Once every kabillion years, there appears a photographer who captures the imagination and fickle eye of an ADD-afflicted public: Annie Leibovitz, Helmut Newton, Mario Testino, Richard Avedon. Wait. Did we say once every kabillion years? We meant more like a heavy handful of times over the past couple of decades. ANYWHO! Every now and again, a young shutterstud firmly, if not a bit daintily, tosses his gauntlet into the arena of the super-fantastic celebrity and pop culture photographers. Last night, we sent the ever intrepid Angelina and He-Bring-the-Party Party Photographer Nikola Tamindzic to the SOHO Grand to bear witness to such and event: the opening of Jeremy Kost : Not a Play Area. Their verdict after the jump.
We arrived via cab, Nikola stuffing his face with the last few pork rinds, and the line was still manageable. Yes, we waited in line - we firmly believe in a fair and true democratic nightlife...and besides, Nikola still had a few of those pork rinds to finish. While I waited in the coat check downstairs, the eager beaver shot up stairs and began snapping away. When I'd made it to the lounge area, I couldn't believe my eyes! I was clearly amongst aristocracy of the illest ilk: queens and princesses as far as the eye could glean. I put on my most pouty "bored but amply amused/I'm a conundrum of mystery and contrary all wrapped up in a corsetted ensemble" look I could muster and charged in, head first.
To the left, a very packed room with the open bar. To the right, a very packed room with the art...and the artist of the (happy) hour, Jeremy Kost, who was surrounded by sycophantic photographers comparing lenses and geeking out over f-stops and other apertures, if you catch my drift. Like Alice Through the Looking Glass, with no more expectations than had she, I had to make a choice: eat me or drink me or something. So I did what Alice would've done: I pulled out my celly and texted my Power Girl Party Posse , whooot! Within minutes, well, sixty-five minutes actually, my team of Lo and Mo arrived on the scene, ready to check some art, do some mingle, and make some noise up in that piece.
Boo hoo hoo, open bar was closed by 9, Jeremy Kost had peaced out and I watched as all the little people grabbed their shit and bolted to the IMG Models party. The remaining guests, or from the looks of them, guests of guests of guests, and assorted photographers, still trying to figure out how to charge over three grand for a glorified party snapshot, milled about aimlessly, clutching their pints of $9 Stella. As the backbone of the Power Girl Party Posse , I made an executive decision to also peace out, grabbing a couple of Sapporo Tall Boys from the deli just across from, and we made our way over to the sketchy Mexican joint around the corner on Canal Street for some cheap eats.