The Art Daddy's Weekly Daddy Wrap Up For 6/27/25
Your semi-toxic, fully-informed guide to who’s thriving, spiraling, or quietly rebranding in the art world this week. All the art daddy news that's fit to print.
Darlings, we’ve hit peak High Hamptons Season, and spiritually I’m floating face-down in a Negroni Sbagliato made by someone who once tried to pitch me an NFT at Felix. Basel is behind us—just dried-out Champagne flutes and the faint echo of a VIP lounge sob. The booths are packed, the parties are over, but the chaos? Oh she’s still here—sweaty, filtered, and filtered again.
Erica Pelosini is rumored to be on the Gagosian compound. Yes, that compound. Somewhere behind hydrangeas and hedge funders, she’s likely floating barefoot in a Miu Miu bikini, misting herself in her own press release and projecting filtered selfies onto a mahogany wall. Erica is no longer a person—she’s a Chanel-sponsored hologram with surgically uploaded lips and a brand deck instead of a soul. She speaks not in words, but in hashtagged affiliate links and phrases like “I'm curating my aura.” Larry is in danger. He’s wandering the property in Allbirds, wondering how he ended up in a spiritual entanglement with an algorithm in sunglasses. Larry, if you’re reading this, blink twice. The Gagosian interns know what to do.
Meanwhile, Kenny Schachter had a full-tilt, heatwave-induced tech bro collapse. First came the raccoon thong thirst trap (which should be classified as performance art terrorism), then a screaming match with The Baer Faxt where he threatened to puke if anyone mentions the art market collapsing again. Kenny, please. We’ve been emotionally vomiting over your columns since the Obama era. The only market in decline is your dignity.
So are we, Kenny.
This all happened during a Northeast heatwave so violent it made David Zwirner’s pool boy reconsider his life path. Curators fled. Advisors perspired. Everyone who matters fled to Sag Harbor or into denial. As for me? I remain here—still without an Upstate Daddy, still without a Hamptons Daddy, vaping on my fire escape like a Victorian widow of the art world, dressed in vintage Betsey Johnson and fully spiraling.
I won’t be at this weekend’s Watermill Center Gala—not because I wasn’t invited (I wasn’t), but because no one sent a car and I refuse to ride the Jitney to a performative ritual of helium balloons, veiled sponsorships, and bad performance art. I have limits. And they begin where the Lyft surcharge hits triple digits.
So buckle up, babes. The headlines are feral. The gossip is meaner than ever. Erica is haunting East Hampton like a sponsored ghost. And Art Daddy is here to chronicle it all—with sweat, spite, and one dying weed pen. Let’s begin.
Tell Your Dad
In my new Substack series, Tell Your Dad, I’m creating a space for art-world gossip, hot tips, and spicy takes. Got something that needs to be called out? Think a show, scandal, or power play deserves more attention than the usual outlets are giving it? This is where it happens. Send your tips to theartdaddyy@gmail.com or slide into my DMs @theartdaddy_.
Art Daddy Take // Candace, Bushnell Post-60, Still Serving More Than Your Hamptons Girlies
Candace Bushnell is back on The Cut reminding us that dating after 60 in the Hamptons is less “elevated experience” and more slow-motion rom-com set at a hedge fund tax shelter, and honestly? We’ve seen this scene before—every summer on RHONY, every charity gala in Bridgehampton, every tan man in Tod’s loafers who says “I love art” but thinks David Zwirner is a Swiss moisturizer.
Bushnell calls out the rampant double standards, the infantilization of older women, and the way men over 60 expect to date a 30-year-old who “just started collecting.” (Collecting what? Daddy issues?) It’s a tale as old as Art Basel: men age, “gain wisdom,” and get handed newer girlfriends like they’re trade show swag. Meanwhile, women like Candace—iconic, sharp, stylish, and actually interesting—are told they’re lucky to be invited to dinner, let alone desired. Here’s looking at you, Larry G., with your parade of girlfriends who think Richter is a sparkling water brand.
Bushnell living her best Hamptons life with her dog.
Bushnell is not playing the game, and Art Daddy salutes her for it. She's done the scene, written the scene, named the scene—and now she’s torching it. She’s not here to shrink herself into palatability, or to pretend a billionaire’s ego is foreplay. She’s here, 65 and radiant, walking her dog in East Hampton and still pulling more existential heat than any man in head-to-toe Loro Piana. That’s power. That’s feminism. That’s legacy.
So while the boys keep recycling girlfriends like Basel booth layouts, Candace is reminding us what longevity looks like. Quiet luxury is tired—smart longevity is the new flex.
