On the Horns of a Dilemma at the Guggenheim
January 2nd, 2006 by JennyThe Young Collectors Council 2005 Artist’s Ball, sponsored by fashion house Yves Saint Laurent, roped in a fashionable crowd on Thursday, December 15, at the Guggenheim Museum. Chilled by a frigid winter rain and wickedly gusting wind, guests huddled in the entry area waiting to check their coats. I listened to one male attendee talk up his date by bragging about having an in with some museum bigwig. She seemed more interested in complaining about her dress.
Suck it up, I thought as I readjusted the strap on my bona fide Forever 21 purple halter dress ($29.95). I don’t do haute couture, but I was just about to be immersed in it. I hoped only that the lighting was indirect and moody enough to keep the fashionable set from giving me the once-over and pointing with derision.
As luck would have it, the museum’s entire rotunda was doused with a devilish shade of red. The scarlet spotlights all swirled around the ball’s centerpiece: a 20-foot tower covered in red cloth and adorned with six rocking, tilting mechanical bulls. The steer, as well as a couple of arrangements of long-stemmed red roses and a gurgling fountain, was supposed to evince a Spanish theme to echo YSL’s Spain-inspired spring 2006 collection. It was a weak association at best, and more sultry lounge than languid siesta.
Some guests, indeed, were wearing YSL designs: Linda Evangelista in a silk organza dress, Amanda Hearst in a black cashmere wool gown, and Usher donning a black velvet jacket and white tuxedo shirt. Several other celebrities sashayed into the crimson-draped space garbed in fashionable duds, but I had, apparently, arrived a bit too late to catch most of them mugging for the photographers. Feel free to check out New York Social Diary’s images. I instead spent the bulk of my time being spat upon by an overeager single man as he described Machu Picchu as “nice.” Nice? It’s friggin Machu Picchu! Untold numbers of mummified Inca sacrifice victims are rolling in their high-altitude graves at the idea of their beautiful sky-city being described as nice.
While I was being overwhelmed by spittle and inane banter, the decadently dressed fashionistas were being overwhelmed by the infernal mechanical bulls. Every time guests looked away from the canting kine, they were confronted by the eerie shadows of figures with curving horns bucking slowly back and forth on the surrounding walls. The fantastic DJ, Michel Gaubert, elicited a little gyration by the end of the evening, but perhaps people were too hypnotized by the rhythmically rocking bulls to do much rocking of their own—or too tipsy from the free-flowing signature drinks, concocted with Imperia Vodka, an event sponsor.
Thankfully, guests could peruse the first couple of levels of the stunning “Russia!” exhibit that was on display. (I escaped further expectoration by excusing myself to go view the art.) The juxtaposition of centuries-old Slavic triptychs with thumping house music proved too jarring, however, to concentrate for long on the artwork. And, as I leaned over the edge of the gallery’s signature walkway, spiraling down into a sea of people bathed in red light and horned shadows, the image brought to mind was not of Lipizzaner stallions and the Andalusian hills, but of Dante’s Inferno. At least this divine comedy had beautiful denizens.