Sprouse Triple Threat
January 8, 2009
The show is done. Well, mostly done, that is. A few final touches still left to do, but otherwise it's ready to go. There was a press preview yesterday, which, for some reason, I thought was scheduled for today. Either way, I didn't think I'd be expected to talk — at least I hoped I wouldn't. I've been so frazzled.
Stephen's close friend, Christiaan, the infamous hair designer who did most of Stephen's fashion shows and countless special projects, came by for a preview, too, and to put his stamp of approval on the mannequin treatment. It was nice to have him there to ground me and let me know the show was done "right by Stephen." He stood on a step stool, scissoring wigs and adjusting head wraps, while the reporters trickled into the gallery — a dozen or more well-dressed attachés from all over the world: France, Australia, Japan, Italy, and so on.
Jeffery Deitch gave an introduction to the show, speaking about how it evolved from meetings he and Stephen had while Stephen was alive, into the elaborate retrospective it had become. Once he finished speaking, he handed it over to me.
Huh? What?
I have a hard time mumbling two sentences together on a good day, let alone to a crowd of reporters when I'm frayed and exhausted. I'm sure most of them couldn't make heads or tails of what I was saying. It worked both ways and had a hard time understanding them, too. Between the collection of accents and my bad hearing, I probably spent more time asking people to repeat their questions than I did answering them.
The one question I was asked numerous times that I find especially hard to answer is: "What is your favorite memory of the time you spent working with Stephen?" An impossible question.
I simply say: "All of it."
If any of you are in New York between now and the end of February, I hope you'll stop by the gallery and check out the show.
Deitch Projects 18 Wooster Street. (Between Grand St. and Canal St.)
Be sure to tell me if you do.
January 9, 2009
The colossal Stephen Sprouse tribute last night consisted of three major parties, beginning at Louis Vuitton's SoHo store, followed by the opening of the retrospective at Deitch, and ending with an after party at the Bowery Ballroom. Any one of the parties alone would've been something to talk about, but the combination of the three grew the excitement exponentially. Unfortunately, Deborah and I only managed to make it to two out of three, but two out of three ain't bad.
I didn't take many photos. I'm not sure why, other than the fact that my head was spinning with all the people to meet, see and talk to -- some of whom I hadn't seen in nearly twenty years.
I spent most of my time with people I already knew — spending a lot of time with Deborah and Brian. The girl at the door wasn't going to let Brian in, but he called me from outside, and I came to the door to meet him. "Nice," he said, "I've finally been in New York long enough that all I have to do is make a phone call."
Shortly after getting Brian in, someone from Louis Vuitton introduced me to a reporter from The New York Times. "She's looking for interesting people to interview," the L.V. rep said. "People who knew Stephen, family, friends, anyone like that." I assumed this included me, but I was wrong. "Do you think you can help her find some relevant people?"
"Uh. Sure."
Slightly embarrassed at thinking that I, myself, might've been relevant, I pointed out a few people I thought she should talk to — I introduced her to Stephen Sprouse's brother Brad, and to Stephen's good friend and famous-in-his-own-right colleague, Christiaan, who designed the hair for a lot of Stephen's fashion shows and photographs. The woman whisked them away to a secret location — a makeshift photobooth across the street from the gallery — and I melted back into the crowd to find Deborah and Brian.
A few feet away from us, another reporter with a camera crew was doing an interview. A guy walked up to Deborah and asked her who was being interviewed. Deborah didn't know, and she asked me. I looked over my shoulder. "That's Anna Sui," I said.
"Who's Anna Sui?" the guy asked.
"She's a fashion designer," I said.
"Is she really worth interviewing?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said. "She's a contemporary of Stephen. They knew each other."
"I'm a writer for New York Magazine," he said, by way of some sort of explanation, insinuating that he was there to cover the event.
I introduced myself and told him that I was the exhibit designer.
"Oh, I'm not here to review the show, or cover the event, or anything," he said.
I shrugged.
Brian chmed in, telling the guy, "If you have any questions about AC/DC, I can tell you all you want to know."
The guy cocked his head. "AC/DC? What do you mean? Why?"
"No reason. Just saying, if there's anything you want to know about AC/DC, I'm your man."
Later, when I saw a photographer I admire (known for his iconic photographs of legendary musicians) at the Sprouse show after-party held at the Bowery Ballroom, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. I'd met him years ago, but had no reason to expect him to remember me, so I explained who I was and told him I just wanted to say hello.
"I didn't get in," he sniffed, and then turned his attention back to his three-sheets-to-the-wind, barely-legal date who was teetering on stilettos and flailing her arms into the heads of people as they struggled to squeeze past her.
