Armory Week NYC rewind: bird shit, great art and humble pie

Wednesday

There are a few things in modern culture more symbolically conclusive than bird poop. I was on the corner of 6th Avenue and 53rd Street when an avian perched on a traffic light rod released its inner runnings. “Oh that’s good luck!” my party friends all agreed when I gushed into MoMA’s glitzy restaurant The Modern with droplets of pigeon dropping in my hair and on my tomato-coloured JW Anderson x Uniqlo shirt.

With some kind assistance from a host at The Modern, I washed off the remnants from my walk of shame and found my table. It was a small gathering hosted by Toronto’s upcoming Lassondre Art Trail to celebrate Kuwaiti artist Monira Al Qadiri’s new public sculpture. First Sun, a large, purple-hued bust with a scarab bug for a face (an insect sacred in ancient Egypt) currently positioned on the southeast corner of Central Park, will move to Toronto’s Biidaasige Park following its NYC run. The drinks were hosted by the art trail’s director November Paynter and curator Chloe Catan; among the guests were The Grey Market’s Tim Schneider and freelance writers Cabelle Ahn and Annabel Keenan whom I was unaware that I would see four days in a row. I then made my way to the W Hotel Union Square with Annabel for The Armory’s toast to its new director Kyla McMillan with the Black Trustee Alliance.

When April Hunt is in the DJ booth, you know it’s going to be a good party, and such was the case at the renovated hotel’s Gatsby’ian grand hall where the palatial Art Deco fittings hosted the likes of Frieze director Christine Messineo, artist Shinique Smith and curators Jessica Bell Brown and Ebony L. Haynes who had each curated a special section for the Armory. “I knew I had to prepare a good speech when I saw the RSVP list,” said McMillan in her humble toast. From there, I Uber-ed downtown to Galerie Templon’s soirée for Senegalese painter Omar Ba, hosted by gallery owner Mathieu Templon. Besides showing his 2022 painting Devoir de mémoire (Memoir Work) at the Armory, the Parisian gallery opened a new solo show at their Chelsea space with the Senegalese painter who had inaugurated this New York outpost three years ago. Ba’s family was in residence as well as Artsy’s Casey Lesser with whom I chatted about the industry’s favourite subject: Greece.

Down in the Financial District, I knew artists Naama Tsabar and Brendan Fernandes were performing at Duet’s opening party. But hey, I couldn’t be everywhere. Tireless curator Zoe Lukov organised Duet, a breezier unconventional commercial exhibition model, with her friend-since-diapers Kyle DeWoody (curators, they raise them young) at Wall Street’s swanky American Psycho-meets-Soho House building WSA with eleven galleries. The two-floor show also spilled into a blood-hue-carpeted David Lynch-on-steroids staircase where Naama brought back her tantalising sonic performance Untitled (Double Face) to New York after a decade. Lingeringly sapphic, Naama and her collaborator Kristin Mueller’s caressing of two chrome guitars conjoined on their backs roared through the spectral staircase.

Thursday

First up was a jog in Central Park to shed the week’s past and future alcohol intake via lush late summer greenery. One hour later, I headed to the Armory Show which this year was installed somehow with a spacier rhythm which let each exhibitor claim more generous personal space (a luxury anywhere in New York!). The first edition under McMillan’s leadership and second under the Frieze brand, New York’s own fair had, unsurprisingly, more of an international feel. Londoners like White Cube, Saatchi Yates, and Public Gallery were in the house, as well as Cape Town’s WHATIFTHEWORLD and SMAC Gallery. There was a sexy Ebony L. Haynes-organised sculpture-heavy section that flirted with design and furniture titled Function. There, Soho gallery Marinaro showed Ryan Johnson’s corporal epoxy clay forms while its neighbour ,Silke Linder had an alarming Sylvie Hayes-Wallace sculpture with wire fencing, threads, glass, wax, urethane, and different types of paint.

I overheard from many that they were headed to Chelsea for openings, but I made my way uptown for a true Y2K experience. The era’s definitive band The Kills were giving a private concert at Cafe Carlyle, the more secluded sister of the Bemelmans Bar which is the New York landmark for Martinis and live piano wrapped in unparalleled uptown swank. The band was on the intimate stage to celebrate their collaboration with designer Nili Lotan for a new campaign and their roaring tunes were in a transient contrast with Austrian painter Ludwig Bemelmans’s pastoral mid-century murals. Singer Maggie Rogers and Orange Is The New Black villain Laura Prepon were in the audience as the band played their hit Future Starts Slow. Indie rock hits differently with very strong gin-fuelled brine-y Martinis running in your system.

