Disappointingly, we have begun to hear whisperings in smoking areas about the death of the vape. “Vaping has played out”, one gallerina confided, fiddling with a spindly Vogue she “brought back from Milan Fashion Week”. Later, while taking a break from a gallery dinner, an art writer could be seen shrieking “the vape is dead” while surveying a street filled with scene kids and cigarette smoke. Having successfully kicked cigs in favour of one blueberry sour raspberry Lost Mary a day, we inhale a deep breath of sickly vapour and draw from our inner reservoir of calm, turning to our forever muse (Justin Bieber) for guidance. In 2020, interventionists tried to tell Bieber that the era of sagging trousers was “over”. Bieber, who never leaves the house without his sexy underpants-on-view look dialled up to lethal, took to his Instagram feed to clap back, describing the claims as “a lie from the pits of hell” and promising that his pants “will stay sagging”. In homage to Bieber, we turn to the shrieking writer, call them a “blind fool in danger of hellfire”, and hop in a cab.
Taking a few breaths of fresh air on the way back (no vaping in the Uber) we realise the death of the vape / return of the cig is in fact the ongoing Indie Sleaze debate. Kicking off pretty much at the same time smoking inside was banned (2007), and blossoming through the 2008 financial crash, Indie Sleaze – i.e. posing in slatted glasses with cig between moustache-tattooed fingers, smoke lingering between matte lipstick lips, shot by Terry Richardson for an ethically questionable American Apparel campaign – was truly a mass act of defiance against neo-liberal self care culture.
Certain factions maintain that this particular “microtrend” will “never make a full return” [mainly trend forecasters] while others maintain it is here to stay [creative directors, beauty editors], and yet others hope it may even mark the natural end of microtrend-ism [fed up fashion writers]. spittle, like Switzerland, has remained neutral on this debate, but another recent event has forced us to take a position: Vampire Weekend releasing a track titled Mary Boone. Boone is a true icon of 80s glam and hustlership with a rags-to-riches story that’s way better than Larry’s. The only thing standing in the way of her own 17,000-word New Yorker profile was a 2019 prison sentence for fraud. Unlike other indie sleaze pinups, there is nothing lethargic or affordable about Boone’s look (she was sent behind bars in part for one illegal $19,000 Louis Vuitton shopping trip) but she is sooo accidentally Indie Sleaze it hurts (see pic). Speaking to Artnet’s Annie Armstrong about the new track, Boone ponders “Why did they do that? Does this mean I’m a vampire?” which is such a hipster, Indie Sleaze thing to say. Furthermore, in 2006, Boone was programming shit like this. Can we credit Boone as one of the sleaze progenitors?? We think so.
Seems like it’s time to kick the vape bucket kids… Boone is back and 2006 Hipsterism is here to stay. Catch us in the offy picking up a 50g pack of Golden Virginia for a mere £39. Swag x
A leap day! spittle was feeling emboldened and planning a proposal to the town’s new hot boy, Hugo Wheeler, at the opening of his gallery’s Jordan Strafer show. Strafer’s tragi-comic moving image work LOOPHOLE on the Hot Wheels booth at Frieze last year had been a welcome break from the bad painting everywhere else. We immediately fell for the work, which deals with a sexy affair between a juror and a defence lawyer working the same trial, with lots of Americanisms and chocolate strawberry action. So you can imagine how excited we were to see what level of absurd her new work No Spank would be serving. We arrived at a packed-out space, but all thoughts of romance dissipated when faced with the risk of being trampled under a stampede of revellers. Gallerists shrieked “get everyone out” and directed the throngs in the direction of drinks at The Duke. Joining a gaggle including Sadie Coles’ Sam Will, writer Lore Alender and artists Emanuel Carvalho and Dani Marcel, we trotted halfway across town, it seemed, to the lovely pub with its iconic statuesque art deco bar lamps (need). Talk was of studio fires and the M-Cat resurgence, and vows to never again try and see a video work at an opening.
Kudos to Sophie Barshall, editor of The Toe Rag, for convincing Sweetings – an institution known for serving city-workers food that reminds them of mummy’s cooking: fish pie, welsh rarebit and spotted dick – to host the launch of their second issue themed around ‘consumption’. The small venue was packed out with revellers drinking the restaurant’s iconic tipple, Black Velvets, which consists of an engraved silver tankard containing a deathly mix of Guinness and champagne. The venue was operating a strange honesty payment system where you queued to be given a drink, then had to queue separately to pay for it. But as the night got busier – reader, you couldn’t move – this system seemed to collapse, with many wrongly thinking the drinks were free… Notable guests in attendance included collector Charles Asprey; gallery owners Jonny Tanna and Isaac Simon; Plaster contributors Sofia Hallström and Kane LeBain.
