In the late 70s, a gallery was run out of an apartment one floor below my first apartment in the Village. The building was very old-school South Village, sprawling over most of a blockfront, filled with grandmas and eccentrics, some of whom seemed to never go outside. Nan Goldin briefly lived in an apartment down the hall from me.
To me it seemed cool and stylish to have all those art people coming to openings, until the “gallerist” made it clear to some neighbors that they were not really welcome to pop in and look at the things pinned to the walls.
Suddenly, the half filled cups of bad white wine sitting on the floor in the hallway, or the packed elevator, or the people wandering the halls looking for the stair didn’t seem so terrific, and some grandma called the landlord. Gallery over.
It’s a wonderful idea for the art world, but not so terrific to live next to. Semi-public uses of private spaces are illegal in New York City for a reason: other people need some semblance of peace and privacy, and two bedroom apartments aren’t designed to handle large crowds.
9
Here in Hove (and Brighton) there have been Open Houses twice a year with art works, in various forms, on show for sale. They are increasingly popular, all of which makes it dismaying that the Council has reduced the number of works on show in the town's Museum (so much of it is consigned to a lock-up store in Newhaven). Of course, these shows also enable residents to sarisfy their natural nosiness and discover design and furnishing ideas.
2
Fairly sure Pauline Lethen's original Holland Tunnel Gallery — located in her Williamsburg backyard's shed — predates many of the other Brooklyn galleries described in the article. I wouldn't doubt that some of these hipsters got the idea from her (I even thought the shed pictured at the beginning was her gallery). Ms. Lethen (an artist) has always been a vibrant, interesting host at gallery openings.
3
Fostering a sense of intimacy? Hah. Rather, Veblen had it right: invidious comparison and exclusivity.
4
When we looked for a mechanic in our new place of residence, North Carolina, we found a kind man whose employees worked on cars in the parking lot. His building was devoted to his wife's art--the best space was reserved for the gallery. It was a wonderful place to wait for my car to be fixed.
15