I’m trying to write a post right now, but I can’t think of a way to begin it. I want to say something about how I feel like an outsider in the art world, even though I know I’m within it. I started my career as a gallery girl. Now, I’m an art writer.
But whenever I got to an art fair, as I have been this week, I leave feeling profoundly distressed. Yesterday, at the Armory Show in New York, I arrived with David Everitt Howe. He left pretty quickly after for a lunch date. I wandered through the stalls by myself. I felt terrified, like I was in a foreign country, and I didn’t have the language to ask questions. The walk back to the subway, when I eventually left, was a frigid relief.
Whenever the couple in the apartment below us turns on their television, I stomp on the floor. They must not know what that means because the volume gets neither louder nor softer.
“Did those people drop their bowling ball again?” I imagine they say to each other.
When they first moved in last summer, Caleb reported that they were Australian — or at least had Australian-sounding accents. He ran into them outside, and they told him they had relocated to Brooklyn from Houston. They had three gigantic dogs, and a couch so dirty that Caleb couldn’t believe they were moving it into their new apartment. “I think they might be white trash,” he relayed to me mournfully on the car ride home from LaGuardia airport, where I had just landed after being trapped in the bowels of hell (Florida).
“Their dogs bark constantly, and their television is on night and day,” he continued. “Our floors vibrate. I think this is going to be problematic.”
Caleb’s fear infected me. I hated the neighbors immediately.