Solange at the Guggenheim:
Don't Take 'Sold Out' for an Answer
"No...this show is sold out, sold out, sold out."
It wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. I had just spent the morning scouring every regular ticket sales website to attend Solange's sold out show at the Guggenheim museum in New York City. In a moment of weakness I had even tried Facebook's marketplace where I was met with an endless scroll of used sneakers nowhere near my search queries or ZIP code.
The woman who told me the show was "sold out, sold out, sold out" was taking ticket stubs from attendees dressed in all white, per Solange's request. This show, entitled 'An Ode To', was part of Solange's non-traditional tour of her Grammy award-winning album 'A Seat at the Table', which included festivals and museum appearances.
Other special requests from the artist, aside from the dress code, prohibited cell phones and cameras. This meant phones were checked like coats at the door. In fact, coats were the least of anyone's concern on this cloudless, 90-degree day. I witnessed people approach the Guggenheim unabashedly wiping sweat from places you wouldn't hope to see unless they were on the court at Wimbledon.
Two lines funneled into the spiraled building and I was already rejected by the line marked "general admission". The remaining line I had obviously not considered on my first attempt, as it was labeled "Guest List".
All photos courtesy of Red Bull Music Academy's content pool.
To escape the sun, I crossed the street where I could buy a cold bottle of water from a food cart and sulk at a safe distance on a park bench. The concert was scheduled to start in one hour at 3:00 p.m. A second sold out concert would start at 7:00 later in the day.
The Guggenheim museum is the gateway drug to an architecture obsession you never thought you'd have. The scene of the winding white tower, which Frank Lloyd Wright designed to be "a temple of spirit", surrounded by guests uniformed in white was elegant and surreal on its own. If it weren't for my newly native New York naiveté and my heat-induced confidence, I probably would have taken this field trip for what it was and left. Instead, I took advice from one of the artists whose work, no doubt, was displayed inside the building – Andy Warhol, who said, "It's not what you are that counts, it's what they think you are." With nothing to lose, I headed for the line reserved for people personally invited by Solange and her staff.
Unlike the general admission entrance, there was no queue formed behind the guest list signage. As I walked right to the front, my eyes darted between staff members to find the one who looked kindest. I narrowed in on the only staff member smiling.
Me: "Hi, I'm wondering if there are any unclaimed seats I could purchase for full price?"
She was the first person since I arrived that I could tell was unfazed by the heat. Likely a side effect of being associated with V.I.P. matters.
Her: "Aw, you know, it's truly a sold out event," she cooed as if she were calming an upset infant. She must've noticed my face drop. Sweeping a strand of hair back into place, she quickly looked behind her and turned back toward me with a Jekyll and Hyde change of voice. "If you just hang out over to my right, I'll see what I can do closer to the show starting. I can't promise, but I'll see," she said quickly so as not to get caught.
I contained any celebrations, understanding from her change in voice that I just got myself into a covert operation that immediately transported me to teenage times of doorbell ditching and note passing. I turned and found a spot at a short distance where my fairy-staff-member remained in sight.
A man who I assumed to be her boss bounced between staff members, saying hello to guests he recognized along the way. Much like clipboards, there is something about earpieces that non-verbally promote someone in the ranks.
As I awaited any cues from my newfound friend, I sent giddy texts left and right.
Interpretations of the dress code walked by me. The event was capped around 200 people, but I swore at least 175 women must have entered who were plucked from the sets of Solange's music videos. Men in linen shirts typically reserved for poolside events or Grecian holidays strangely did not feel inappropriate.
At 2:50, I was interpreting every movement from the staff member I spoke to earlier as an invitation to finally enter the event. So when she actually motioned for me, she had to break from her suave gestures, raise both eyebrows and mouth, "yes, YOU" in my direction.
Her: "Okay, there's some room. I'll quickly add you to the list and you can check your phone before entering, okay?," she nearly whispered as she typed on an iPad Mini.
Before I could kiss the ground she walked on or get one appreciative word in, her earpiece-clad boss swept in.
Earpiece: "Everything okay here?"
Her: "Huh? Oh, yes, just checking him in," she said confidently in hopes of dismissing our surprise guest.
Instead he stood there to oversee my check-in process. Unfortunately for me, it meant I had just entered my first improv class. The woman in front of me sort of shrugged in defeat, apologizing with her eyes that we were caught. She continued.
Her: "Okay, so uh, what's your name?"
Unsure if she expected me to lie, read from the guest list in front of her or tell the truth, I simply told her my first and last name knowing full well she wouldn't find me on the list.
