New York - part 4, 2024

PUPPY LOVE AND WHEELIE BINS ON MADISON

A Portrait of Mr. Watson as an Elitist Dog at the Jenny Holzer Exhibition and Other Plush Places

I think that Babette has a crush on me. I've known her since she was a pup. Now she's grown up. It's pretty obvious. Being a Dachshund, she wasn't exactly at the front of the queue when the innuendos were distributed. She's a tad overweight too. When she sees me walking around the square with R and H, my human family, she wiggles her entire rear end from the shoulders backwards. That's quite a stretch. There are serious ripples along her sides when she does so.

It's quite sexy, really. Her flexibility, I mean. I get all excited about it.

Unlike Babette, I'm not flexible at all. Wiggling is an activity that I strictly limit to my tail. It's a matter of class. My body is made to go in a single direction. Forward, in case you wondered. It comes from the time when humans needed Jack Russells for hunting foxes and rabbits. We'd chase the bunnies right into their holes if we had to. Then we got stuck. Believe me, we know a thing or two about running into a rabbit hole. Hard to get out of it if you are designed without a reverse gear.

I consider myself a civilized canine.

I like foxes for their blatant arrogance, as long as they don't spray my front garden after they're done ransacking our garbage bags. Hell of a stink for my sensitive nose. I delegated fox hunting to beagles, my less intelligent cousins. And rabbits? Just fluffy toys for kids, constantly eating, procreating, and hopping as if afflicted with a spinal deformity. I simply can't imagine how the species survives nibbling on carrots and greens all their lives.

Chantal Joffe, Self-Portrait with Jelly @ Skarstedt Gallery

Babette says I'm an elite dog. I haven't figured out if that is a compliment or an insult. I travel by plane a lot, and I go to museums, galleries, and designer shops. A hard life for a dog. She flies too. Her family works for a Spanish hotel chain. She probably gets to stay in the expensive suites, while my family makes me sleep in standard rooms at discounted rates. But I suppose that she has a point. I prefer strutting my stuff in a chic environment—tail high and curled to a perfect furry circle—for staff and visitors to admire my poise and purpose. I keep looking them in the eye until they do.

Leelee Kimmel @ Almine Rech Galler

I went to the Jenny Holzer exhibition at the Guggenheim the other day. They welcomed me as if I were royalty. I can truly recommend the museum to any of my canine followers. Frank Lloyd Wright was quite a connoisseur of dogs. He knew we hate stairs. A gentle spiraling slope went all the way up along the artworks. Easy as meat pie. About kids too. Imagine them racing down the Guggenheim on a skateboard.

Leelee Kimmel @ Almine Rech Gallery - Lucy Puls @ Nicelle Beauchene Gallery

Ronny Quevedo @ Alexander Gray Associates - Claude Monet, Waterlilies @ Moma - Jenny Holzer @ Guggenheim - Gordon Matta-Clark @ Moma - Prada New York Broadway

But I still get a headache when I think of Jenny's LED signs with texts fleeting through the space that was changing color all the time. I like consistency and solidity. Give me colors I can see and words set in stone. Like her marble benches. I felt a sudden urge to lift my leg against one of them. But then I heard H say that YOUR ACTIONS DETERMINE WHAT YOU ARE, and I kept my four feet planted firmly on the ground and my bladder tightly shut.

How does Jenny know what I'm thinking?

I held my wee for our way back home along Madison Avenue. It was my favorite day of the week: garbage day. All the fancy stores had their trash out on the sidewalk. There's nothing more rewarding for a dog than to pee against a plastic garbage container that proudly carries the store's brand. If plastic is the internet for dogs, garbage bins are its fiber optic access. Joyce, the French Bulldog from 71St, was nearly in heat according to Loro Piana's wheelies. Poor Peanut from 67th just had his kernels removed. That's what the Louboutin bin revealed. I even peeked underneath, curious to see if its bottom was as red as expected from the brand.

I'm talking about the receptacle, of course, not poor Peanut.

I'm sure R and H would never allow a vet to come anywhere near my reproductive organs. And just while I was thinking this, H read aloud that RANDOM MATING IS GOOD FOR DEBUNKING SEX MYTHS. He's grinning while R is shaking her head in pitiful disbelief.

There's so much one can learn from Jenny Holzer.

I'm still puzzled about being called an elite dog. Babette says that the elite is too progressive for her liking. She is a bit conservative. If the elite had their way, she thinks there would be a photo of poor Peanut on the aluminum foil bags of our favorite kibble. I don't mind. The kibble will still be the same. I'm quite sure that's not where poor Peanut's kernels will end up in. I'd hate to chew on them. And I'm equally sure that a photo of his rather imperfect backside won't do wonders for the kibble maker's turnover and share price.

But with marketers, you never know.

Lee Ufan @ Moma - Wolf Vostell @ Moma - John Chamberlain @ Moma - Jackson Pollock @ Moma - Cato @ Eric Firestone Gallery - Thom Browne New York

Forward is the way I go, dear Babette. Remember that I was designed without a reverse gear. So I'll soak in your criticism and wear my elite badge with pride towards whoever thinks I'm barking up the wrong tree.

And when you see me on the square next time, please don't forget that I'm in urgent need of some debunking.

There's still quite a bit of conservatism left in me. And my kernels are intact.