Honesty and beauty—these are two nouns that, over the past 18 years, have often felt dangerous to embody in my profession. We spend our days chasing artists, money, reviews, constantly negotiating fragile egos and impossible expectations. Somewhere along the way, I became weaker, and somehow smaller.

“But I’m okay.” More importantly, “We are okay.” 

These were the words my business partner and I whispered to each other after another unsuccessful art fair. We repeated them, as if repetition itself could soften disappointment. Then we would begin again: another meticulous presentation, another carefully considered exhibition, another gamble packed into transit crates bound for Basel, Paris, or London. 

“We are good.”

For a long time, I believed resilience meant endurance. The art world rewards stamina, visibility, and constant motion. There is always another fair, another opening, another dinner, another opportunity that feels too important to refuse. Rest begins to resemble failure.

Eventually my body refused to participate. My mental and physical wellbeing began to fracture. I was clinically depressed. On the 10th anniversary of the gallery, I collapsed. Looking back, it was less a breaking point than an interruption. My body was asking a question my mind had been avoiding.