The photographer has been around for ages and, as something of a legend himself, is probably used to crowds parting like the Red Sea when he arrives at an event. I'm sure that's what happened at the entrance to the Bowery Ballroom when he arrived for the after-party. But apparently, the door at the gallery was a different story. Filled beyond legal capacity, the gallery was forced to turn away the latecomers.
The next night, I tried again with a well-known artist whom I ran into at another opening. I'd seen him the previous night at the Sprouse show, so I knew he got in. "Just wanted to introduce myself and say hello," I said.
He snubbed me, too, vaguely blaming me for something that happened 20 years ago that had nothing to do with me. He turned away and exhaled into the face of his escort, "Do I still smell like garlic?"
Since then, I've given up on introducing myself to anyone.
January 10, 2009
Last night was the “public opening” of the Sprouse exhibit. Stephen Sprouse's nephew, Brandon (who came to town early and was invaluable in helping with the final stages of the exhibit), told me he was meeting some friends. After spending my entire waking life there for the past few weeks, and the previous night at the whiz-bang gala, I really just wanted to stay home and decompress, but I figured it might be nice to meet some people I either hadn't had a chance to talk to, or hadn't been able to get in, the night before.
Although significantly subdued in comparison to the previous night, over a thousand people came to the public opening and, once again, I hardly had time to talk to any of them. Other than one guy who told me that he was the one who came up with which colors Stephen should paint his "Speaker" paintings, and offered to give me some ephemera he had saved. "I'll take, like, maybe 100 bucks for it," he said.
Tonight will be even more socializing, though nice and quiet by comparison, spending quality time with the Sprouse family during a brief lull in the craziness. (Tuesday is another party, this time to celebrate the official release of The Stephen Sprouse Book .)
A few days before the show's opening, my friend Robert sent me a nice letter of congratulations and included an invitation to "Stephen Sprouse's Speed Metal Benefit for HEAL (Holistic Healing for AIDS)" from 1988 that he found in the back of a small painting that Stephen had given him twenty years ago. Stephen would often ask me to do things beyond the capability of a single person, and I'd employ my friends to help me. Robert was one of them, and whenever Stephen didn't have money to pay us, he'd pay us in art. In any case, Robert's note seemed worth posting:
"Jamie,
Congratulations on the Sprouse show! I wish I could be there to celebrate the opening with you. I hope to see it before it closes.
Enclosed is a gift of Sprouse memorabilia in honor of your accomplishment. I recently found it tucked behind the "Iggy" painting Stephen gave me.
I remember well that night, December 15th, 1988. I was upset at splitting up with S_______, and imbibed too much "stuff." I went to the World [the club where the benefit was held] but left early because I could hardly stand. As I was leaving, Stephen was arriving with Debbie Harry. He spotted me outside the entrance, put his arm around me and and dragged me back inside. As much as I wanted to hang out with them, I was in no shape to do so, and I slipped away at the first opportunity. I remember throwing up on the subway platform. How disgusting! And what a missed opportunity.
Moral of the story: Enjoy the opening to its fullest — Stay sober.
Love,
Robie.
It Ain’t Over ‘Til It’s Over
January 19, 2009
This photo is of me and Mauricio (co-author of The Stephen Sprouse Book ) at the Sprouse opening last week. When it was taken, Mauricio asked if I was going to put it up on the Known Universe.
"Yeah, who knows. Probably. Maybe. Eventually. If I get a chance. The site has been neglected lately."
"You'd better post it right away," he said. "Before it's yesterday's news."
(Mauricio runs a public relations firm in case you didn't know.)
Well, it's older than yesterday's news by now, but I figured there was still time to post it because the Sprouse hype ain’t over yet. Tonight it continues with a big party for the official release of The Stephen Sprouse Book.
This week, I jumped right back into my ho-hum work schedule, freelancing for a production company, without skipping a beat. I took the job knowing that I'd be completely wiped out from the Sprouse show, but with the economy in the shitter, I didn't think it wise to pass up any opportunities.
Yesterday, during work, my eyes were rolling back in their sockets, and I could barely stay awake, so I hope I can remain standing long enough to get to the book party. It runs from 8 to 11, which means I have just enough time to run home and change, or do whatever people do to get ready for glamorous fashion-related events, but if I do that, I'll probably pass out and never make it. Instead, I'll wear an outfit that takes me “from office to evening”, get a bite to eat, and drink a gallon of coffee to wire myself to push through straight from work. I'm not a kid anymore, y'know.
