I got this feeling, walking through the doors of the Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac. 
The same kind of feeling you got when you were 17 years old trying to get into an over 
18’s club.

There’s no turning back, you’re approaching the door... You know you're not supposed to
 be there, your'e about to break the law and it’s going to feel EPIC.

ID please, Oh shit…

I felt out of place at first.  With a Combination of being surrounded by the middle/upper class
 and being too sober for this kind of social undertaking but being too nervous to grab a drink
 from the one- handed serving plate. Was there a dress code? I must have missed the memo... 
But there was an overriding feeling of thrill, a feeling that I shouldn’t be there, an imposter or a phoney.

I’m standing on this beautiful parquet marble floor in an historic Mayfair mansion, with a grand
spiral staircase that spans up through five floors.
Now, I’m standing in front of a Kiefer. The scale. I smell it. I want to touch it.  
I’m convinced there are parts that might still be wet, they are extremely tempting.
My attention turns to the embedded aeroplane made from what I think must be lead.
‘It carries so much weight’, I hear a man in a suit and tie beside me say. I look 
and him and nod in agreement.

It’s kind of everything I love and hate about art all at the same time.

Yasmine Robinson