We had literally just been at Cabinet for the Miyoko Ito book launch – a gorgeous new tome published by Pre-Echo, the imprint of artist Matt Connors – where we drank boxed wine and Coca-Cola and spotted Lubaina Himid, Nicole Wermers, Antonia Marsh, Nicky Verber, Sarah McCrory and Bengi Ünsal, on a Sunday of all days. This time on a Saturday, we returned to the gallery to listen to spittle-fave writer Calla Henkel read an excerpt of her new book. Relating hard to Henkel’s last thriller, Other People’s Clothes (in which she describes two art students who desperately want to be cool and host messy, sceney parties in their flat every week) we had tuned in for another instant classic that would similarly read as if “Amanda Knox was the main character in Cabaret”. Sitting down with Frieze editor-in-chief Andrew Durbin, Henkel hit the ball out of the park with her synopsis that new book Scrap mixes “true crime podcasts, detective fiction, Patricia Highsmith vibes, a Gone Girl-like heavy drinking novel and trashy southern writing” to tell the story of a “young artist drawn into the lives of an obscenely wealthy family”. Durbin’s review: “I became paranoid reading this book on a 15-hour flight from LA”. It’s giving Parasite meets the art world and obviously, we can’t wait to dive in. Guests perching on white leatherette benches and plastic Robin Day school chairs (chic) included Städelschule-attending artist Sam Cottington (who left before the event started); gallerist Philippa zu Knyphausen (who arrived late); Brunette Coleman’s Ted Targett and Anna Eaves; Cabinet’s Freddie Checketts and Martin McGeown; Frieze’s Selvi May Akyildiz; and artist Tom Hardwick-Allan.
Conversely, spittle didn’t recognise anyone at the Albert Oehlen film screening. Before the lights went down, a 60+ collector sitting next to us proffered altoids, jokingly referring to them as “hallucinogenics”. What ensued was a very unnerving experience for this writer, as Oehlen’s barmy film followed a zany van G on a deranged journey through the French countryside. The tortured artist himself (van Gogh not Oehlen) was played by Ben Becker whose intense performance was elevated in spittle’s mind by the fact that we mistook the actor for Boris Becker, the disgraced tennis player, for much of the film. As the credits rolled, hypebeast Thomas Houseago delivered a convincing cameo as van Gogh and the last shreds of our sanity slipped away. The lights came up, probably revealing mass delirium written on faces across the auditorium. We turned to the collector, about to demand answers about what was in those mints(!), when applause erupted and Oehlen and director Oliver Hirschbiegel took to the stage. A hysterical Q&A ensued, in which both artists clearly did not really want to talk about the subject at hand, fielding sincere questions from the audience with responses like “I wanted to make a film about van Gogh because Julian Schnabel was making a film about van Gogh and I thought it would be funny”. All in all, a mind-expanding experience and a lesson in only accepting known and trusted substances from that nefarious class of individuals: Gagosian collectors.
The gays and theys descended on Somerset House for Prem Sahib’s Alleus – a performance co-commissioned by the Roberts Institute of Art and Somerset House Studios. With a title that is literally ‘Suella’ backwards, the whole performance draws from a House of Commons speech by the former UK Home Secretary, known as she is for classy lines describing human beings seeking asylum as “the invasion on our southern coast” and “a hurricane of mass migration”. Like a twisted opera, Sahib distorted and repeated Braverman’s dehumanising words, haunting us with the damaging and xenophobic rhetoric. Sitting on the floor enveloped by the spoken word–cum–sculptural musical installation were regular collaborators Eddie Peake and George Henry Longly (who together with Sahib produce the Anal House Meltdown club night); Tate’s Alvin Li with artist Michael Ho; gallery owner Helen Neven; Sahib’s long-time gallerist Phillida Reid (who mentioned how mesmerising Woodsy Bransfield’s contribution was – we couldn’t agree more Phillida x); i-D’s Joe Bobowicz, who co-ran Ridley Road Project Space with Sahib and Longly; Somerset House’s new programme manager Maggie Matić; and writers and previous collaborators, Benoît Loiseau and Will Ballantyne-Reid.
