Trendy bars and clubs are the ultimate silly-but-cool thing in the capitals of the world. Or not so ultimate?
This is a brief account of how nightlife and art have been put together in the name of excess, joy and money in New York City, under a single clubhold name. Classic start, the larger-than-life Studio 54 (which happens to be a couple of blocks from my home, now reconverted into a theatre-cabaret), where I don't know if there was ever art on exhibition, but Andy Warhol and Salvador Dalí liked to hang out there. The club was created by Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, being the former the brother of Don Rubell, real-estate magnate, prominent figure of the New York art world of the 80's and now one of the biggest and most influential collectors of contemporary art, along with his wife Mera, both based in Miami as is their collection, opened to the public in a former DEA warehouse. Unintended homage to Steve Rubell, busted by the cops in the company of Ian Schrager for possession of cocaine? (there was more snow in 254 W 54 than in the whole Rocky Mountains, you can't blame them).
Rubell & Schrager, Schrager & Rubell revolutionized the way of the night in New York. Who else could mount a place where Roy Cohn (ex-aide of evil McCarthy, targeter of homosexuals, closeted gay himself, IRS-evader, powerful lawyer and AIDS victim) partied among Andy Warhol, Donald and Ivana Trump or Christopher Reeves (?).
The show didn't last long- in 1980 Rubell and Schrager were thrown into jail for tax evasion, and even though the club was left opened a couple of years more, it was not anymore the same as in the golden years of 77-79.
After being released from a prison in Alabama, the two men in their 30's didn't take long before founding the next-big-thing: The Palladium. Designed by Arata Isozaki, and filled with art selected by Henry Geldzahler by Basquiat, Keith Haring, Kenny Scharf, Warhol and a mural by Francesco Clemente + video-installations by the likes of Laurie Anderson, the Palladium had it all for being the grandest creation ever in nightlife, period. And it surely was: "The world's ultimate disco" was called, and yet every new invention by Schrager and Rubell seemed to carry similar laudatory adjectives. In the meanwhile, the golden boys mounted their first design-hotel, Morgans Hotel in New York, and Steve Rubell died of AIDS. The Palladium was outrageously demolished (the art previously saved) in 1998 for constructing an NYU dormitory (all over the place, razing landmarks and historical buildings for the art historians of the future).
Ian Schrager has gone to create a series of well-known boutique-chic-cool-trendy hotels all over the world that, designed by Andre Putnam or Philippe Starck, cater to the wealthy-but-not-boring and also to the non-affluent-wannabes. It's all about dim light, wooden interiors, beautiful and handsome staff, sleekness and elegance without the over-the-top silliness and shallowness of Madison Avenue types. Cool for good, I would say, with a reason. The only one of this collection of cutting-edge hotels I've visited is the Hudson Hotel, which happens to be in my neighborhood (just like Studio 54; is this chance, or Ian Schrager lives around?). The Hudson Bar inside the Hotel has been considered since its launch "the quintessential post-millennial hotspot" (these are words by New York Magazine), and for sure it's one of the hottest spots in New York. Tons of celebrities hang around there, but I probably don't care about it, I just wanted to peek at the mural by Francesco Clemente and have a cocktail in the innest place. The Hudson Bar has the more uncomfortable chairs and furniture and the most overwhelming low-ceiling, plus awfully loud and vulgar music, friendly but not-so-pretty waitresses and not-at-all-beautiful people to watch. My wife and I paid 70 dollars for four strawbellinis; it was worth for being in the most-talked place once and most likely never again, but we were expecting much more from the Hudson. Everything was disappointing and didn't meet the (high) expectations, but strangely enough we didn't regret it. It's just one of those things in New York you must experience at least once. The widely-talked French-Rococo-meets-A-Clockwork-Orange decoration is not so, and the whole thing gets diminished and brought to earth if you're not a "whatever-looks-cool I praise" type. The bar is rather cheap but superexpensive. And the mural is, Clemente-style, boring.
Possibly the most famous contemporary arty club is Pharmacy, launched by Damien Hirst in London's chic neighborhood Notting Hill and closed after a couple of so-so running years. The auction of its contents (medicine cabinets, butterfly paintings, furniture and tons of pills) in Sotheby's last year promised to be a talked-for-years influential sale Scull style (by the way, two of those pills-filled pharmaceutical windows designed by Damien Hirst for his Pharmacy place were bought by real-estate mogul Abby Rosen and now are on prominent display at the lobby of Lever House, partially broken after a bunch of paparazzo stumbled over the artworks chasing the Olsen twins).
Another Hirst-butterfly painting, possibly bought at Larry GoGo's gallery, adorned the walls of Loft 8, stupid Chelsea club designed by Rafael Viñoly where the only excitement lies (or lied, since the crowds are gone) upon making it over the velvet rope and the bouncers. It once had art by Hirst, Salle. Now it's one of many Manhattan clubs that are ultrapassé. They seem to have their 15 minutes, barely. Cool bars last less than an aged celebrity with botox shots, so checking out the Hudson makes sense. Or is Ian Schrager protected against the unpredictable trend waves?
