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It’s been almost 14 years since I opened Venus Over Manhattan. Here is how the story begins and ends.

When collecting contemporary art became my obsession, I went all in—and made the bold move of marrying my art dealer. Then I was inspired to write a book about it (Collecting Contemporary for Taschen, 2006), which became an art world bestseller. I followed this up with four years of articles at the New York Observer. They became very popular—especially my bombshell “Occupy Art Basel” parody piece (which divided opinion). Soon after my writing became popular, I quit.

As a collector, I was a risk-taker. Enamored with the monumental “Celebration” series by Jeff Koons, I signed up for two (it was only 20 percent down, and you could pay the rest during production). A few years later, Alex Rotter suggested I consign one as the cover lot at Sotheby’s—and he was right. (Hanging Heart, 1994–2006, made a world record for a living artist when it sold in 2007.) In 2016, I also sold the cover lot at Christie’s, Jean-Michel Basquiat’s 1982 Untitled (Devil), for another world record. More recently, I did my own evening sale, “ADAM.”

I was always advised to keep trophy hunting and playing the art market, so in 2012 I decided to do something new (and something that made absolutely no sense): open a gallery and curate shows.

Everyone told me not to, so of course I did.

Suddenly all the big hugs and air kisses evaporated. I was up against seasoned veterans with sharpened skills and razor-sharp elbows. Putting my name on the door was of no appeal, so I dubbed it Venus Over Manhattan, after the Wheeler Williams sculpture that hangs on the front of 980 Madison. We were on the third floor, next to the savvy young Joe Nahmad and right below the mighty Gagosian empire. It was a love-it-or-hate-it name, prompting Maurizio Cattelan to scratch it into my glass door… passive aggression that temporarily ticked me off. Years later, I moved downtown, and all those galleries have moved out.

My first show was called “À Rebours,” after Huysmans’s 19th-century novel about a decadent aristocrat who loses all his money on an art collection he hangs in the dark. I did the same as him, with a majestic Warhol “Indian,” a David Hammons piece with African masks, and paintings by Gustave Moreau and Henri Fuseli. Few of the visitors recognized the reference and even fewer cared.

One day, a prankster-thief slipped in and stole a small Dalí off the wall—undetected by the guard (yes, it was that dark). CNN and the BBC were all over it. In two months, Interpol found him hiding out in Italy and arrested him at the airport as he returned to the U.S.A. A show about a decadent nobleman who ruins himself buying art he hangs in the dark, and that results in the theft of a Dalí? A great beginning that most probably should’ve been the end.

It wasn’t.

The dark and tragic Jack Goldstein earned me my first New York Times review and some major sales, but nothing could top Roberta Smith’s full-page features for the great Peter Saul and the too oft forgotten H. C. Westermann. Then there was the Cattelan show when his market was in a coma (a time to buy), post-Guggenheim hangover and pre-banana. Each piece was locked in a cell with a peephole, like in Duchamp’s Étant donnés (1946–66)—we even had the Dead Kennedy!

For one of the Calder shows, I installed spotlights and fans, casting rotating shadows on the walls as Max Roach’s rhythms pulsed in the dark. I began to doubt myself, until the reclusive David Hammons wandered in unannounced and spent two hours marveling at the show. He quietly, albeit briefly, restored my faith.

In “Fétiche” I mixed historical African masterpieces with works by Jeff Koons, Richard Prince, and Damien Hirst. Another time, monumental totems from Vanuatu were mixed with Calder gouaches; bold collectors bought them all. The only bummer was when visitors asked me: “Are you the artist?”

Critics matter, and I’m proud of the 40 New York Times reviews and features Venus garnered. I once did a William N. Copley (CPLY) show in my friend’s 100-year-old Basel chocolate shop. It was open after hours with music, chocolate, and cognac; even Glenn Lowry showed up. Back in New York, we doubled down with a recreation of William Copley’s forgotten 1948 Los Angeles gallery. With his brother-in-law, Copley had shown Magritte, Max Ernst, and Man Ray, but sold almost nothing and was out of business within a year. He was a brilliant collector—one who tragicomically died dead broke.

I made a quixotic habit of showing many important but unsung artists, like Maryan, the tragic Auschwitz survivor. Good things sometimes happened: He posthumously scored two museum shows, one in Miami and one in Tel Aviv. None of this was all that long ago, but the art world has such a short memory . . . tempus fugit.

My favorite art fair booth was a solo presentation of John Dogg, a pseudonym for the visionary Richard Prince, at Frieze Masters in London. “John” hadn’t had a show since his one-off at the fabled Colin de Land’s American Fine Arts in 1987. The booth passed virtually unnoticed. In the art world, no good deed goes unpunished.

Jeff Koons gave me the great idea of celebrating the Chicago outsider Joseph Yoakum, who subsequently ended up with a retrospective at the Art Institute, MoMA, and the Menil Collection. And I have to mention the magical Richard Mayhew, the painter of “Mindscapes.” After several strong shows, he finally received some of the acclaim he had deserved for decades—luckily before he passed last summer.

We did several good fairs in Hong Kong, Miami, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and London, but do you want to know the truth about fair committees? They gleefully ask you to get down on your hands and knees, wag your tail, and beg for forgiveness. Then, callously, they waitlist you in permanentia.

Opening a gallery as a collector really does succeed in alienating both sides. Dealers distrust you, and most collectors don’t get what you’re up to, so they turn up their noses in disapproval—or even worse, they resent you for switching sides.

I surrounded myself with a great young team who did a lot of the heavy lifting. They have been a great part of the experience. I’ve seen it from both sides, and now it’s time to wave the white flag… veni, vidi, but not vici… I didn’t win. But Venus was never about winning.

It’s bittersweet when I think how excited I was for “Piston Head,” the art-car exhibitions we did in Miami and L.A., back in 2013 and 2016. Then there was the 2014 retrospective of Raymond Pettibon’s surfer drawings that I titled, “Are your motives pure?” At least Raymond understood mine were, because one night, over a bottle of gin and a bag of Doritos, he created a 10-foot surfer mural on a gallery wall.

Stories for another day. That was then—and this is the end of that chapter now. There will be no pivot to consulting nor private dealing. I’m going back to air kisses, handshakes, fist bumps, side hugs, head nods, winks, waves, big smiles, thumbs up, and good vibes. Can’t wait to see you at the next art fair!

Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes.