The Armory Show isn't all champagne and $9,000 McDonald's cups—for some forlorn souls, it can be a terribly lonely place, an invisible prison where sudden waves of profound isolation threaten to drown the poor gallery assistants in existential dread when there is NO ONE to peruse their wares.
But the painful truth is that wherever art is bought and sold, the Tree of Commerce must be watered with the blood of gallery assistants. Yet what poet sings songs to ensure their bitter tears of boredom have not streamed not in vain? Who (besides the gallery owners trying to cheat on their wives with their assistants) spares a moment's thought on them? Enter Gothamist LLC to fill this shameful void. Here: a humble photographic hymn to the bored and forgotten gallerinas. Let the world never forget their courageous sacrifice for art! Please let them update their Facebook profile in peace!
