I follow her finger arched downward and peek over the stairwell toward the lone sitting, white-haired man akin to Francis Ford Coppola in his familiar look of otherworldly regality. He is the man plucking the flamenco guitar with thunderous perfection, surrounded by a ring of blank canvases and the first swarm of guests gaily perusing. His eyes closed, the loft space reeling with art pieces purer and rare than that of any museum existing, there is a Spanish torment to the air within – Spanish, European, South American, African and any ethnicity that breeds the idea of true, uninterrupted love of art for art’s sake. Even the usual guests are awed by the artistic splendor of this private space. This is their eighth official art salon celebration, held the last thursday of each month, and still it appears entirely fresh, unspoiled by camera shine, and open to the public.
Some forty years ago this man perfectly strumming his peace for all to hear, who was born in Indochina to a Chilean father, diplomat and painter, walked these same Soho streets in search of purchasing an artist’s loft of his own. It was 1973 in New York City and he had already published the much revered photography collection known as ‘Idols.’ Now, he desired a space wherein to live and nurture his artistic endeavors, a space he claimed on Soho’s Grand st. This Art Saint’s name is Gilles Larrain.
“People thought he was crazy when he bought this,” says Louda Larrain, his multi-faceted artist wife. “Now, of course, they think he’s genius.”
How could they not?
At each months’ end, Gilles and Louda host a salon party where thirty measly dollars purchase guests a spot to either watch or participate in the painting of live models, listen to an unknown musical variety of upcoming artists, enjoy improvisational dance performances and any such artistic exhibition. The presentation of artists here is terrifically naked. A young woman, clad in vivacious red corset, sits flawlessly for the first twenty minute drawing while Gilles plays his guitar. There is no shame in sharing artistry here. No one hides, but rather basks in its beauty.
“Hey, You! You in the hat!” yells Gilles in his thick, foreign accent at a hatted stranger conversing during the next artist’s introduction. “Excuse me. Please listen. Or go outside, okay? I’m not easy. I don’t like to kick some ass, but I will if I have to.”
The room smiles, impressed. In a society that has conditioned new generations to listen to music, watch television, lead a conversation and simultaneously cook dinner, few places still exist wherein revery for the singular, artistic moment surpasses all. Gille and Louda’s art salon is one of these places. Their sheer determination and love has sponsored it.
Guests intermingle, often using large gestures to defeat language barriers without any fear of awkwardness, picking at traditionally marinated pork pieces in an enormous wooden bowl with toothpicks, gazing at the gorgeous model and paintings assembled purely before their eyes. Jodie Manross, a new, experimental-style acoustic musician plays her set as an improvisational dancer twists across the collection of half-finished paintings ahead. Wine flows. Lights glimmer.
Gilles and Louda have created a world wherein one feels as they might when dining with Greek Gods, discussing beauty, truth, art, freedom. It is better than what I might have dreamed the 1973 art world in New York to be, because it has survived the ages. It exists now. Every fourth Thursday in Soho. Art is alive. Because Gilles and Louda Larrain, pioneers of art and parental figureheads to all young artists, have willed it so.
I suppose admission to heaven only costs thirty dollars these days…
