Last weekend Jeanette and LouLou overheard some Los Feliz backyard barbecue tittle-tattle, “Jehr’s just a hairstylist, he’s not an artist.” Others in the catty clique shared similar sentiment, “Jehr’s no performance artist, he’s merely a haircutter.”

Few sculpt while steeped in conversation; a Jehrcut is an interactive study in personal nature, christened through mutual consent. Placing patron, seat and Jehr Schiavo out of ordinary context, positioned instead onto a proper gallery floor, instantly settles the art or not matter. An ancient ritual then blossoms, becoming conceptual art, continuing in Yoko Ono’s footsteps.

A haircutting exhibition in such complementary manner is unprecedented, not only for Mr. Haute Coiffure, but for that yet revealed gutsy gallery as well; one who also thrives on an unorthodox limb Leo Castelli, Mary Boone and Larry Gagosian’s strategy. Refusing any financial payment whatsoever for gallery representation, under these particular circumstances, would be paramount. In lieu of commission, Jehr Schiavo would rather donate 100% from an art event’s earnings to a non-profit organization.

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Opening night — accompanied by pleasant pairing (money no object) the subject perches on a stationary Hermès Allegro saddle, alongside artist, both swathed in Suzhou silk, Golden Akhal Teke stallion peers over as cutting commences, gleaming Persian sword tool of choice — hail Caravaggio; calloused fingertips of Senegalese harpist helps fill this gallery space.

Night II — an abbreviated mariachi band’s string section wearing authentic regalia strums their vintage instruments; the enthusiastic subject sits upon a Mexican folk art side chair — hommage Frida Kahlo.

Midweek — world-acclaimed Icelandic cellist, Saeunn Thorsteinsdottir steers her beloved bow across four glorious strings; a stainless steel gurney supports this night’s trusting subject — shout-out Damien Hirst.

Fourth evening — a downtown jazz quartet wistfully pleads; the subject relaxes on an outdoor chartreuse chaise lounge — nod to David Hockney.

Final night — piped in from up above, Lou Reed delivers The Velvet Underground’s, “Loaded;” a clunky electric chair awaits — gotta throw Andy some love.

Whether polishing the hair’s minutest ends with precision Japanese cobalt shears or lopping off an entire ponytail in one fell swoop by garden hedge trimmers — going once, going twice….some art never gets old.

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