That the
Juergen Teller event Thursday night at
Lehmann Maupin Gallery was an art opening seemed beside the point. You heard it at
Ruth Root’s opening at
Andrew Kreps, and at
Carrie Mae Weems’s at
Jack Shainman: Those who were actually going were going for the promised sausages (served from an authentic cart with a Lufthansa umbrella) and to satisfy morbid curiosity about "the scene." After all, if you wanted to see the work, you might as well just open up a copy of
Vogue. This is not to say the crowd was filled with major fashion players—it was Fashion Week, mind you. “People sent their assistants to check it out,” was one guest’s verdict.
Most of the photographs were placed on tables under glass. (“What is this—a new German thing?” artist
Kathe Burkhart wondered, making reference to the similar layout of
Wolfgang Tillmans’s recent show at
Andrea Rosen Gallery.) Teller’s series of pictures shot in Kiev (commissioned by the Ukrainian pavilion of the 2007
Venice Biennale) was virtually indistinguishable from the other, more “Western” works: those of (and for) Marc Jacobs, Victoria Beckham, Björk with inky linguine spilling from her mouth. There were many (Ukrainian?) breasts, some natural, some enhanced. Of the latter category, one work in particular caught people’s attention. “I like how one nipple points up and the other down,”
Artforum’s
Rhonda Lieberman said thoughtfully. “It makes it painterly.”
Film crews and photographers elbowed through, followed by young people dutifully jotting in notebooks. At one point, a fresh-faced Patrick McMullan cornered Teller for his “Party Flash” segment on
Full Frontal Fashion.
“How many times did you go to the Ukraine?”
“Four.”
“You’re Dutch?”
“German.”
And later: “Do you have another country in mind?”
“No, not really. It was just an opportunity.” McMullan quickly made to hold Teller’s drink, as the artist fumbled with his cigarette pack. Teller lit up and inhaled, deep. And so it went until McMullan departed, and Teller began to lose patience with the crowd. He looked straight ahead, as one blonde scribe from
W—the magazine whose fashion shoots Teller had taken as inspiration for his portrayal of Ukrainian life—beat around the bush, pen in hand, and then shouted over the din: “Are you going to the Marc Jacobs show tomorrow?” Teller rolled his eyes.
“Of course.”
“I don’t know, some people—”
That was the last straw. He mumbled something and wandered away, seeming to toss up his arms at the whole affair. It was a peculiar reaction for someone who had invited (the show’s press agent had noted one week prior) Anna Wintour, Mary-Louise Parker,
Urs Fischer,
Roni Horn, Gisele Bündchen,
Helmut Lang,
Sofia Coppola, Dennis Freedman,
Kim Gordon, and
Thurston Moore. An eclectic list, to say the least, but one that guaranteed a certain number of flashbulbs, hangers-on, and tedious interviews. When
Michael Stipe hobbled in on crutches—a “go-kart accident,” he said—one visitor slid a photograph of the REM front man from a thick envelope stuffed with celebrity portraits (he had clearly come prepared for the arrival of just about anyone) and handed it over to be signed.
