Like Rikers, but with Paintings

I'm such a pussy.

I mention this as way of reflecting on my recent trip to the 24th St. Gagosian Gallery to see the Basquiat show.   God almighty, the level of security!  Okay, I understand that almost all the paintings were borrowed from private collections, and they're universally expensive beyond belief (the highest-auctioned Basquiat going for something like 14-Large a little while ago).

And I understand that if they were showing, say, my paintings instead of my friend Jean-Michel's, there would probably be less need for so many grim-faced individuals.

As if...
I know.  I just using it as an example.
Keep dreaming son.  Set the bar high.

Anyway, it was downright oppressive.  Remember the last time you got thrown into Rikers Island?  And how it seemed like there were guards freaking everywhere?  Well, the Basquiat show was like Rikers with paintings.

And permission to take a picture?  Might just as well have asked if I could take one of the paintings home.

I snuck this one in, just so you could see.  I'd describe it as imperfect.  Fraught, perhaps.  The actions of a frightened man.

My friend Eric has a manlier approach.  His theory goes like this:  The worst thing that's gonna happen to you is that, after you take a picture, one of the grim-faced men is going to say "No photos allowed!" in a loud and nasty voice.  And everybody's gonna stare at you like you're a fucking idiot.  But they're not gonna take your phone away.  They're not even gonna kick you out.

So the key is to be quick with the trigger, aim and take as many shots as you can til they yell at you.

Me?  I'm a pussy.