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A woman with frizzy hair and John Lennon sunglasses with green lenses surreptitiously shows her friend the contents of her wallet. “This is my Israeli press pass. It gets me in free everywhere.” She pauses and says apologetically, “It’s not that I wouldn’t pay. It’s just that I don’t have a job yet.”

A woman with a gold sequined top turns to her companion and points a long finger at a salon-tanned gentleman in black. “You see him? That’s Xavier. He told us not to buy the Hockneys.”

A doe-eyed woman with Clairol blond hair stands in front of a Keith Haring painting, her arm around an older gentleman with a bald pate and a beer belly. “So, we were looking at this gallery in Wisconsin,” she says. “They said it cost $180,000. I said, ‘Great! That’s exactly what I want to spend.'”

A man with premature jowls offset by a pair of red sideburns sits in a chair with a view of the lake and mutters in a gravelly voice, “I think in the coming years you’re going to see a resurgence of sideburns.”

A guy with a manicure and an expensive blue blazer walks briskly in front of his wife. “Honey,” he snaps, “I just don’t want to have three de Koonings in one room!”

An ostrich-necked woman in her 50s who’s wearing an eye patch chortles loudly. “I’m not going to take advice from the man who parks my car.”

A woman with a brassy New York accent lets out a nicotine cough and turns to her two friends who are in town from Italy. “My therapist told me that buying art is a good way to channel my aggression away from Daniel.”

Two men stand in the middle of the corridor. One wears a Seiko watch. The other wears a Mickey Mouse watch. “Are you familiar with any of these galleries?” asks the man with the Seiko watch.

“Nah,” responds the other man. “I just come here to look at the women.”