Leafing through the book, I was surprised to realize how often he had been the curator or co-curator of shows at the museum. It seemed that Mr. Deitch genuinely could not understand why anyone might take offense if he ran the museum as if it were the West Coast branch of his gallery. I asked him whether he had ever been psychoanalyzed, and he replied that once, long ago, he had a girlfriend who was enamored of therapy.
You need to see someone. So Mr. Deitch went. At his first session, he was asked what he did for a living. I only write when I am enthusiastic. Now that he is back in New York, he said he has no plans to open a new gallery. The transition was made much more complicated by the kind of gallery Mr. Deitch ran. Deitch supported, more as patron than dealer, with the considerable money he made brokering huge sales in the secondary market — a skill aided by his Harvard M.
While some gallery owners might be able to hand the keys to a trusted lieutenant upon leaving, Mr. He opened his first gallery as a college student in in a rented hotel parlor in Lenox, Mass. Later he talked his way into his first official art-world job, as a receptionist at the prestigious John Weber Gallery in SoHo, by offering to work free.
Only a few weeks before Mr. A motorcycle gang member in a leather jacket approached Mr. Standing later on the edge of his loft office high above the scrum, in a pale red seersucker suit that lent him the air of a song-and-dance man, Mr.
This has always been my kind of crowd. The next night he was feted by his staff and friends at a dinner at a sweltering loft in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, that he had rented for Ms. Late last year, Mr. In he had opened a new, hangar-sized branch of his gallery in a former soda warehouse on the water in Long Island City, Queens, and proceeded to turn it into something that was almost a museum in itself, one dominated by performances and other generally unsaleable art, like a final show of paintings by Josh Smith done directly on the walls and primered over at the end.
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Rather than go into a full critique, I'll give a CliffsNotes version. The bigger guy had done his first work on part of one living room wall before the small guy was 'recruited' by him for his reputation as a street fighter and his skills as a tagger, though I don't recall if that term was used by them at that time. The kid's reaction to his new life - which was largely spent holed up in this house - was to start doing his own work on the empty living walls.
But then he began to cover up some of the other guys work with his - which is considered a very hostile act in that world - and altering other parts of it by adding his own work. The other guy retaliated and did the same to the smaller guy's work. Within a few weeks, though, they worked on the final wall as a team - even though they never discussed anything they were doing with each other. This suppressed conflict had also seemingly challenged the small guy into trying things he had never done before and each new living room wall found him further refining what he had done on the previous wall.
Then, abruptly - in the dining room - he did a complete wall in just 36 hours - by himself - that was far beyond anything he had done. Ideas that were barely related to what he had done before had begun to appear along with different techniques, an enhanced palette and a complicated subject matter that exceeded anything they had done separately - or together.
In the following weeks - he, by himself - took on all of the remaining dining room walls - each time in a single burst of energy - and further developed what he had started on that first wall. He at last finished the final empty space on the dining room walls - and in the month after that - nothing was added or changed by either of them.
It was then that I was asked to see them. They knew what an extraordinary achievement had been accomplished by them together - and then by the kid himself. When I next was there - every inch of the wall board and plaster had been stripped from the walls down to the studs, and no trace of the art was left.
The big guy's body was discovered miles away weeks later but the small guy's body was never found - or never identified if it was ever found.
No police report was ever filed about what happened there that night. The house was just empty one morning but it was days before anyone even dared go into the then totally empty house and no one in the neighborhood ever bothered to tell the police about the missing men.
Within three months of that, both the tattoo artist and my original friend were dead. I was later told that everyone who had been in the house had been killed and I was later told that everyone who had killed them was also now dead. By the end of the year, the last of the guys I had worked out with were gone from the gym; dead, in jail, moved to other parts of LA or returned to the villages they had come from.
I had never known the small guy's name - just the gang name I had heard him called, but which he never used himself.
All that was left behind of the kid was a single nagging memory. Just before we drove away from the house that Sunday, he had showed me a business card and asked if I knew who this person was.
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