Mary Cornsmith

The rain started early this morning, casting a familiar gray over the London streets. I stood in the doorway of my gallery, looking out at the scattered umbrellas. At 66, the thrill of opening a new exhibit still sparked excitement. Inside, the walls were lined with canvas-covered pieces, each one a blend of passion and, cynically, a potential billionaire's investment.

In my gallery, we didn't display prices next to the artworks. Not because of secrecy, but because most visitors couldn't afford them. Art had become a status symbol, a way for the ultra-wealthy to flaunt their financial might. You could own a fleet of yachts, but how many could you actually use? A rare piece of art, however, spoke volumes about one's taste and sophistication. It made you shine in a unique way.

For many, art was like real estate—a safe investment. Increasingly, I noticed artworks being stored in freeports, those secure warehouses at major airports offering customs and tax advantages. It was a discreet system for securing and growing wealth.

As I adjusted the lighting on a particularly stunning piece, a soft chime signaled the first visitor of the day. We began discussing the new exhibit, and I hoped that beneath the wealth and status, there was still a genuine appreciation for the beauty and power of art. After all, that's why I had dedicated my life to this world. It was a complex world, but one that held endless fascination for me. Every day brought new interactions, new stories, and new glimpses into the hearts of those who loved art.