 So your landlady threw you
out because you didn't make rent. You haven't eaten
much in the past 72 hours, and the peanut bowl at La Vida hardly
qualifies as a meal. Your favorite bar is no longer accepting
credit from you and you've begun to feel a tad unwelcome
in some parts. You're broke, starving, stinky, stone cold
sober and stuck in Mexico—a horrible and potentially deadly
combination in these parts. All grounds for deportation, starvation,
or even worse—that dreaded long distance phone call to the
unsympathetic family member or leery acquaintance. But you've
reached and breached those credit limits sometime ago and for
some reason the telephone operator keeps saying "that number
has been changed and is no longer in service." What now?
Ask a fellow good samaritan for a loan? Reality check: you're
in Mexico buddy, there are old ladies and children begging and
starving in the streets—TAKE A NUMBER! Contact your country's
local Embassy?—HA! Good one! I'm sure bailing your
bumming, backpacking, dread-locked, jewelry-making, unemployed
ass out of Mexico is at the top of their diplomatic priorities.
Get a job?—SHEA-YEAH, RIGHT! You're like, in Mexico,
dude. Unless you enjoy spending twelve-back-breaking-hours-a-day,
hunched-over, paving the streets with many small round stones
for three-hundred-pesos-a-week—you're pretty much
fucked.
Naw. What you need to do is learn is the Art Gallery Shuffle,
my friend. And you need to learn it quick. The first thing you
must do is find the latest edition of the most respected newspaper
in town. You can easily do this in El Jardin. Just sit down on
any bench next to an unsuspecting elderly gringo couple and kindly
ask them if you can momentarily borrow their copy. The quality
publication will almost certainly have a convenient pullout calendar
listing of all the events for the coming week smack dab in the
middle of every issue. Quickly thumb to this section, discreetly
remove it without the seniors noticing, and politely return the
borrowed newspaper. With red pen in hand, thoroughly circle all
the listed art gallery openings and exhibitions. You now have
a convenient and pocket-sized ‘program' for the week
ahead.
You have your mission, but you can't very well show up to
one of these high-society events all scraggly and stinking of
last night's pulque-binge, so you best clean up first at
a friend's apartment, public washroom or garden fountain
before you hit your first exhibit. But if you reek, your clothes
are unkempt and your hair is out of place—don't sweat
it. It's quite chic to stink, dress sloppily and have bed-head
these days. Someone may even mistake you for someone of taste,
or the artist himself. And you'll be surprised how much
more of a reaction you'll receive from the opposite sex
when you pretend as if you don't have time to care about
things like personal hygiene and fashion.
Arrival time is trey important. You don't want to arrive
too early, or the gallery people will remember you, and after
a while, wonder when you're going to leave. You want to
arrive at the peak influx of people, so as best to get lost in
the crowd. But you don't want to arrive too fashionably
late, however, or you may find slim pickings at the hors d'oeuvre
table. Ideal arrival time is about half an hour after the event
is scheduled to begin.
You can arrive under many pretenses (casual spectator, friend and
supporter of the gallery, art critic, art dealer, and even artist)
but your best advice is to pick one of these identities and stick
with it for the duration, so they don't catch onto your game.
Remember, the art scene is a small, gossipy, and elitist world—and
any word of your transgressions or miscues will spread like so much
wild fire until you are eventually blackballed from all proceedings.
A personal favorite of mine is the role of "The Photographer".
The Photographer is always welcome because he is (in theory) there
to generate "free publicity" for the gallery and its
featured artists. And God knows everyone loves free publicity. To
pull off the role of The Photographer, one must simply borrow a
camera from a dear friend or dead relative. You don't even
need to load the camera with film. Just show up at the exhibit and
begin snapping away. If you have different lenses and a filters
you can pretend to test and use—all the better. Have people
pose for you occasionally by works of art. Admire the work itself
and comment occasionally to no one in particular on its depth and
prescience to our troubled times. Relish your role and imagine what
it would really be like to be a genuine photographer covering the
titillating local art beat.
But you didn't come here to gaze at the spectacle and hob-knob
with the society's finest. No. You're starving and not
quite drunk enough yet, remember? A good shuffler will always stake
out their Hit first. This can easily be done as The Photographer,
or any one of many guises. Once you've developed a mental
blueprint of the gallery's floor plan in your mind, record
how long it takes you to make one entire revolution of the exhibit.
Now measure your distance and time (accounting for schmoozing, flirting,
inane banter, and the occasional photo-op) from the catering room
and bar to any given point in the gallery. You should be able to
do this blindfolded and completely wasted.
The trick to the hors d'oeuvre table is not making a pig of
yourself. No one likes a glutton, especially when he's on
his fifth round of weenie-tots and there's an angry mob formulating
behind him. So try and disperse your many visits to the catering
table intermittently throughout the evening. Make your rounds slowly
and methodically. But make each sortie count, filling your plate
(but careful not to over-flow) with miniature delicacies. A good
trick is not hovering around the hors d'oeuvre table like
some stalking vulture, but preying and attacking at the very source:
Waiters and caterers will periodically emerge from a kitchen or
backroom to replenish the cornucopia of food. Intercept them as
they enter the main room and corner them until the relinquish all
that you desire. Eat slowly and try to chew each bite at least twice
with your mouth closed. You may find this difficult, as you are
starving, and attempting to act like you actually care about the
conversation you're currently engaged in. Although at times
you may feel as if you're eating your own stomach on the inside,
you must always project a lucid, sober and well-nourished appearance
to the public.
A good art gallery bar will usually serve wine, punch or mezcal,
if you're really lucky. The booze tends to be the first item
to be exhausted at these events, so don't be shy to make repeated
appearances at the bar. Get to know your bartender. Compliment him
or her on their snappy attire. And tip well. There are no false
inhibitions here. This is a town full of drunks, after all. And
unlike the catering table, there's no need to exercise moderation,
restraint or diplomacy. Art galleries love a drunk. They're
the loud and colorful people who bring such special warmth and genuineness
to these otherwise dry and stuffy events. And occasionally one of
them gets really smashed and actually decides to purchase some hideously
over-priced piece of crap they'll surely regret the next morning.
A good shuffler can schedule up to four exhibits in a single evening,
depending on how much action there is in town on any given night.
And one can easily sustain himself and his drinking habit by migrating
from event to event. You may even find like-minded shufflers on
the circuit who are perhaps even more advanced players than yourself.
Respect these other players, learn from them, and try not to blow
one another's cover. After all, we're all in this great
dance together, and no one wants to be stuck waiting at the dreaded
Western Union line. |
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