Hilde Lynn Helphenstein’s once-anonymous viral Instagram account is a digital cultural sensation that has become an art world obsession. JANET MERCEL logs into the razor sharp “Gogosian” galaxy.
I’m not famous, but I’m oddly famous,” says Hilde Lynn Helphenstein, a.k.a. Jerry Gogosian, the enfant terrible of art world commentary. “There’s an old hashtag from a few years ago, #jerryinthewild. People figured out who I was and were paparazzi-ing me. They still do it—sometimes they don’t even want to talk to me, they’re just snapping a picture.” Now seven years old, the Jerry Gogosian Instagram account delivers a sharp critique on the power dynamics driving the art market. From influencers to staffing culture and pricing, it is a gleeful snap back at the hidden—and not-so-hidden—barriers that simmer behind the art world’s most well-known names. Nothing is sacred from her callouts of social posturing and the outright corrupt—not buyers, sellers, the artists themselves, and, least of all, the galleries. What started as niche insider memes evolved into a go-to platform, along with her popular podcast Art Smack, for culture consumers eager to be in on the joke—currently nearly 150,000 of them.
All of this was easier, of course, when Helphenstein was an anonymous figure—a shadow prowling the art world. Was it connected to Jerry Saltz, the renowned New York magazine art critic? An unknown Gagosian employee with a bone to pick? (Officially, it was neither.) “My friends guessed it was me, because they knew my sense of humor so well, and it all added up,” she recalls. “I acted dumb for a while. I’d say, ‘What’s a Jerry Gogosian?’” In February 2020, at a Frieze Los Angeles party at the Hollywood Roosevelt, I remember seeing a colorful blonde girl casually interviewing luminaries and chatting around the David Hockney pool. She didn’t announce herself, but I just knew it was her (despite almost everyone assuming the person behind Jerry was a man). She was hiding in plain sight, a Gossip Girl for art-savvy grownups.
“I worked at very fancy galleries with some of the most corrupt, evil clientele the world has ever seen. And the artists have to emotionally prostitute themselves to those clients because it’s part of their job.” – Hilde Lynn Helphenstein
“I started out as an unpaid intern in a Lower East Side gallery, thinking, ‘I have seven years of a fine art education to end up sitting in this Chinatown basement,’” Helphenstein recalls. “My first Basel was 2005, and it was very different then. I remember going to a Peaches concert on the beach, that year or the next. She ripped off all her clothes and ran into the ocean, and the whole audience followed her. That could never happen now. By 2012, it was still fun, but I thought, ‘There’s a vibe shift happening here.’”
Maybe the fair circuit changed, maybe the world changed, or maybe the glitter came off the gold, and Helphenstein started noticing things that had always been there. Somewhere along the way things stopped being so much fun. “People are attracted to art for gross reasons. There are a lot of morally bankrupt collectors who haven’t done much to explore culture, society, their inner psyche, or the psyche of others. I worked at very fancy galleries with some of the most corrupt, evil clientele the world has ever seen. And the artists have to emotionally prostitute themselves to those clients because it’s part of their job.”
As a former gallery owner (Hilde, in Los Angeles) and a member of NYU Stern’s executive MBA class of 2025, Helphenstein recently set out to fix the flaws from within. She thought the big-money brands might listen if she presented herself as a fixer—a fine artist who understands finance and wants to hit reset on an increasingly dangerous gallery model. People (friends and not) advised her she was too opinionated, too ambitious, too honest, too idealistic, that she should tone it down. The qualities that attracted her audience were the same ones that scared off larger opportunities.
“A rumor started that she was dead. Accusations spread of her “deafening silence.” She flew into Miami for this year’s Art Week for about four hours—for a lecture with Jerry Saltz at the Pérez Art Museum—then left.”
She tried for a while. “I’m not trying to be a warrior for authenticity, but it almost killed me. It was really harmful for me. I started doubting myself and second-guessing everything about myself.” So, she didn’t soften her edges or tone it down—she’s still Jerry. And the big names, to say the least, were not interested. The rejection rocked her from a creative and professional standpoint. When I speak with her, she seems soft, raw and bruised, but in her usual blunt style, like she wants to talk about it. She’s freshly out the other side of a 51-day hiatus from the internet—no phone, no social media. A rumor started that she was dead. Accusations spread of her “deafening silence.” She flew into Miami for this year’s Art Week for about four hours—for a lecture with Jerry Saltz at the Pérez Art Museum—then left. (“It’s like, guys. You can want to step away from social media and not be dead.”)
In a meta twist, this sparked existential turmoil for Jerry Gogosian, who, after all, survives by being very, very online. In the years since she started the account, Helphenstein explains, her followers have, in a way, watched her “grow up.” Whether you’ve spent a couple of years listening to her podcast or had a conversation with Helphenstein herself, it’s still unclear where exactly she stands on the state of the art world. I can’t help but ask, “Do you love it here, or do you hate it here?”
Despite her weariness of the money-washing, art-flipping, and exploitation, it boils down to this: she really, really loves art and artists. It’s a case of hating the game, not the players. A day or so after we talk, a post appears on Jerry Gogosian. Her crisis, she explains, was spurred by the realization that she’d briefly lost herself and her values—likened to the “perception drift” of plastic surgery addicts who don’t realize they’ve gone too far until it’s too late. Her personal work—on the art world and herself—will continue. If her followers are on board, they can witness the healing process (or at least part of it), which, naturally, will unfold in the most fitting place of all: online.
Photographs by Phi Vu
