Disclaimer: what I’m about to say will probably sound like the delusional rantings of a madwoman. But just hear me out. As trendy as normcore was a few years ago, cottagecore is where it’s at now.
And whilst my peers are busy trying to achieve eternal validity via the clean girl aesthetic or pretending to live off nature and harvests in their pastel fixations, I have been quietly dipping my toes into what my roommate lovingly refers to as my “weirdly specific European fantasy life.” But here’s the thing: I think I’ve finally perfected the most niche aesthetic there is. Allow me to introduce you to: Rich Divorced European Art Dealer. Let me start by giving you a description of this magical woman because you won’t understand until you can clearly picture her in your mind.
She is likely in her late forties but could pass for forty because Europeans have such great genes, am I right? Her husband was some finance bro that cheated on her with his secretary (can you believe she stayed with him this long?!
So basic.) so she took half his fortune in their divorce and opened her own sleek-yet-intimidatingly-small gallery in Berlin or Vienna or Lisbon.
She also DEFINITELY sleeps with her twenty-six-year-old gallery assistant who answers to her first name despite her being twice his age because Europeans don’t see things the way we do over here. Regardless, here is how you will spot her everywhere you go. The Rich Divorced European Art Dealer might own twenty articles of clothing in her entire wardrobe, but she owns twenty articles of clothing that each cost more money than I make in a month.
She has what can only be described as a silver-gray bob that falls right underneath her shoulders and is as chic as it is low maintenance (hint: she gets blowouts every other day). She drinks exactly one espresso in the morning and one glass of red wine at night. She smokes two cigarettes on her tiny balcony gossiping about the terrible architecture of her neighboring buildings.
She lives in a one-bedroom apartment with four pieces of furniture: all of which are mid-century modern showpieces she stole from some neglected Danish designer she was personally acquainted with. Sound intimidating? That’s because she literally is intimidating.
You’ve seen her at every art fair intimidating art students and struggling artists in her architecturally stark all-black ensembles and sculptural eyewear that costs more than my smartphone. You want to hate her. I myself hated her.
Before you write me off as absolutely insane, hear me out: you do not need to be divorced, rich, or European to pull off this look. Believe it or not, I have been curating this aesthetic for almost two years now and I think I’m kind of a genius. Ever since that one time I accidentally interned with one of these queens at a gallery show, I’ve been practicing.
My coworkers at the boutique ask me daily if I’m “going through something,” but honey I am bleeding art dealer azz—here. It all started when I worked at this popup shop for a big fashion week event last year. I was wearing my typical Gen Z cute-girl uniform —baggy crop cardi, high-wasted jean, chunky dad sneakers kind of ensemble you know Instagram is salivating over—when I spotted her.
There she was, MAYBE fifty but could easily pass for forty, rocking this oversized black coat with the most interesting angular cut. She wore big, dramatic glasses and carried around this structured black leather bag that doubled as a modern art piece. I watched as everyone around me tried to make small talk with her or simply bump into her knowing she was “important.” One girl thought she worked for some European department store and was scouting for buyers.
Someone else was sure she had artists represented at the fair and was hitting them up. It turned out she was some regular woman from New Jersey who worked in marketing but had mastered the art of Rich Divorced European Art Dealer like it was her job. And there it clicked.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t actually European, divorced, or an art dealer. She had curated this lifestyle and appearance that made everyone think she was the REAL DEAL. As someone who has made a career out of gaining followers by simply blending in with a sea of literal girls wearing the exact same crops and Gaia caps as me, standing out as mysterious and arguably intimidating seemed like a smarter route.
Not only did I start studying how women dressed at art events from here and there, I poured through European street style (looking at you, Berlin and Copenhagen), and analyzed every girl that owned a gallery in SoHo or Nolita that I’d never be able to afford to live near. Something about the way they carried themselves just screamed “international mystery,” and I was determined to obtain that for myself. First off, the silhouette.
