There was this first floor commercial/retail location down the block from us that sat empty for a hella long time. Like five years or more. At one point, someone wanted to put in a private club of some kind and host private "parties." I've never seen our block come together faster to make sure "parties" didn't happen. Nothing like an alcohol-infused late night "parties" anything venue to instill a sense of community.
So fast forward at least a year and signs appeared announcing an art gallery was moving in. Exciting!
I swear two years later, the "coming soon" signs were still on the windows.
But then, at long last, the art gallery opened.
Tom and I buzzed by on their opening night and the show and saw:
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| it's certainly a sculpture. |
Although the inaugural exhibition in the gallery really did not careen down the middle of my lane, it still was definitely cool to have a gallery across the street.
A couple weeks ago, I noticed that the exhibition had turned over in the gallery, so I popped in after I got my hair done. You might think that I probably looked very chic galavanting about fresh from the salon, but you would be wrong. They charge extra to blow dry your hair and I'm far too cheap for that kind of nonsense. I walk out with damp pony tail.
Maybe that was the problem actually.
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The latest in the gallery that opened
where the private club did not.
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So I pop into the gallery in all my towel dried glory. The gallery guy eyes me up and down like they always do when you go into a gallery. Am I there to buy? Am I there to steal something? Will I put my greasy fingers on an art by accident because I'm completely uncivilized?
I get that these are important questions for a guy running the gallery to deduce.
I say, "It's great that you moved in here, I live across the street and think you are a wonderful addition to the neighborhood." RIGHT? I'm suave and lovely even if my hair is not.
The guy goes, "oh, you live across the street? Were you just walking by or did you come over here special?"
I'm like, ah. So now we get to the place where I identify as Not a Buyer. At least of these.
I say, yeah, I was just walking by but the photographs look very interesting.
(I try to save myself a little bit).
The gallery guy is no longer interested in me. At all. I say, "I noticed it took a little while to open up, were there permit issues or something?"
I say this because all New Yorkers like to bitch about permits. It's practically a hobby for some. I thought this was a great way to connect a little bit, show some neighborhood spirit.
The gallery guy goes, "oh no. It was remarkably fast."
ugh... yeah. First of all, I'm hard to gaslight when objectively I'm clear on the facts. It took years. Second of all, it's flat out weird to suggest the city is "remarkably fast" at absolutely anything. The only grace I can give the guy is if he expected it to take 7 years and it only took half that.
I say all this to say, despite the gallerist's strange comportment and either odd standards or failing memory, I'm still glad to have them over there. I'm a big fan of art and art galleries that close at 7... except for the occasional opening night that is definitely not a "party," what can I say.
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