It was the happy, easy reunion of booze and books. An occasion of
grand civic architecture and anomalous appearances, including a
black-haired gentleman sporting blond hair extensions fashioned into
blouse ruffles and several sexy librarians in capes dancing with carts.
It was one of those nights when, even for the sober few, all Seattle
feels stuffed into one bright spot, and the rest of the city emptied
out. Two guards on duty, one stationed in the hell-red bowels of the
Central Library and the other wandering the aluminum-and-glittery-black
balcony above, both declared they would have taken the night off if
they’d known the party would be this good.
This was the year the Genius Awards party got it right.
It’s not that the past five years of bashes haven’t been great. The
occasion is lovable: The Stranger quits its criticizing and
simply adores, in the form of a QFC sheet cake, a heap of
publicity, an unrestricted $5,000 each to four artists and an
organization, and a culminating party.
The night of the adoration is always bacchanalian and
quotable—this year’s literary Genius, Heather McHugh, who’s
taught at the University of Washington since 1984, announced from the
stage that she has “a friend who sleeps with anything that moves, but I
never saw a reason to limit myself!”—but that delicate thing that
is party chemistry, mojo, whatever, changes with the venue and the
Geniuses.
It helps to have Rem Koolhaas on board. When I first saw his Central
Library on opening day in 2004, it reminded me of a woman pictured from
the middle, thrusting a hip out, mid-dance. Maybe what we’re all so
enamored with about the Central Library is that it isn’t a library so
much as the best of all possible nightclubs, a romantic (yes! in the
middle of all that modernism!) place where you might actually meet
someone smart and fall in love right away and for forever.
The seduction Friday night began on the escalator up from the first
floor. At first, the steps carried you alone, full of private thoughts
(what are you wearing, who will you see, what will you say). Then,
halfway up, a spectacular view appeared in reflection, of the whole
swarming party, seen in the puzzle of diamonds and glass that is the
library’s exterior. By the time the escalator reached the top, the
world outside was visible in some of the windows, and the two realities
were projected simultaneously.
After last year’s big, eight-week-long exhibition of art and
ephemera by the Geniuses at the Henry Art Gallery, this year’s program
was minimal. No display, just celebration. Testifying to the
Geniuses—Alex Schweder in visual art, Amy Thone in theater, Linas
Phillips in film, Heather McHugh in literature, and Strawberry Theatre
Workshop in organization—were 11-by-15-foot scrolls hung from the
highest balcony. They were blowups of the pages of the
Stranger‘s Genius issue, bearing stories written by
Stranger editors illustrated with photographs by David
Belisle—the most memorable a depiction of Schweder (whose work
entangles architecture and food) wiping his mouth while eating a
peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich on the toilet.
The only other images, projected on the giant concrete wall that
rises all the way up the 11 stories in the center of the building, were
of logos for Smartwater and Dewar’s, the night’s twin sponsors, the
former freaking people out a little by being served, inexplicably, by
waiters in white lab coats, the latter relaxing the nerves in turn.
During the announcing and awarding of the golden (spray-painted)
books, many, many nice things were said, and public-speaking
awkwardnesses were either narrowly overcome or mercifully brief. Most
eminently, black-suited and tassel-shoed MC Christopher Frizzelle
dubbed McHugh the first-ever summa cum laude of Geniuses (over shouts
of protest from other editors), and most passionately, theater editor
Brendan Kiley promised Thone his very soul and kissed her, while her
husband, actor Hans Altwies, clapped and cheered with pride.
By 9:30 p.m., the VIP event was wrapped up and the line at the door
for performances by Velella Velella and the Blow wrapped around the
block. (McHugh, a character worth following, had already rushed the
exit but was stopped with the news that a PBS documentarian awaited her
upstairs. He looked very serious until he saw her, and the two of them
degenerated into raucous laughter. I will allow that McHugh is the
funniest Genius.)
Just before Phillips went on to get his award, he told Frizzelle
that the last time he was at the library, he was scouting for homeless
people to be in his next film, Great Speeches from a Dying
World, which is a series of famous speeches recited by homeless
people. Throughout the evening I heard many references to the
homeless—you know, they roam free in the library while drunk all
the time. Perusing fiction this way, it felt like there would be time
to read it all.
City librarian Deborah Jacobs seemed more relaxed than anyone the
whole night, reclining during a private champagne toast like the
empress of ease, joking that The Stranger was more
worried about people damaging or running off with books than she was.
Ease turns out to be the closest word to describe why the party worked
and why I heard from so many people (I stopped writing their names
down) that this was the best of Stranger Genius parties. Where
in hell will we go from here? 
This story was corrected on Sept 20, 2007. A reference to Seattle Public Library’s Level 4 was actually referring to Level 1, on Fourth Avenue.
