© murakami

anyone that's honest will admit that the best part of opening night gallery-going is the free booze. if you keep a tally of the city's best gallery openings based on its offering of liquor, the list won't be helpful in pointing the typical artforum fan towards the best new works in la, but it will be a handy tool in offering aunt elma from ohio the best night on the town: both for cost-effectiveness and as a shocking not-for-tourist look at what this dirty city of angels is all about these days. for instance, i know that if you have a hankering for the whisky-of-the-hipster-hour (dewar's) and the finest cheap ginger ale (reed's), head to thinkspace in silverlake. although the gallery's lowbrow curation may suck (haven't i seen enough mark ryden, tear-falling pre-teen nymphy goth knockoffs already?), all the better: it's at openings of this caliber that i don't mind making three or four trips to the bar (being sure to tip a buck here and there. this stuff isn't really free, after all), just in order to forget the mess of wannabe camille rose-garcia/tim burton hybrid imitations that adorn the walls of this establishment. the party is why we came, and the party will be had.



for a quiter evening on the town, steer aunt elma towards the beaujolais wine country, tastes of which were featured at blk/mrkt during the recent opening for its owner and artist in residence dave kinsey. while the art was palpable (even if in an overpriced, graphic designerly sort of way), and at least finely executed, the only way to forget about the slightly high numbers of west hollywoodians in attendance (we are in culver city, after all) was conversing with the wine servers who enjoyed imparting a quasi vinoteca atmosphere to the binge drinking with explanations of the beaujolais wines on tap. the servers, as opposed to the woman i overheard commenting "i just love big art" about the show's oversized and overpriced magnum opus (see above), at least sounded like they knew their stuff. even if they didn't, they gave me good wine that remained tasty as long as i could remember tasting it.

rarely, however, do the forces of a note-worthy and lustable party combine with the sheer force of the art in exhibit, as was the case at the murakami opening at moca's geffen contemporary. i say sheer force, because the exhibit is less a look at art in the contemporary mode of pushing intellectual boundaries as it is an in-your-face flaunting of the nature of what has now become art, namely over-sized flowered walls of easily mass produced vector artwork and ostentatiously commercial louis vuitton bags that will be knocked off tommorrow by the artisans of santee alley just steps away from the museum's little tokyo residence. not to mention that the loft space housing the exhibition itself plays a role in the efficay of the work as an intellectual scare tactic. it's imposible to step into a space of such magnitude—high ceilings, cement floors , industrial-clad stairs—and say, "this isn't art." the vast space surrounding the work acts as that assymetrically opposed "white space" necessary for any contemporary piece to be considered such. and all this enjoyed through the lens of inebriated joy makes it that much more spectacular. which is fitting, considering the only notable comment that the show offers is an inflated warholian ideal of pop accessibility and mass commercialization, an idea not altogether at odds with other postmodern fixations in attendance that evening, namely hollywood glamour, partying, and binge drinking. really, an opening of such ideals would not be complete without proper amounts of beer and liquor (which, now that i am pushing back through the hazy memories, i realize there weren't: my first drink was supposed to be gin. but i settled for vodka, as they were already out!). ultimately, the booze is what made the opening bearable, especially when thousands of party goers created massive lines and the waiting to look at equally massive canvasses painted with preteen-friendly smiling flowers crossed the threshhold of several hours. so a note when sending aunt elma to the moca: be sure to slip a vip pass into her pocket; it certainly made my evening much more bearable.