The packs of rats had been replaced by Rat Packs of fancy high rollers on the prowl not for a White Castle crust or errant Sabrett hot dog remnant but to scavenge high-priced art, their eyes wide, mouths foaming, and wallets open.
Schmucks abounded. There were pompous art historians spewing postmodern theory about race, class, and gender; insecure but wealthy collectors racing to put holds on various pieces; art students wearing serial-killer thick-framed glasses; and of course dealers, rubbing their hands together with glee as the show sold out before opening night.
Tonight was a magnetic draw like none other: the opening of Otto Clyde’s provocative latest works, lauded by critics, chased by buyers as marquee must-haves for their collections. His fame had only ballooned in recent years, as he dabbled in film like Julian Schnabel, his debut lauded and his second feature nominated for a Best Director Oscar. Like Jasper Johns or Andy Warhol before him, his work had a signature, graphic style—part pop silkscreen, part Edward Gorey grisaille. Mostly portraits, his images had a look all their own, one unmistakably Clyde, like a big fat fashion logo for collectors to show off. They loved showing that they could afford a seven-figure Clyde canvas above their couch. It was Otto’s seventh solo show in The Eden Series, which featured the striking, mysterious, and brazenly sexy Eden Clyde, his sassy younger partner, muse, and best friend. Her job was lying nude on his mesmerizing canvases and playing a version of herself in his two movies. Otto had become not only the most famous artist in New York but also the world over, and Eden propelled him to new heights.
And vice versa. Eden’s ascent by Otto’s side was so rapid, their fame was cometlike. Magazines, television, fashion shows, celebrity friends . . . the world was hers. She’d fallen fast for Otto (and his fast-lane lifestyle), and by her twenty-first birthday she had become pregnant with the child of this thirty-eight-year-old budding international star. She was thrilled to have his baby, a son they named Cole. Despite their frenetic lives, the globe-trotting travel, from the Venice Biennale to fairs in Basel, Maastricht, Toyko, and Miami, to museum openings of his work, Cole was Eden’s passion, and she made sure to create a stable base for him. She wanted him to be centered, despite the dartboard-on-a-map existence they led. While Otto gave gallery talks or had speaking engagements at various arts clubs, Eden would try to sneak off with Cole and weave in and out of winding city streets, discovering tucked-away churches and hidden architectural gems in all the nooks and crannies.
All the while, Eden didn’t mind the lack of bended knee and ritual rings—Otto always made it clear that matrimony was for the masses, a biblical opiate to tame the rowdy hordes into little submissive units. It wasn’t for him. And that was fine. It wasn’t for her, either.
The years passed and she remained cool with it, even as friends like Allison, at twenty-nine, happily walked down the aisle with her doctor boyfriend, Andrew Rubens, reciting vows with dewy eyes and jubilantly tossed bouquets. At each white wedding, a longing for a tulle veil flickered like lightning in Eden’s brain, stealth and momentary between two of her heartbeats. Occasionally she would flip through the New York Times Weddings section and smile warmly at the “Vows” column, a story of how that week’s featured bride and groom met. And then, instead of becoming an emotional thunder crack, the dull temptation vanished. Allison was a radiant bride, showered with petals and presents, embarrassed by the spotlight but relishing her day in the sun. Eden, however, knew that was not her path. She and Otto were the hip couple with the cute growing son, the offbeat stars of their galaxy, like Brangelina but with a much better brand of fame: the kind where only cool people in the know recognize you. She didn’t
Schmucks abounded. There were pompous art historians spewing postmodern theory about race, class, and gender; insecure but wealthy collectors racing to put holds on various pieces; art students wearing serial-killer thick-framed glasses; and of course dealers, rubbing their hands together with glee as the show sold out before opening night.
Tonight was a magnetic draw like none other: the opening of Otto Clyde’s provocative latest works, lauded by critics, chased by buyers as marquee must-haves for their collections. His fame had only ballooned in recent years, as he dabbled in film like Julian Schnabel, his debut lauded and his second feature nominated for a Best Director Oscar. Like Jasper Johns or Andy Warhol before him, his work had a signature, graphic style—part pop silkscreen, part Edward Gorey grisaille. Mostly portraits, his images had a look all their own, one unmistakably Clyde, like a big fat fashion logo for collectors to show off. They loved showing that they could afford a seven-figure Clyde canvas above their couch. It was Otto’s seventh solo show in The Eden Series, which featured the striking, mysterious, and brazenly sexy Eden Clyde, his sassy younger partner, muse, and best friend. Her job was lying nude on his mesmerizing canvases and playing a version of herself in his two movies. Otto had become not only the most famous artist in New York but also the world over, and Eden propelled him to new heights.
And vice versa. Eden’s ascent by Otto’s side was so rapid, their fame was cometlike. Magazines, television, fashion shows, celebrity friends . . . the world was hers. She’d fallen fast for Otto (and his fast-lane lifestyle), and by her twenty-first birthday she had become pregnant with the child of this thirty-eight-year-old budding international star. She was thrilled to have his baby, a son they named Cole. Despite their frenetic lives, the globe-trotting travel, from the Venice Biennale to fairs in Basel, Maastricht, Toyko, and Miami, to museum openings of his work, Cole was Eden’s passion, and she made sure to create a stable base for him. She wanted him to be centered, despite the dartboard-on-a-map existence they led. While Otto gave gallery talks or had speaking engagements at various arts clubs, Eden would try to sneak off with Cole and weave in and out of winding city streets, discovering tucked-away churches and hidden architectural gems in all the nooks and crannies.
All the while, Eden didn’t mind the lack of bended knee and ritual rings—Otto always made it clear that matrimony was for the masses, a biblical opiate to tame the rowdy hordes into little submissive units. It wasn’t for him. And that was fine. It wasn’t for her, either.
The years passed and she remained cool with it, even as friends like Allison, at twenty-nine, happily walked down the aisle with her doctor boyfriend, Andrew Rubens, reciting vows with dewy eyes and jubilantly tossed bouquets. At each white wedding, a longing for a tulle veil flickered like lightning in Eden’s brain, stealth and momentary between two of her heartbeats. Occasionally she would flip through the New York Times Weddings section and smile warmly at the “Vows” column, a story of how that week’s featured bride and groom met. And then, instead of becoming an emotional thunder crack, the dull temptation vanished. Allison was a radiant bride, showered with petals and presents, embarrassed by the spotlight but relishing her day in the sun. Eden, however, knew that was not her path. She and Otto were the hip couple with the cute growing son, the offbeat stars of their galaxy, like Brangelina but with a much better brand of fame: the kind where only cool people in the know recognize you. She didn’t
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