The headlines blare: “Trump and Conservatives Get the PBS (home to Sesame Street) and NPR Cuts They’ve Wanted for Decades.” Kermit and Miss Piggy, et al., kicked to the curb. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
Robert Armstrong coined the acronym Taco (Trump Always Chickens Out) for the President’s pattern of backtracking on his hyperbolic threats of global tariffs. I’ve devised the art equivalent, Salsa: Scribes Always Love Sensational Apocalypse. Why, you might ask? Doomsaying journalistic hype translates to clickbait; and, invariably, none of these writers make, buy, or sell art.
Markets—art and every other—function in cycles, and have since the beginning of recorded time. The Instagram-foreshortened attention spans of most of today’s art prognosticators and participants cause them to fail to recollect (if they are cognizant of it at all) of a time far worse than the present.
The Nahmads and Mugrabis used to be the art world equivalent of the Hatfields and the McCoys, two neighboring 19th-century families in Appalachia that waged war over a stolen pig, a contested romance, and longstanding feuds. Now they are actually neighbors and invest together. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachterk.
Greater than the Great Recession of 2007 to 2009 (shouldn’t it have been referred to as the Not-So-Hot Recession?) was that of 1991 to 1996, when the market didn’t just contract, it evaporated. I vividly remember tumbleweeds rolling down the auction aisles from one day to the next (I’m dating myself). Take it from the master herself, Roberta Smith, in a 1991 New York Times article entitled, “SoHo Adapts to Leaner Times With a Changing Gallery Scene,” that I have used in my lectures for nearly as long:
The Frenzy Is Over… In some ways, these dealers are making the best of a drastically altered situation: the shopping frenzy of the 1980s is over and the secondary, or resale, market has shrunk; collectors are buying more selectively, taking more time to make up their minds and expecting to get more for their money.
“I feel optimistic,” [dealer Diane] Brown said. “I think it’s a time of great opportunity. Anyone who says they haven’t had a decline in business is lying. But now there won’t be speculators. It will make everybody be better, think harder, work harder.”
Judging by how many times the cycle described above has repeated since then, it is safe to say that there are further periods of rampant speculation to come. Rinse and repeat.
Swiss publisher and collector Christina Bechtler, who founded the arts conference Engadin Art Talks with Hans Ulrich Obrist in 2010 (I serve on the advisory board), summed up the quandary on a recent call as follows: “The problem is that passion, involvement, and time have been consumed by the market.” As Billy Joel sang in 1976 (another recessionary period), “Say goodbye to Hollywood.” I’d add, “And say goodbye to unbridled short-term profiteering off art.” For now, anyway.
Like a hood ornament atop an old car, I was on hand daily at Phillips this month, gallery-sitting for the “Hoarder 6,” the latest and last of my series of exhibitions and no-reserve online auctions. While doing so, I had a revelation about how to reinvigorate the hackneyed ecosystem of selling art.
The market is wounded but in rude health—and I’m not merely referring to soiled handbags, old bones, interplanetary rocks, and smelly “game-worn” basketball sneakers. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
Stewarded by the young Phillips specialists on hand, I made acquaintances with their clients, many of whom were in their 20s, contrary to the crap you’ve undoubtedly read about that generation moving on from—or not having an interest in—art. All the while, I painstakingly teased bids where I could. My epiphany was breathtakingly simple, bordering on cliché. What’s needed is a less transactional generosity of spirit that is characterized by patient explication and slow-burning care and consideration. There, I said it, but it’s true.
The current model of peddling art, unchanged for more than 150 years, resembles the insurance syndicate Lloyd’s of London in 1871, with the monied few selling services to the monied few: Think of the backrooms of galleries small, medium, and mega, still. As far back as I can remember, dealers have been paying lip service to nurturing new collectors to broaden the art landscape, but for the most part, their words have rung hollow.
Firstly, by selling works that I’ve collected over the years (as well as art made by myself and, on occasion, my family) at no reserve, the highest bid—regardless of how low—takes the works. In doing so, I have managed to reach out to artists and others that would never have conceived of crossing the auction-house threshold, yet commit to buying—for a few hundred bucks, in some instances. “My loss is your gain” is the tagline.
Soon there won’t be anymore dinosaur skeletons left, or meteors for that matter—enough, for Christ’s sake. These things should exclusively be for the benefit of research institutes, museums, and universities, not exclusively celebrated as baubles in rich hedge funders’ houses. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
After letting go of so much (674 pieces over six years, to be exact), often for so little, I probably have among the most acute understandings of art values on the planet. You needn’t worry, though: There’s plenty left in my holdings, including a painting I bought by 93-year-old Peter Blake downstairs at Phillips, while hawking my wares a floor above. While some of the works exceeded expectations, often they didn’t, which happens with more frequency nowadays.
