecartin, co-curator of the 2015 triennial, and there’s Terry Richardson, having a glasses-wearing contest with Lucy Chadwick. There’s Jeanette Hayes with a paint-tube purse.
When your friends are blonde and tall, there is always a photographer in range. I begin to feel that I’ve been in too many photos, with too many groups of people, always with the same straight face that never comes out straight. Like I’m a meme, but a meme nobody will remember, if the next generation ever comes, or if it has already left.
Lauren Devine stops singing. “Hashtag team pretty,” she says.
Outside the sky is a bruise. It fades from nuclear orange to chartreuse, then to coal. I want to pull a stranger by the hand and say “look, this is the best art,” but I know it’s only beautiful, only the pollution like oil paint, a future relic, and there is no use escaping what’s next.