I’ve few claims to expertise in the art world except decades addicted to looking at it, wandering around it, living with it – and wondering about it. I pay especial attention to art that tells a story, art that delights, and art that reveals the human condition.
What I can say is that at this point I’m a world citizen. Lived in Paris 10 years, two years in Montreal, a year in India but excluding the monsoon, a summer in Brussels, two summers in Budapest, three summers in Sardegna, five summers on the Cote d’Azur, pilgrimages to Amsterdam for 47 years + off&on citizenship in Boston for 25 years. And I’m a citizen for 40 years of that world state called New York City.
I’ve always come to a field from the outside. And somehow that leverage point sometimes moves mountains and reveals fault lines in traditions – even those as incestuous as an ingrown toenail. Let it be said I’m non-academic though as someone trained far too long at the Wharton School I’m naturally focused on the marketing of art and art as a business – and I remain in utter admiration of artists as the ultimate entrepreneurs.
Out with the old Paris dealers, Italian patrons, Dutch middle class decorators, middle class art fairs, Mad Ave star system and monetized art in general. In with the online, the happenings, the feeding of art addicts, the incubators. Incubators mean turning factories into art studios renting for $500 a month – as our friend Press has done in New Orleans. Art everywhere means street art, starting with those magnificent 3D artists, computer compositors and those who simply celebrate the forms a human body can take.
I’m an art bum. I wander the world in search of the special kind of experience of walking into a room, feeling I’d stumbled in on a reunion of very old friends, losing all sense of time, utterly in rapture at the assemblage, lighting, placement, limits on what was shown. I hang out in artist studios, sit in Buddhist meditation in front of works of art for no important reason. I guess I’m in love, with art.