On the way to perform I stopped to shoot and establishing photo of the whole Sotheby’s building.  I was terrified.  I was about to dust their $100,000,000 auction. 

I called Robyn, “Dear, I’m standing down street form Sotheby’s 12 story  hundred million dollar glass fortress. It’s slick glass sides unassailable. I’m terrified.  ”

“I’m terrified too and I’m not even there.”

“Thanks, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.  I’ll be OK now.”

I marched past the doormen into the building, my backpack on, my aluminum rod and red sand bucket in hand, white shirt and cufflinks uniform.  I took the escalator’s up.  Everyone in Sotheby’s was in preparation for the Contemporary Auction.  The cavernous bidding hall, a couple hundred empty chairs.

Outside I chose a spot.  As far from the door and building toward the curbside out of the way of the doormen & their runway and put on my kneepads to work.

The doormen watched me with curiosity.  I was afraid of them too.  Would they try to push me away?  It was early, 2:00 – no one was there  - but I knew 5 hrs would speed past while sand painting.  My friend, Terrenceo, arrived soon after and set up his video camera and began taking pictures.

A fat, red-nosed security guard came up and asked me what I was doing.  I explained celebrating the 40th anniversary of Warhol’s distributing art films in Gay porn theaters.  He shrugged and left.  As their magic hour 6-7 pm approached this red-nosed Irish ex-cop would make me his personal business.

A well-dressed woman who introduced herself (I got the impression she was Sotheby’s staff) asked, “What is this?”

“A sand painting.  A divine and temporary art”

She read the headline, “ ‘under new management.’  Are you saying Sotheby’s is under new management?”

“No, it’s copy from an old porn theater ad, it’s copy out of history.  Warhol showed his art film’s at male theaters 40 years ago on this date.”

She considered, “So you’re saying all artists are whores.”

“NO!  NO! “ I protested laughing.  “I feel the art market is indebted to gay exploitation film hyperbole in the marketing of art stars.”

She walked away after being certain the sand wasn’t permanent.

Terrenceo who’d begun taking pictures kept me abreast of the machinations of the security.  “Wayne, securities talking.  They’re regrouping for another attack!”

The security squad & another set of young guys showed up.  Asked me to explain.  I explained about Warhol.  They left.

All along passersby would look but commentary was much less than usual, nothing like 8th avenue performances. 

A dapper fey guy walked up and chatted for 15 minutes.  Not going to the auction, lived around there, owned a building upstate.

A serious little man with a hat watched me for a while, “So if I want to buy your work I have to cut out these two blocks of concrete.”

“No, I’ll install the work in any place you like in NY state, your home or your gallery.  I have one in my barn that’s been there 6 months, without weather it’ll last forever.”  He watched for a while and went inside, I kick myself for not asking his name.

A bevy of young girls with Sotheby’s nametags came out as I was doing the figure. 

“It’s amazing!”

“It’s beautiful.  Did Sotheby’s commission this?”

“No, they’re anxious for me to leave.”

“Not us.  We’ve been watching your progress from upstairs.”

“We love it!  It’s beautiful.” 

As I finished the figure my confidence increased. The proportion was difficult, it involved clothing of different fabrics and a vague reference photo but I was satisfied.

Terrenceo notified me, “Security coming in fast…”

“Hello.  How long you going to be working on this?”

“Till I’m finished.  It takes a lot of patience.”

“Well we’re having an event tonight and there’s going to be a lotta people walking through here.”

“That’ll be OK, I’ve never had anyone consciously step on my work while I’m performing.  New Yorkers are very respectful.  I’m not in the way of the valets, the sidewalk or your doors.”

The guy left with a sour face on his kisser.  Children came by and showed a lot of interest.  Cars began arriving, slowly at first.  Suited business types watched but rarely said a word.  Lots passé without noticing me.  Such a difference from 8th avenue and the village or anywhere I’d performed.

As I drew out the title, SLEEPING WITH HIS DEALER, I saw quickly my letter spacing was perfect, better than my source drawing.  People were arriving, it was 6:00, 4 hours done I was still sailing.  Then Terrenceo chimed, “here come the police, behind you.”

It wasn’t one but five cops.  I can deal with one cop, I have half a dozen times but with 5, the head guy can’t back down, he has to look good to his underlings. Terrenceo and I had a plan that’d worked before – I told him, anyone starts hastling me - push your camera in their face, don’t say a word just stick close to them.  Anything they will be on Youtube – it’ll keep everyone honest.  But Terrenceo melted away I noticed he was hanging back, 15 or 20 feet back.  He’d explained to me lots of bad encounters with LAPD.  I understood but I had few cards.

“We’ve had a complaint.”

“From who?  From Sotheby’s?”

