Post-Whitney McGinley

McGinley is the only twentysomething I know who has a show at the Whitney for this kind of snap-shot work. Appropriately enough, the post-reception party at Ace Gallery had all the elements of a choice party. There was good music, good-looking kids and copious amounts of free alcohol. The well-lit, blank white walls in the cavernous rooms of this gallery lent a hyper self-consciousness to all in attendance, inspiring many to cram themselves into darker hallways between the three large rooms of the gallery. Anything to avoid the scanning eyes of others. One felt an urge to keep moving through the space, even though there was nothing to see but more people.

McGinley was there, wearing a big smirk and a dapper, gray suit (no tie), looking even younger than his 25 years. His smile carried the sort of smugness you see on those who have successfully duped their way to victory. Or maybe this was my projection. Maybe he does deserve that smile.

The no-frills, reality spectacle, as exemplified by tv shows like Survivor, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, seems to be at its pinnacle. These shows are lucrative because producers save money by eliminating the need for writers and sets, let alone actors. They’re popular because they capitalize on the fundamentally human pleasure of voyeurism—watching other people without having to be watched ourselves.

These shows can be quite alluring and entertaining, despite the clear devolution in taste that they reflect. While watching a particularly tone-deaf yet determined candidate on American Idol, my roommate commented: "This is just so pathetic, I mean how sad that they want to be famous so badly."

Sad yes, but also intriguing. These programs—where participants compete with each other for a nominal taste of fame—indulge a sick side of the human psyche that revels in the failure of others. On the other side of the coin are the reality programs, which offer a somewhat more honest form of entertainment. They can help us accept the flaws of our fellow humans instead of wallowing in the inadequacy of our own sad lives. Compare them to sitcoms and dramas where there is always a clever comeback, a meaningful resolution and uplifting music at the end of the episode.

Why feel bad for the tone-deaf would-be American Idol? Even the early castoffs are millenniums closer to fame than ever, and maybe the host’s searing soundbites are exactly what these untalented signers need. Maybe now they’ll give up the lark and pursue more obtainable and fulfilling goals. Even the Joe Millionaire ladies got a trip to Paris and some sapphire necklaces out of the deal.

Ryan McGinley’s photographs of young, attractive people enjoying life are not—by any traditional definitions—skillfully crafted. In fact, his work and position as Vice magazine photo editor have served to advocate an abandoning of skill and intention in photography. This is evident in the recent Vice photo issue, which featured more fuzzy photos of passed-out dudes, pubes and partying than the video jackets for Animal House and Porky’s combined. This type of photography plays upon the same voyeuristic tendencies of the reality tv show—the intimate view of someone else’s life. Does this mean, however, that anyone and everyone with cute, drunk friends and a T4 camera should have a show at the Whitney? Or even at an uber-hip gallery on the Lower East Side?

The truth of the matter is the Whitney show is something of an anomaly. It’s the self-conscious art directors of the Whitney trying to be young and hip. And who would turn down a show at the Whitney? The actual popularity of Ryan’s work is quite limited, as evidenced by the crowd at the Whitney opening who all looked as though they were on a Williamsburg and L.E.S. field trip.

There was A.R.E. Weapons scanning the crowd to see if anyone W.A.S. cool. Girls with sideways hairdos. Boys in their classic Nikes and lots of facial hair. And, like a field trip, the kids went directly up to the fifth floor and waited in rigid line formation from the stairs of the half-level gallery in a line that coiled through two other rooms. Despite the fact that these rooms were filled with the wonderfully somber Hopper, the creepy Max Ernst and playful Calder mobiles, no one strayed their attention from the line.

Nor did any of the non-McGinley demographic seem interested in taking a place in line. The actual cramped gallery space featured some twenty portraits and a doorman who admitted guests thirty at a time.

The reception at Ace boasted an even longer line, also complete with bouncers, plenty of pushing and the usual guest list politics. I found myself caught in that peculiar place of wanting to bask in the glory of being at the hip event while also feeling disdain for the whole thing. I slid in on the coattails of a Vice-associated crowd.

To be perfectly honest, despite the self-consciousness, the reception was fun in the way free booze at the hip spot tends to be. It was so archetypically urban and edgy and now, that it felt like a Simpsonian satire of itself. It was a perfectly self-aggrandizing event, celebrating the artwork of one whose art champions those who are championing the art. It was a snake eating its own tail—everyone in that empty gallery, drinking and gallivanting, had in fact become a living, animated installation of McKinley’s work.

Whether or not the artist intended it, the reception became exactly what the work in the show was all about. />