December 15th, 2006
by Joe Walentini  / New York Views is published twice monthly.

An End of the Year Apology

Well, it’s been a long, long time but it finally happened again. Every so often it occurs; though less frequently as I’ve gotten older.  Years ago it used to be quite often and was even fun in a manic sort of way that could amuse people - to a point. It was also the sort of thing that bolstered my confidence and maybe even got me through some rough spots, but those few advantages were hardly worth it. In the end it cost me a marriage and the capacity to have close friendships so finally I had to keep it bottled up.  And I did a pretty good job over the last few years until last week when I was on Canal Street and on my way into Pearl Paint.  Yes, my Ego got loose.

It slipped out so quickly that I was too startled to respond. But just after it loped across Canal I yelled out, “Get back here you flatulent fat bastard!” and was amazed at my accurate choice of words given the circumstances.  Before heading up Greene Street it whirled to look at me with a wolfish grin, made an obscene hand gesture and then was gone.  I must say, given its girth and typically sluggish manner, when necessary it can move pretty damn quickly.  In the old days it wasn’t so weighted down by the years and hubris of inactivity.  It used to be the life of the party easily consuming a room with its wild dance gyrations and over the top behavior.  I’d forgotten just how fast it could move.

I ran across Canal in pursuit and was almost hit by a BMW and then a beer truck but continued on to a cacophony of horns and throaty cursing.  Of course Canal was crowded with its usual gaggle of bargain shoppers so it took some time to get beyond all that. My Ego, the slimy entity that it

Leon Polk Smith, Joan T. Washburn Gallery

is, plowed through like a hot knife through cream cheese rudely knocking people aside as necessary and even when not.  I continued up Greene hoping this would not become a long slog as in the past.  When I got to Grand Street I heard yelling to my left so I headed that way.

I saw Jeffrey Deitch jumping up and down frantically outside of his gallery with his hair on fire (figuratively) wearing only half of a Pierre Cardin necktie.  He was near hysterical to tears but I managed to get out of him that some huge oaf had run into the gallery and cut the bottom portion of his tie off. This occurred right in the midst of fashion shoot of one his artists for GQ magazine. I tried to josh him out of it with a joke about how it was sort of a Dadaist event but he was, shall we say, less then amused.  Eventually he told me that my Ego was headed for the Spring Street C & E subway stop which could only mean one thing: Chelsea!

Well, to make a long story short after several hours and a trail of mischief I finally caught up with my Ego having it out with Mathew Marks who had by then called the police (but not before suffering the same tie-shortening exercise - this time a Ralph Lauren).  My Ego had poor Mathew cornered and cowering under an avalanche of retributive invectives addressing an injury involving an experience I had had reviewing one of Mathew’s shows years ago.  Both the police and I