What’s copiously clear in the process is that we need to reassess art’s seemingly arbitrary pricing, while factoring in the unavoidably high costs of rent, staff, and fairs. Something’s got to give—lower prices (starting with emerging artists) and fewer fairs, for starters—and fast. Valuations of art, old and recently made, are unsustainable in the short, medium, and long term. For that matter, it’s not just artworks that need reassessing. Add into the mix the high cost of real estate, cars, clothes, and food, too!
The Art Dealers Association of America just announced the cancellation of its New York event this year. One fewer fair this cycle is no big deal. From the tragedy that was Covid (my son Adrian and I never fully recovered our sense of smell), the one good result was that there were no—as in zero—art fairs for a year.
Every time I lecture, which is a lot (sorry for those who have agonized through them), I repeat the refrain that attendees are welcome to visit my live/work space in New York City, if they are interested. You, dear readers, are no exception.
Zella Nutt made an arduous bus trip from Virginia to visit my house and mutually share art and experiences—we inspired each other and you are welcome, too—if you’re as nice as she and her mom were! Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
Back in April, I took a four-hour train trip, followed by an additional two-hour car ride to rural Front Royal, Va., to speak at the Melissa Ichiuji Gallery. The customary invitation to pass by my place was taken up by audience members Layla Nutt and her daughter, who took an arduous bus journey to the city last week. Her 9-year-old, Zella, came bearing a freshly painted canvas she made for me. As I generally relate better to children and animals than adults, I was happy to spend a few hours touring them through my studio and collection. Here is what Layla wrote upon returning:
Good art makes you think or feel something. Great art has the capacity to make you do something. Your art in this instance was more than a sculpture or a painting, it was an unforgettable core memory, though for Zella it was the Kenny-toilet paper roll!
Living life guarded and overcomplicating things, after seeing that it’s possible to live another way, I’ve adopted what I call the ‘Kenny Principle’: leave the door open and offer open invitations. I now accept others and myself more and make sure to leave space for surprises. And I’ll always be grateful to you for that lesson.
Artists are increasingly taking the reins and pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, pursuing unorthodox paths to making it all work. In other words, don’t throw in the towel or raise the white flag in capitulation just yet: Art is alive and a-thriving. But fear not, this isn’t the beginnings of another humiliating song—just a spoken word performance. Can you imagine the embarrassment and consternation of my kids? Apologies to all in advance. (I have included the full text below.)
About two weeks ago, I visited Dan Colen’s Sky High Farm in Upstate New York with my son Sage to see Dan’s first benefit/biennial to raise funds for his expanded agricultural enterprise, which supplies free food, job training, and educational programs for those less fortunate. It was an awe-inspiring, ambitious undertaking to behold.
Leo Koenig built his Andes, N.Y. house and storage and exhibition facilities with his very own bare hands. If I had a hammer… it would be nothing short of a disaster. The community is growing and abounds with good will. I loved it. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
The approximately 50 artist-participants, who took three years to corral, constituted a broad array of talent of varied cultural backgrounds, from a wide geographic area. It was a very impressive and admirable alternative to the status quo. For the benefit of the farmers (and crops), I stayed well clear of the tractors and heavy machinery.
Me and Sage on the way to Upstate New York to get away and see some art at Dan Colen’s farm and Leo Koenig’s setup. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
I am having a solo show next month in Chicago at Old Friends, an upstart gallery launched in 2023 by Fawn Penn, directed by Delia Pelli-Walbert, and curated by Bianca Bova. Being me, I had to ask Fawn if their name is a made-up moniker, due to the fact it rhymes with a certain exceedingly annoying actor—it’s not. What I find especially intriguing is the ceramic studio Fawn also initiated, a community-based facility, in their own words:
The Digs Chicago is a 501c3 ceramics studio in Chicago’s West Town neighborhood co-founded in November of 2020 by Fawn Penn and Zoe Minzenberger that serves the public, as well as 100 members artists, 25 of whom are in-house resident artists with their own private studios. The members are the core of the community and run events and programming. The Digs spans 6,000 square feet in a sunny industrial loft building, shrouded in plants, with frequent dog visitors, offering a variety of programs beginner-intermediate ceramic classes, open houses, art sales, and member programming.
