Pieces of Paul

We stamped up our subway passes and sent ourselves to Daelim Contemporary, courtesy of Sir Paul Smith. There we found our bodies alongside other objects the curators called art, sent to the designer from anonymous, a party as little known to Paul as us two, he claimed.

We were skeptical. The program said Paul had passed up an opportunity to have a documentary filmed on the objects an admirer has been sending him for years, but the skis, plastic toys, bodices, and shiny silver mailboxes still conveniently turned up to be placed in glass boxes as soon as extra art was needed for a showcase of his personal collection.

Of the art, we approved. There was no era, style, or poignant political message to the show, just a scatter of things he loved. On one wall Brad Lochore’s Shadow No. 11, on another a sketch of a Gaultier dress. In the first room we found Conor Harrington’s Dictator and Dancer, photos of boys by one Bruce Weber.

In the second to last were things to make us laugh, Pakpoom Silaphan’s Queen Sits on Pepsi, and two Banksy pieces (most notably, a giggle in front of Congestion Charge). One Warholian Liz Taylor and a some shots of Bob Dylan’s recording sessions made me wish I could sit with Paul at Christies and point with one finger, I like that.

At the exit we found the interior of a home. Plastered on wallpaper were photos of a workspace covered with piles of pleasure objects, toys, and books, covered in stacks of hats. Next to that an extra pile of his stuff: backpacks and stuffed characters, a globe sitting in front of an old tin box of potato crisps.

After snapping photos leaning over his beloved bicycle we took the staircase down and stepped out, pushing umbrellas up with pieces of Paul dancing in our heads.