Scott Campbell is known for his canvases as much as his art—he’s the tattoo artist of choice for Marc Jacobs, Josh Hartnett, and Bruce Springsteen. But last night, he gave New York a look at work he’s done on other, non-human backdrops. Big sheets of dollar bills, hologram paintings, and copper-plate etchings (done with a high-tensile tattoo needle, naturally) are the stuff of If You Don’t Belong, Don’t Be Long, Campbell’s first New York solo show and the inaugural exhibition at Crosby Street’s new OHWOW gallery.
“It’s funny, people talk about tattoos and the first word that comes into their mind is ‘permanent,’ ” Campbell explained at Evisu’s after-party at the Trump Soho, where a very mixed crowd did its best to rid the recently unveiled luxury hotel’s third-floor event space of its new-carpet smell. (By a little after midnight, revelers had cleaned the place out of booze.) “But actually, tattoos are the most ephemeral medium that I work in. You do a tattoo and, you know, it goes and gets hit by a bus or gets sunburned.”
Now that the show’s up, Campbell can get back to the tattoo clients who had to cool their jets while he was preparing it. That includes Jacobs, who came to the opening with Lorenzo Martone. Far from having split, as recent rumors have suggested, he and Martone were thinking about getting couples’ ink. “They were talking about coming in and getting something together,” Campbell said.
It’s a dilemma that many a Pretty Young Thing worth her borrowed gown and false eyelashes has confronted: You’ve gotten all dressed up, poured yourself into your Spanx, and now you’re a little buzzed from the wine at dinner. The gala is over; what happens next? Last night after the New Yorkers for Children gala, there were two options: Hop on the caravan that Amy Sacco organized to her Chelsea hangout Bungalow 8, or join Josh Hartnett at Nur Khan’s table at the Rose Bar in the Gramercy Park Hotel. (Well, I guess there was a third option—going home—but only those with flights the next day, like Rachel Zoe, exercised it.) With the addition of Jen Brill and Byrdie Bell, Lauren Santo Domingo and Tara Subkoff, then Jack Huston and Cat Deeley, and so on and so on, Hartnett’s posse ended up growing to include more than one table. By the end of the night it was nearly half the club—which was the problem: Apparently, some of the girls who were dressed to the nines started to feel cheap next to gals in minis and old T-shirts, so they left. (Not that it mattered: For every socialite who walked out the door, there was a hipster quick to fill her spot.) Over at Bungalow, Sacco tried to keep the dress code up: “Anyone that looks cute can get in,” she said, then added, “unless they’re too cute. The competition can keep on walking down 27th Street.” We presume she made an exception for the pretty posse that included Jamie Burke, Theodora Richards, Joy Bryant, Jessica Diehl, Eva Amurri, Bonnie Morrison, and Chris Benz on the dance floor—not to mention Poppy Delevingne, who we snapped boogying in her booth.