by Mike Schwarcz, text and art

The one-hundred-year-old hacienda encloses a tiled courtyard surrounding an ancient stone fountain. Pink bougainvillea crawls over the buff-colored walls, and the scent of night jasmine drifts through the warm air. The hacienda now houses an art gallery and a pair of fashionably chic boutiques that Santa Fe's tourists can't seem to resist. Several dozen casually dressed visitors—drawn by a local artist's one-man show and the pleasant early-summer weather—wander around the fountain, trading sunset-tinged small talk and bits of gossip as they wait for the gallery's five o'clock opening.

Among the invitees are artists, friends of artists, a few weed smokers, the usual wine lovers, and various others hoping for a cheap Friday-night date. Gallery openings are ideal for this—some jazz, complimentary wine, and a few bites, all without obligation. If anyone was missing, it was the ever-elusive art collector, perhaps put off by tonight's smaller wine pours, which kept the free bar crowded and drove the serious drinkers upstairs to Ole, the tapas bar.

In small towns, locals are easily distinguished from tourists; one local in particular stands out—the artist's wife, Sarah. Her neutral-toned outfit blends with the soft pastels of Santa Fe's early-evening palette, a sharp contrast to the loud colors and garish prints favored by vacationers. Sarah seems to know everyone, gliding effortlessly among the clustered groups, making introductions and using her best dance moves to dodge the little dogs on leashes. She moves from friend to friend, air-kissing longtime clients and gently working possible prospects, soliciting real estate leads when she's not promoting her husband's art. Outside, the every-fifteen-minute bus squeals to a stop on tired brakes, ticking down the final moments before the show's opening.

Behind the ancient mesquite doors of the gallery, a faint voice calls out, "Ten minutes to go!" The artist, Miguel Angelo, answers, "Okay, got it." Arriving half an hour early, Miguel has been pacing the gallery to burn off his nervous energy. Now he inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and releases the breath in a slow, controlled exhale. He repeats the routine three times. Normally, tonight's show wouldn't differ from the hundreds of openings he had participated in or attended over the years. But as a new artist in Santa Fe, his priority is to make a big splash; he needs people talking about him, the new artist in town.

If anyone asks, Miguel shares his cover story: The need to spark a genuine conversation that probes the audience's mind, attitude, and commitment to the art they claim to love. But he keeps the real reason to himself—a publicity stunt designed to boost sales and bring in some cash. Miguel has always considered himself a businessman first and an artist second.

And to his businessman's mind, some things were obvious. One observation was undeniable: the art world feeds the media, and the media feeds the art world—a symbiotic loop that inflates personas and price tags while conditioning the public to yawn at anything lacking a manufactured event, hook, or gimmick. Even museums are complicit. They often distill an artist down to a single marketable trait—Dali's mustache, Van Gogh's ear, Warhol's wig, Frida's unibrow, Churchill's cigar—allowing them to sell millions in T-shirts, books, coffee mugs, and tote bags. Meanwhile, the public is trained to treat media spectacle or a multi-million-dollar price tag as the only valid reasons to notice art. Without those cues, there's little urgency to look at, let alone buy, art. Unfortunately, like most artists, Miguel lacked media coverage; he wasn't in any museums. He didn't even have a hook. But tonight he hoped to change that. Creating a media-worthy event? No sweat, he thought sardonically. Yet the truth was that his plans for the evening left him both nervous and exhilarated—a volatile mix of all-or-nothing ambition and reckless stunt. He glanced at his watch. Time to get moving.

As Miguel centered himself mentally, the owner of Galleria de Arte Santa Fe, Catherine Corners—known as Cece—struggled to position a smoke machine on the spot Miguel had marked on the floor. "Let me help you, Cece," Miguel offered. "Why a smoke machine?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "You'll see," Miguel replied. The smoke contraption had been the final condition for his exhibition. "I have to have my smoke," he insisted. Cece was slightly annoyed. "It's going to obscure the artwork," she remarked. "Won't be a problem," Miguel said bluntly, grappling the machine into place.

Now, minutes before the opening, Cece found herself muttering about stubborn old artists—this old artist in particular—while taking a few deep breaths herself. It wasn't often that she questioned her career or the decision to run a gallery; she loved her work. Yet she had agreed to host Miguel's show, mainly at the urging of his wife, Sarah, unaware of just how much of a challenge Miguel could be.

Like most galleries, Cece charged artists an upfront fee to host an exhibit. She also billed for catalog printing, catering, and other services. Against her better judgment, she had allowed Miguel to trim from her profit: smaller wine glasses, using his own caterer, and, last but not least, the smoke machine—all in exchange for a larger cut of the sales. That is, if anything is sold at all. Tonight's experience with Miguel had convinced her to focus on younger, hungrier artists with longer career arcs in the future. A sudden shiver ran through her at the thought of one of these elderly artists collapsing mid-show.

