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NY Mirror


There’s something to be said about comeback kids. At the party for Trace magazine’s new art issue at Room Interiors on Hudson Street Tuesday night, I was anticipating a brief reunion with the mag’s enigmatic publisher, Claude Grunitsky. Notorious for skipping out on his own editorial meetings (and, according to some disgruntled employees, skipping paychecks), Grunitsky gets all the labels—from slimeball to creative genius. I’m sure he’s all of the above.

Pretty much everyone who’s ever worked at Trace has had their lights turned off, but oddly enough, most of them were present, along with photographer David LaChappelle and his new man Antoni, as well as Laura Prepon, the redhead from That ’70s Show. The new issue is a collaboration with artist Carmen Zita, who’s actually kind of pointy and snide, but whatever—aren’t all self-appointed art mavens rather pointy and snide? Part of the charm.

The kitschy design shop’s shelves were swathed with cellophane sheets to prevent the odd five-finger discount (even though I know a few folks who made off with plateware) as melodious house flowed from the speakers. This being a mostly fashion crowd, the most popular spot was the bathroom. I guess the sudden cold had given everyone the sniffles.

Somewhere next to the line, I spotted pseudo-fashion/pseudo-twin art hustlers Andrew Andrew, who seemed less ironically cute than just attention-starved. Months ago at Fiorucci, I remember balking when the boys were charging $50 to sew a chintzy red ribbon on your shirt in the name of crap conceptual fashion. The pseudo-multitaskers are currently at work on second careers as DJs, bakers, and interior designers. “We need to go home and watch Star Trek Voyager,” said one of the Andrews. “This is too much for us.” It couldn’t be half as overwhelming as supporting their pseudo-careers. I offered to tape an episode for them before I heard someone shrilly whining, “Motherfuckers! Where is my photograph?!” It was Wooster Street shop owner Lin Park, with some ghastly piece of rabbit on her back, jumping on the bed like a crazed woman. Dude, she had obviously spent extra time in the bathroom.

Two hours into the party, the line outside was closed. A girl who was annoyed by the holdup started throwing punches, the lights went on, and all of us found ourselves on the street waiting for the next installment.

The Barneys of the skateboard set, Alife sponsored Artomatic‘s “Ilikeprinting” show at their Lower East Side clothing store-casual art space on Thursday night. “Whoever wants to smoke us out, please come to the bar!” screamed a guy in an Afro wig. Hip-hop beats knocked up against lo-fi rock riff samples as a swarm of junior art stars fumbled for cans of Budweiser.

Artomatic, a London-based outfit that markets graphic design as collectible art, organized the hanging, which included designers Melanie Carvalho, Jest, Ryan McGinness, and British superstar firm Tomato. Most intriguing was graf artist Kaws, who showed two of his notorious dummies humping each other doggie-style. (You just have to see it for yourself.)

Rumor has it that Alife’s proprietor, Arnaud Delecolle, is starting some secret club with fellow style insiders, holding Masonic-esque brunches in Fort Greene and around their new Rivington Street retail shop. “That’s something I can’t talk about,” said Delecolle. Jesus! It’s not like they’re being held in Kabul.

Then, I heard a double trot of footsteps coming toward me. “Wait!” piped a pair of voices. Goddammit if it wasn’t Andrew Andrew! “We want to give you a better quote! Don’t you want to interview us one more time?” I told them I had to go, but they were still haranguing me to come to their party that night at APT. (Shouldn’t they be home watching Star Trek?) “Here,” said one Andrew. “Why don’t you have a flyer!” I’ve got one! “Well, take two!” said his dubious double. Even more frightening, they kept finishing each other’s damn sentences! Dearest Tweedledee and Tweedledum, I beg of you to spend some time apart.

Weather Flash: Out on the East End, it’s gonna be raining men. I hear a certain New York major leaguer is planning to buy a phat new pad out in the Hamptons—with a guy.

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