“I’m an art critic … so watch out.”
And then boom! The music started and he said, “I just want a Picasso, in my casa,” and I replied “Picasso is great.” He nodded. At Rothko I said, “Him too.” He nodded again. Then his line about wanting to make love on a bed covered with a million dollars, and I said, “No.” He laughed. Wow, I was getting to be an art critic to Jay-Z.
He started dancing. So did I, or at any rate what passes for an older balding Jewish man trying to bust some moves. When he got to Koons, I said, “Yes, even though he really is annoying.” At George Condo I went, “Eh, okay.” I gave a big no to Art Basel; at Christie’s I said, “I hate auctions.” By then, somehow, he’d taken me around my waist, and we were strutting around the room. My hands were ice cold. I was shaking. My reactions were shot. The entire time were together, there was no doubt in my mind that he was controlling me, taking my energy and giving it back, manipulating the space around us. I felt like my internal ship was on fire and useless. I loved it. And him. And this.