The True Confessions of a Young Gallerist

On By KathleenIn CareerLeave a comment

The front page of this weekend’s NY Time’s Sunday Styles featured an article called “The Young Gallerists.” The piece by Laura M. Holson highlighted a handful of young, ambitious go-getters who are making waves in the contemporary art world as they run their own galleries and curate shows of marked significance.

Clearly, I was out of town when she called.

Behind every gallery opening is a mess a young gallery director needs to clean up

Ms. Holson’s article points to the economic uncertainty of ventures in the art world, but focuses on the glamor of exhibition openings. Behind the glamor is a gritty story of a gallery director, a drill, and a large bottle of advil.

“ADAM! HELP!” I screamed as the 8 foot ladder under my feet began to tip.

Before my assistant could swoop to my rescue, I made a Lara Croft style dive for the lighting track, letting the freed can and blub crash to the ground.

I was in the midst of installing my gallery’s fall exhibition – a show of large-scale contemporary sculptures – and my near death experience while adjusting the gallery lights was just another almost catastrophe in a week ripe with artwork-induced calamities.

Before my assistant could rescue me, I made a Lara Croft-style dive for the lighting track. I sense a new cult video game: The Young Gallerists

In the wee hours of the previous night, I offered to serve as the human vice for an artist while she sawed the head off a bolt. The saw only slipped twice, and unfazed, I watched the corner of my recently manicured index-fingernail shoot off. Luckily, the artist stopped before we had a chance to see if my new health insurance covered partial amputations.

“How thick is the plywood behind the plaster?” another artist asked as we tapped on one of the gallery walls, trying to decide if there was enough internal support for his work.

I shrugged and hoped for the best.

I inherited the gallery walls... I found out some of them were concrete the hard way.

After all, I inherited my gallery walls, I didn’t build them. I have no idea what they’re made of. As far as I was concerned, there was only one to find out: Drill, baby, drill.

When the anchor for his florescent resin tree branch began to tear a stripe through the plaster, we figured the plywood wasn’t the ¾” thick we had hoped for.

I pulled out the patching putty and we resumed tapping.

“Do you have a stud-finder?”

“I assume you don’t mean my Friday-night wingwoman?”

Apparently, a stud-finder is a small contraption that you run over a wall to find an upright post in the framework of a wall.

The exhibition will open. The wine will pour. The charm will ooze. And then... the gallerist collapses.

I count the number of causalities amassed during the installation – my fingernail, my olive-toned crepe silk pants, half an artwork, one intern – and consider what still needs to be done. Wall labels need to be mounted. Price-lists need to be finalized. Exhibition brochures need to be picked up from the printer. Wine needs to be purchased.

There are only 2 days left till the opening. The clock is ticking.

On opening night, I’ll be made-up and bedazzled in vintage couture. The wine will pour. The charm will ooze. And then, like I’ve done every day since the loan agreements came in, I’ll collapse into bed, hoping my eyeliner will still look fresh when I go back into work the next morning to start all over again.

I’m Sorry, I Can’t Meet You for a Drink. It’s the Post Season.

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, New York CityLeave a comment
I travel with a Yankee garden gnome named Jorge.

Most girls would scoff at the thought of staying home on a Friday night to watch a baseball game in lieu of meeting a witty, model-good-looking, 6-foot, D-1 ball player turned Ivy-League Law student turned successful litigator for drinks.

But then again, I’m not like most girls. I’ve got my priorities straight.

The first app I downloaded was MLB Lite. I travel around the world with a Yankee garden gnome, tenderly christened Jorge. There are 3 pictures on the pushpin board of my office at work – one of a Japanese maple, one of the old Yankee Stadium, and one of Alex Rodriguez at the plate, from behind.

Is it really a surprise that when faced with a choice between the first game of the American League Division Series, the NY Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, and a first date with Mr. Perfect on Paper that I would chose Game 1?

