Thus I found myself in the midst of a little split-personality battle last Saturday night, while attending the gala auction that marked the end of the fundraising art project known as Pigs on Parade. On one hand, you never badmouth your hosts; on the other... what the fuck was I doing there?
Having been rather bluntly denied a press pass for the event ("You really seemed to hate this project," said the publicist on my answering machine, "and you thought it was so stupid--we frankly can't understand why you'd want to come, but you're welcome to buy a ticket...."), I appealed to my employers to buy me a ticket. They generously complied, procuring a patron-level ticket ($225) that included cocktails and dinner (very good steak--no pork chops?--and potatoes, a slightly slimy salad) and admission to the livestock auction, which, the Pike Place Market Foundation hoped, would raise close to $1 million for various excellent causes--among them a clinic, a senior center, and a food bank. (A recent press release estimates that the auction made closer to $380,000.)
The whopping price of this ticket notwithstanding, I somehow felt that it would be rude to bring my attitude--which I felt was simply thorough and analytical, but had been interpreted as snobbish, pissy, and (most bafflingly) encouraging of vandalism ["Makin' Bacon," Emily Hall, May 31]. I had objected to Pigs on Parade on the grounds of its retrograde attitude toward art, and its heavy reliance on artists to raise money for low-income services that artists often need for themselves.
Tonight, politeness won, and I didn't bring my issues to the auction. I simply wanted to see how it all turned out.
But the gloss of self-congratulation had hardened like a coat of epoxy over everything. I knew there would be no fellow dissenters in the crowd, so I traveled incognito. (Geoff Garza, an artist buddy of mine and creator of "Charlie Porker" and "Piggy Gillespie," respected my anonymity by calling me "Stacey" throughout dinner, much to the bewilderment of my table mates.) I had hoped to hear more about the widespread pig vandalism--John Curley's entry, "Ham on Rye to Go," was damaged beyond repair and was not auctioned at all. This didn't prevent Curley from attending the dinner, with his tiny infant next to him and the twin glows of fatherhood and celebrity like a nimbus around him. Most conversation, however, centered on what a "lovely project"; what a "fun thing" for the city; how we should "do it again." There were rumors of a pig signed by Ichiro that someone was going to pay $1 million for. I drank scotch and soda, light on the soda.
There is a little-talked-about side to being the naysayer, which is the perverse desire to see yourself proved wrong--but my comeuppance was a little lukewarm. The auctioneer (a lady from Oklahoma) was not very effective. In the hands of a talented auctioneer, such a sale is an amazing thing to see: Money ceases to be the stuff of bills and overdrafts, but becomes an abstract concept, something to be raised, topped, pushed over the edge. The value of the object under the hammer becomes almost moral; bidding becomes a courageous act. In this case, the crowd was not in the palm of the auctioneer's hand. Certain pigs stalled at $2,500 and $3,000, when she should have been able to talk the price up much higher. The Ichiro pig failed to raise the minimum bid. I drank some red wine.
Nonetheless, a totem-pole pig by Jack Kleinart sold for $14,000, to the orgasmic delight of the crowd. And Candy Apple Pig pulled in a price close to $10,000. At this point it was 11:00 p.m., and there were still about 15 pigs to go. Drunk and bored, I started taking pictures of the pigs' butts. Disco Pig glittered overhead.
