Massive, massive party

The fire alarm kills any chance to sleep this one off. It’s 10:00 a.m. and they are testing every one in the building.

The keys are on the floor and there’s one left in the pack. It’s out the door to light the last up, figure out what happened. There is a stamp on each hand. One from a gala, another from a bar, the photos on the camera say.

Start at the beginning: a text message comes in the afternoon with an invite to an impromptu photo shoot outside the AGO. Nadja is all breasts and nunnery when I show up; we play nine-oh-five on nearby mini vans.

All around us deep pockets saunter by. Men in tuxes refuse to pose for photos and a woman stops to ask if we’re in the band. We are, we say. Which one? The Decemberists, we guess. Whichever.

It’s all a part of some elaborate speak-easy theme spin off, cooked up by Mr. Dean Baldwin, the man who put the lowbrow outdoor patio inside the gallery resto. Dean says he’ll sneak us in, because that’s what a man running a speak-easy must do.

So it’s through the kitchen to the elevator, nod to the attendant. Fill our arms with camera gear, slip by security. Down a staircase towards a DJ, we spin around, look up at the path behind: we’re in.

The cameras roll, the Art Stars do their thing. It was all a bit too easy to sneak past the hundred and fifty dollar ticket to the open bar, we think and scratch our heads. No bother, the free beer comes in large green bottles and the fancy mini grilled cheese sandwiches taste delicious.

The dress is decidedly wedding attire and we wonder what high school formal we’ve ended up at. Still, the booze is more than we have the money for; grin and guzzle down. White wine, red wine, the only hard stuff they have is vodka. We ask for it straight.

At some point new friends and fellow freeloaders decide they’ve had enough. They want to go to some hotel, ask if I’d like to come. We start walking but end up in a cab, re-routed to a college pub.

It’s filled with familiar faces, as it is each and every Thursday night. The Rye-high kids love the place and I’m happy it’s a few blocks from home. I tell them about the gala, but they have not heard of Massive Party, shrug their shoulders and ask if it was fun.

It was, we guess, but are a bit unsure. Either way, somebody knows the bartender and we get another round of covered drinks. Drink up, dress down, stumble back to the apartment.

The lights are off, the head spins, the pillow feels perfect. Take off a pressed shirt, lay down and wait for morning.

set up annnd...art attack!

a prayer to our saviour, Lord Madonna

Dean's patio scene

some summer ski lodge something, stretching to the ceiling

time to make a scene..

back at the bar, shrugging, what happened??

an idea, maybe...?

the fastest way to 905 is to show cleavage, I'm told

Tracy's reaction to the chest hair

A couture Christmas season

It’s unavoidable, and it’s already begun. The bells, ribbons, presents, and wishes. Next are the TV specials, family newsletters; picture perfect parades. But before the busy and the boastful start their culturally specific consumption, we gather in the fresh cold to watch city winter begin.

The Holt Renfrew windows, a street-side peek into the fantasy of fashion. Our alter of endless high-end everything, the team who tells the wealthy what to wear. Covered up and caged in we count down to the reveal.

It’s some mindless mix of animal heads and mirrors, penguins and pearls shown. There are igloos and ice queens an imitation of Miss Wintour. Inside the boxes are lacey legging, leather gloves, and a singing snowman choir.

We’ll stand and stare on another afternoon, decide to walk away. The crowds crawl in and we shiver off, songs still playing in our heads. If this dreadful, dreary time of year must come, at least it does with style, you think, shuffling to tune.

And with that you walk away, satisfied with the corporate song-and-dance.

Que Leslie Feist,

I feel it all, the wings are wide, wild credit card inside…

*Updated with photos taken days later, after the crowds had died down

Late nights end on the lawn

Rain taunted the city all afternoon, but the last of the drops fell with sunset. By then the crowds had begun to swarm, as if art were the only solution to the latest epidemic outbreak. At every angle, all night, we consumed as much as possible. The goal was to eat the whole evening, and wake full in the morning.

Assembled, separated, cell phones, cobblestone, and concrete: every footstep at Nuit Blanche begs to get lost. Inevitably it happens. The decision to head home occurred on a streetcar going in the opposite direction, overcrowded with day-time transit people. The homeless, bar regulars and even artists have been overtaken by couples with caravans parked in driveways a go train trip away. As for the drunk, the young, and the high heeled entertainment district: that was their first taste.

Still, I got what the city paid for. After the performances, floating rabbits, fire, costumes, religious art, and 8-second exposures, I end up alone, late at night, standing on the third floor of an unassuming building filled with graffiti. At my feet is a glowing green lawn coupled with a picket fence and finished off with a few spare tires and an open toilet seat.

I ignore the rotation of touring art eaters and think about the instillation. If the artist was here, I’d grab them by the shoulders, shake him, and say:

”Yeah man, me too.”