Tseng Kwong Chi’s photographs exude a lust for life. Whether he is pranking Moral Majority politicians, hitting the town in drag with his New York City circle, or traveling the U.S. as a Chairman Mao doppelganger, the complex identity politics always go along with a wink, a sense of childlike joy and wonder. They say to me, “Are you seeing this right now? Isn’t it amazing that we’re here in this crazy world?” Nowhere is this effervescence more apparent than in Tseng’s 1986 Polaroid montage entitled “Keith Haring’s 3^rd Annual Party of Life, Palladium, New York.”

This work is one of three Polaroid montages in Tseng Kwong Chi: Performing for the Camera, and it is by far the biggest, made up of 182 photographs stapled to a board. The night of this event, Tseng set up his Polaroid camera on a tripod and controlled it using a wired remote just like he did at the Met gala. However, unlike at the Met gala, Tseng is not an infiltrator here, but rather totally in his element with his close friends and broader community. Tseng, in his Mao suit, features in every photo, and his goal appears to have been to take a zany picture with everyone who attended the “Party of Life.” The spirit of partying and joy of living flows through this piece, with hundreds of figures in various poses looking back at you, young and invincible. It also helps that the Block supplies a playlist of songs that makes one happy to be alive, from “Tequila” to “We Want the Funk.” (I was grateful that the prime place for viewing this work was also the prime place for dancing unseen by a guard…)

The repetition in this piece is both similar to and different from the repetition of Andy Warhol’s famous soup cans. At a distance, you can see the face of the Statue of Liberty in every photo. She is impassive and monumental, recognizable from her Roman nose and thick hair. Even Tseng himself brings repetition in the form of the Mao suit. However, upon closer looking the piece becomes a protest against the statement of superficiality Warhol was driving home with his soup cans. Tseng shows there is depth beyond the repetitive concept by giving a wildly different pose for every Mao suit Polaroid, and his many different friends follow suit by being their wacky selves.

What makes this work so special, though, beyond the wild moments captured and lovingly assembled, is the handwriting. Almost every Polaroid is marked with pen. Some markings are simple autographs (“K.H. ‘86” is scrawled on one photo of Haring, Tseng, and a few others), while some have a bit more character (a picture of Tseng with a woman holding up a camera reads “Miss April ooxx”). Other inscriptions are more silly than documentary, such as “Walter Rules” in blocky print with an arrow pointing to a man next to Tseng. The total engagement of the subject with the creation of the work is what makes it so beautiful to me. It almost seems that the heart of Tseng’s piece was the concept of bringing his dear friends and acquaintances together to create a tribute to this event, frozen in time.

There is a great deal of sadness that goes along with this highly personal touch, though. The handwriting on several photos is fading, which symbolizes to me an eroding way of life. This free, loving, lighthearted East Village scene was already crumbling as the AIDS crisis intensified through the 1980s. No later than one year after this party, both Tseng and Haring would be diagnosed with AIDS. For Tseng, this diagnosis meant creating the gorgeous “Expeditionary Series,” which in part explores the artist’s small place among the wondrous world as he contemplates leaving it. Haring would also explore life and death in his work until he died, less than a month before Tseng, in 1990. The fading pen is a powerful reminder of a bygone moment in time and a tragically decimated artistic generation.

It brought a lump to my throat to read the work from the top, left to right. Tseng starts his photomontage with a simple picture of the Statue of Liberty backdrop. No figures. Then, Tseng is “born” into the Party of Life, alone in his Mao suit with his camera remote. He is joined then by one of the most important people in his New York life: Keith Haring. They stare out of the frame together, unafraid, ready to take on whatever life brings. Then the parade of friends, lovers, fellow artists, and fellow misfits begins. Some are probably very close friends, while others are just acquaintances. Maybe Haring and Tseng didn’t even know some of their names. But they are all welcome. The party will never end. Lady Liberty looks on and it feels like a love letter to New York City, where Tseng and Haring and so many others were able to love who they wanted to love and be who they wanted to be. Even if the Party of Life didn’t last long enough, there is a sense of gratitude for this community that reaches out to us from this piece, across the miles and decades.