I decided to head straight to the gallery and scope out the situation before checking in to my hotel. The arts district, like my neighborhood in San Francisco, was comprised of blocks and blocks of warehouses that had been carved into artist spaces and funky little galleries by the first wave of gentrification. The second wave was now moving in. Giant condo developments, big name galleries, and restaurants run by celebrity chefs were beginning to sprout from the landscape, carving out space and pushing out the original, blue collar inhabitants along with the artists who couldn’t make the transition. It was always the artists who were good at networking, good at talking to rich people, and good at laying a layer of conceptual BS on top of their work who survived and flourished in this kind of milieu. Usually, but not always, they were the ones who came from more privileged backgrounds and knew how to work the system. I had seen it before and expected to see it in various places and iterations on into the foreseeable future.
I found parking half a block down from the new space and approached it warily. One third of an old brick warehouse, sand blasted clean and earthquake retrofitted, it loomed over the street. The roll up door and loading dock had been replaced with a wall of glass. A white cargo van was parked out front and a couple of guys in basketball shorts and baggy uniform polos were unloading carefully wrapped and crated art. I poked my head in the open door and saw Emilio directing traffic. The space was as immense and white and minimal as I had expected. A couple of drywall contractors were working in the back, finishing up a wall. An electrician on a high lift worked on installing lights. Emilio glanced over and saw me standing in the doorway.
“Justin! Thank God you’re here,” he called out and marched toward me across the stylishly stained concrete floor. “It’s never going to be done,” he said, panic rising in his voice. “Never. You have to help.”
“I’m here to help,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “Let’s start with a list, break it down, prioritize. Is there an office? We need to order some food. You look like you’re about to faint.”
****
The week went by quickly. I spent fourteen hour days at the gallery helping Emilio check items off the punch list we drew up together. I ordered and set up an internet connection and WiFi network, helped paint, hung art on the walls, consulted on placement of sculptural pieces, supervised contractors and cleaners, contacted an old art school friend who did graffiti murals and convinced him to do a piece outside the front door, organized catering and valet services for the opening, set up spreadsheets to track invitations and RSVPs, helped interview and hire a gallery attendant, and generally took care of every small detail I could think of. By Saturday afternoon everything was ready. Emilio and I were just going over the list one last time when a giant, deep burgundy SUV pulled up outside the front doors and Valerie emerged from its plush depths, phone glued to her ear. We watched her silently issue a command, end the call, then turn to her new gallery and take in the scene. Her eyes roved over the front of the building. She gave a sharp nod of approval, then her gaze shot back to the new mural to the right of the doors. My muralist friend was fascinated by underground pipes and conduits and sewer systems. He worked with spray paint, building up intricately detailed scenes of the city infrastructure below the streets. He had just finished the piece that morning. Valerie stood for a moment transfixed, then turned and entered. Her heels on the concrete echoed in the cavernous space.
“That mural was your work Justin,” she stated.
“Yeah,” I answered. “He’s hot right now with people who know street art. I was lucky to get him. Old friend. The exterior was boring. You needed some cred.”
“Well now we have it.” She cracked a small smile. “I hope you got the friends and family rate. How’s everything else?”
****
Voices raised in a cacophony of conversation, bottles sliding in and out of ice buckets, minimalist piano music, white teeth of the haute bourgeoisie flashing, men in blazers over T-shirts, women in severe, all black outfits—the opening was going splendidly. I was ready to slip out the back door and retreat to my hotel but wanted one last look at the prize of the show: the Olafur Eliasson sculpture. It was one of his wall mounted assemblages, built up out of layers of mirrored glass, hand formed into