Review: East Dallas Gallery Day from the perspective of an intern whose baseline panic level is pretty high

[The following is a last-minute writing sample I used to get an editorial internship recently but I promise our precious reader babies that my next review will be specifically written for this blog.]

Gallery Day is an annual event established last year in Dallas in an effort to encourage visitors to come out and look at art in spite of the summertime heat. The following is a recap of East Dallas Gallery Day, which took place on June 1, 2013, from the perspective of a social anxiety-prone gallery assistant/intern whose baseline panic level is pretty high.

The night before Gallery Day, I may have tipsily driven home at 1:00 AM from A-Kon 24. But I woke up early Saturday morning, without the help of an alarm and full of anxious energy. After stopping at Starbucks, avoiding eye contact with a girl I knew in the 9th grade, and audibly muttering, "please kill me" in response to the wait time in line, I am the first arrive at the gallery at 10:11. Luckily, I have a key (either because one time the director gave it to me and forgot to ask for it back or he trusts me - only time will tell). The floor is strewn with unpacked gift bags and the walls are bare. Gallery Day is set to begin in two hours.

My panic levels slowly decrease between 10:30 and 12:00 from "This is the worst thing ever, I'm going to pass out" to "OK maybe this will be OK." Artist Billy Zinser arrives at the gallery and miraculously installs 30 of his paintings in under two hours while I literally work up a sweat stuffing T-shirts and postcards into 250 gift bags. By 11:30, a group of very hip teens is gazing into the gallery, obviously having overestimated the difficulty of obtaining a free gift bag at noon. Someone who is less stressed out than me under the scrutiny of very hip teens jokes, "fucking vultures."

I make a trip out to deliver gift bags and try to convince myself that I'm not running that behind schedule. After having survived a terrifying experience in which my car nearly ran out of gas in old East Dallas, I arrive back at the gallery where things seem to be running smoothly. Small groups of visitors stream in and out of the gallery at a steady pace. Zinser's paintings, it seems, are attractive to collectors and casual visitors alike. They are small in scale and sensuous in color and texture (one gallery-goer referred to them as "juicy"), less traditional painting than curious art object.

A couple of hours later, we are making last-minute preparations for the opening reception. I buy ice from the liquor store across the street for what feels like the third time of the day and say "Hi again!" to the cashier. She does not smile back.

Throughout the day, I walk past The Common Desk (a new, hip "cooperative workspace" next door to the gallery) on my way to perform miscellaneous intern duties. They are having a party. Music is perpetually blaring out from their propped-open door while small groups of people loiter and drink beer on the sidewalk. Before the opening reception, I am sent to The Common Desk to make copies of a price list. I feel the same kind of apprehension I experience before I knowingly crash a party at school. Fortunately, rather than kicking me out, the receptionists politely respond to my request and help me make copies while I watch tipsy 30-year olds play beer pong.

At 5:00, the lone food truck that did not bail on Gallery Day for KXT Summer Cut rolls up in front of the gallery. Fortunately, it is an ice cream truck, and their menu says that two of their flavors are caffeinated. When I ask an ice cream truck employee to elaborate on this fact, she points at a sticker on the window that proclaims one scoop of caffeinated ice cream "equals" one energy drink. I don't drink energy drinks, but one time I had a quarter of a can of 4Loko at a Titus Andronicus concert and literally felt like I was going to die. I ask whether it is possible to get a "half scoop" of the caffeinated ice cream and am told that it is not. I eat a full scoop of caffeinated ice cream and wonder whether my heartbeat is speeding up or whether I am just being paranoid.

When the opening reception officially begins, it is my cue that it is OK for me to start drinking wine. The gallery fills up quickly. I recognize a lot of people - artists, art dealers, journalists, and collectors, people that I vaguely remember shaking hands with - that probably don't know who I am. I am a fly on the wall, watching a small portion of Dallas' elite milling about and schmoozing with hipsters bumming around for the free beer. Small colored dots appear on the wall next to Zinser's paintings, indicating that they have been sold.

I'm on my second glass (read: plastic cup) of red wine when the director appears before me and tells me to keep an eye on the paintings, because, apparently, three gallery-goers have "already touched the paintings." Evidence of one of these instances is a smudge of green paint on the back of the gallery's floating wall. I impulsively think, "Who the fuck touches paintings at an art gallery?" and must appear visibly disturbed, because the director shrugs and says, "I know."

Over the course of the next two hours, I "keep an eye on the paintings," drink more wine, and feel impressed with myself whenever I am able to help a visitor. You know what they say - time flies when you're buzzed at an art gallery. At 8:30, I excuse myself to go eat nachos and drink some more beer and then return to A-Kon. The party never ends.