We were DYING to attend readings by Andrew Durbin, Leo Robson, Ashani Lewis, Momtaza Mehri, Maddie Mortimer and John-Baptiste Oduor, organised by Casual Encountersz at South Parade, but something came up and we ended up in a Brighton gay club named Revenge with themed sections like ‘RuPaul’ and ‘Kylie’ (don’t ask). So we asked actual attendee and Plaster contributor Olivia Allen to give us her lowdown.
“There was a high quota of transatlantic literary types, quite a scruffily dressed cohort (not a scrap of Rick or Jil in sight) but a high density of people who own a Paris Review cap, run a semi-successful Substack and have a firsthand story about one of the Red Scare girlies. Self-described ‘chic beatniks with bylines’ (and also probably property that they let to students). One man had two lit cigs in his mouth throughout the readings – I never saw him actually smoking them or saying anything to anyone. A much chattier American crowd, and heard frequent mentions of ‘soirées’ and St John (where Greta Gerwig was spotted eating langoustines the night before) and there was a mass exodus to a bohemian-sounding birthday party in Dalston”.
Ugh, so LA! We’ll make sure not to miss the next one x
A huge night for Cambridge Heath as two of London’s most sought-after young artists brought solo shows to fruition just minutes from each other. At the foliage-fringed Cell Project Space, guests were spilling out the door and onto the fire escape, all clamouring to see Coumba Samba’s new performance piece, Capital. Scrambling into the second viewing, we were immediately struck by the mud and plexiglass arena and transported to Balenciaga’s giant mud pit S/S 23 show. Our hopes for mud action were realised in a powerful performance soundtracked by Gretchen Lawrence. To a distorted track interspersed with whistles and sirens, the three protagonists in football kit moved around the arena like liquid, employing repetitive and rhythmic actions that riffed on movements found in Senegalese wrestling, football and a South American game called Quiemada. Characterised by a latent anger, one sequence included a mimed throwing action – so covered in mud were the performers that clumps of soft earth rained down on the audience, with one unlucky member receiving a speck to the eye. Cell Project Space curator Adomas Narkevičius’s mouth was agape for most of the performance (as was Emalin’s Leopold Thun); while an artist/writer friend revealed that for the duration they were nervous the flicks of mud might stain their newly-purchased white Issey Miyake trews…
Swagged out in top-to-toe Brandy Melville, Ana Viktoria Dzinic opened a packed-out monumentalisation of the artificial/ authentic at Nicoletti on Wednesday. The last exhibition in the gallery’s much-loved Vyner Street space, Dzinic’s monochrome installation includes prints and sculptures. Filtered to within an inch of their lives, and printed on what seems to be velvet, the wall-based works perfectly portray the blurring and obfuscation that is a vital stage in so many self-branding journeys. Despite Dzinic making it clear that Brandy Melville is her favourite brand, most guests unsurprisingly wore black, demonstrating that they have not yet moved on from what Dzinic has called the “bourgeois art women” look, “listening to Kraftwerk, reading TZK and the FT while 100% believing in the free market economy”. For those anxious to read up on and engage with this extremely ironic micro trend: Brandy is apparently receiving an exposé documentary on HBO very soon. Popping round the corner to an unnamed space, a group of guests were treated to a dinner that Dzinic explained was inspired by 2010s hipster cafés and Donald Trump’s iconic McDonalds banquet at the White House. A perfect fusion of Echo Falls white wine and takeaway sushi (handed out by Oswaldo Nicoletti himself) had guests on that drunk housewife / avocado wellness wave. Cups on the tables spelled names of iconic art world figures like David Zwirner, HUO and Theaster Gates – none of whom were actually in attendance. A younger crowd made up the guestlist, including i-D’s Mahoro Seward; Dazed’s Chester McKee; photographer Alex Arauz; Emalin’s Benedict Winkler, Carlos Ishikawa’s Josep Barnadas; artists Ruby Dickson and Ed Fornieles; Spruth Magers’ Carolyn Stocker-Seiler; set designer Rosie Reekie; and an anonymous journalist who, several mini white wines in, revealed one of their tips for an art-related newspaper scandal came from a Grindr hookup… That’s hot.
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What’s the point of an art gallery dinner?
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Philippa Snow’s Trophy Lives: “I’ve been unhinged in this particular way for more than a decade now”
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London art exhibitions: Plaster staff picks