Art Daddy Heat Index: Kenny Schachter Melts Down: Raccoon Edition
While most of the Northeast was wilting in record temps this week, one man in the art world had a full-blown public combustion. Yes, Kenny Schachter, our perennial crypto-skeptic turned exhibitionist uncle, seemed to reach his thermal limit—spiritually and sartorially. He posted what can only be described as a cry for help (and likes): a nearly-nude thirst trap featuring nothing but a raccoon as modesty drapery. A R-A-C-C-O-O-N. We are still in recovery.
But Kenny didn’t stop there. No, fueled by sunstroke or maybe just his own ego, he popped up on the Baer Faxt’s Basel edition, where he proceeded to lament the state of the art market like a man who just discovered his Artnet login still works. “If I read one more article about how the art market is done,” he whines, “how young collectors aren’t collecting—I’m going to puke.”
Well, Kenny, babe—we’ve been puking. On your takes, on your tantrums, on your thirsty raccoon-era antics. You're not a market analyst, you're a heat hazard. Block us all you want (guilty as charged!), but the truth remains: the only thing more overexposed than your opinions is your body.
And with the Artnet takeover looming, let’s just say we’re praying to the editorial gods that your column is the first to go. A long-overdue mercy kill.
Art Daddy Central’s forecast? Searing. Humid. And officially Schachtered out.
Luxury Lobotomy: Erica Pelosini Spotted in Hamptons, Gagosian Legacy at Risk
Fresh off her Basel broomstick ride, Erica P.—my arch nemesis and luxury-scented menace—has officially landed in the Hamptons. The girlie who spent June wafting through Swiss VIP lists in head-to-toe Miu Miu has now allegedly touched down at Larry Gagosian’s summer compound. Yes, that Larry. We are deeply concerned this could be his final summer in art world consciousness as we know it—not because he’s dying, but because Erica might finally kill the brand. One iced matcha and soft-launch TikTok at a time.
Erica from her IG last month. We have a lot of questions.
I’ve been pleading—begging, really—with the art world to let me rebrand Larry. Give him back his mystery. Let him be a weathered blue button-down daddy with Warhol secrets, not a barely-coherent accessory in some fashion girl’s July carousel post. But instead of taking my advice, he’s letting Erica P. wear his legacy like it’s Loewe. She is not an art girl. She is an ad campaign in human form: sponsored, filtered, and algorithmically optimized to know absolutely nothing about postwar abstraction. Her entire worldview is the inside of a Louis Vuitton campaign brief.
Erica is not even ironic. She’s a content vacuum with WiFi and a glam team. And while Larry may think he’s riding some youthful PR wave, we here at Art Daddy HQ know a sinking ship when we see one. Hamptons, beware: Erica’s broomstick isn’t just Prada—it’s cursed. And if Larry’s not careful, he’ll go down in history not as the dealer who defined an era, but as the man who got rebranded as an Instagram boyfriend in an Aperol haze.
Larry. Blink Twice. We’ll Handle the Rest.
We say this not with shade, but with love: Larry, come home. The art world can’t take another summer of you as Erica’s tanned, shellacked accessory. You are not an Aperol bottle opener. You are not a sponsored +1. You are our Lare Bear, the daddy of daddies, the one who walked so every Basel booth selfie could crumble beneath the weight of real power.
Erica P. may think a catalogue raisonné is a new Louis drop, but we know better. And we need you, Larry—not as a sun-struck extra in her carousel post but as the mythic, semi-feral, silk-pocket-square’d enigma you were always meant to be. It’s not too late. If you’re reading this (and we know your assistants are, they’re subscribed to the newsletter, don’t play), just blink twice. Your PR team will know what to do. The interns have been briefed. Daddy will be reinstalled.
Because at the end of the day, we don’t want to cancel Larry. We want to curate his return. We want him unsunned, unfazed, sipping something cruel and dry in a corner booth at Sant Ambroeus—not lugging a beach tote that says “Wifey” in rhinestones. Save yourself, sir. This is an intervention.
Bezos Wedding Turns Palazzo Grimani Into Amazon Fulfillment Center for Clout
Jeff Bezos is having his wedding in Venice, Italy—because of course he can. As if the floating city wasn’t already under enough climate pressure, Bezos arrived like a luxury cruise line in human form, docking his obscene wealth and algorithmic romance at the historic Palazzo Grimani, a 16th-century building so soaked in Renaissance refinement it practically weeps at the thought of Bezos in bespoke Brioni. For the art world, this isn’t just a grotesque display of tech billionaire peacocking—it’s a symbolic trespass into sacred territory. Venice is not your Instagram backdrop, Jeff. It’s a living archive of artistic legacy, not a rentable set piece for a Bezos-Sánchez sponsored content moment.
