The Things We Do for Money
Some people even work for it.
Which is exactly why I found myself, once again, on Mallorca. Business meetings, site visits, conversations, concepts—all those things that sound considerably less poetic than “an artistic journey,” but tend to pay invoices with far greater reliability.
Between tapas, meetings, real estate, geomantic questions, and the noble struggle of surviving several languages at once with at least a shred of dignity, there was still one free afternoon left. And naturally, that afternoon had to lead me to the place I drift toward almost instinctively, even in unfamiliar cities: galleries.
Not out of tourist obligation. Not because of that peculiar cultural gymnastics where people stand in front of a painting, nod thoughtfully, and later over a glass of white wine claim it moved them deeply. But for a very simple reason: if you create images, you need to look at images. If you stage spaces, you need to learn how to read them. And if you claim to engage with art not only as a producer but as someone who understands it, then your own eye needs regular friction against other people’s positions.
That afternoon I visited four very different places: Galería Pelaires, Gallery RED, Gerhardt Braun Gallery, and ABA ART. Four spaces, four attitudes, four very different ways of presenting art—and with them, four lessons in what art actually becomes once it enters the market.
At ABA ART, I encountered a series of large-scale works by Jaime Sicilia. Reduction pushed almost to the edge of meditation: expansive surfaces, minimal variation, material, light, and a noble kind of stillness. These works rely less on narrative tension and more on physical presence—on the relationship between surface, light, and space. You don’t look at them the way you look at a traditional painting; you experience them almost like an architectural element.
Personally, I found less immediate access there, perhaps because my own eye responds more strongly to symbolism, figuration, and internal tension. But that is precisely where their quality lies. These are works made for spaces where calm, material luxury, and quiet presence matter. For collectors of refined architecture, this makes complete sense. The visit is worthwhile for that reason alone: it shows very clearly how much presentation and spatial context become part of the work itself.
Gerhardt Braun Gallery was entirely different. There was tension in the room immediately. Different positions, different temperaments, more friction. A large portrait with real presence, a fragile drawing with psychological depth, works that weren’t simply decorative but seemed determined to say something. The space felt less like a sales display and more like a conversation. That is rare.
Even more interesting was the fact that the gallery explicitly encouraged visitors to photograph works and share them on social media. That sounds trivial, but it is actually quite intelligent. It reveals a mindset that sees visibility not as a threat, but as an extension of the work itself. You didn’t get the feeling that you were expected to whisper reverently. You got the sense that dialogue was welcome.
Gallery RED works in a completely different way again. It is less a single traditional gallery and more a fragmented system of several smaller gallery spaces, all located just a few steps from one another. Almost like a small network of micro-galleries operating under the same concept. You don’t move through one clearly defined exhibition space. You move from one room to the next, from one artistic position to another, from one visual language to the next.
That is exactly what makes it interesting. There is a constant shift of atmosphere: here, a work driven by glamour, presence, and immediate recognizability; there, a quieter and more formally precise position that demands time and patience. Some works spoke to me immediately, others remained distinctly distant. But that friction is productive.
Gallery RED feels less like a quiet place of contemplation and more like a carefully staged system of art, market, audience, and collector culture. It is simultaneously gallery, stage, brand environment, and social meeting point. That too is fascinating—and absolutely worth visiting, precisely because it reveals how differently art responds to different buyer worlds.
The place that impressed me most, however, was Galería Pelaires—and not even primarily because of individual works. It was the presentation itself.
The old building, the silence, the authority of the rooms, the almost brutal clarity of the hanging. Often there was a single work on an entire wall. One image. One room. No fear of emptiness. And that was exactly where the power lived.
Many galleries hang too much out of insecurity. More works, more impact, more chances to sell. Strong galleries can afford emptiness.
Emptiness is expensive. Emptiness is confidence.
A work is given space because someone believes it deserves that space. That is not just presentation. That is attitude.
For me, that may have been the most important reminder of the entire afternoon. Good art does not always need more images, more text, more explanation. Often, it simply needs more air. More trust. More silence.
Perhaps that applies not only to galleries, but also to one’s own work. Perhaps that was the real souvenir I took home from Mallorca: the reminder that reduction is often stronger than abundance, that an image needs room to breathe, that art should not have to scream for attention if it truly has something to say.
And between us, that is probably considerably cheaper than another cocktail at the harbor.
