beware of Harlan Crow
photo mine
It's Friday. The world is broken because someone can't be trusted with his toys.
It's also Gallery Night. We're starting with a gallery owned by a friend so we might not get out until he closes. We're hoping to get to a couple more galleries in the Marshall Building before heading back downtown to Saint Kate's which is that rare beast - an art hotel. They have a couple boomboxes in obnoxious 80s colors that I covet. Especially the sculpture. It's as jagged as the painting, doesn't work but looks like it's moving. I think the last time that I was there was the exhibit of giant portraits in drag queens in their natural habitat (not on stage). If it wasn't that it was either a drag show or more likely a production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Donald Trump's fantasia nightmare.
On my back is a Michael Calloway suit/cape, dramatic enough on its own but there's some huge, elaborate gold braid that ends in big fringed epaulets. Underneath is a David Hauser that looks a Diana era Warhol of Diana Ross, a True Religion Playboy Bunny on my ass. And the photo below is what's on my feet. I'm rearranging deck chairs.
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