The jazz faded to silence at the top of the hour. Behind the gallery doors, everything was in place. Miguel flipped the ON switches for the smoke machine and the fan. As the smoke swirled around them, he and Cece exchanged a nod, swung the doors open, and stepped through the haze to face the waiting crowd.

The courtyard crowd greeted them with polite applause. Cece, the enterprising young woman in her early thirties, wore the de rigueur blackest- black attire. Her long hair framed a face that seemed an exotic, sculptural celebration of her reputed Apache heritage.

Beside her stood Miguel—gruff, if not outright scruffy, his skin deeply tanned from long hours outdoors. His hair was still intact but entirely unmanaged. Taller than Cece at six feet to her five-foot-seven, he was sixty-two; some said he looked younger, others older.

Miguel wore what was later described as an exploded kaleidoscope of a suit— his "artist get-up," as he called it. Their contrasting appearances reflected their respective roles. Cece's polished, silky-smooth presentation was the secret sauce that reassured buyers they were making a wise purchase. Miguel, on the other hand, only knew that people expected an artist to look like an artist. He had no secret sauce and would have laughed at the very idea.

Cece began the introduction she had prepared for the show, while Miguel stood sheepishly beside her. She opened with vague phrases about a world of new perspectives, unpublished pieces, and special… exclusive… promises of a good time… perspective, yada, happy ending, yada. Miguel quickly tuned out. While smiling outwardly, he squirmed inwardly. Few things irritated him more than art-speak.

While Cece chewed her way through the word salad introduction, Miguel casually pulled out a pair of sunglasses with dollar-sign lenses and put them on, immediately diverting the audience's attention. Several people chuckled, and one man outright laughed. From Cece, he received a vicious side-eye.

In the audience, his wife—familiar with Miguel's habits—realized he might be on the verge of going rogue. She downed her wine in a gulp and edged toward the stairs leading up to the tapas bar, seeking something stronger. A friend grabbed her arm to stop her. Neither Cece nor Sarah had any idea what Miguel had planned for the evening.

When Cece finished her spiel, Miguel stepped forward. "Hello, I'm Angelo—Miguel Angelo. I want to personally welcome you to my exhibit and offer Thanks from maladjusted artists everywhere for supporting our endeavors. I hope you have a memorable time tonight," he finished. The doors opened, and smoke billowed out as the guests filed in.

The show featured scenic Santa Fe watercolors. The gallery's central ZenGarden—a space of raked gravel and carefully placed stones—served as a focal point. Above the garden, a dozen unframed, unmatted watercolors were suspended with monofilament and paperclips, floating in the air and swaying whenever a breeze caught them. These paintings differed from those on the walls; Miguel had selected them as expendable, because they did not meet his standards. But only he could tell the difference.

On the gallery's perimeter walls, matted paintings for sale were arranged in a single row at eye level, each perfectly spaced. The works were all the same size, identically matted in white but unframed—easy to pack in a suitcase. Miguel's focus on the tourist trade was what he called Selling the Dream, the dream being a visitor's idea of life in Santa Fe.

Outside on the patio, Miguel's assistant, Marcus, was in charge of catering. Miguel had instructed him to bring his Weber grill, plenty of wood, an abundance of his wife's pre-made mini grilled tacos, and his two cute daughters to serve them. Marcus had a few other tasks, but for now, he was stoking the Weber, building a roaring fire. His instructions were clear: don't start warming or serving the tacos until all the guests are inside the gallery. Miguel wanted them in his cage, where they wouldn't fly away before he fed them.

Cece sauntered through the crowd, smiling, occasionally chatting, but mostly listening for questions from clients. At the reception desk, Miguel and Sarah shared intel on attendees who might be buyers as the crowd circled the central garden. Cece paused her patrol, urging Miguel to get out and mingle with the clientele. Before he could finish his wine and kiss his wife, someone caught Cece's attention, and soon the first sale was slipped into a diamond sleeve, marked with a red dot denoting ‘sold'. That was Miguel's cue.

"Time to make some money," he whispered to Sarah, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before stepping onto the gallery floor. "Behave yourself," Sarah warned.

Miguel smiled, ignored her warning, and merged into the crowd, chatting with people as he made his way toward the Zen Garden. A tap on his shoulder made him turn to see his friend and fellow artist, Ron Hagen. "Tell me—tonight's artist, living or dead?" Ron asked. "He's dead if he doesn't sell something tonight." Miguel smiled, and they both laughed. "I'm on a mission. Stick around—you'll enjoy this," Miguel said, slipping away toward the Zen Garden.

