Writing in St. Moritz, Switzerland lands me on a slippery slope in more ways than one, besides accidentally smashing onto the pavement on occasion. After an article I wrote last year, I was chided (and social-media-blocked) by the wife of a long-time resident and former gallery owner with the following admonition: “The death of dealers is indiscretion.” And I was under the impression I was being laudatory and reverential.
This, in turn, instilled a hesitancy to simultaneously post my impressions of the handful of gallery shows that dot the bustling alpine village while still sharing my holiday with the participants of the story. There is a degree of familiarity with the fur-and-jewelry-clad community that return for decades throughout generations.
Life in the art world is like a Bildungsroman, a novel of formation and education where there is an enduring amount of information to absorb. In that regard, St. Moritz is about the most perfect place to take a family ski vacation, if you have as much an aversion to skiing as I do.