“Run the Card Again,” My Mother-in-Law Snapped. By Nightfall, Every Card Was Frozen—and the Penthouse Was Mine.

From the mezzanine overlooking the gallery floor, everyone looked small. They drifted across the polished concrete like pieces arranged on a chessboard, all clean lines and studied nonchalance, moving between pools of light that illuminated canvases with pretentious titles—angry slashes of color, dripping geometry, thick oil laid on like frosting. continue reading …