Meanwhile, in my spare time, I have to prepare detailed plans for a condensed version of the Sprouse show, which will be included in a larger exhibition at the Hong Kong Museum of Art in the spring. The architect of the exhibit is coming to town next week to meet about it. Unfortunately, he's coming on the same day as the scheduled court appearance for my speeding ticket. (Remember that?)
January 16, 2009
Here I am, looking out of place, with Roger Padilha, Teri Toye, and Mauricio Padilha, photographed by Dustin Pittman.
This afternoon, I got a text message from Mauricio Padilha (co-author with his brother Roger of The Stephen Sprouse Book ) asking about a dress that I borrowed, but didn't use, for the Stephen Sprouse retrospective — a little black dress that belongs to the former model, friend, and muse of Stephen Sprouse, Teri Toye.
In the course of writing their book, Mauricio and Roger became good friends with Teri and helped me out by convincing her to loan some of her Sprouse clothes for the show. (Not to mention loaning things from their personal collection.) Teri was in New York to play hostess at the launch party for The Stephen Sprouse Book, and she wanted to take the dress with her when she returned home to Des Moines. (Yes, Des Moines.)
I told Mauricio I'd arrange to get him the dress, and asked how long Teri would be in town. "I'm disappointed I didn't get to meet her at your party," I said. (The book launch was hosted by both Teri Toye and Debbie Harry, and, well, good luck getting close to either of them, much less introducing yourself or saying hello.)
Teri had always been mysterious to me. An important figure in the Stephen Sprouse story, who pre-dated my arrival. By the time I began working with Stephen, Teri had left the fast lane, was married, and living in Iowa. Stephen never spoke about her, and I never asked.
Mauricio said that Teri was leaving tomorrow, but that he and Roger were taking her to the Deitch gallery so that Teri could see the show. "We'll be there in 45 minutes," he said. "Come meet us."
"I'm busy at work," I said. "I'm not sure I can slip out."
"Just come by for a few minutes."
I was in Chelsea, twenty minutes away from the gallery — depending on the trains, “A few minutes” would mean an hour out of my day, at least. Nevertheless, hopped on a subway and headed to the gallery.
I beat them there.
I knew I would.
I wandered around, taking advantage of the relatively quiet gallery to commune with my old friend Stephen. I noticed a guy there, bundled in an Army-green duffle coat, taking careful, thoughtful photographs of the exhibit. He obviously knew what he was doing, and I wondered if he'd been hired by Deitch to take exhibit photographs. But no, by pure coincidence it was another friend of Stephen's, photographer Dustin Pittman who, according to the only bio of his I could find online "has photographed everyone from Gloria Swanson to Marc Jacobs" and who, like me, was at the gallery communing with an old friend in a way that would've been impossible during the craziness of the opening. I'd met Dustin years ago in Stephen's studio, but we hadn't seen each other since, and we didn't recognize each other until Mauricio and Roger arrived with Teri, and it all clicked.
Looking slightly more comfortable with the same cast of characters, photographed by Dustin Pittman.
Mauricio and Roger knew Dustin — he'd contributed a few of his photos to the book— and they were surprised to see him.
"I came by thinking it would be a nice, quiet time to be here," Dustin said, laughing at how it had turned into an impromptu photoshoot.
Dustin had been in the gallery for about two hours before the rest of us arrived, and as the Padilha Brothers showed Teri around, Dustin and I had a few minutes to talk. Meeting a friend of Stephen is like meeting someone who went to your alma mater, or grew up in the same small town — an instant connection. We got sentimental and reminisced for a minute, exchanging stories, filling in blanks. He asked how the opening went, sounding a little disappointed he hadn't made it.
"It was a madhouse," I said. "A lot of people didn't get in, actually, which was a drag, but then again, it wouldn't have been a Sprouse event otherwise."
He laughed and nodded. "I've been to your website," he said.
"Really?" It never ceases to surprise me when someone says that.
"Yeah, it's nice," he said. "You have a good thing going on."
"I have no idea what that 'thing' is, but thanks." I was flattered, a little embarrassed, maybe. "It's a good outlet, I guess."
After spending a few minutes with the Day-Glo sketches downstairs, Teri and the guys returned to the main floor. "Where are the color xeroxes?" Teri asked as she climbed the stairs. Stephen did a lot of his early work with a color Xerox machine, blowing up photographs, piecing them together, and pasting them onto Foam Core. They haven't held up very well. "Those are my favorites," she said.
"They were stored in a Pennsylvania barn for twenty years," I explained. "You can imagine what they look like now."
