Our Heroine's Fatal Flaws
Yes, it's about Anna Sorokin, but don't turn away just yet...
Caption: This is me being *kinda* Anna-like about a decade ago, as I was standing atop an art-beer mountain in Berlin with some rich people and a lot of artists.
I tried to watch Inventing Anna, the Shonda Rhimes directed series about Anna Sorokin but I can’t. (Spoiler: You don’t have to! You also don’t have to watch any other show! You can go make a zine, call up your dad, gobble up blueberries, or pet cats instead!)
I started it, but stopped after a few minutes because I had to hold back my internal organs from twisting into themselves; this physical altercation was due to observing such an imperviously bad German-Russian accent spoken by an actress costumed as a preening egoist surrounded by cascading Emoticons and yachts. Nope to Inventing Anna! Such a response screams “minor trauma,” which is true. I can’t touch that fire because I know all-too well the burn of mass media and how it incinerates any meaningful sense of class critique.
Anathema! Here is why // hers is why
Anna Sorokin’s story is tailored for the gossip mags. The general storyline that’s captured the imagination is that a young German woman faked being an heiress and ended up making her way into the circles of the art-world jet-set crew. Parties, vacations, and yachts—all part of the biennial, art fair, and festival circuit. She stole, lied, and manipulated others so that she could partake in this system of influence.
Hers is a story that brings up some of the worst realities of the art world. People get into art—or music, sex clubs, or crypto—for the scene stuff. But there’s a sort of everyday level of navigating the world through free stuff that artists do to get by that doesn’t involve stealing credit cards or wearing APC, Balenciaga, or I guess now it’s Telfar. It’s through artists that I learned about how to get by in my 20s while being poor.
Thanks to art-school friends, I learned about how to acquire food stamps and how to get on unemployment. I didn’t know I was eligible for food stamps after I graduated with my MA. I just had no idea, having grown up in a state like Texas where being unable to support oneself was a sin, even during a global recession. It’s from artists that I learned how to go out and have a good time at openings by filling up on hors d'oeuvres for dinner. The glasses of two-buck chuck overfloweth as well, leaving me without having to pay for dinner or drinks. When I moved to New York City, I did so on an $80 train ticket from Chicago because I could also bring up to four suitcases with me for free. PODs seemed to be a luxury. Cheap dentistry is also something I picked up from my art-school days, although I don’t recommend going to dental school unless you have a high pain tolerance. My teeth are still in bad condition; the quality of one’s teeth is another way to figure out whether or not you’re talking to a rich artist or a poor artist, especially in the States.
Unsurprisingly, there’s a gross divide between those who are still starving artists and those who hang on nearby. Doesn’t it make you want to take all the art out of museums so that it’s no longer involved in laundering board members’ million-dollar assets? Dump the art in places that can help out the artist class! In the case of Anna Sorokin, known to make classist statements like “What, are you bitches broke?” the answer was to steal money to make … a club-cum-hotel, like the SoHo House. The desire of money does not bless one with creativity.
So why do I think about Anna Sorokin? I could’ve been one of “her” if I hadn’t so angry about wanting to be taken seriously in the arts, but by artists more than the art-adjacent class.
Soon after I moved to New York that first time, I was contacted about being on a forthcoming Bravo TV show about “gallerinas.” In the time before Influencers, this seemed like a terrible idea to me. But if I were asked in 2022, I imagine I’d be tempted–perhaps in the same way one is tempted to have their life’s narrative transformed by those in power. Smoke covers all in this mass confusion.
Back to my first time in New York: I was running out of money. I was depressed and drinking too much free wine. I stared into subway tunnels with dread. I was jealous of people I knew who had been abroad, so I guess I did a reverse Anna Sorokin and I went to Berlin. I was told there’s no better time to take a vacation then when you’re out of a job. I stayed on a couch, then had friends try to set me up with nannying gigs. Eventually, my unemployment kicked in, along with a part-time job writing copy for About.com. I was finally feeling relaxed. I went back to the States for an exhibition I had curated before realizing I was definitely out of money and couldn’t return to Germany. At least I had an apartment in New York I was subletting, a return ticket to the city, and a promise of a $1,000 curatorial stipend soon on its way. I packed cans of beans and some couscous in my luggage which I’d picked up from my mom’s house because some food was better than no food.
When I got back to New York, I still couldn’t get a job. I went pounding the pavement in Williamsburg and Greenpoint at places I could walk and didn’t need to pay subway fare. It was October and I’d been at this ritual since July. Complaining to a friend, he mentioned I looked like I was a rich girl, which might be the problem. I did wut? I was shocked that I was Anna Sorokin-ing myself to some degree. The next day, I decided to forgo a shower, put on a cheap H&M t-shirt and vintage jorts, and, fresh off a cigarette, I walked into American Apparel with my resume. That time they gave me a job.
Thanks for letting me get ranty. Next week, I’ll (probably) have a short post about some mysteries from Whitney Biennials past.