American clothing is almost always about showing off your body. Everything is cropped somehow or cut to accentuate your waist or chest or whatever. Rich divorced European art dealer clothing is ALL about the volume.
Volume that does not match your actual body shape. Nothing hugs your skin. Nothing needs Spanx.
It’s like they take American clothing and blow it up to 10 times its size to make a statement rather than to sex you up. My very first investment into my newfound trope was this black wool coat I found at a sample sale. It was originally $800 but I got it for under $300!
It has huge shoulders and drapes so well on my body. I swear I look like I own an original Anni Albers textile in that thing. Now anytime I wear it, people will walk up to me and ask me questions about art shows or new galleries opening.
A woman on the subway asked me last week if I was “here for the Whitney Biennial?” “Something like that,” I replied. What else are you supposed to say? Another huge thing you’ll notice about this aesthetic is the strict color palette.
It’s basically all black, save for some occasional navy, charcoal, deep burgundy, and that one camel color that only comes in expensive cashmere sweaters. You’ll see white, yes. But only in breathable shirts or oversized summer dresses.
Prints are reserved for abstract artwork or so classic they are essentially solid colors. I love colors. I love bright colors.
Pastel colors. Every color of the rainbow knows my Instagram from two years ago. But as I started transitioning into my more rich European self, I began to realize how easy it actually is to get dressed when you have these strict guidelines.
And honestly, when everything matches, it’s a dream for someone like me who lives and dies by her outfit of the day posts. Transitioning into the look was slow at first, then I fell into a black hole of Dick Blick catalogs and expensive minimalist shoe retailers. One black turtleneck at a time, I conquered Macy’s casual womenswear section and ventured into the world of wide-leg trousers and oversized linen shirts.
I started refusing cute dresses at the thrift store because how boring are cute dresses? My friends actually performed an intervention when I purchased my third pair of STAPLE European ballet flats. “We’re concerned,” Mia looked at me with wide eyes. “You’re turning into someone who has strong feelings about serif versus sans serif.” “I have strong feelings about fonts,” I said matter-of-factly, shimmying my way into my oversized white tee. “and this is exactly how I look when I’m being me.” She rolled her eyes but I wasn’t joking. Like every other girl in college discovering their sense of style, I came to my own personal aesthetic crossroads .
It just so happened to come to me at the age of 23, while working retail and trying to figure out my whole influencer shtick. I realized that I was never meant to be cute and young and wear crop tops alongside every other girl on Instagram yelling into the void. I was meant to turn heads and intimidate strangers with a blasé expression and clothes that looked too expensive to actually exist.
Also, NONE of it airs cheaply. If you’re not investing in thick fabrics and timeless silhouettes, you’re not doing Rich Divorced European Art Dealer correctly. Sure, you don’t need to be rich to achieve this aesthetic, but you also can’t pull off scuzzy Salvation Army clothes and call it high fashion.
Everything you wear needs to feel like it could’ve been hung in MOMA’s permanent collection. My white shirts are so thick, you cannot detect any of your body’s natural curves through them. My black pants hang on me in the way that they swish dramatically when I take giant steps walking down the street.
My jewelry is so minimal it could’ve been sketched by some Swedish architect I should know about but don’t. There are no visible logos, because THAT IS TOO AMERICAN. Everything I own looks like something my wealthy aunt stole from her childhood home when her parents died in the late nineties.
This look isn’t for everyone. You’ll have to give up your Jane Ballet flats and delicate gold necklaces for something way more purposeful. The Rich Divorced European Art Dealer DOES NOT walk around with a tiny Chanel purse slung across her body —she carries an oversized leather tote that could hold her entire art collection and life’s mysteries.
She wears sunglasses that are either WAY too big for her face or uncomfortably geometric. Her shoes are never from America — either handmade Italian loafers that would make your mother cry buying or sculptural sneakers that make other people feel uneasy. But, the sunnies.
