Water Damage, Aug 2010

I woke up to a half dozen dog droppings and urine puddles from our two “house” trained toy poodles—they only go in the house. I was doing a second reconnaissance to gauge the extent of the feces damage when I noticed a flood in the conservatory which houses a portion of my art collection, layered against every surface like sedimentary rock. I instantly surveyed the damage and assessed a few pieces partially submerged in water and a further two framed works directly under the flow that had originated from the ceiling. Once the immediate shock wore off, and that took some getting used to, I had to leap to action. First up were the two paper works, which were covered in water—though the extent of how much had penetrated the frames was still unclear. Next, an art chair crafted in wood that had already suffered visible buckling and varnish lifting, which had to be dragged from the deluge. More difficult to formulate rescue tactics for was a site-specific tree house installation, the scale of the real thing, attached to the ceiling and floor; had it been alive it would have thrived in such soggy circumstances. But it wasn’t and in fact was constructed in papier-mâché and appeared about to revert to that state.


The tree was literally too much for me to process, so utterly overwhelming, I left it for a time. I grabbed the two frames and proceeded to deconstruct them to determine the level of damp inside. In the corner of one drawing was a little pool like a child’s toy tilted from side to side to observe liquid flow. That the frame had been made 20 years ago was apparent by the series of endless little metal spikes, installed one by one, around the entire perimeter of the frame that amounted to a 20-minute extraction process alone. After both works were safely out of the frames they appeared fine and unscathed until a closer look revealed that both boards that the drawings were mounted to were indeed soaked. This brought on a terrible choice—i.e. to wait for a conservator to arrive later in the day (and risk suffering further moisture damage) or attempt to pull the works off their delicate hinges without tearing the drawings themselves. Last time I was faced with a similar dilemma I was unpacking a Polke on paper that had a piece of tape inadvertently affixed to the face of the paint. I ever so delicately and carefully removed the tape and the result was not pretty. The piece of tape with the bit of painting that lifted off had to be rushed to a conservator like a severed finger in a matchbox. Damn, conservators are good and convincing: the unsung heroes of the art world. In this case I managed to safely remove all the hinges and the drawings were fine.


Next up the looming tree house. Funny as my wife and I had been arguing of late that the tree should go into storage as it so thoroughly dominated the room, but I have been steadfastly resistant to de-installation. Either my wife precariously crawled out onto the roof to stuff waste into the gutter pipes or fate and nature are strangely compliant to her ways like everyone else seems to be. I managed to prune all the branches off the tree, which freed up the tree house portion to be separated from the trunk, thus enabling the base to be removed from the lake that had accumulated beneath. After an hour or so of terror, the worst was averted along with an insurance claim. In the end, no one can ever really own art, we are just temporary custodians charged with safekeeping, but beware: water is a constant threat and the scourge of art. And loaning to museums.

MBT Shoes: My Boring Trainers. MODERN Magazine, Fall 2010

MBT Shoes on work by Arik Levy

MBT Shoes: My Boring Trainers 

“Help solves knee and back problems; relieve tension in the neck; ease joint pains; help to tone and shape firm buttocks and thighs (!); while burning more calories when standing, or slow running compared to ordinary shoes.” Not to mention they make you a few inches taller. Imagine that! All without invasive surgery—please can you sign me up? Now! At my age, you can’t afford to dismiss every new-fangled, seemingly spurious claim. Besides, everyone is entitled to an opinion…to hope.


What I refer to are MBT shoes, the Swiss creation (never known for their maverick fashion sense) for power walking aficionados. The company web site, referred to above, employs the terminology “the anti-shoe”, a characterization more accurate than imaginable. These must be the ugliest thing for feet since 1970’s style orthopedic shoes were introduced to give credence to the idea that nothing good for you could taste, look or feel good. Not in the deepest recesses in Florida would these shoes fit in. But somehow for me, they work.


OK, I admit it, to engage in the process of power walking at full tilt in MBT’s, which resemble rubber rocking chairs, ends up recalling Sally Fields having a psychotic episode in the film Sybill or a goose-stepping SS soldier in a Mel Brooks movie. Needless to say, my kids are not amused. Especially when I team them up with a suit. But rolling on MBT’s is like floating on marshmallows, with an accompanying feeling of detachment; you can close your eyes and drift. I walk so much now I feel Socratic, I even coined a term: Walkism, to indicate the peripatetic process of giving up driving and running in pursuit of a different mental space, where time is slowed and thought expanded (other than when simultaneously Blackberry-ing).