The photo hanging over my computer at work -- A-Rod at the plate, from behind. Thank you telephoto lens

My diehard allegiance to the Bronx Bombers has been both the impetus and executioner’s axe of many a potential relationship. I once dated a boy who worked for the YES Network with the principal aim of securing season tickets. “What team do you root for?” is one of my 10 essential “get to know a person questions.” I can accept Phillies fans. Mets fans I have little tolerance for. Blue Jays fans I forgive because they’re probably Canadian and have no alternative home teams to root, root, root for. Red Sox fans?

Well, see exhibit 1:

Me: “I’m tired of dating smart boys. Enough with Rhodes Scholars. I want someone stupid.”

Friend: “Well then, I’ve got the guy for you. He’s a Red Sox Fan!”

Me: “Perfect.”

It's the Post Season, and my team has a 28th World Series to win

To some men, a girl who rain-checks dinner because she wants to watch “the game” at home with her friends (and garden gnome) is the holy grail. To others, it’s confusing — who wears the pants in this romance?

As the grounds keepers pulled the tarp over the Yankee Stadium infield Friday night and news filtered in that the game would be postponed, a friend turned to ask if rescheduling drinks with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper was worth it?

“Did you see C.C.’s last inning?” I cried.

To this she could offer no retort. A first drink with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper wasn’t going to be the only date rescheduled in October. It’s the Post Season, after all, and my team has a 28th World Series to win.

The 50 First Date Project: Like the Bachlorette, but a Blog and Classy

On By KathleenIn Adventure, Bio Pics, Dating6 Comments
I may not be Drew Barrymore, but in the movie called "My Life," I'm still the leading lady

One girl, 50 First Dates — it’s the kind of thing only attempted in a Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore movie.

I’m neither Kate Hudson nor Drew Barrymore, but in the movie called “My Life,” I’m the charmingly quirky leading lady who is perpetually single, frequently comic, rarely dramatic, and always up for a challenge.

One girl, 50 First Dates — it sounds like an act of desperation.

I prefer to think of it as part-ironic critique of today’s process of finding a mate, part-viable alternative to online dating or a friend’s/family member’s/co-worker’s ill-fated match-making plans…and part-cure for writer’s block.

So, what is the 50 First Date Project and how does it work?

Let’s face it, sometimes the First Date is the best date of any relationship.

What: The 50 First Date Project will become a sub-column within They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband as I meet selected Candidates for first drinks, first dinners, and first adventures. Think a literary version of the Bachlorette, but hopefully with less trash and more real-world insights into the way we date and fall in love now. Candidates don’t have to be potential Prince Charmings — potential date disasters are, in fact, encouraged to apply.

Who is the Candidate applying to have a first date with? Meet Me here.

Candidate Criteria*: Know or are a single guy between the ages of 25 and 40 who lives in the NYC metro area and searching for love? Think he/you will provide an entertaining first date story? Then apply to be a candidate for a First Date using the form below!

The application is considered incomplete until receipt of at least one tasteful photo, which should be emailed with the Candidate’s name/method of contact in the subject heading to: theytoldmetofindrichhusband@gmail.com.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

* Applications will be reviewed on a rolling basis. Men seeking a one-night stand should look to Craigslist. 2nd dates or steady relationships are not automatically ruled out by the mission statement of this project.  In the event that one of these first dates turns into something significant, the project will go on hiatus. Not every first date will be documented on They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband. No real names or identifying photos will appear in any 50 First Date Project related posts.

The Story of the New Yorker Who Vacationed in a Surf Colony

On By KathleenIn Uncategorized1 Comment
Could this be what my alternate reality looks like?

It was as if a Fairy Godmother had descended from a dusty cloud of stars, waved her wand and transformed me from face-paced urban snob to laid-back coastal hippie. The sea-salt-curled hair, keene sandals, drying wetsuit, and “it’s all good, man” attitude were just a few signs that I was no Manhattan-bred fashion plate slumming it for a holiday in trendy BoHo digs. Tofino, British Columbia, was rapidly molding me into someone genuinely, contently crunchy.