"What about his big silkscreens on plastic?"
Again, she was referring to some of Stephen's earliest pieces, from 1977, of which only a few examples exist, and the ones that do need some conservation work to be presentable. It took a little time for her to accept my answers, asking again to be sure I knew which pieces she meant, but my answers didn't change, and eventually she let go of her disappointments.
"It's really great," she said, waving her hand around the gallery. "You did a great job."
"Thanks."
"But it's sad."
"I know."
She stopped on the way out of the gallery to watch a video looping near the entrance — a montage of clips from throughout Stephen's career, including many close-ups of him smiling shyly the way he often did. "C'mon, Teri," said Mauricio. "You've seen that video a million times already."
"I know," she said. "But he's so cute."
January 18, 2009
When I get introduced to people as the designer of the Sprouse show, I invariably get asked one of two questions: either "What are you working on now?" or "What's next?"
Although I did dive into another job without a break, my current job isn't nearly as glamorous or spectacular as the last one, so when someone says, "What's next?" I just kick the ground, shrug, and say, "Sleep." And this weekend — the first time since November that I had two days off in a row — I was finally free to do just that.
I'm sure I could have, but I didn't sleep the entire weekend, unfortunately — there were a few errands to run and things to do —but after the recent whirlwind, it felt like nothing. Which meant I was finally wide open to feel the grinding gears of postpartum depression begin to gunk up the works.
Thankfully, there are always random bananas around to photograph, or else I'd really be lost.
January 26, 2009
I've been to the gallery a dozen times since the opening, and keep meaning to take some good photos of the installation, but for some reason I never do. I took a bunch during construction, but since it's been finished, I've barely taken any. Even at the opening, when cameras were flashing everywhere, and I was surrounded by people all dolled up and eager to pose, I only took a handful.
On Saturday, I made plans to meet Katrina and Signe at the gallery. I threw my camera in my bag and jumped on the subway to meet Katrina first, at a restaurant around the corner from the gallery. I was early, she was late. I drank a coffee and read the paper while I waited. (Just because I don't write about airplanes landing in the Hudson River doesn't mean I don't read about them.)
I told Signe I'd be at the gallery by 2, but my schedule had dominoed. "No problem," she said, "I'm running late too." When Katrina arrived, there was no need to rush, but the service was so slow that we were even later than late.
It didn't take too long to walk through the exhibit — I answered a few questions, told them each a few stories, explained why this was like this and that was like that, and then Signe went home to pack — she's moving next weekend, and has a lot of chachkas to box. I offered to help her with my truck.
"Thanks, but I hired movers," she said. "My new place is a fourth-floor walk-up."
"Oh, yeah, never mind."
"I know. There's no way I was going to move all my stuff myself. I already strained my leg just packing, know what I mean?"
Katrina hung for a minute longer to take a few photos. I took a picture of her taking a picture, and then she left, too.
I stayed behind to tie up a few loose ends at the gallery, and by the time I was done, I was uninspired to take any photos. I just know I'd better do it soon. It’ll be down before I know it. And then on to Hong Kong. Didn't I tell you? I've been contracted to design a condensed version of the exhibit as part of a larger show being put on by Louis Vuitton at the Hong Kong Museum of Art opening in the spring. For those of you who aren't able to make it to the show at Deitch Projects, I'll see you in China. No excuses!
February 5, 2009
Deborah and I arranged to meet my parents at the Sprouse show so they could see firsthand what’s been occupying so much of my energy lately.
We were early, so we got a couple of coffees and sat on the steps of a nearby building to wait. There was an open parking spot directly in front of the gallery, and I encouraged Deborah to combine her powers of visualization with my own to keep it free. My mother suffers from a rare joint/muscle disease, which makes it hard for her to get around. She does well, considering, but the less walking she does, the more strength she'll have to tackle the gallery stairs.
When they arrived, I directed my father to pull into the spot. It was near a fire hydrant, though, so before saying hello and shaking hands, we spent a few moments debating whether there was enough space to avoid a ticket. I felt certain there was, but since I still have a major speeding ticket hanging over my head, my credibility was weak. "You're no closer to the hydrant than the guy behind you is," I said.
"So we'll both get tickets," said my father.
I finally persuaded him it would be okay, and he parked the car.
We all said hello, shook hands, hugged, kissed, and so on.
"The gallery isn't open yet," I said.
The gallery usually opens at noon, and I figured whoever was working that day was running late, but I was wrong. It was Sunday, and the gallery wasn't open on Sundays. You'd think I'd know the schedule by now.