GIRL, THE SUNNIES. You will not see her rocking some cute green tortoise lens — those glasses are for Americans. The Rich Divorced European Art Dealer rocks STATEMENT glasses.
Monster sunglasses that could’ve been bought directly from Ulrich Franke Studio, or in my case, Jerry Buchanan Optical in Greenpoint. I found mine at this vintage deadstock shop in Brooklyn and they are my proudest art dealer moment to date. They’re oversized black acetate frames with barely-there cat eye corners that make me look smart and intimidating enough to know how bad your last art installation was but carelessly pretend that I have no opinion.
I wore them to work one day and my manager stared at me for what felt like minutes before looking down and saying, “finally.” I have no idea what she meant, but I’ve worn them non-stop since. Same rules apply for the Rich Divorced European Art beauty routine. If you know me, you know I love makeup.
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I love putting on fifteen products just to leave the house. But guys. NONE of that for art dealer.
Either you go FULL NO-MAKEUP WITH-MAKEUP look, or you dedicate one badass feature to stand out. I go for the latter. Airless skin (Fun fact: Europeans have the best pharmacy brands because they actually care about skincare.
Combine that with my Italian lineage and we’re talking major genes here), zero contour, no obvious foundation—I will either wear a bold red lip OR architectural eyeliner. Never both. My hair is either an expensive avant-garde cut that, thanks to European hairstylists, actually looks chic when it grows out or confined to the chicest, low bun you’ve ever seen.
There is no in-between, and god forbid you catch me with beachy waves. For starters, I said goodbye to my airport-pharmacy skincare routine and opted for the four high-end French pharmacy products I can actually understand. (It doesn’t matter that I sound like I’m literilly speaking another language when I order them online, I LIVE FOR IT.) I chopped off all myExtensions in favor of this Japanese-esque cut I saw on a celeb gossip site. It’s supposed to be low maintenance and look “intentional” even when you don’t brush it.
Spoiler alert: IT DOES. My makeup bag now consists of five products. Mascara, eyebrow gel, eyeliner, a neutral eyeshadow, and this red lipstick that one Sephora associate told me was “too aggressive for most skin tones.” PERFECT.
Finally, you’ll have to embrace your inner art snob. The Rich Divorced European Art Dealer knows everything there is to know about art, yet she can stroll up to you and ask what your favorite Frank painting is like you’ve never heard of Frank. She will walk into any room and have literally zero fucks to give.
She knows all about obscure European artists that nobody in America has ever heard of, yet she will speak for an hour about how Van Gogh hasn’t done enough for the culture of chopsticks. (I made that last part up but you get the point.) I’ve been practicing. Last week I spent fifteen minutes explaining to my roommate why Yves Klein blue was revolutionary. She just told me my sweater was cute and I might be pretentious.
I also didn’t notice our neighbor painted his front door hot pink. I’m getting there. The cool thing about having such a specific niche aesthetic is nobody can QUESTION your style.
I know what YOU might be thinking right now. “Why doesn’t she want to be herself? Can’t she come up with her own cute girl routine? I love shopping at Urban Outfitters as much as the next Instagram girl.” You’re thinking those things.
My mom thinks those things EVERY TIME I walk through her front door looking like a humanoid shaped cloud of black acrylic. But hear me out. Aesthetics are, by definition, aspirational.
We dress to portray the life we want to live or the people we want to be around. We dress to show other people how we want to be perceived. Some people want to look like the carefree American dream married to a golden retriever.
I want to look like I have a secret past and know where all of Berlin’s best jazz clubs are. Different strokes. What I love most about dressing in this specific way is that everything I own is comfortable.
I’ve never once worn a piece of “art dealer” that made me feel constricted or insecure about my body. I don’t own anything that needs shapewear to look “good” or exists solely to make me look younger. Because let me tell you, as far as trying to appeal to the “American standard” of beauty goes, it has been SUCH a relief.
Plus, I love how standoffish people are around me when I wear Rich Divorced European Art Dealer. When I dress like every other Instagram-era human wearing cute dresses and trendy separates that girls half my age buy off of Shein I get viewed differently. I become more “relatable” if that makes sense.
Dressing in all black-and-white makes people think. Like, maybe she likes avant-garde art? Maybe she works at a museum?
WHO KNOWS, people. All I know is that as soon as I slip into that Japanese wool artfully drowning my figure and perch those architecture-inspired gloves on my hands, I feel like I can walk through life blasting worldly opinions at everyone around me and never have to justify it. Feeling inspired to become your own rich, artistic goddess?
Here are some tips on how to start! SHOP ARCHITECTURAL SHAPES. Look for pieces that aren’t traditionally feminine or “flattering.” Nothing should be clingy to your skin.
Think asymmetrical cuts, oversized silhouettes, and interesting draping that doesn’t obey the laws of physics. SHOP LESS. BUT SHOP WELL.
Pat yourself on the back every time you walk out of a store without buying something. You’ll be saving up that money for that ONE BLACK WOOL COAT that will turn your whole closet into art dealer central. Don’t be afraid to splurge on statement accessories that you’re not sure you’ll ever need.
Purchased that angular shiny jewelry piece you can’t stop staring at? Trust me, you WILL. Buy the architectural handbag that looks like it belongs in a museum’s design section.
Same rules apply for shoes: if the description boasts “structural” or “avant-garde,” BUY IT. OH, AND GLASSES. DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE GLASSES.
If you don’t need prescription lenses, go for clear. *Editor’s Note: people who care about these things will judge you for getting non-prescription plastic lenses but who are we kidding, you wear glasses as an accessory anyway. Frames should be bold and statement-making, but not trendy. You should be able to rock these glasses in 2025 and they’ll still look equally as artful.
Opine about trivial details nobody cares about. The way gallery walls are always too white. How art books use thicker paper than regular books.
The subtle differences between the black t-shirt you wear and the black shirt I wear. You’ll sound like KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ART, BUT YOU KEEP TALKING KIND of dumb, but who cares? You’re the art expert now.
Practice your EUROPEAN ART PERSON ENERGY. Look slightly disdainful yet wholly invested in everything you do. Learn to talk about pointless things with great intensity.
Hone your skill in insulting people’s taste so seamlessly that they question everything they know until you’ve walked away. People will come up to you and ask if you “work in art” or “are visiting from Europe?” LET THEM WONDER. Smile and say you “do a little of both.” You’ll know you’ve made it when you’ve been asked to verify your age at an art opening.
It took me two years to fully perfect my brand of Rich Divorced European Art Dealer, but I’d say I’m about 75% there. About three-quarters of my closet is devoted to architectural-inspired black garments that give my American friends PTSD but garner sideways nods from Europeans I encounter. I’ve been asked THREE TIMES if I work at a gallery after showing up to “network.” One time I was asked if I represented this cool Lithuanian artist I had never heard of.
But, like the true art expert I am, I nodded knowingly and said something along the lines of “Eastern European photography has really been killing it these past few years.” “I hate modern art,” I overheard one woman say to her friend as we all stared at a painting none of us understood. “IT’S SO INTENTIONALLY BAD,” her friend responded, clinking her wine glass against hers.
I stuck around to people watch for a good thirty minutes before leaving. WHO WERE THESE PEOPLE?
Me, circa art Basel ‘21. Art lover or secret art dealer, you decide. The best part?
I was in Miami for all of…ten minutes. I was visiting for Art Basel when some trendy art owner started speaking to me in rapid Spanish. Now, normally I’m bilingual, but I hadn’t yet reached the art dealer part of my trip where I knew everyone spoke English so seamlessly, so I looked at her confused.
She laughed, switched to English for a minute before just continuing to speak Spanish over me. She ACTUALLY thought I was from here. When I recounted the story to her later, she laughed and told me I didn’t “look American.” …I think that’s a compliment.