“We’ve had a complaint, you have to clean it up and move along.”

“Why?  It’s a public sidewalk, I’m not hurting anyone, it’s totally impermanent.”

He thought about it, “you have a permit for this?  You have to have a permit.”

I laughed, “a permit for sand painting.  I don’t think there is such a thing.”

He consulted with his group.

“What is this material, is it gunpowder?”

“It’s sand.  Black sand, slag, it’s inert, completely non-toxic.  I sweep it up at the end of the day.”  This was not my practice – but it sounded right.

They were reading the copy to each other, “prison cells, glory holes, corn holes.”

“Gory holes.  It says.”  They snickered. 

A female officer called their dispatcher, She described me, “there’s this man, he’s making sand drawings, on the pavement, yeah.  He won’t leave.”  She gave the phone to the head cop; he talked for a minute than hung up.  Spoke to the others in private.

“May I have your driver’s license, please.”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to give you a summons.  You’re impeding a pedestrian walkway.”  They scanned my license and wrote me up. “You need to follow the instructions on the reverse of the summons regarding your court date.  You have to stop working or we’ll give you another summons. Now clean it up.”

“No.  I make art I don’t destroy art.  If you want to destroy art – you sweep it up.”

They looked at each other sheepishly.  To my astonishment they backed off.  “You keep working on that and we’ll be back.”  They went over to the fat security guy with the belly and had a laugh and left.

I stood there afraid to continue.  I’d been threatened with being ticketed again.  How much was the ticket?  $50?  $200?  $2000, I didn’t know but $2000 would sink me. 

Terrenceo came up and said why didn’t you do this and why didn’t you do that.  “You HAVE TO BE CLEAR about your intentions.  Your intention has to be CLEAR.”

I shot back, “What to mean CLEAR?”

“Know the big idea, Know what you want out of this.  If you’re just playing around, having some fun for an audience, that’s all it is.  Wayne, they’re rich, they know what corn holes and glory holes mean, they’ve done much worse.  You might as well be writing ‘cock sucking’ & ‘butt fucking’ on the pavement.  I thought you had a big picture.  The cops are not your enemies, if you fight the cops you’ll lose, your enemy is in there.”

“I don’t know how much this ticket’s gonna cost.”

“The ticket doesn’t mean anything if you’re clear about your intention.”

While we were debating lots of people were arriving.  Afraid of working for fear of being dragged off the work without me performing becomes invisible.  People began to walk across it.  Terrenceo wasn’t shooting so I grabbed the camera and he stood guard over the sand painting.  An ArtForum photographer was snapping collectors as they arrived.  It was agony, the people weren’t seeing it cause I wasn’t making it and the flood of dark clothed wealth & style were rushing in from the suck of the event streaming by Terrenceo and I like we were invisible.

Ah, someone I knew, Walter Robinson, artnet’s editor walked up.  I told him what I was doing and the cops and ticket.  He smiled down at my half complete piece,  “Well, you can’t argue with the politics.”  I didn’t understand him.

Time was running out.  Walter and the photographer were exchanging words as he was shooting the passing glitterati.  He photographed the crowd but ignored my beautiful work.  I asked his name.  He answered evasively, “David” and turned away.  I went inside and photographed the fat guard looking unhappily at my work from behind the green glass with Sotheby’s logo.

They sent out a janitor with a dustpan and broom who circled Terrenceo and I for 45 minutes, keeping us on edge.  7:00 passed, the crowd receded away. 

The valet’s came over.  The short one said through thick Brooklynese, “That’s an amazing thing. I could never do anything like that, that’s talented.  It’s beautiful, why on earth would they call the police?”

The tall laconic valet said, “I knew Andy Warhol.  MY first job at an uptown hotel and he and his Asian boyfriend used to walk in together.  He was openly gay and a real nice man too.

“We were watching the whole time – we just couldn’t get involved or talk, you know, it could cost us our jobs.”

Terrenceo and I were deciding what to do.  I was hungry, it’d been draining and I wanted to eat.  It’d be two hours till people came out.  I decided to take Terrenceo to dinner.  

As we were leaving a suit-n-tie guy swept out of Sotheby’s and stopped in front of the piece, “What’s this made of?”

“Black sand.  I made it by hand.”

“It’s not glued down?”

“No, it’s Impermanent.  It’s based on Warhol’s art films which showed at Gay theaters.”

“It’s funny.” He laughed.  “It’s damn funny.”

“We think so but security called the cops and they ticketed me.  Told me I had to stop or I’d have written contemporary artists names in.”

“My boss is the guy who owns this building.  He owns the biggest collection of Warhol’s in the world.  I think he’d love this!”

He walked off.  What was his name?  Who was his boss?