A LONESOME EVENING
RUMINATION NATION: Diary of the night before
It’s snowing in Salt Point. The tree is still up. My daughter has made a sculpture out of pillows on the floor. It snowed like this the night I delivered.
I think I’m in denial about tomorrow. Today. Maybe we all are.
Our thoughts are with Los Angeles. Here is a doc of fundraising efforts for displaced Black families that I snagged from my friend Aviva’s link in bio.
Last Thursday, at Nicola Vassell I saw Na Kim: Memory Palace. Na is a painter and creative director of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, who paints a self portrait every day. After, we walked by Patti Smith at Kurimanzutto but the line was out the door, Ilka was cold, and Avalon wanted to walk by the flower shop before heading home to bed.
I intended to spend tomorrow afternoon with Bill T. Jones and Bjorn Amelan, in conversation for LONESOME Nº2 WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN. It seemed a fitting way to spend the day. Unexpected tragedy and one funeral later, we are up here in the Hudson Valley. Tomorrow, we’ll take down the tree.
The post I meant to write about Miami last month was called Highlights/Heartbreaks. The thing I liked most about it—aside from exceptional artwork by Andrea Galvani, in advance of his expansive exhibition The Void Migrates to the Surface opening at Galleria Curro in Guadalajara January 31 through May 2; Roksana Pirouzmand’s intergenerational memory: sculptures of her grandmother, her mother, herself, ancestral threads, bloodlines dissolving slowly into a sofa, at Dastan Gallery (Art Basel),1 and Nabeeha Mohamed at What If The World (Untitled)2 —was what I wrote about Jerome, my longtime Basel companion:
Jerome Cherki is the primary old friend referenced in the LONESOME POEM. We met when I was 21. He came on board to sell designer ready-to-wear at Showroom Seven immediately before I began my tenure at the helm of Erickson Beamon. Some day I’ll tell you stories about Jerome and Martin Margiela, or Jerome and Rifat Ozbek, or Jerome launching Ines and Vinoodh vis à vis Veronique Leroy, or his (now) husband Peter arriving at the Showroom gray faced, covered in ash and debris the morning of 9/11. I wasn’t there but I know the story. I was in Chelsea glued to the news in Sandra Bernhard’s living room. Later, we ate at Bourdain’s Les Halles and listened to ambulances bringing bodies everyone hoped would be survivors but weren’t. I think we ran into Robert and Fred3 entering the secure zone below 14th street, walking south on Seventh Avenue toward what was left.
Loved this 🙏🏾❤️
Livin’ Large!