10.23.2009

Campari avec pamplemousse et un petit muscat rosé

Journal Entry 22 Octobre, 2009:

SpARTs Gallery, located in the chic haute art district, Saint-Germain-des-près, held an opening for a photography exhibition tonight. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Except that it was. Because at this particular gallery opening, on this particular night, amidst important figures in the contemporary art world, was little 'ol me. How, you ask, did I manage to meander my way into the clutches of such elite(ist) company? Fate? Destiny? Why, yes, if these abstract ideas took the form of a seemingly pervy French gallery owner named Laurent, I suppose it would be. Heather & I were personally invited to help out at this opening a couple of weeks ago by chance one afternoon when we were gallery hopping with our class and had lingered behind. Not expecting to be contacted again, I was surprised when I received several emails from Laurent, asking for a phone call for additional information. I bided my time in calling, because honestly, I was terrified of what might occur. What if he reaches through the phone & violates me? Could happen. After a victorious battle with my overactive imagination, I conceded in having a conversation of broken Franglais & long awkward pauses. We were set to attend this opening, and in addition, we were offered compensation. I wasn't too keen on this idea. Compensation for what exactly, Monsieur Laurent? Tant pis.

Fasting forward to Thursday night. I boarded the métro in my svelt LBD, with my hair fashioned more elegantly than it's normal disarray. "A dress isn't necessary. Just bring your smile," was Laurent's required dress code. Yeahhhhhh... so, business casual, then? I mean, to be honest, I looked pretty damn sexy. I've no photographs. You'll just take my word for it. But as the metro paused, stop by stop, my stomach exponentially twisted in a quadruplezillion knots at the idea of mingling. WHAT? SMALL TALK?! Don't be ridiculous! I'd rather kill a baby lamb with a swiss army knife. In fact, I googled the official term for a social phobia of cocktail party mingling, but apparently one does not exist. It should. Because I have it. I thought that perhaps a good dose of Justin Timberlake on my ipod could cure my timid nature, and perhaps a tiny swig of the soulful chorus of "Senorita" could help me to forget my social ineptness, but the real test was when we actually arrived.

Laurent greeted us with a warm welcome & introduced us to the director of the photography agency, the photographers, and other people whose names I was quick to forget. Mostly because I couldn't pronounce them without pausing for an extra breath. Laurent made many jokes that I did not understand. And before I knew it, I was traversing the rooms of the white-walled gallery with a tray of drinks and catering to strange rich people. "Voulez-vous boire quelque chose, mesdames et messieurs?" If I don't succeed in whatever the hell I'm going to do in the future, I can always resort to waitressing or bar-tendering because I'm pretty adept at it, I've come to discover. The night passed quickly as we were ordered around, 2000 Euro photographs were purchased, and lingual exchanges were attempted.

If you want my honest opinion, the art was mediocre & the company was "bougey." I became sufficiently cynical about what the contemporary art world has become, at least, the world that I saw that night...but perhaps I will save such thoughts for another occasion.

Laurent offered to buy us drinks after the night came to a close, but we gratefully refused, and he offered us some sage advice, coupled with les bisoux (as is custom) and a nice 50 Euro bill.

Thanks, Laurent.
Guess our smiles made the cut.







Skip to 3:02 - 3:19
;)

2 comments:

  1. tiffany, i can't wait for you to come home and share all your stories and experiences in person. :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. where are youuuuuuuuuuuu?
    you haven't updated in a while. everything alright?

    ReplyDelete