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In October 2009, painter and gallerist Phil Slein unveiled, with a flourish, a group of bright, witty caricatures of the art scene in St. Louis. The exhibit’s poster child was Smorgasboards, a portrait of chef Bryan Young. Behind him, Mr. Slein painted icons of contemporary art in St. Louis; in the foreground, he painted a decadent feast inspired by a 15th-century Flemish painting. It was, he said, a love letter to St. Louis.
This fall, when the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis asked Mr. Slein to host one of several collector dinner parties (fundraisers highlighting the art of collecting), he asked Mr. Young to create the feast he’d painted.
The night of the party, Mr. Young set out the last platter—thin-sliced chicken galantine served with Russian dressing and salmon caviar—then sat down, Buddha-like, to preside.
Mr. Slein knew maybe half of the guests who poured in to see his eclectic collection, but he is the consummate host, warm and engaging, and soon there was no way to tell who was a stranger.
People entered under the watchful eye of a stuffed barn owl and walked toward an 18th-century Gothic Revival chair from an Italian villa. The side table, plucked from the same villa, bore a Belgian parlor pistol (just in case).
Mr. Slein guided guests through his narrow, high-ceilinged loft, its brick walls covered with everything from Tom Huck’s woodcut prints to the “You are entering the City of Ladue. Drive carefully” sign Mr. Slein stole years ago. (“He sawed a bit,” relayed Bradley Bailey, assistant professor of modern and contemporary art history at Saint Louis University, “then hid from car lights, then sawed some more…”)
“We chose this party,” Susie Philpott said happily, “because we knew it would be something different!”
Little by little, Mr. Slein showed his treasures. There was, of course, some really fine contemporary art—but also a 400-pound cast-iron train, a stuffed armadillo, a framed 1940s announcement “mobilizing the artists of St. Louis for war work”…
“This is a big movement in Brooklyn and London right now—and St. Louis!—this intense collection,” said Margaret McDonald, a principal at Arcturis.
Overhearing, Mr. Slein said, “You can make your own collectibles! People don’t understand.” He pointed out a program he framed after Renée Fleming’s symphony gala a few weeks earlier—he secured not only her autograph, but Herbie Hancock’s, Wayne Shorter’s, David Halen’s, David Robertson’s… “You’ve just got to be interested in other people.”
Historic preservationist Jefferson Mansell came in just then, breathless: “I’ve been at every crematory in Missouri.”
“Some people have odd hobbies,” remarked designer Alan Brainerd, dry as a martini. “I did the cemetery in Argentina. Small crypt for Eva; such a disappointment.”
Jermal Seward wasn’t listening. “I’m still trying to take it all in,” he murmured, glancing up at a tall wooden warehouse ladder leaning against a mezzanine lined with art books. “This is someplace Gertrude Stein would have lived,” another guest decided.
Catering staff brought wine and whiskey, passed ginger-lime shrimp, then presented Medjool dates stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. Emboldened, Ms. McDonald peered into the bedroom, roped off with a velvet cord. Mr. Slein’s clothes hung in clear garment bags, row upon row up a laddered wall, guarded by a magnificent stuffed peacock.
When the guests finally stopped pointing out curiosities, they descended upon trays of lamb chops with Moorish spices; salmon, cold-smoked with apple wood, then roasted and chilled; tenderloin of beef with ancho chili sauce or beefeater sauce and brioche. Mr. Slein looked a little nervous. Several of his guests were coming late.
“Family hold back?” teased Lisa Grove, the deputy director of the Contemporary.
He grinned. “There’s plenty of booze, anyway.”
Plenty of food, too: The magical feast seemed impossible to deplete. People ate, drank, then looked around again. “So Phil,” someone yelled, “who dusts?”
Betsy O’Herin wanted to know where he got the large model airplanes suspended from the ceiling. “Ivey-Selkirk,” he said, pointing to one, “and unfortunately I got into a bidding war with all the Ozark pilots who really wanted it!”
Dessert materialized: soft spheres of chocolate cheesecake on lollipop sticks, chocolate mousse in a chocolate cup, lemon-bar triangles, and perfectly iced cupcakes.
The loft’s center corridor, narrow as the Orient Express, added to the easy intimacy of the crowd—people squeezed by each other cheerfully, and the thirtysomethings spontaneously made an arch of their hands for Ms. O’Herin to walk through.
Mr. Slein’s music was as disparate as his collections, starting with jazz ballads and going…everywhere. Younger guests groaned at Neil Sedaka; later, Mr. Slein was midsentence when the song changed, and he suddenly looked panic-stricken. “They’re not gonna like Neil Diamond,” he said, rushing over to substitute Devo.
Finally, Mr. Slein was cajoled into a formal speech. “I think the Contemporary wanted to show people that you can collect on any budget,” he laughed. Then he turned serious. “Living with things that you love enhances your life to an incredible degree—even if you are rushing off to the dentist. This is what I see that makes me happy.”