On the expansion front, at least reflective of an uptick in the art economy, if not (generally speaking) living artists: Joe Nahmad and his family are relocating to a new Manhattan space. In typical art-speak (i.e., half-truths, at best), Joe told me that nothing was signed but to call him in a month or so for an update. It didn’t take long to get the lowdown only a few hours later over a summer lunch with an esteemed gallerist who confirmed the address and that the deal was already done and dusted:
Trophy Building: Ideal Grand Residence, Art Gallery, Foundation, or Headquarters $26,000,000 CONTRACT SIGNED
53 East 77th Street has gone through many permutations as a single-family mansion, Funk and Wagnall’s library, Cello restaurant, a recording studio, and currently is used to market museum-quality furniture…Phenomenal location, as it is right off Madison Avenue across from The Carlyle and The Mark Hotel. A buyer could convert this 14,500 sq ft+ building into a grand mansion (or multi-floor secondary market emporium, I’d add).
The Nahmads and Mugrabis used to be the art world version of the Hatfields and the McCoys, neighboring 19th-century families in Appalachia that waged war over a stolen pig, a contested romance, and longstanding grievances. Now I can report the billionaire art dynasties will be neighbors, after long ago putting aside their differences and co-investing in deals, which I’ve written about since 2015 (beginning in New York magazine) and memorialized in a work of art, which both families own prints of.
The Hatfields and McCoys—I mean the Nahmads and Mugrabis— put down the guns after long-simmering competition and not only coinvest on art but are actually neighbors in real life on the Upper East Side off Madison. Galleries fold while others open—as usual, the one’s with deepest pockets fare the best. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter
More direct than his Nahmad counterpart, Alberto “Tico” Mugrabi replied to my query in his inimitable fashion: “Hi bro hope your well yes my offices will move to 77st it will be great … it will not be open to the public.” For the property pervs, the address is 75 E. 77th Street, it was listed for $19,450,000, and if you need more, here’s a link.
Things are not exactly rosy, just yet. I acknowledge that plenty are frayed around the edges: Art advisors suing over accusations of sexual misdeeds and financial misconduct, gallery owners quitting the trade, with one writing an auto-hagiography (giving birth to a novel literary form in the process), celebrating his unprecedented accomplishments (which he kept reminding us of), in little more than a decade, while another misanthropic rabid dealmaker declared his intent to seek spiritual awakenings, healing, and higher consciousness.
I adore Kathy and her recently deceased dog, Bertie, and I am certain she will pull through, but perhaps she should have called her gallery something else. Photo Courtesy Kenny Schachter
I adore Kathy Grayson and her recently deceased dog, Bertie, and know they will pull through; but, galleries—many more in addition to the Hole—that I won’t get into just yet are struggling to meet payments to artists and employees. I just think that when galleries have been paid for art, it’s the law, both morally and legally, to pay the people who are owed the money. Or to close down, especially dealers with more than one venue that oftentimes can’t be sustained. The hole usually only gets deeper, and it’s always the creatives and workers that bear the brunt.
They all seem to complain of a flawed system while pornographically prospering from it beyond imagination. Sordid, yes, but I won’t deny it made for entertaining reading.
This quote, penned by Tennessee Williams (1911–83)—whose innumerable successes included The Glass Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, among others (he didn’t leave much room for anyone else, did he?)—summed things up perfectly:
The world is violent and mercurial—it will have its way with you. We are saved only by love—love for each other and the love that we pour into the art we feel compelled to share: being a parent; being a writer; being a painter; being a friend. We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.
Speaking of love: How I relish the opportunity to read Roberta Smith’s upcoming interview with none other than OG maniac Larry G, in Numero Magazine, founded in France in 1998 by Elisabeth Djian. Lord, what I would have given to be a fly on the wall during her interview. You heard it here first.
And now, the spoken word:
Everyone’s complaining
the market’s past its top
Art’s not going anywhere
it’s time for them to stop
They say the kids moved on
they’re after other stuff
A word to all the pundits:
we’ve read and heard enough
Meteors and bones
millions have been spent
That shit is for museums
Sorry for my vent
Experiences and jerseys
I’d rather have more art
You’re welcome to my studio
A perfect place to start
Adam’s shut his gallery
that’s nothing you should fear
He’s flying off to Montauk
I wouldn’t shed a tear
The sun has set on Blum
He’s heading for the hills
One too many art fairs
He’s had it paying bills
But when has it been different?
The market’s always tough
Yes, they’ll be more closures
They’ve simply had enough
Nahmads and Mugrabis
The whales are on the move
Now open up the field
Let others find their groove
No reason to lose hope
Art is in our genes
We’ll make it through this downturn
Art’s still got its sheen
Don’t throw in the towel
No reason to retreat
Don’t raise the white flag
Art won’t miss a beat