Even though I abhor the west coast and all its pretentious talk of laid-back living, every time I head to Vancouver, I start to rewrite my life-plan. I vow to give up my East Coast art world habitat for a slower life on the side of a mountain next to the sea.

British Columbia’s coast offers me everything I need to keep me happy: family friends as a social network, a viable art market, an overabundance of artisanal foods and locally-raised edibles and a cadre of outdoor activities.

The province of British Columbia overbounds with locally raised produce

For most people, a vacation is a break from reality. When my parents were first married, they lived in Vancouver, so for me, a vacation in Vancaouver and the surrounding landscape offer a legitimate alternative reality.

It was a disarming realization.

As at home as I felt in Vancouver, it was the far west Vancouver town of Tofino that got under my skin. The girl who lived in the fast lane and never dined out wearing anything less than a Diane von Fraustenberg frock and 3-inch heels had reset her watch to Tofino time (west coast time, or 1/2 NYC time, halved again), and “will she ever recover?” was a fair question to ask.

Could I give up a life managing the scene above for a life managing the scene below?

I woke up at sunrise to do yoga on the beach. Half my days were spent on a surfboard or hiking in a rainforest. I went out to dinner sans make-up, totting a Kelty backpack for a purse, dressed in a tee-shirt and still-wet all-terrain shoes that had just survived an afternoon kayaking expedition. I hadn’t showered since Sunday. It was Tuesday. My biggest daily decision was: do I wear the long yoga pants, or the cropped running capris?

I returned home for the first time begrudgingly. I refused to move the “Tofino App” off my droid’s homepage and continue to check the daily swell report.

Don’t be surprised if one day you find me walking down Main Street, Tofino. Instead of having Glenn Lowry’s post at MoMA, I’ll own an art gallery/kayak-shop/bakehouse called The Former Urbanite and spend my off-days surfing.

And instead of that proverbial rich boyfriend, I’ll have a boyfriend named Harmony. He’ll have long curly blond hair and we’ll walk through the coastal rainforests holding hands, neatly matched in our tie-dyed shirts.

Instead of the proverbial rich boyfriend, I'll have a boyfriend named Harmony. We'll be neatly matched in our coordinated tie-dyed clothes

And Here We were Worried About Tsunamis on our Vacation

On By KathleenIn Adventure, Family1 Comment
We were heading into tsunami zone. Little did we realize there was more to worry about at home

“You realize you’re heading straight into the heart of tsunami country,” my mother warned when we finalized our bookings for a family vacation to Tofino, British Columbia.

Tofino is a small town perched on Clayquot Sound, on the far west coast of Vancouver Island. In March 2011, when we were starting to consider the area as the celebration site of my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, there was a tsunami warning. People were evacuated. My mother thought twice.

“There’s only one road out of the town — the road along the coast. Oh! And there could be an earthquake!”

Nevertheless, we decided that the first growth rainforests and the pounding pacific, ideal for sea-kayaking and surfing, were worth the risk of a tsunami. But my mother packed her flippers, just in case.

The night before we left, I wrote a note to a friend: “Providing my kayak doesn’t get flipped by a whale, I don’t end up in a back brace after my intensive yoga retreat, or my surfboard doesn’t get swept out to sea, I should be back by Aug. 27. We’ll catch up then!”

I was more worried about my surf board being swept out into the Pacific than a hurricane back home

In all the things we tried to prepare for, it never occurred to us that we’d have to leave the earthquake and hurricane survival kits at home for our house sitters. Even though we’ve had numerous flights cancelled due to inclement weather, it never occurred to us we’d be stranded on the far, far west coast because of a storm named Irene.