Her: "Yeah, I'm not seeing you on here..."
Earpiece: "Who would have added you to the list, sir?"
Surely, the wrong answer I was tempted to provide was "Solange...?". But every answer I could've given was wrong at this point. I was currently unemployed and decided somewhere between early-2000's episodes of Survivor that it wasn't farfetched at all for me to think I could arrive on the scene at the Guggenheim museum and be let into a sold out show hosted by 1/2 of the Knowles sisterhood.
Me: "I'm a writer, so it would have been my editor who added me to the list."
Earpiece: "Who do you work for? Who is your editor?"
Surely I couldn't keep up with this snowball of a lie, but I was already in too far. Quickly, I thought of one of the writers I had just seen walk in not 15 minutes earlier.
Me: "I write for [redacted] magazine under [redacted]. One of my co-workers just walked in. I'd call him, but..." I wiggled by iPhone between my thumb and pointer finger attempting to land a joke about banned cell phones.
Her: "Oh, yeah. I know that magazine," she said trying to help.
Earpiece: "Okay. Most of our press is coming to the seven o'clock show, but if you can tell me the name of our staff member who invited you or get your editor on the phone, I'll take that as confirmation."
Me: "Not a problem, let me make a call and I'll come back."
Backing away, my friendly staff member shrugged and we parted ways. She and I both knew I was not going to come back with evidence enough to be let in.
Adrenaline still pumping, I retreated back to a space 10 feet in front of the museum entrance. Surprisingly, I had not been denied outright. Without a verifiable editor to call, I decided to try and find an organizer of the event on my iPhone. If there was one thing my relentless job hunt had demonstrated since moving to New York City two weeks prior, it was a knack for uncovering any odd piece of information via LinkedIn.
Within one search query, I had found a short list of people employed by the organizers of the event, Red Bull Music Academy. Yet, there was no surefire way to tell which of them would have anything to do with the Guggenheim, Solange or events where the artist's rider extended the greenroom to include details about acceptable dress and items to bring or not to bring.
It was now 3:00 p.m. and the show was scheduled to begin. I had to make a decision on which employee's name I would return with. So I made a decision based entirely on the completeness of one employee's profile and walked back to try my guess like a secret password with Earpiece himself.
Me: "My editor isn't reachable right now, but his assistant let me know that the person who extended the invitation is named [redacted]." It took me everything not to wince and wait for his reaction.
Earpiece: "Great, yes. That's all I needed to hear. I'm sorry about the trouble with our guest list, but I did want to make sure we got confirmation. You never know, sometimes! You can check your phone behind me and enjoy the show, Mr. Thornburg."
Dumbfounded with a toothless smile on my face, I thanked him and went inside.
Inside, I recognized so many faces as I'd seen many of them taking group photos and checking in over the last hour. There was limited space on the ground floor in front of the stage where guests sat on the ground. The remaining attendees stood along the white, concrete banisters that wind up the throat of the museum to a glass ceiling.
Near the stage were crisp three-dimensional shapes to match both the geometry of the venue and the minimalistic design motif throughout 'A Seat at the Table'.
The concert began an hour later than scheduled. But the time rushed past as I found myself on the second level of the museum watching the guests move about like Solange's self-made installation in the space. While trying to find the best view of the stage, I found myself inches from the musical matriarch of my dreams, Tina Lawson (formerly Tina Knowles, currently still the mother of Beyoncé and Solange).
Soon, the concert began with a reverberating rendition of "Rise". Solange, her band, back-up vocalists and dancers walked single file and straight-faced from the top of the rotunda. From the color schemes to the choreography, the show was orchestrated with perfect fluidity. Each song retained it's form with flourishes like barefoot stomps for percussion, writhing and endless limbs waving to mimic prolonged snares, echoing screams during the bridge of the song "Mad", etc.
All of this unmatched only by "F.U.B.U." (For Us, By Us) where Solange broke from the liquid-like choreography at the song's chorus for a rhythmic twerk. Her lyrics and movements declaring the song's message "this shit is for us" in a space where black women, perhaps black artists, haven't been historically celebrated like in this moment.
Apart from the white belly of the Guggenheim and Solange's installation, something else made this show rare. It wasn't until midway through her set list that I noticed what it was – no one sang along. It was the first live performance from an artist of this level, amongst hundreds of people, all of whom had undoubtedly committed Solange's lyrics to memory, where you could hear the artist's voice unaccompanied by the sing-a-long version of your neighbors to either side. Standing in semi-circles, we mouthed the words to her messages, but Solange gave them noise.
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