Mom & Dad and Terry Richardson ... and I

November 11th, 2011.


Friday night.


Forsyth Street, in front of the Half Gallery.


Here I am. 


A sardine amongst sardines. Famous ones, anonymous ones.  Packed in a boundless, roofless, box, waiting to dive in Terry's world.


The air is chilly and I must confess that, with my sardine (not to say shrimp-like) physique, the perspective of having to wait for a long time, surrounded by my counterparts, does not cheer me up.


After a deep reflection (one minute at the most because too much reflection kills the reflection), comes the action.


From sardine, I mutate in a hybrid NFL player, elbows out, ready to get rid of any obstacle (human, animal, vegetal, other) on my not so long way to the packed small interior of the gallery.


In the course of the action, the irrationality of my behavior suddenly strikes me.


Why am I here for exactly ?  On the opening day ?


To see "wannabes", "already are" and "will never be"(me?).  Probably.


Most certainly, I want to see Terry Richardson.  The only, unique, sulfurous, controversial, etc., etc., etc., Terry Richardson.


I want to see, with my own glassed eyes, this man, who depicted by un-fuckable (or never fucked or not well fucked) feminists as a sex monster, is there opening a window on the most intimate thing one can have: one's parents.


After mashing some feet (believe me, 108 lbs. on one's feet can cause irreversible damage), throwing elbows here and there, I finally make it inside.


The first word that comes to my mind at that precise moment is: scattered.


Maybe because of all these pieces of life disseminated all over the floor.  Is this a reflection of some sort of pain, a child's wound never healed to this day ?


I try to peruse as much of those scattered pictures as I can and at the same time I manage to have my picture taken with the man.  A quick blurry picture for the posterity.


The gallery is small, and small is really an euphemism. No wonder why I hear a male voice in the back (in my back probably) asking people to make room for others.  In clear and proper language he says : " MOFO's move!"


Since I did not bruise sardines for nothing, I engage in a fast examination of the pictures neatly pinned on the walls, by contrast with all the ones used by the visitors as carpets.


I am confused by the contrast between the glamour of the event and the simplicity of the man and his (un ?) conventional family.  The pictures transpire love in an attempt to revive and carve in posterity a child's memory of the one's he unconditionally loves.


I see my Mom, (my Mom doesn't raise her majors and doesn't show her nice boobs, but she swears like a truck driver), my Dad and for an instant I am transported far away.  I feel home.


Wait. I hear Mister "Make room for others please."


The spell is broken. I head to the door. I have to go.