The Sun Gods poured their golden elixirs liberally over the fecund lawns of the Brant Compound on Mother’s Day, blessing the inauguration of “A Trans-Commercial Poesy,” a new exhibition of work by Colombian wunderkind Oscar Murillo. Harry, above, is photographed with Hannah Rotshchild Barronness Complacencia, the 17-year old C.E.O. of the tween fashion-blogging empire I’m Special You’re Special Now Smile ©. “Mom went to some shitty store like ABC Carpet & Home and just bought $90,000 of pillows,” Harry giggled. “It’s like goddamn Coachella out here, except we’ve got these pureed-caviar cannoli instead of, like, hash brownies.”
Here, an elderly guest eagerly Instagrams 18 Wheels (My Father Was A Truck Driver, He Drove All Night But Still Hugged Me Like A Little Bunny), a new site-specific commission by Murillo composed of a tractor trailer previously owned by the Colombian trucking company ChupaCalle, Murillo’s father’s employer for a period of 2 months in 1978. The truck was sawed in half by a team of 90 of Murillo’s friends and family members from Colombia, who were flown in for the project, which involved delicately bisecting the vehicle using the simple plastic utensils that Murillo remembers using at his childhood birthday parties. (The 12-week process was captured with Go-Pro cameras that were Duct-taped to the workers’ heads, with the resulting footage edited into a new work, Watch Me GoGo, projected inside the compound onto a block of synthetic cocaine).
Therek Assburg, freelance wealth-fluffer for the Gagosian Empire, awkwardly holds hands with Swedish death metal pioneer Kaillie Koenig. “Another impeccable day in the realm of Patriarch Peter I,” Assburg confirmed, wearing a bandanna artisanally impregnated with blowfish kidney oil. “I think Murillo is a geeeeenius, personally. This tops the project where he had those 8-year olds play kickball on raw canvases, with paint all over their feet, and then sold them all before they’d even dried. The paintings I mean, not the kids.” Koenig, feverishly molesting an e-cigarette and muttering Masonic imprecations under her breath, was not as pleased. “Sure, these muppets are happy now,” she hissed. “But let’s see how they’re skipping when the hellfires rain down, the locusts nibble their ear canals, and the rivers—of fundament, pure fundament!—turn their pleasure palaces into skeletal husks of decay.” (“Someone needs a martiiiiini,” Assburg tittered).
A fabled springtime event at the Brant Compound, initiated by Patriarch Peter I in the glorious year of 1978: The ceremonial “hurling of the cow chip,” in which a dessicated hunk of bovine excrement is flung across a field, its crumblings later read like tea leaves and used to make pivotal decisions regarding the Patriarch’s stock portfolios.
Above, a painting by Murillo from the Brant’s own collection; bought for $800 when the artist was still an undergrad, it has since been valued at anywhere between $900 and $1.9 million, depending on Leonardo DiCaprio’s mood. “I just love how Oscar has updated the tropes of Basquiat in such an innovative way,” Patriarch Peter I explained. “It’s international, it’s cosmopolitan. Like, mierda, that’s a foreign language, because I don’t even know what it means. It’s probably Spanish, because Oscar is from Puerto Rico or Nicaragua or something. And TURD SANDWICH, think about it: Existential. Basic. Raw. Gritty. We normally have this piece above the dining room table in Greenwich and it’s a great reminder—of existentialism, and rawness, and grittiness.”
Murillo himself didn’t make much of a public appearance at the Brant opening, preferring to remain in the basement-level bar with his two longtime “French Fry Girls,” a Belgian duo who he hires to dress as French fries and accompany him to press-related events. Journalists from publications whose names did not start with the letters A, F, M, or O were allowed into the sanctum and given the opportunity to ask two questions, provided the questions themselves did not exceed 140 characters. Murillo, in his signature fashion, occupied himself by juggling Twizzlers while pondering his responses. He snorted to comedic effect in response to a demurely anxious reporter from the Greenwich Art Times, who had asked him to “explain where his inspiration comes from.” After rolling his eyes performatively for a period of 30 seconds (during which time the French Fry Girls enacted a series of ballet-inspired cartwheels behind him), Murillo approached the reporter, coming so close that his nose was pressed against her forehead. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “When you’ve gone back in time 28 years, and been born in Colombia, and then moved to London, and bled your genius out onto the dirty floor of a studio for a few years, and worked as a janitor somewhere, while at the same time not at all considering how this whole ‘worked-as-a-janitor’ thing will be spun into pure fucking gold in a press release used to sell your genius-spasms to people who have never cleaned a toilet bowl in their lives, then—maybe—we can have a conversation about this.”