Free Drinks and a Vague Promise

Stop Always Going to Openings: Openings have long been the laziest way to consume art in Berlin. Free entry, a drink, and the vague promise of seeing something – even though they’re often so crowded you barely see anything at all.

It has been a few years since I last went to a Grand Opening, a Vernissage, or anything even close to the Premiere of something lauded in advance, or fashionable. Music, art, fashion, installations, whatever one cares to call them, they are the bane of many, but the life blood of those in need of a quick, free finger-food and drink fix and, above all, in need of being seen. It is not the art being presented that matters, but the fact of having been there, and of having been recognised within a certain milieu or as part of the scene. The opening night, often private, as the German English-language monthly The Berliner points out, is more about the people than about the art. It is a time for cementing your place into the appropriate scene, by being on the cusp of all that is New, Bright, Hopeful, or Cutting Edge through presence, often nothing more. The art itself is a backdrop to the personal performance, and can be admired later by the timely purchase of a reference catalogue. It is air-kisses to either cheek, cheap champagne – sparkling wine at best – a few Happens on a paper plate, and furtive glances here and there to see who else is present, who must be greeted, ignored, noted.

My last time, immediately before the pandemic everyone uses as a reference these days, was in Schwachhausen, Bremen. A collection of artists using various mediums on canvas and board in a small, two room gallery. The main crowd was at the door and around the food and drink, with a few stragglers near hanging pictures and a single, bright, installation. The noise was loud, the glasses clinked with constant refills, small bites of food were taken to ensure one could always laugh appropriately, without spraying the nearest and claimed dearest. I squeezed myself through, camera to hand, and watched, focused, shot. The art went, for most, unnoticed.

But in reality, openings make up only a small part of what’s on offer.

I was fortunate in having the opportunity to come back at a later date, for a private view over dinner. Invited by the gallery owner, through a very short-lived life partner, the camera was laid to one side, and the art admired. There was talk, over several hours, about art, the future of art, the individual artists, and all those things which do not get aired at an Opening. The quality wine flowed appropriately – although my new relationship took a dive as a result of one or two glasses too many of the fine Red – and the food was as considered and artful as the conversation deep and informed. The Vernissage, I was reminded, was for the gutter press, for the poseurs, those who needed to be there, but had nothing else in their lives. The Art press had already been, privately. Friends and art lovers came after the rush, after the scrummage, after the finger-food had retreated to a sad memory and a bin bag of remains, the cheap drinks poured down the sink.

I will not hide the fact that there are times when I want to be seen and recognised too, few and far between since they interfere with my work – as a Street Photographer, I prefer to remain unseen by my victims – when a friend has invited me to their show, to show me off, to be lauded in their own right – we all have an ego – or just to add to those who can rescue them from others at the appropriate moment. If I want to see Art, though, if I want to take my time and enjoy what is on offer, then it is the press show, or a later date which gets noted in my calendar. As The Berliner carefully reminds us:

Performances, concerts, talks (where you’re always going to get a seat) and workshops are going on continually, as galleries and institutions desperately look to remind people that there are other activities out there besides queuing…

And as to my short-lived life partner, it was more of an affair than anything else. We met at the scrummage, talking outside on the stairs for lack of decent room inside, grazing the surface of interest. We met often over the following weeks, were invited to the private view dinner as a pair, and then the red wine exerted its hold and, sadly, another follower of the Grand Openings was revealed. One with too much of a liking for the free booze and paper-plated snacks, and less for staying sober. At least I had a chance to see the works on the walls, the true reason for it all, without the need to air kiss unknowns, and surreptitiously swallow an olive or two while turning my good side to the press photographer’s flash.