IT WAS St. Patrick’s Day weekend 2024, and it was so crowded inside the Gagosian showroom that had taken over Mary Boone’s old gallery on West 24th Street that I could barely see the paintings. Downtown rats, art-school students, several generations of art stars, musicians, Hypebeast editors, collectors, writers, academics, Harold Ancart, Leo Fitzpatrick (bumming out cigs), Jennifer Lawrence—all there for Jamian Juliano-Villani’s solo show. There was a line down the block. Juliano-Villani, a head shorter than most, entered with “I need a fuckin’ drink!” in her Newport 100’s New Jersey growl. Matt Dillon followed, arm in arm with her mom.
There was art, too: big, expensive (up to $200,000 apiece), ironic oil paintings. A portrait of Henry Kissinger against an I Spy background; another that read STEAMY LITTLE JEWISH…
