I went to the Whitney Gala After-Party recently. That’s right, that’s what it’s called. When my friend called to ask me if I wanted to go, my hearing blurred all those words together, so my response was, “Huh”?
Why didn’t I go to the Whitney Gala itself? A good question. Well, I wasn’t invited. So I have no idea what went on at the Gala. I can only tell you about the After-Party. I didn’t ask why we weren’t going to the Gala, and my friend took pains to tell me (in as casual a manner as possible) that the After-Party was viewed as more exclusive than the actual Gala. By whom, I have no idea. I said “Sure,” but I realized a moment later that he felt he was bequeathing a special privilege on me, so I asked him if I should dress in any particular way. He was not helpful. He said, “I might wear a jacket.” Then he added, jokingly (but also seriously), “I dress to be invisible.”
My friend is one of those guys that you’re pretty sure is a decent human being, in spite of some of the strange things he says. He’s interesting, well traveled, extremely creative, and very good at what he does. He’s an architect. I’m a designer. I was an art history minor in college. There aren’t a lot of people you can really get into the nuts and bolts of aesthetic discussion with.
My friend is on the Executive Board of the Whitney Contemporaries (every word seems to be capitalized to indicate the Importance of the Institution). The Contemporaries (as described on the Whitney Web site) are a “dynamic group of art patrons between the ages of twenty-one and forty.” That was the first red flag. A singles group for rich kids, I thought. “In return for their support,” continues the Web site, “Contemporaries are guaranteed exclusive access to the Whitney’s unparalleled resources and the New York art scene.” And for those who want to get into The Scene, I thought. Sigh.
My friend met me at the subway stop at 59th Street. He suggested we meet there because it would be easy for me to get there by the subway line I ride. I could have easily transferred to another line and met him at the Whitney, but he didn’t seem to want to do that. So we met where he wanted to meet and got into a cab that took us uptown. I thought it was ridiculous (we could easily have walked) and started to argue. Then I realized I was thinking about money and he was thinking about appearances (“It will take us right to the door,” he said meaningfully)—and it was his gig, so I shut up.
There was a carpet at the door—not red, but it did have photographers lined up behind a rope, craning their necks to see who was getting out of cabs. We circled around a bit at the entrance, confused. Where should we walk? On the carpet? I started laughing. He dragged me down the carpet and showed his tickets to the large black security guards, and we were inside.
It had been years since I had last visited the Whitney. I hardly recognized it. The sleek, minimalist, almost austere venue that I remembered had been pimped-out. There were stage lights with colored gels over them everywhere. The music was pounding. But what really dominated the space were huge screens where close-up photos of people (obviously people connected with The Contemporaries) flashed in a continuous gigantic slideshow. In the photos everyone was kissing everyone else. I don’t think I saw a single black person. There was one Asian woman. She looked a lot more perfect than I did. “Ornamental”—as one of my friends used to mispronounce “oriental.”
When we arrived (half an hour after the suggested arrival time) the place was practically empty, but it became more and more crowded the later it got, until it was packed like a club. We went straight for the open bar. I got a shot of Japanese whiskey. No one was tipping the bartenders.