But as we know, there is no free lunch, and MBT’s assault on fashion is not the only downside. If you check Internet forums, you would think wearing these ortho-sneakers is the worst thing since the plague health-wise. Also they are so towering, falling off them is a constant threat; but at the least, I can now commiserate with my wife’s 10-inchers. Another existential dilemma is that it induces what feels like paranoia, but with cause, as people from hooligans to innocent kids cannot help but incessantly mock your determined gait rocking to and fro while lurching down the street like a lunatic. At times it’s beyond disconcerting, feeling like the dupe of a mime in a public square every corner.


In the end, even if it’s a mere placebo, it’s enough, as I find it the only exercise (mostly) anxiety free. They even have an MBT standalone boutique in Harrods, which must mean something? And whether or not my buttocks gets further toned or even firmed for that matter, since reading the myriad MBT claims, I notice most men don’t seem to have an ass. And, for an avowed car fan, walking so much is the closest I've come to green.

Boffo Basel. Basel Art Fair 2010

There's been a tectonic shift in the market to conservative Impressionist, Modern and classic Contemporary art evident at the 41st Basel Art Fair, but I must admit it seemed as though everything was flying off the shelf indiscriminately. There was an orgiastic frenzy of activity from art transactions to hyper-networking, the boom is back. The fair layout reflects a hierarchy of more established, blue chip art on the ground floor and contemporary on the second. Nowadays, I would rather wait till it drops down a floor so there's more wheat, less chaff-its worth the extra hay.


Some of best art in Basel was the graffiti seen through the train window entering town. Seriously, the overall quality of material on display was staggering and would rival the best international institutions. The art market is like a fast train but with no destination. Can it sustain itself? Save for nuclear Armageddon, I fear to say it will, look for continued strong, record-breaking, headline making, art activity in the near future.


There should be a World Cup for hustling invites and passes at fairs. One morning after prodigious Basel party-hopping, I sent my suit to the cleaners and housekeeping returned with my passport, cash, and a large taxi receipt from Basel to Zurich. Rough night; no one ever said the art world was for the feint of heart.


Museums are akin to books, fairs more like magazines: a quick fix for those with short attention spans and a need for immediate gratification. For a while, a 30% discount on art was the new 10%; now, 10% is the new 20%. The walls they were a changing, with passing time the fair replicates itself in new form like a snake shedding it’s skin, as inventory is shifted when shifted and constantly hung anew.


After hours up and down the aisles I was left with a hammering pain in my toe more than any recollection of specific art works—now I know why I had observed so many on crutches. I never realized how anal the Swiss are until being scolded for public phoning on various occasions by locals who practically made citizens arrests. Also, while arguing with hotel security about entering a crowded bar, 15 simultaneously walked past. But the Jean Michel Basquiat retrospective at the Beyeler Foundation...what a site to behold, warranting the astronomical figures the paintings are now fetching. And going some length to explain their ubiquitousness at the fair. When an artist achieves a big museum retrospective or makes an unusually high number at auction, the works flood from the woodwork into the booths and public sales.


Another “new” 9-foot-wide Damien Hirst jewel- cabinet, entitled “Memories of Love,” sold at Basel for $3.5m. The price reflected a 50% decline from an exact work sold at the £111.5m Sotheby’s Sept 08 sale: “Beautiful Inside My Head Forever”, the day my headline would have read: “Merrill sold, Lehman fold”. In stocks, such market dumping is known as churn and burn, with Hirst, it should be known as churn and earn.


In 2008 I curated an exhibit with Pritzker Prize winning Iraqi architect Zaha Hadid at Sonnabend Gallery in New York upon which NY Times critic Ken Johnson reflected: “No architect has ever made good art and this is no exception.” Such sweeping generalization is at best dumb and worst dangerous. I wonder if he’s ever bothered to view a Le Corbousier painting. I helped to facilitate another Zaha Hadid show at Gmurzynska Gallery in Zurich during the fair (which fact seems to have eluded the gallery) that is an installation incorporating Constructivist masterworks by Malevich, Rodchenko, and Lissitzsky and Hadid herself. The installation uses the Public Square and façade of the building as a framing device transforming what originated as a 2D rendering into a walk-in line drawing with magical effect. Ken Johnson could cure his myopia if the NYT would splurge on a trip to Zurich sometime before the exhibit ends in September. Architecture as art is an up and coming new collecting category located between design and sculpture and a great new way to domesticate progressive architecture in a home setting. Look for values to progressively rise.