What was I thinking—or was I thinking at all? Let me set the stage: It was 1994, I was young, it was the 90s (so you know, anything seemed possible), and I had money burning a hole in my pocket. On a total whim, I, Holly Seon-Wilson, decided to open an art gallery—because, why not? It felt like the next logical step in my life journey. I called it The Village Gallery... and, spoiler alert: it lasted a grand total of 9 months.
I walked into that lease like I was signing up for a new gym membership. There was no hesitation from the owner either, and why would there be? He saw me coming from a mile away—nervous, overly eager, and blind to the red flags. My eagerness must’ve come across as confidence, because before I knew it, I was signing the dotted line with the enthusiasm of someone who thought they were buying a winning lottery ticket.
Did I ask any questions? Of course not! What could go wrong with opening an art gallery in a part of town known for its thriving businesses, like the local dry cleaners, a hair salon, and a tax prep office? (I’m sure their clientele were dying to buy fine art, right?)
So there I was, ready to make my mark on the art world. The gallery itself? It was filled with beautiful artwork—pieces from many talented artists working on consignment. These artists didn’t even need to hang out in the gallery, which meant I got to spend long, lonely hours in my pristine space, waiting for customers who never came.
Turns out, the gallery wasn’t exactly in a high-demand area for art collectors. Who knew that the people living nearby—mostly low-income families, transient workers, and elderly folks on fixed incomes—wouldn’t be lining up to drop hundreds of dollars on paintings? Shocking, I know. The local "demographics" didn’t exactly scream "art aficionados."
And then came the day when I knew I had made a huge mistake.
It started off innocent enough: I spotted an elderly man peeking through the gallery window. My heart leaped! Finally, a potential customer! Desperate for foot traffic, I did what any hopeful gallery owner would do—I rushed outside and invited him in.
Big mistake.
The man wobbled in with the grace of a newborn giraffe, and the unmistakable scent of eau de cheap whiskey hit me like a freight train. He didn’t just overstay his welcome; he set up camp. He proceeded to talk my ear off in what can only be described as a nonstop stream of incoherent babbling. And let’s not forget the alcohol fumes that seemed to get stronger with every passing minute.
I smiled, nodded, and prayed for deliverance, all while wondering if maybe—just maybe—this wasn't the thriving gallery experience I had imagined.
Then came the real kicker. As I glanced around, nervously weighing my escape options, it dawned on me: The only way out was the front door. I had signed a lease for a place with no rear exit! No emergency escape hatch! Just me, this tipsy gentleman, and the ever-narrowing walls of my panic.
That warm, fuzzy feeling I had when I first dreamed of running an art gallery? Yeah, that was long gone. Replaced with the sinking realization that I had been way too hasty in signing that contract.
So what did I learn from this experience? A lot. Namely, that it pays to do your research. Maybe, just maybe, I should’ve taken a few minutes to join the local Chamber of Commerce, taken a business course or two, and asked a few important questions like, “What’s the turnover rate in this area?” or “Is there a back door in case of emergency or... well, anything?”
Because, let me tell you, signing a contract too soon? That’s a recipe for a very short-lived gallery and some very long 9 months.