Forever Magazine’s Issue 6 Release Party
99 Canal St.
Chinatown, Manhattan
Something’s gone awry in NYC’s literary world.
To be properly cynical, I’m sure it’s always been this way, and my frustrations here will do nothing more than reveal myself a freshly hulled hayseed. So, before getting into this, I’d like to humbly offer my congratulations to everyone who never bought into the NYC-is-the-only-place-to-be propaganda, the folks who stayed the fuck where they’re from and are content to watch from afar, if at all, the shiftless vicissitudes of a scene eating its own tail.
Kudos for keeping away from the Kool-Aid.
The rest of us dupes stood out on Canal Street Thursday night for just long enough to embarrass ourselves — scheming and scrolling through contacts and mutuals, trying to figure who we ought to call to get let into Forever Magazine’s sixth issue release party.
We all found out about it the same way, and arrived under the same pretenses: A public post on Forever Mag’s Instagram, a party flyer, doors at 8, no cover mentioned, a whole slew of shitposter/influencer production credits, a real come-and-see-and-see‑y’all-there. No RSVP link, or anything that would indicate exclusivity. It’s the same way we’ve all always found out about these sorts of events. It’s only recently that one’s presence is no guarantee of entry.
It’s a shame, honestly — and seems in no small measure to be an act of cruelty, a joke played on one’s community. Why do it this way? What’s the game?
The fine art world has always run on false scarcity and exclusion games, same thing in fashion. But the literary world? A world hemorrhaging money, constantly losing readership, wherein even the big players can’t hardly stay afloat — this is the world that’s suddenly gonna start turning its audience away? Seems like a dicey gamble — especially considering the type of work Forever Mag traffics in, which is New-York-niche to say the least.
But, of course, the ultimate point here is that none of this is about writing, or the future of literature, or the cultivation of an audience for a dying craft. It’s ladder climbing. It’s cool-kid shit. Lesson learned, again and again.
Maybe I’m an idealist, or maybe I recognize that every ounce of attention one’s work receives is a hard-fought privilege — or, hell, maybe I’m bitter, angry, and soured by class resentments, and being shown the door on no account gets my fists itching.
Either way, my friends and I weren’t the only ones turned away, and we certainly weren’t the furthest travelled in hopes of attending. There’s perhaps a place for exclusivity, but there’s no need to pretend or mislead your audience. If there’s a list, let folks know before so they can figure if they can get on it. If there’s an audience cap, sell tickets or have a way to RSVP. If it’s a private event, don’t advertise it as public to your nearly 8,000 Instagram followers.
My question remains, though — and maybe someone more versed in the exigencies of cultural capital and art-world social graces can enlighten me. Why? What’s the fucking point?
Anyway, my partner and our friend accepted our unacceptance and decided to bar hop and have a late-night feast at Little Frankie’s in the East Village. Rolling in at 11:30 p.m., soused and starving, we ordered the works — a bottle of chilled red, a pile of spaghetti limone, grilled portabella salad, and heap of tagliata Toscana. Anytime the tagliata’s on the specials list, getting a plate’s an absolute must. The night passed us in a joyous haze, multiple bouts of nearly falling out of our chairs laughing, and a reminder that affogato may be the greatest dessert of all time.
Little Frankie’s is a special place. Truly. A neighborhood institution. Open late, 2 a.m. I believe. Cash only, though — just a heads-up for next time the party’s not for you.