It’s true that there is only one road that cuts through the heart of Vancouver Island, taking people from the more populated cities on the east coast to the rugged, untamed, ancient west coast. If you want to get from Nanimo and Tofino, you have to traverse 125 miles of narrow, winding asphalt with a maximum speed limit of about 40 mph.

To get to that road, you have to take a 2 hour ferry from Vancouver.

To get to Vancouver from New York, you have to fly 3,000 miles.

This storm looked pretty serious, and we're stuck 3,000 miles from home

Basically, to once again quote my mother, if we’re in Tofino and something happens back at the ranch, “we can do fuck all.” But what were the odds that something would happen back home and we’d have to hurry back? Small, surely. And then Brian called to tell us about the hurricane baring down on New York.

For the first time in 10 days, we flicked on the television and logged on the internet. Panic quickly followed. Our flight was cancelled. There’s no way home until Tuesday. What will happen to the old willows by the stream, with their short roots and their overgrown limbs? What about the dogs? Will Brian and Cliff be able to find the leashes?

While the boys are readying the yard, removing anything that could become a projectile, and battening down the hatches, I’m sitting on a bench in Vancouver’s Stanley Park, catching my breath after a 12k run and taking in the sunshine. The sail boats pass by and the there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

From my bench in Stanley Park, it's a glorious day in Vancouver.

They Warned Me I’d Find Love, the Summer 2011 Edition

On By KathleenIn Dating, Love, New York City, relationships2 Comments
The mating rituals of Banana Slugs give new meaning to the term "cock-blocking"

The Ariolimax columbianus, more commonly known as the Banana Slug, is ubiquitous in the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest. The Banana Slug is a hermaphrodite. When mating time rolls around, Banana Slugs engage in an act called “penis jousting.” Somehow, the slugs fight until one slug’s penis gets knocked off. The winner gets to be “the man.” The loser has to carry the eggs.

“Banana Slug mating rituals sound a lot like a Friday night in a Manhattan bar,” I told my guide as we sloshed through the green squishy stuff that covers the floor of the rainforest on Meares Island, a small island off the coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

Cock-blocking had suddenly taken on a new, more serious meaning.

My guide chuckled and, lost in the mental comparison I was drawing between slug life on Vancouver Island and the NYC dating scene, I slipped on a cedar plank.

Whoosh, slap, squish, thud <– Those are the sounds an eco-tourist makes as she falls in the forest.

There's a lot of green squooshy stuff in the rainforest. Where's my mountain man to help me up when I fall?

Down the trail, a fiance hoisted his fallen fiancee back to her feet —  another victim of the squooshy green stuff — while I flopped around, clumsily trying to make it onto all fours without eating anymore lichen in the process.

Where was my mountain man in shining plaid when I needed him?

A few days earlier, I arrived in the great Canadian City of Vancouver ready for 10 days in the woods, away from work, domestic duties, and dating in the city. Or so I thought.

As soon as my rental car drove across Vancouver’s city limits, my phone started beeping relentlessly. The little blue light that illuminates whenever I have an OkCupid message was flashing like a lighthouse beacon in a hurricane. When they warned me I’d find love on this Canadian adventure, they weren’t kidding.

Hello, Mr. Vancouver. I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation...

Warning! New matches ahead! Warning! New messages!

I opened the alerts icon in disbelief. I had been in Vancouver not more than 30 minutes, and already my inbox was overflowing.  There were notable similarities between the Vancouver men and the Brooklyn men OKCupid frequently found for me (why are they always in Brooklyn?!) — beards and plaid, in all their incarnations, were the standard uniform and a commitment to “sustainable living” was high on lists of interest. That’s where the similarities ended.

Good-bye hipster. Hello mountain man.

Good-bye bike-riding, semi-unemployed, struggling artist. Hello banker-turned-kayak-instructor who plays in two hockey leagues, sails on weekend and skis in the winter.

I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation. And apparently, it wasn’t just the sea-kayaking.