If you create long enough, something curious happens: opinions drift in from the edges. Unsolicited advice. And occasionally, a hater who seems deeply committed to misunderstanding you. We’ve had one of those for years now—anonymous emails, fake name, pretend address...we all know this type.
And honestly? We’re actually grateful in a way for him.
Not because his messages are insightful (they’re not), or because they offer anything useful (they don’t), but because he reminds us—over and over again—of something essential: What we do is not about him.
It’s not about approval. It’s not about fitting neatly into someone else’s idea of “good,” “serious,” or “acceptable.” It’s not about pleasing a faceless critic hiding behind a keyboard.
What WE'VE, as a team, built over 20 years—this gallery, this space, this body of work—is about exploration. About curiosity. About giving artists permission to follow the thread of what excites them and seeing where it leads. It’s about sparking creativity, not policing it.
When you’re making work that actually matters to you—work that makes your soul sing—you will confuse some people. You will irritate others. And a few will feel so unsettled by your freedom that they’ll try to shrink it.
That’s not a failure. That’s a signal.
The truth is, haters often think they’re the audience. They’re not. They’re just background noise reminding you that you’re moving, experimenting, risking something.
So we keep going.
We keep choosing curiosity over consensus. We keep making space for art that asks questions instead of answering them. We keep building a gallery that invites play, discovery, and creative courage for all.
And every once in a while, when another anonymous email arrives, we smile—because it confirms what we already know: We’re doing the work we’re supposed to be doing and building the space that reflects our values.
And since I rarely get the chance to respond to my favorite critic, I’d like to briefly address the idea of a “bourgeois” lifestyle.
Many of you who follow the gallery or read this blog already know this, but I didn’t grow up cushioned by comfort. My family struggled financially for much of my childhood. I have a handicapped brother with cerebral palsy who endured up to 100 seizures a day and underwent a hemispherectomy at the age of eleven. For a period of our lives, food stamps weren’t an abstraction—they were survival.
This space was not simply built through work, but through persistence and belief. We fought to create a place where even the least fortunate among us feels welcomed, seen, and accepted. The sign on our door reads “all are welcome” because that isn’t branding—it’s the point. What we strive to create here is a space where every person, without exception, can feel that they belong.