He first approached a woman who was examining a painting hanging above the garden with her friend. "As the artist, I'm curious—what made you two stop in front of this piece?" Miguel asked, sizing them up. "My girlfriend likes the scene, but she worries the orange in the painting won't match our sofa cushions," the taller one said. Too easy, Miguel decided. Over-the-couch art buyers weren't the challenge he sought. "Perhaps a new sofa?" Miguel suggested lightly. He moved on, continuing to chat with others and to make sales attempts.

By now, both Cece and Sarah had sold pieces from the walls. When Miguel made his first sale, the total stood at six. Searching the crowd in vain for a suitable target for his stunt, a portly gentleman with several double chins surprised him by sticking out his hand. "Hello, Miguel. I'm Jake Hanson," he said, shaking Miguel's hand. "I've been following your career for a while and wanted to compliment you on what I've seen here tonight." Miguel tried to free his hand from Jake's grip. "It's always nice to feel appreciated," Miguel said, wondering who this man was and why he wouldn't let go after the handshake. "I'd like the chance to talk with you later about some of your pieces I'm interested in." "What's wrong with right now?" Miguel asked, finally pulling his hand away. Jake answered, "It's complicated; it involves exclusive digital rights and NFTs. Are you familiar with that aspect of the art world?"

For those who don't know, an NFT stands for Non-Fungible Token. Essentially, it means selling a JPG as a "unique" original piece of art. It has morphed into a scam that preys on unsuspecting artists. Miguel had friends who'd fallen for it, and he immediately decided that Jake Hanson was going to be the evening's victim. Poor Jake. Miguel was perfectly content to make Hanson pay for the sins of all the other NFT scammers. It was more than he could have ever hoped for, actually.

"Congratulations, you said tonight's magic word." Miguel smiles outward at Hanson. Perfect. Jake is going to get the surprise of his life. "Can I call you Jake? Do you have an iPhone or a camera? Pull it out now, and I'll give you an NFT opportunity you'll remember forever." Miguel casually steered Hanson over to a painting hanging above the sand floor of the garden. He pulled a mini torch from his jacket pocket, keeping it palmed. "Ready, Jake? Are you in video mode?" Jake nodded. Miguel flicked the mini torch, igniting the bottom of the nearest painting. The flame streaked upward, reducing it to an unrecognizable pile of ash on the floor within seconds.

People nearby stood in stunned silence; soon, gasps and groans pierced the silence as flames licked the artwork, and more paintings turned to ash on the floor, Miguel circling the garden and igniting painting after painting. "How's that, Jake? What should we call it—Paper to Ashes, Pigment to Dust? Or… Buy It Before I Burn It?" Miguel scanned the crowd. "What do you folks think?" he asked, waiting for a response. Everyone seemed too stunned to answer.

"Folks, don't be fooled by NFTs," Miguel went on. "It's pure destruction in its simplest form. Any offers before this one disappears?" He lit another painting, then another, moving around the sand garden. As the artworks burned, every camera in the crowd was recording. Poor Jake Hanson—his multiple chins jiggled so fast they looked like they were trying to escape from his face. Miguel turned to the crowd. "If you had it in mind to purchase something tonight, you might want to do it now—the market is definitely heating up."

Cece, her assistant Sean, and Sarah were quickly surrounded by people trying to buy a painting before Miguel burned more of them. Jake Hanson was nowhere to be seen. Miguel stepped back and bowed to the crowd before climbing the stairs to the tapas bar to get a bird's-eye view of the ensuing events with his friend Ron.

On his way out, he flicked on the smoke machine again and told Marcus to stoke the Weber, creating as much flame as possible. Once upstairs, Miguel pulled out his phone to dial the fire department. He told them he had ridden past the Galleria de Arte de Santa Fe in a cab and had seen a lot of smoke, and he was almost positive he had seen flames. "No. I don't know any more than that," he hung up. He and Ron watched as the fire department arrived. "Now that's what I call a fire sale!" Ron remarked, and they both laughed.

When the firemen arrived, Marcus carefully explained the situation, avoiding the subject of burning art. "No, no fire, only grilling, and a smoke machine," Marcus said, and the captain seemed satisfied. As the firemen were leaving, the news crews arrived. That night, the Santa Fe TV stations and local newspapers told the story, proclaiming, "Artist Burns His Art," and included pictures and video of the burning art, along with footage of Hanson's shocked face. When Sarah asked him how the firemen and reporters knew to show up at the event, all she got in response was a wink and a smile that told her nothing.

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