At that point, though, we still assumed it was, and that someone would be along to open up any minute. "Why don't we get some brunch first?" Deborah suggested.
We all agreed and walked around the corner to a noisy French bistro. My parents asked me a lot of questions about the show, but I had trouble hearing them, and they had trouble hearing my replies, so we switched the subject and asked each other questions with simpler replies. "The food is good, isn't it?"
"Yup."
We finished brunch and headed back to the gallery, which still wasn't open, of course.
"I'll walk to the other gallery and see if anyone is there — find out what's up."
Deitch has two gallery spaces in SoHo that are around the corner from each other. I ran to the other gallery, which was also closed, but I saw a couple of guys I knew through the window, and I tapped on the glass.
"What's the deal?" I said. "Why is the gallery closed?"
"Sunday."
"You guys aren't open on Sundays?"
"Nope."
"Since when?"
"Since always."
"Shit. My parents came in from out of town to see the show."
"Here's the key," said Paul, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a jangled jumble of keys on a ring. He sifted for the one I needed and handed it to me. "You know where the lights are, right? Just lock it up and bring me back the key when you're finished."
I ran back to where Deborah and my parents were waiting.
"The gallery is closed on Sundays," I said, waiting to read the looks of disappointment for a beat before pulling the key out of my pocket. "But I've got a key."
We walked in, flipped on the lights, took a minute to figure out how to turn on the DVD players, and then walked around the quiet space. There were a few concessions that had to be made when designing the show. We knew the opening was going to be packed, and I rearranged the original plans a bit to accommodate the crowd. As a result, when there's no one there, the show feels a little sparse. But being alone in a cavernous space in the middle of New York City is a rare treat in itself.
My father took pictures, and my mother tackled the stairs. I told some stories and explained what was what. A few people loitered outside, peeking in, knocking on the door, thinking, like I did, that the gallery was open on Sundays.
When we were finished, I turned out the lights and locked the door behind us. "I'm going to run up the street and return the key. I'll be right back." As impressed as my parents were with the show, they were more impressed that I had a key.
I handed the key back to Paul, and we talked for a couple of minutes. "What have you been up to? He asked. Have you been getting interviewed all month?"
"Ha, yeah. Right."
He asked if I was going to be around to help with the de-installation of the show. I'd already been getting emails regarding it.
"It's going to be a tight schedule," he said.
"I know."
A tight schedule without the adrenaline factor propelling things along.
February 27, 2009
Last chance to see the Stephen Sprouse show, Rock on Mars, at Deitch Projects. (18 Wooster Street) The show starts coming down tomorrow night.
I was hoping I might be able to avoid going to the gallery this weekend — that I wouldn't be needed to help with the de-installation — but my sense of responsibility makes it unavoidable.
It's going to be depressing.
In the meantime, you still have today and tomorrow to check it out.
Regardless of the poor job I did promoting the show, a lot of my friends made the effort to check it out. I think it's safe to say that the winner of the "furthest distance traveled" award goes to Crys and Travis, who flew in from Winnipeg for the opening. Unfortunately, I was so busy I hardly got to say two words to them during their stay.
Runner-up is probably my old college pal Robie, who flew up from South Carolina.
"What are you in town for?" I asked him when we met at the gallery. I assumed he was in New York on business and was simply checking out the show while he was here.
"No, I came to see the show," he said.
Robie knew Stephen, and he helped me out on several Sprouse-related projects over the years. More often than not, they involved inhaling toxic paint fumes in tight spaces — painting Stephen's apartment with a silver paint that has since become illegal to use indoors. As we walked through the gallery, we reminisced about lost brain cells and nerve damage, and got nearly as loopy talking about it as we did when we were tasting the fumes.
A friend of Robie's from California was also in New York, and they were sharing a room at a Midtown hotel. Robie's friend was here to visit a Tibetan healer for treatment of chronic stomach distress.
"He came from California for that?" I said. "You'd think California would be crawling with alternative healers of every shape and size. Why'd he have to fly to New York?"
Apparently, the healer is famous in certain circles, and he was highly recommended.
The healer gave Robie's friend a handful of herbs, balled up into daily doses, and explained an intricate ritual for preparing them. "By the light of the full moon" kind of thing.
"Whatever he gave him," said Robie, "it smells awful."
"Where is your friend now?" I said. "You should've invited him to the gallery with us."
"I did. But he got impatient waiting for the herbs to kick in and took Ex-Lax this morning. He got impatient waiting for the Ex-Lax to work, too, and took a bunch more. Now he can't leave the hotel room."
