Art for the Internet age
*Sons of Parts Unknown

We were sure we had been given the wrong address. Wading past a disgruntled man wearing only one shoe and a gaggle of strangers smoking questionable substances in sidewalk shadows we stared listlessly into dark store front windows. Everything was closed.

We trekked on until we spotted a plaid shirt and an ironic moustache. Warmer, we thought. Inconspicuously sketched onto a red door we finally found the right words: Butcher Gallery. Bingo.

Up a steep staircase was a table of cheese and chips and brownies and a few mingling guests. The first door we tried led to a cluttered bed. Was it some sort of Tracey Emin sloth-like statement? No, just a bed. Moving on.

Down a dark hallway we found the actual art in its crowded, white closet-sized space; but it wasn’t what we had expected. A few collages, a mirror set sideways and covered in tiny silver balls, and a floorboard propped up with a white stick. What was this saying about the internet?

We consulted the hand-written and photo-copied single page program, which explained the show was “inspired by the Internet’s influences on identity, narcissism and voyeurism.” Hm.

Shifting my eyes around the room of “hyper-contemporary” young artists and their fans and followers I thought: “I feel self important and watched. Hey! Two out of three ain’t bad.”

With that we bought beers and settled into conversation. One of the un-artists revealed he’d picked out a hanging picture of a naked baby boy at the St. Lawrence Market. “I’m going to go put a red sticker beside it,” he grinned.

As he walked away I watched an actual handshake deal go down. One of the elders in the room beamed towards a fresh faced artist and announced she was picking up his piece. Surprised wide eyes melted into a smug smile as he followed her out the door and towards her car.

And just before we turned the other way I thought to myself: I may not be buying this, but I’m glad someone is.

*Collage by the excellent Liam Crockard

Art on our bodies

The first splat of paint came with a loud howl into the night. Blue, pink and purple streaks stretched across the black sky. The colours roped around our bodies, dotted nearby cars. Like wild children we chased each other across the park and up the quiet street, screaming laughter into open windows and leaving footprints like liquid sidewalk chalk.

We arrived all messy, grinning like Dennis the Menace so clear we’d been up to trouble. And so we held our shoulders close to our bodies and hoped like hell we wouldn’t leave pink streaks on the rug. More liquor, more paint, more and more. New lines and stains and smeared red smudges. Orange in the corners, green on the chest, and our roller in the hands of strangers.

The cabbies knew nothing, having driven many of us all drunk on madness towards the costume haunts. With tip we left pink secrets on door handles and waved with our child actor grin. The camera died with the last empty beer bottle and we made it home to showers early, soaking tubs with the swampy water off our coloured backs.

Morning brought pale white skin and the promise of a second costume, once we’ve shook up and off all the crusted paint. And in a morning bed look up at the ceiling and say to no one: no brushes, ever.

The women come and go, talking of Michelangelo

Autumn's all night contemporary art thing has been celebrated, criticized, attended, boycotted, and declared irrelevant. Everyone has an opinion on Nuit Blanche. It has been called over-branded, over-crowded, and too-905 friendly. It has also lined our streets with smiling faces and out-of-towners who, for once, have something positive to say about Toronto.

I weighed in with my own experience already, but decided to assemble what Toronto's Twitterati had to say about this year's Nuit Blanche. Parties, crowds and criticism follows:

The art kids were prepared to party, regardless of what nature had to say

And some developed a bit of a crush on Toronto's all-night arts-thing

Not everyone was a fan of Koons' commercial centerpiece (namely this Disney actor tweeting to Degrassi's Lauren Collins)

And even when the art was good, the crowds were overkill

Of the traffic: it was easy to tell the patrons from the party-goers

Torontoist and Art Stars provided live coverage, including the social observations of Ms. Ashley Carter

Morale seemed up, even if what the city saw, well, sucked, as party-boy promoter Matt Sims thinks it did

For some, like Shirk Magazine's Brittney, the night had a movie script ending

But by the time the festival settled, most just wanted sleep