one night only
24 hours after damon died I began obsessing over what to with the paintings, the studio, and how to make sure everything he ever touched or made got maximum exposure before it—and he—faded into oblivion and out of everyone’s collective memory. the first 24 hours were spent in a frozen stupor wondering if that was what it felt like in that weird purgatory of consciousness people talk about when they dangle in between life and death.
in a panicked effort to memorialize him, i was finishing the job i unsuccessfully botched in life. (control freaks / eldest daughters / life savers of everyone who needs saving – unite!)
he had to be seen and lauded. i had to hatch a solo show – something he rightfully deserved and never got the chance to realize and that i foolishly thought i could will into reality against all odds and all of his intransigencies which made this impossible. as if this would serve as some sort of redemption and erase or fix the last 30 years of his life like some twisted romantic apex. (cue my shrink and father time who makes you wise: you can’t love or promote someone into their potential and you sure as shit can’t save them that way either.)
2 years later—in a very preliminary return to normal and with a semblance of functional clarity, it happened. aided by an army of absolute angels who offered the most selfless acts of help and kindness and for whom i remain overcome with so much love/gratitude that i would kill for them until my last day. friends had a gallery in bushwick, right near where he lived and which i’d avoided vigilantly since his death, and offered the space no questions asked, but with one caveat—we could mount the show for one night only in between theirs. which meant we’d have to install the night before and immediately de-install the morning after.
i couldn’t fathom this stroke of luck. when the crowning moment of the install arrived—peeling the vinyl sticker back and seeing his name in the gallery window—i felt almost guilty at feeling so elated.
for a short while i couldn’t shake the disappointment of wishing the show could stay up for a week, a month, forever. but there was something admittedly beautiful and poetic about this fleeting 24-hour countdown and what it took to bring it to life.
everyone came. i talked to him the whole time (ps it’s not crazy). do you fucking see this? you had a show! everyone came! people asked to buy paintings! like actual people wanted to take your paintings home and live with them. BRO. you are so loved. slash, why couldn’t you make this happen while you were alive so you could see it too? why didn’t people make more of an effort to connect before it was too late? why was his boss such a cunt? how did i fail to see so many signs? but that was uselessly sliding back into the spaces that i knew could not be changed. we were moving forward.
he had a show. it lasted all of 3 hours on a tuesday night in may. it felt exactly right.
Edith Taichman is a brand and communications specialist whose work spans fashion, arts + culture, architecture, and collectible design. She has worked for the likes of Vogue Paris, Valentino, Oscar de la Renta, Peter Marino, Sperone Westwater Gallery, and others. Her work and personal projects have been featured in publications such as Tablet, Forbes, At Large Magazine, The Business of Fashion, Brownstoner, and Domino. She is an avid surfer, a Scorpio, and lives and works in New York.
