Every Friday, I trade university life for the real world as I head south to the Old Port to work at a contemporary art gallery. We’re generally considered a loathsome breed, gallery receptionists. Stock characters in miniature art-world dramas, we’re pretentious creatures in intellectual fashion and high heels, dripping with attitude and sarcasm, rolling our eyes at visitors requesting something as mundane as the price list. God forbid you want to know where the bathroom is. Despite my best intentions to defy this stereotype, if you do in fact inhabit the front desk of a gallery people automatically assume you are:
A) Cold
B) Bitchy
C) Undeniably Chic
D) All of the above
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