According to her ex-husband she’d manifested egomaniacal tendencies, was smug, was no good with the accounts. “All these people running around, wasting their time, supporting you!” was one of the last judgements she remembered passed on her, hurled at her, what, now some fifteen years ago?
Shows, things: The metal she herself hewed.
Rehashing press releases, that was what journalists were up to, was the conclusion from the critics populating the dinners she’d gone to, discussing the laudatory texts overwhelming the art magazines, written for everyone but her, she felt. She guessed she was an easy target for these young writers without care for knowing their history, the gallerists and curators chasing trends and cash and free drinks. As if she didn’t have to put in work to become “the establishment.” Bah!
She’d discovered most critics made their money composing the press releases for the shows they earned next to nothing to write on. It made her dizzy. Her wife handled the finances, thankfully. And the housekeeper her laundry.
