“It’s 2-0-2-1. Dude, we’re so fucking stupid.” I’ve known Jamian Juliano-Villani for less than the length of a cigarette when she gives me the code to the VIP room at O’Flaherty’s, her new art gallery on Avenue C in New York. In truth, it’s more like a broom closet with a makeover. Framed photos of Kevin Hart, Faith Hill, and Paul Sorvino line the walls, which have been painted red, and balloons bump into each other on the floor. “You can’t be in here for more than a few minutes,” she says. “There’s literally no ventilation. But it’s still very. Fucking. Cool.” Maybe it’s because there’s something authoritative about the way she stomps, staccato-like, throughout the space; maybe it’s because she sounds like Al Pacino doing Carlito Brigante. In any case, nothing the 34-year-old former cheerleader from New Jersey says is up for debate. And, to be honest, at a time when everything is up for debate, that matter-of-factness is refreshing. It’s also really fun.
By the time we’ve been together for about 15 minutes, Juliano-Villani has suggested I take a shot of tequila, which she does more than once, each time sprinkling Tajin, a chile-lime seasoning, into her balled hand; she has played a YouTube video of a guy with ostraconophobia whose friends bind his arms and legs, throw him in a bathtub, and place live lobsters all over his writhing body;, Dingle’s primary gallery, Sperone Westwater, ordered a surveillance camera be installed so that Juliano-Villani wouldn’t try to rearrange the installation when no one was looking); and she has instructed me to ignore the many open tabs on her web browser (to that end, I’ll only mention “doll + big bust”).
