Hello gentle American’s. On a moody grey Saturday afternoon I decided to make a trip to the galleries in Chelsea. The Chelsea Gallery scene between 20th street to 26th Street sports over 250 galleries, highlighting many different styles and mediums. Theoretically there should be something for everyone. What I found on my mini gallery crawl, on 24th, street was a whole lot of expensive nothing.
In the 10 or so galleries that I went to there was no one thing that really caught this queens eye and said, “Oh yes Hedda, you must own this.” Don’t get me wrong, some of the paintings were techniquely beautiful; take Piet van den Boong. His large portraits, on black steel, were hauntingly striking but would I want 6 foot by 4-foot face of a middle-aged man starring at me every morning? Looking at this particular portrait (pic included) all I could think was, “His dry skin would benefit so much from a good moisturizer and lip balm.” Perhaps I am a bit to provincial? Having been raised by my Aunt Nedda Iceberg, from Long Island, I often ask myself when I look at a piece of Art: “Would this look good in my bathroom?” If it does not live up to that standard I quietly walk away.
On my walk home I came across a poster on the street promoting another art show about to open. The image was rather startling: A horse lying on its back, spread eagle, wearing a feather headdress, sporting a huge gaping vagina with a dense black bush. Not that I am against horses, vagina’s or horses with vagina’s but why in hell would I want to see this? Perhaps its target audience is lesbians who like to ride horses? Or maybe it is horses that like to ride lesbians? Or maybe it is horse lovers who work in the gynecological field? All I could assess was that it was meant to be shocking for just shock sake and that just won’t cut it for my bathroom wall. So needless to say, I will not be attending it’s huge, wet opening.
As I passed Whole Foods, on West 24th Street and 7th, on my way home I had an incredible celebrity sighting: Super model Linda Evangelista. She ruled the runways in the 90’s with her chameleon like looks and her old Hollywood style. She was one of my favorites and whenever I saw her image I was left breathless. And once again, I was left breathless seeing her, but not for the aforementioned reasons. In her wool skullcap, heavy down coat, holding a bag of food, she looked worn, weathered and frumpy. Her once slim hips were now replaced with a rather ample backside that one could not help notice. She is 45 years old and one can’t fault a girl for getting up there in years. But more recently she has reappeared from retirement in various TV commercials promoting new age defying creams; sporting a smooth airbrushed youthful face. False advertising at it’s finest. My heart dropped from fear. If Miss Evangelista, who has access to the best beauty products money can buy can’t look good than we are all doomed.
When I finally arrived home I put on some under eye cream; slathered some moisturizer on my face and neck; lit a candle and said a pray: “Please God let my good looks last another year.”