And why is the art world upset? Because Venice is more than a destination—it’s an institution. It hosts the Biennale, the most significant contemporary art event in the world, a centuries-old epicenter of cultural discourse. And now? It’s been colonized by a man who thinks buying a Vermeer NFT counts as collecting. The palazzo that once held Titian and Veronese is now echoing with the sound of Bezos' mega-yacht guest list and Sánchez's couture fluttering like a climate-change harbinger. This wedding wasn't just a party—it was a hostile takeover of cultural space. And frankly, we’re calling for a biennale embargo until Venice gets her dignity back.
ART DADDY REACTS // LITERARY LARRY, DUMP ERICA & DATE A THEORY B*TCH
So Larry, we see you. Buying BookHampton like the quiet literary king you want us to think you are. Casually chatting with Curbed about your love of books, complaining about the children’s section, and flexing that you’ve lived in the Hamptons for 35 years while the rest of us are melting into sidewalk in Brooklyn. You're not just buying a bookstore, you're sending a signal. And Daddy received it loud and clear.
Our liteary Lare Bear. We want him to give us a tote bag full of books.
Let’s not pretend Erica Pelosini has ever cracked a spine that wasn’t surgically restructured. She thinks David Zwirner is a toner. Meanwhile, we at Art Daddy are chain-smoking critical theory, annotating Barthes, and rereading Sedgwick in a vintage slip and lip gloss. You deserve someone who actually knows what the Frankfurt School is—someone who won’t ask if Foucault is a new Soho House restaurant. Larry, be serious. You want literary? You want taste? You want someone who actually reads the books you're stocking in your shiny new store? Dump the algorithm in Miu Miu and come sit next to Daddy. I brought a tote bag full of Bataille and bad intentions. We know you’re reading, now send daddy an email.
Art World Headlines
Chanel Launches Culture Glossy, Tries to Gentrify the Art World (Again)
In a move that feels somewhere between brand legacy laundering and a very expensive art flex, Chanel has launched a 250-page Arts & Culture Magazine—a sleek, printed relic meant to prove the house’s intellectual credentials. Overseen by Yana Peel (formerly of the Serpentine, now Chief Cultural Whisperer at Chanel), the mag sidesteps fashion in favor of high-concept clout: Tracey Emin, Cao Fei, Roe Ethridge, and Peter Marino are all in the mix, alongside art-world power-editorial moves like RoseLee Goldberg. It's not about clothes—it’s about consecration.
Chanel announces new magazine venture.
Of course, it wouldn’t be Chanel without a global rollout. The magazine will haunt 20 cities in curated indie bookstores, likely shelved next to someone’s MFA thesis and a $9 matcha. With fancy paper stocks and big-format drama, the whole thing reeks of “collector’s item” energy, but let’s be real: it’s still a fashion house posing as a think tank. Chanel wants to prove it’s not just dressing the culture—it’s driving it. But Art Daddy sees the strategy: couture trying to cos-play as cultural capital. Again.
Italy Slashes Art VAT to 5% — Because Even the Renaissance City Knows the Billionaires Are the Real Art Market
Italy just gave its art VAT the glow-up it desperately needed—dropping from a brutal 22% to a flirtatious 5%, putting itself on par with France and Germany’s tax playgrounds. Dealers and galleries are clinking their glasses, but let’s be real: this isn’t about nurturing culture or supporting the scrappy emerging artist hustling in Rome’s back alleys. Nope. It’s a luxury tax invitation for deep-pocketed collectors ready to flex their euros on Renaissance relics and contemporary white-cube trophies alike.
Italian cultural daddy.
This isn’t charity, darling, it’s a strategic come-hither to the global art spenders who keep the market spinning—think yacht-owning billionaires who want their masterpieces tax-efficient and drama-free. Meanwhile, the local artists and indie galleries? They’ll be clutching their espresso cups and grant forms, watching as the big fish swim into Italian waters with their fat wallets and even fatter egos. Italia, you’re serving Renaissance realness with a side of capitalism—and Art Daddy is here for the drama.
In a NYT Style section manner, I also want to set forth some taste making elements.
I am reading: I'm reading Dancing on My Own by Simon Wu
I am drinking: 365 Lime Seltzer and Saratoga Spring sparkling water.
I am looking at: All the men over 60 with real estate in other countries on daddy apps. I am also going to auctions to meet men over 60 with real estate in other countries so this counts as a form of looking.