What Thaddaeus Ropac hasn’t shown in his gallery is French art—and that, he believes, is the real reason French art dealers have turned their backs on him. It’s not that he wouldn’t love to do in Paris what Charles Saatchi did in London, he protests. It’s just that he doesn’t see much to work with. “I don’t want to say this in public,” he hesitates before sticking in the couteau, “but I don’t know how much artistic merit French art has. I’m sure that the French will have their moment; I feel that it is coming now. But the French are very brainy. They can be very complicated. The English just do it. If they make a mistake, they make a mistake. They go through it, but they do it, and that’s what makes them great. The French think and think.” He rolls his eyes.

From Kevin West’s “French Connection” in W, Vol. 29, No. 11, November 2000, p. 140.

Addendum (February 5, 2001)

A week or so after I plucked this piece from a glossy fashion, entertainment, and art magazine, which Lauren must have brought home, I stumbled upon Ropac’s website. There I found his electronic-mail address and his gallery’s postal address. I put him on my “Let’s Make Art!” list at once, and I sent him this piece pasted on a postcard. In quick succession, I also sent him a whole bunch of postcards about Saatchi. A week or so afterwards I got Ropac’s reply to one of my electronic postcards. It was predictably snooty. I was instructed to remove him from my list immediately, which I promptly did. I was thus surprised a few days ago when I started getting electronic mail from old Ropac announcing an opening in his gallery in Paris. In the meantime, the asshole has probably forgotten who I was. I have no other option but to put him back on my own mailing list.