The New Yorker‘s John Seabrook goes to Greenwich to see the Brant Collection being installed for the public:
“This used to be my indoor tennis court,” Brant said, gesturing at the high, barnlike rafters. “Ivan Lendl practiced here.” Richard Gluckman, the architect, redesigned the space as a gallery, and installed the concrete floor.
In a rear gallery, Brant was greeted by a man whose pleasant face wore a large, wide-lipped grin. It was Jeff Koons. Brant, who has been collecting Koons’s work since the mid-eighties, hugged him, then winced slightly, explaining that he had torn his right rotator cuff playing polo in Palm Beach recently. Koons allowed his sunny expression to show brief concern, then he beamed even more brightly.
Then Seabrook walks outside to see Koons’s Orange Balloon Dog as the artist takes pains to show it off to its advantage:
“It’s about inhaling,” Koons said, walking around the dog, “and inflating when you inhale. It’s about life.” He expanded his chest and beamed again. Then he busied himself with final details. He asked the crew to move the dog an inch and a half forward, because it looked “bolder” that way. There was something ritualistic about his ministrations: the art star planting the standard of the avant-garde in a stronghold of the old bourgeoisie.
Brant looked on, shaking his head in amusement. He said, “An inch and a half forward? Come on. When Jeff gets like this, I stay out of it.”
Art on the Grass (The New Yorker)
