When Dumbo Was Still a Dream

 Back in 2004, before DUMBO became a brand and a destination, it was still a question mark—a rough, echoing promise along the East River. That was the moment when I had an idea, and more importantly, the courage to act on it.

Opening a gallery there wasn’t simple. There were forms to fill out, questions to answer, assurances to make—almost like a test of faith. With that leap, Gregg Principato, a renowned cinematographer for major films and television, and I opened the Henry Gregg Gallery. Gregg soon had to step away as his film work pulled him back into demanding schedules, but the gallery had already taken its first breath and received a Proclamation from the Borough President of Brooklyn.

With my wife by my side and the unwavering help of my dear friend Jason Candler, Nola Zirin and Josua Wolfe I kept going.

We weren’t alone. We were part of something electric. Alongside us were the galleries of 111 Front Street—5 Plus 5, Howard Schickler Gallery, Gloria Kennedy, AIR, Klompching Gallery, Robert Wilson, Wessel O’Connor Fine Art, SEED Gallery, and many others. Together, we helped transform DUMBO into a worldwide destination for contemporary art—not through marketing plans or venture capital, but through belief, risk, and relentless work.

Over the years, the Henry Gregg Gallery welcomed thousands of visitors and hosted more than forty exhibitions. Even now, I look back at the comments in the sign-in books. They remind me why we never gave up. We were onto something real.

And then, slowly, the tide turned.

One by one, the galleries disappeared—not from lack of vision, but to make room for the next invasion: tech. Our entire floor, once buzzing with openings, conversations, and creative tension, was demolished and reborn as an Equinox gym. I was one of the last to close. What had been a vibrant artistic ecosystem briefly became a desert—caught in the in-between.

Those years were filled with unforgettable moments. Artists I gave shows to. Shows that deserved more than they received. I learned a hard truth: no matter how strong the work, the artist alone does not determine success. The system is not built to reward integrity—it often works against it. Still, I kept trying, until I finally went broke.

And then something shifted.

When the gallery closed, everything I had poured outward—energy, belief, advocacy—collapsed inward. That experience plunged me fully into my own art. All of it—the struggle, the exhaustion, the joy, the loss—had to go somewhere, and it went into the work itself.

What had once been curatorial vision became personal language. The same instincts that guided me in choosing artists and bodies of work now guide my own practice. The discipline, the risk-taking, the refusal to compromise—those years rewired how I make art.

I had given many artists beautiful, carefully curated exhibitions. Visitors, locals and tourists alike, responded with enthusiasm and recognition. The shows were praised not because they followed trends, but because they were honest.

It was beautiful work. And it was brutal work.

The press releases. The pickups and drop-offs. The rent, the bills. The wine and hors d’oeuvres. The endless preparation. Somehow, we kept fighting the urge to quit.

The greatest pleasure—always—was choosing the artist and the work. Standing in front of a body of work and knowing it mattered. Nothing else counted. Not résumés. Not trends. Just the work itself.

That belief defined the Henry Gregg Gallery. And it defines my art now.

When my wife and I finally closed the gallery, it took years to rebuild what we had given—financially, emotionally, creatively—with very little monetary return. But the gallery was never about profit. It was an act of love. A long, stubborn vision for art and for artists.

Over the years, we were honored to show extraordinary artists and photographers, including Anthony Almeida, Nola Zirin, Robert Herman, Fernand D’Onofrio, Scott Endsley, Serena Bocchino, Joan Rubin, Eleanor Schimmel, Michael Price, Peter Essex, Phillip Sugden, John Elder, Tony Velez, Michael Brennan, Julian Jackson, Melissa Meyer, Judith Nilison, Ed Levekis, Pedro Antonio Abreau, Anne Froudal, Doug Schwab, Igor Malijevsky, Mark Blanchette, Istvan Soltesz, Carole Elchert, Bryce Lankard, Balazs Turay, Peter Bellamy, Nestor Madelenagiotia, Sam Clayton, Richard Warvo, Dr. Temple Grandin, Christophe Pillault, Juan Sanchez-Juarez, John Ferro, Carol Bruns, Ai Ohkawara, Helen Brough, Joan Grubin, Alice Plush, Charles Denson, Frank Lind—and many others.

To sum up those years, when we closed, I received a final notice—unexpected, generous, and deeply affirming:
https://www.andremartinezmusic.com/curated-shows-details.php?id=40

It made it all worth it.

Because even if the walls are gone and the neighborhood has changed, the work remains. What we built didn’t disappear—it transformed. Everything that experience demanded of me eventually returned, reshaped, through the art itself.

Those years were not an ending. They were a long apprenticeship—one that taught me how to see, how to endure, and how to trust the work above all else. The gallery was the proving ground. What followed became the practice.

The ideas that began there never stopped growing. They have been accumulating quietly, patiently, for years—waiting for the right moment, the right scale, and the right conditions to exist again.

And when they do, the work will speak not just for me, but for that entire vanished ecosystem of artists, risk-takers, and believers who once stood at the edge of the river and said yes.

That exhibition is still ahead.
It has been years in the making.