Pop and post-pop history was unfolding across London last night (17 May). First off, to the official launch party for a Jeff Koons extravaganza at Damien Hirst’s Newport Street Gallery in Vauxhall, south London, exhibiting the most comprehensive array of the US post-popster’s work in the capital to date. But it appeared that the gallery was anticipating rather more of crush than actually materialised, with the procession of VIP rope barriers remaining forlornly redundant outside. A respectable crowd eventually crossed the threshold, nonetheless. Hirst and his mother Mary Brennan were both in attendance with Koons also making an appearance and delighting many overexcited guests by willingly signing their books. Later the artist hung out in the galleries amongst his oeuvre and displayed an admirable insouciance when finding himself in close proximity to the most explicit images of his younger self in conjugal congress with his former wife, the porn star and sometime Italian politician Ilona Staller AKA la Cicciolina.
Some of the more soberly studious attendees at the event were a little perplexed by Hirst’s decision not to include information labels for the exhibits, especially when informed by gallery staff that lists of works were not available for distribution on this occasion. Heaven forbid that anyone might wish to check the dates, media and titles of works on show at a private view…
Things were somewhat calmer over in leafy Chiswick in west London, which was the rather surprising setting for a dinner hosted by Jean Wainwright, a professor at University for the Creative Arts, to celebrate Gerard Malanga. The Bronx-born poet, photographer and filmmaker is one of the last surviving inner-circle of Andy Warhol’s Factory where, in its heyday between 1963-70, he immersed himself in film and silkscreen production. Now, however, the very chipper 73-year-old Malanga is in town as a photographer in his own right, with works on show at Caroline Smulders’s Photo London stand, opening to the public tomorrow. These include a memorable shot of a youthful Robert Mapplethorpe bedecked in jewellery and sporting a jaunty cap and crushed velvet trousers. “He was very puckish, and that’s a joint he’s holding,” recalled Malanga, who last night in London W4 was sticking firmly to tap water. How times have changed…