Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Mammoths and Mammoth Poseurs

The guy in the cave-man vest shook his club in the air and a couple of hundred cooler-than-thou hipster types raised their fists in salute. Behind him, a black faux fur bikini was grinding away as if she'd got herself into the background of an MTV shoot. But it was the mammoth we were all saving our whoops for. Naturally.

PS1 is the Queen's overshoot of Manhattan's MOMA, and from the looks of some of the exhibitions it seems to function as a convenient cultural overspill site, a sort of museum mop and bucket. Apart from the eerily lovely swimming pool installation, its rooms hold a variety of hmm-that's-quite-interesting-I-suppose pieces and shrug-offable delights. But every summer Saturday PS1 brushes off the cobwebs and opens its doors to the sort of people who will pay to be seen at a dance party in a sculpture garden. People like me.

To add considerably to the fabulous factor, it is very much a sculpture garden, singular. At the minute the courtyard is graced by a hairy habitat, a where-the-wild-things-are structure of caves and misting spray, which handily separates the dancefloor from the beer stalls. Hence, I'm guessing, the inspired Bedrock-themed party, which is going on on the backyard overlooking the museum's garden. It may only be three in the afternoon, but they seem to be partying pretty hard. It's difficult to tell whether it's the caveman cocktails or the envious looks which are getting them more intoxicated. I seriously consider scaling the wall in my flip-flops.

Down below the self-fashioned VIP party, the beautiful PS1 people are getting their dance on. On the steps of the old school, a group of self-consciously hot Russians are going all out. The two girls are doing semi-ironic dance routines, while their ramped-up escort alternates between a matt black 80s waistcoat and a glistening 80s six pack. There is a lot of serious dance face, muscles clenched in quasi-painful appreciation as the DJ drops a fresh set of beats.

Inside the crowds are huddled around the loos, and the corridors echo forlornly. Guards watch to make sure no-one jumps in the ersatz pool. Surely it's only a matter of time.

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