黑料不打烊

I am recovering from the sleety welcome I had to Russia in a well-heated hotel lobby in central Moscow. I am here for the opening of the Garage, the building whose restoration was paid for by zillionaire, Roman Abramovich, for his girlfriend Daria Zhukova. Built originally as a bus garage, it is a structure designed by Konstantin Melnikov, the Constructivist Soviet architectural star from 1926-32. The press so far has focused not on the building or the inaugural exhibition by Russian artists the Kabakovs, the hosts of the keenly anticipated forthcoming opening party. The real stars of the Moscow week were the always modest Ilya and Emilia Kabakov. Kabakov, who turned 75 this week, and his smiley though determined wife Emilia, rallied their large party of supporters at the Baltchug Kempinski Hotel. I spent my first evening recovering from the terrifying taxi entry into Moscow through gridlocked traffic. The Baltchug has a spectacular view of Red Square and those turban topped buildings of movie fame. The lobby was full of a dazzling display of wealth and art world savvy. I met Simon de Pury in the first five minutes, dashing off to the Kabakov Pushkin Museum opening; Vito Schnabel looking like a chip off the Julian block; Udo Kittelmann formerly of MMK, but about to take on the main museum role in Berlin; Thaddaeus Ropac leading a group of collectors; Florian Berktold of Hauser and Wirth; Julia Peyton Jones with Hans Ulrich Obrist in tow; and Robert Storr, the pudding basined haircutted co-curator of the Kabakov show who now heads up the Yale School of Art. Three of the top five-star Moscow hotels were literally filled with art-goers drawn by the allure of the Kabakovs, a first, Emilia told me over breakfast the next day. The "Alternative History of Art" at the GCCC Moscow, known as the Garage, is the biggest show, but there are also "The Gates" installation at the State Pushkin Museum, and "Winzavod" Pushkin Museum in the Impressionist building and three installations, the "Toilet", "The Life of Flies" and "Tennis" at the new gallery precinct the Center of Contemporary Art WINZAVOD. Among the splendiferous dinners and endless shots of vodka accompanied by toasts of Na Zdorovie!", it is almost impossible to have a serious artistic discussion, but it was good to be there if nothing else to mingle and chat over horrendously over priced breakfasts overlooking that square. It was not clear indeed whether the casual visitor, in particular to the Garage had any idea of what they were looking at. The installation by the Kabakovs was essentially an entire museum placed inside the enormous space, and it looked like it had been there forever, and many who staggered through in stilettos will think that is what it is. The cleverness of the installation, the alter egos and jokey wall texts were over the heads of the majority of guests. The symposium which took place the day after the vodka fuelled feast which took more hours than one anticipated, had art world superstar Robert Storr, academic writer Jonathan Fineberg, led by filmmaker and critic, Amei Wallach. When I questioned Storr about whether people understood the show he said it was good to throw people in the deep end. I was not necessarily convinced. The Kabakovs are extraordinary artists who deserve to be better known and respected around the world. They require an open mind sans a bit of information, and support would have been helpful but that is obviously not the way in Moscow. The next night I am in another extraordinary building, the Red October Chocolate Factory, walking around at the opening of a temporary show "For What You are About to Receive," a name chosen by artist Douglas Gordon, staged by Larry Gagosian, and curated by Sam Orlovsky. It is a show composed of one mega hit after another. The De Kooning is next to the Giacometti, is next to the Cy Twombly, is next to the Murakami etc. It was all a bit surreal, not helped by the bejewelled crowd that consisted in part of aging men leading a flock of bejewelled younger women. I stumbled over Murakami himself standing coyly in front of his painting that was adeptly placed next to a Gerhard Richter. The main artistic moment for me came when I came upon the extraordinary Richard Prince sculpture consisting of emptied beer tins cascading from a basketball hoop, which I had last seen in Rensselaerville, when I went to his studio there last spring. The work "was fun to make" he had said to me, and economical as "you can pick up old hoops for a couple of dollars in junk yards." What a tour de force it was though shining out against the rather slack work by New York rising star Aaron Young, whose contribution was a goldened and graffitied fence with the 鈥淔鈥� word prominently displayed. Young's performance outside was a group of Moscow motorcyclists who obviously enjoyed riding their bikes in front of a high worth audience, which seemed put off by the smell and noise, many of them escaping into the warmth before the end. Don't worry though, the wheel marks will be on sale before you can say jack sprat. So on the other side of town the viewers wondered what was for sale, and here they complained that everything was for sale. Back for one last peek before dinner and I stand literally transfixed before the yummiest piece in the show, an egg by Jeff Koons, and what a splendiferous object it is. I am next to a big collector, and before I can blink Larry magics up in front of me to genuflect and reflect with a big collector of Koons. I love this Koons recasted image of an Easter egg. The way it looks- slightly crumpled as if squeezed by some warm fingers eager to taste the chocolate inside. Contrasts intentionally with the oh so smooth shiny fuchsia ribbon, which reflects the face as one peers into the depths. It is the perfect symbol for this city; conspicuous and obvious and obscenely opulent, a modern reconstruction of a Faberge egg. Dinner is served on an upper floor. Rumors on websites say that Gagosian spent $1 million just doing up the space, and if the scale and luxury is anything to go by, he got a bargain. The building has not been accessible to visitors so this is a rare opportunity and a major draw. Dinner for 420 is as splendiferous as predicted. I am in a cheap seat without a dedicated place, and am amused to see that so is Dasha, or Daria, Roman Abramavich's lady. She is sitting at a table of like-minded twenty somethings all buffed, polished and beautiful, and looks happier and more relaxed than at her own opening. She is pretty, that is for sure, but even with her number I am not sure I would like to be in her very high-heeled shoes where even the most innocent comment, "I like to draw" so therefore I am opening a multi-million dollar arts centre is met with quiet chuckles. Going down in the lift is an experience. I am with a collector in an industrial lift that stinks of paint being transported from the lap of luxury, by a woman in the soviet uniform of blue material as we descend to the reality nightmare of the attempt to get a taxi, and the rip off at the end of the short ride.