She d just be hanging around with her beautiful boobs hanging out, surrounded by a group of ogling art lovers, practically doing her own Sex Act sideshow. I d beckon to Lavonne to get up, pull those bountiful boobies out a little more, walk toward the door, and the oglers would follow. But there they were. Meanwhile, Max was everywhere, doing security Bonobo-style, and chatting with Jack Tilton, the gallery owner, about how he d never seen such a big turnout for any art opening in New York. Maybe if the strippers called themselves artists, they wouldn t be shut down.
Art is about context and chutzpah.
That is the question, the tiresomely obvious question that the television reporters asked me as the last come shots had dried, and the last spectators drifted out the door. Don t ask me, I replied. Art is in the eye of the art appreciator, as subjective as beauty, love, tragedy or pornography. When early Renaissance painters depicted scantily clothed Greek-style gods and goddesses in the midst of sex acts with one another as well as various bulls, swans and sheep, rather than the usual Medieval crucifixion scenes, there was outrage. That s not art.