I’ve decided running an art gallery isn’t so different from writing a Hollywood gossip column. Assholes telling you what they think, spitting in your face as they deliver their divinely sanctioned opinions, that sort of inane thing.
A rich man from Prescott Arizona with a questionable set of hair on top pulled me aside. He wanted to know about a gallery sculpture of welded steel entitled, “If You Think I’m Dying With My Secrets, You’re Delirious.”
“This is the ugliest fucking piece of shit I’ve seen in my life,” he snarled not two feet from my face, which remained unperturbed, unmoved (playing poker regularly comes in terribly handy in the shark-infested art world, I’ve discovered more than once).
Prescott Dude held my gaze, like he was waiting me to wither from his in-your-face, cussing critique.
“But, I do want to know,” the foul-mouthed Arizonan added with a bit of furrowed brow, below no Botox whatsoever. “How did the artist disguise the welds so well?”
Smiling, pushing an inch or two closer to the man’s fairly well-cocktailed puss, I replied, “I did the welds, then simply left it out in the rain for awhile, that’s all.”
Prescott was fairly apoplectic as he started to apologize.
“No need,” I answered. “Everybody has a right to an opinion.”
“I still hate it.”
“Obviously, darling, you can buy something to make up for it.”
Is Facebook responsible for this phenomenon? With everybody and her two-year-old telling you how much they hate Hillary Clinton, that’s making people think you’re just dying to hear how, and what, they loathe?
Sheesh, cool it, haters!