Those who can't, curate.

I'm in Chicago. It's 2001. I hear about a gallery that's showing 'emerging' photographers. Ok, I'm emerging, like a snail from its shell, or a worm from the ground, or some other lowly creature. This sounds perfect. I make an appointment.

The gallery looks official. It has white walls, framed photos, giant flat drawers, hardwood floors, all the requisites. Upon closer inspection, I note that the framed photographs seem to have been taken by the owner of the gallery. They are blurry fashion shots. Even in my callow youth this gives me pause. But I remind myself that I can't afford to be a snob. And if her own work is on the wall, she's probably some rich kid right out of Columbia or SAIC. Maybe we can form a bond.

Then she comes out to meet me. It's Cruella Deville with an eighties hairdo. Huh.

We sit and she looks at a few of my pictures.

"Well," she sighs deeply, "I don't know how I could sell these."

Ok.

"They're so depressing. Who wants to look at depressing stuff? And they have this theme," she flutters her hands, "All this stuff from the 1950's. Who wants to look at her mother's house?"

Not my mother's house. I didn't grow up in the 1950's.

I move to close my box of prints, but she has picked it up and has her nose about an inch away from one of my pictures. She reaches out and pushes some invisible specs of dust around with the tip of her finger. "You're going to have to learn how to print," she says, looking at me pityingly.

EXCUSE ME?

I wish I could say that I shot back something like, "And you're going to have to learn how to shoot if you ever want to show anywhere besides your own gallery," but my inner bitch was asleep at the wheel.