The Alexander Gallery is haunted by phantoms of the past. I imagine curating a show in a space like this is equivalent to checking in at the Chelsea Hotel, hosting a party at CBGD (impossible, thank you wholesale), or ordering the bacon burger at JG Melon. It’s a New York time capsule, nostalgically self-indulgent, and rightly so.
When you inherit a legacy like this, it's easy to fall into the trap of repetition. At times, this repetition is driven by pressure, a sense or honor, or frankly, fear. There's an anxiety about living up to whatever was achieved before you arrived — the feeling of stepping into shoes that are too big to fill but wearing them anyway. They might guide you down the same path, but that's precisely the issue. It takes more than just a hint of confidence (or naivete) to break free from this cycle.