Claire Bishop’s Scene and Heard Diary in ArtForum:

JUST THIS PAST TUESDAY, Prada and Larry Gagosian threw a “Prada-Congo Art Party”—for what or whom was unspecified, but it was the same night as openings for Murakami, Serra, and Twombly at the latter’s galleries. The scene was rammed to the gills with sloaney blokes and bimbonic blonde Eurotrash. Normally in this situation I spin on my heels and quit. But I was on assignment, meaning there was grim endurance ahead, of a kind I hadn’t undergone since Hans Ulrich Obrist’s last marathon. He was there of course, along with a sprinkling of London dealers, assorted models, socialites, interior designers, fading rock stars, short artists, blah blah (look at the photos). The guestlist ran from Abramovich (Roman) to Zellweger (Renee). Everyone was ogling everyone else; heads were on constant rotation like CCTV cameras. Ninety-nine percent of this gene pool was completely unrecognizable to me, so a friend jotted down the names of various models on the back of a used envelope. “What an apt metaphor for this event,” he said as he handed it back, “they’d all go to the opening of an envelope.”