Sequins and Snakes. (part two)

 

So, The Gallery was on Broadway opposite the Guggenheim in the heart of Soho, right in the middle of that area teaming with antique shops and café’s. Cast-iron facades and the familiar zig-zag fire escapes snaking down the outsides of the five storey buildings.

The Gallery was heaving, all presided over by an expansive looking Moroccan called Papa Collo. He was the chief backer for the gallery and he and his wife held court as the curator for the show wandered around in a white suit with a huge peony buttonhole given him by his boyfriend. Everyone seemed delighted at the turnout and the show. It was all a far cry from the dark streets outside.

The Art Tribe where out in force, although everyone deferred to the presence of the models for the photographs. I have to say I have never seen such a staggeringly beautiful collection of Transvestites (what’s the collective noun: an Eyelash; a Heel..). They were all gathered in one corner, mouthing silent polite ‘thank-you’s’ as people commented on their outfits. Sequins, Glitter and big hair with the kind of frocks that should never have been let out of the Eighties. Eye-lashes were obviously in this year, although to be fair the phrase should be out, since they were more like giant tarantula’s feeling the air as you passed by. For some reason wedding dresses too were popular, incongruous when teamed with whacking great beards.

Apparently it is the Adam’s Apple that eventually gives you away (presumably if you are not sporting the “Grizzly Adams surprised-by-his mother at home” - look). Some guys even had operations to have them scaled down apparently.

Personally I couldn’t see how you could be taken in, since none of the women I know dress quite like this. Congratulating myself on my impeccable hetero filter mechanism I turned to the waiter next to me and asked who the staggeringly beautiful black woman was.

“That’s Missy sir, only she’s not, if you catch my meaning… ”

I smiled and went up to Missy and told him he looked great. He just smiled back and said ‘thank you’. Silently.

James was busy schmoozing, which as far as I could see, meant he was doing what I was doing, standing around with a beer, trying to look interesting and talking to anyone who could be bothered to listen.

Peel was standing with her equally blonde and gorgeous looking friend. She explained they were both actresses in commercials. When I told her I lived in Rockland Peel asked me where it was ‘considered’ – i.e. uptown, midtown or downtown. When I said out of town, she visibly lost interest and drifted away, arm in arm with her friend. I made a note to brush up on being more interesting, and chiefly to lie about where I was living.

Papa Collo and his entourage decided to decamp as the Private View started to fade. Everyone was heading to a bar close by called ‘The Sapphire”. James and I tagged along, but after everyone else. They all jumped into taxis, but being English I said lets walk. Being naïve James agreed. So naturally we got lost.

The Sapphire was on a street in the Bowery called Eldridge which, you guessed it, wasn’t signposted. We walked down some very dark side streets where you didn’t linger. Once you realised where you were headed you turned round and headed back towards the glaring lights of the main drag ASAP. The people! Hundreds and hundreds of people all out on the streets. It was around 10.30pm. We both decided it was best to keep walking like you had a purpose. Which we did. To get the hell out of Dodge as quick as possible. After getting wrong directions from a cop of all people, we eventually found it.

Bar Sapphire was basically a licensed room with a toilet and a makeshift bar made out of trestle tables and some couches around the outside; an after hours bar or speakeasy. We stayed for a few more beers and chatted to some more wannabe painters and musicians, Kurt and Dan. Everyone in our group was bemoaning the fact that in New York you had to have money or know someone. (so no different from the rest of the world then). Don was just back from Italy and was in two shows in alternative gallery spaces. Meg was Kurt’s girlfriend. She was busy slagging off the Whitney Biennial which sucked apparently, whilst at the same time trying to sell me the catalogue to a show she had just curated. I was losing it by this stage. I had had too many beers to keep up a conversation for too long, although I do recall something about Post-Modernist Perspective.. it could have been Post Menopausal Perspective for all I knew.

James and I made our excuses around 1am and wound our way back through the streets. They were still throbbing with life, some of it not that savoury by the looks of it. We bought the inevitable pizza, found the car and raced out, pausing to take in a deserted and eerie Wall Street on the way.

It was comforting to know that you could leave the city far behind and get back to Valley Cottage with it’s manicured lawns and cherry trees and Red Cardinals. Aaaah… Suburbia.

As somebody said, New York is a great place but everybody comes in, parties and then gets the hell out again as quick as possible. Amen to that.

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