Next on our itinerary was, once again W Union Square – Groundhog Day came late. I submitted to the vicious cycle to the call of Peter Berlin. The Parisian gallery Mariposa was celebrating its solo booth at the Independent 20th Century fair with the leather queer icon’s paintings at the hotel’s bar. Think Casa Cipriani’s Lady Liberty-viewed palatial grandiosity where the fair takes place for the fourth time with Berlin’s lush drawings of his leather-clad crotch–match made in gay Gilded Age heaven. There I ran into more friends: the artist Jordan Eagles, the New Museum’s Scott Campbell and Los Angeles dealer Carlye Packer who was in the house with painter Jools Rothblatt whom she was showing at Duet alongside a Lee Lozano painting. Jools generously gifted to me one of her giant clothespins which was holding her very Westwood-ian trousers in place.

Friday

This is when my body realised it was a fair week. I was on a Breaking Bad-like downward spiral in which my destructive addiction was asking people how their summer went. I had four places to be this night. I reserved the day for writing and hot yoga, and made my way to Tribeca where iron-clad buildings were cluttered for the night’s plethora of gallery openings. I ran into art advisor Chris Omachi and his boyfriend who told me their choice for a post-opening banquet was the one thrown by James Cohan Gallery for their fall shows. First top of the night is Charles Moffett and Broadway galleries’ joint parties for their solos with Lily Stockman and Mindy Shapero at next door’s dimly-lit River Cafe. Then onto James Fuentes Gallery’s dinner for their seventh exhibition with New England painter John McAllister whose dreamlike paintings depict the region’s flora. When we spoke, McAllister recalled one of his more stark memories from working as a night guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the late ‘90s, when a mysterious, invisible force toppled a Grecian marble god from his pedestal.  My greatest concern was not the perpetrator, but the fate of his beautiful assets. “Was his butt intact though?!”

I headed to Japanese restaurant Dr. Clark, where I encouraged my seat mate, James Fuentes’ partner Katrin Lewinsky, to order a dirty gin martini. I bit into a salmon pastrami and confessed to painter Hannah Lee and her partner that I didn’t have a Spotify premium account. Two spots off my list, I headed towards Soho where Jane Lombard Gallery was celebrating its 30th anniversary at Jimmy’s Rooftop. Up there, the pool divided those with wristbands (us) and normies who, oblivious to the social circus of art fairs, were on the roof for their regular Friday night outing. Manhattan reached midnight with a crisp, flamboyant glittering skyline. Bad Bunny was on the DJ’s playlist as well as a few last summer hits. For the last stop of the evening, I headed to the W Hotel in Union Square yet again. I was confronted by a massive crowd from which I couldn’t single out a familiar face in the same hall where I was jumping between conversations two nights ago. The reminder of the night’s bash being a non-art one world hit like a cold shower, but I do sometimes like freezing streams. I tried to enjoy my lonely self by watching beautiful nameless people and a mushroom taco.

Saturday

The art fair’s public days are polarising for the industry insider: some savour them for the freeing joy of not encountering familiar faces and others dread the long lines and eager grid of content-hungry aisle-stompers. One thing I was certain of was the day’s non-art nocturnal outing: the US Open’s official closing party for the Women’s singles at Jean’s. The East Village’s sunken red-washed saloon is notorious for its long lines and hard door on a given night, so any invitation with its name emblazoned on the e-invite is usually a yes in my book. Mexican tequila Dobel was the night’s sponsor, so the affair was strictly tequila-soaked and the vibe was a cocktail of sports execs, influencers, and their friends and lovers. Model Winnie Harlow scooted around the crowd towards her private lounge next to DJ Nikki Kynard’s booth. I was told tennis player Genie Bouchard, heiress Ivy Getty, and J Balvin’s girlfriend Valentina Ferrer were somewhere in the thick crowd under the massive disco ball where the glass bits gleamed with the alarming red, signalling the finale of another art fair week marathon. My takeaways from this year? The microcosm we call the art world is small and grand at once – and remember, bird shit can strike at any time.