The disappearing gallery: How apartment-galleries are reinventing art without rent

01When the white cube becomes a living room (and vice versa)

The white cube, theorized by Brian O’Doherty in the 1970s, was meant to offer a neutral space, stripped of everyday distractions. Yet this neutrality has become a mirage: commercial galleries have turned art into a product, and museums into blockbuster machines. Faced with this standardization, the apartment-gallery offers a radical alternative. Here, no immaculate white walls—just creaking floorboards, hissing radiators, and bookshelves filled with art books. 55 Walker in New York takes the concept further by hosting dinners where artists cook for collectors. "The idea isn’t to create a set, but to let the space live," explains its founder, artist Alex Schweder. Artworks are no longer hung to be contemplated but integrated into a domestic environment. A Rachel Whiteread sculpture converses with an old sofa, a David Shrigley painting sits beside a houseplant. The result? An experience where art is no longer an object to consume but a presence to inhabit.

This approach isn’t new. In the 1960s, Allan Kaprow staged happenings in New York apartments, while Yoko Ono invited the public to climb a ladder to read a word written on the ceiling (Ceiling Painting, 1966). But today, the apartment-gallery is no longer an ephemeral performance—it’s a full-fledged economic model. In Paris, The Green Ray occupies vacant homes for temporary exhibitions, while in Brussels, La Loge has transformed a former Masonic lodge into a hybrid space, part gallery, part artist residency. These places don’t seek to compete with institutions but to offer an alternative: less commercial pressure, more creative freedom.

02Rent: the invisible burden of the art market

Opening a traditional gallery in Paris or Berlin is expensive. Very expensive. According to a The Art Newspaper study, the average rent for a 100-square-meter space in Le Marais is €12,000 per month. In Berlin, prices have risen 300% in ten years, pushing dozens of galleries toward peripheral neighborhoods. Faced with this pressure, the apartment-gallery appears as a pragmatic solution. "Rent is the first expense for a gallery, even before salaries or exhibition costs," explains an anonymous Parisian gallerist. "By using a space you already live in, you eliminate that cost. It’s a matter of survival."

Some go further by squatting abandoned buildings. In Berlin, Kunsthaus Tacheles operated for twenty years in a squatted former shopping mall before being evicted in 2012. In Marseille, La Friche la Belle de Mai began as an artistic squat before becoming an official cultural venue. These spaces aren’t always legal, but they allow emerging artists to show their work without going through commercial galleries. "Squatting is the school of improvisation," admits a Berlin artist. "You learn to put on an exhibition with next to nothing, negotiate with neighbors, handle technical issues. It’s an accelerated training in gallerism."

Yet this model has its limits. Apartment-galleries are often ephemeral: a landlord reclaiming the space, a neighbor complaining about noise, and it’s all over. In New York, 55 Walker had to move three times in five years. "Precarity is part of the game," acknowledges Alex Schweder. "But it’s also what makes these spaces so alive. They’re not set in stone like a museum."

03The art of living (and selling) without a storefront

How do you sell art in an apartment? The question haunts everyone who embarks on this adventure. Unlike traditional galleries, where prices are displayed and transactions formalized, apartment-galleries rely on informality. "We don’t sell the way we do at FIAC," explains Caroline Andrieux of L’Appartement. "Collectors come for the experience, not to sign a check. Sometimes a work leaves after a dinner because it created a particular emotion."

This approach rests on a paradox: the more intimate the space, the more personal the relationship with the buyer becomes. At 55 Walker, sales often happen over a glass of wine, after a conversation with the artist. "Collectors like to feel they’re part of a community," observes Alex Schweder. "They don’t just want to buy a work; they want a story." This proximity comes at a price: apartment-galleries target a smaller clientele, often made up of informed amateurs rather than speculators. "We don’t sell to investment funds," specifies a Geneva gallerist. "Our buyers are people who love art, not those looking to resell for profit."

Yet some apartment-galleries manage to attract institutional collectors. L’Appartement has sold works by Danh Vo and Rirkrit Tiravanija to museums like MoMA and Tate Modern. "The secret is not to force the sale," explains Nicolas Bellavance-Lecompte. "We present works the way we would at home: no pressure, no sales pitch. If a collector is interested, they’ll let us know." This approach contrasts with the aggressive strategies of some commercial galleries, where prices are negotiated with percentages and contracts.

04The Instagram trap: when art becomes decor

If apartment-galleries appeal, it’s also because they meet a growing demand for "Instagrammable" spaces. Accounts like @apartamento or @designmilk showcase interiors where art meets design, creating a hybrid aesthetic between gallery and decor magazine. "The danger is that art becomes just another style accessory," warns an art critic. "We’re seeing more and more people buy works because they ‘match’ their sofa, not because they move them."

This trend isn’t new. In the 1980s, artists like Jorge Pardo or Andrea Zittel blurred the lines between art and design, creating furniture or everyday objects that could be exhibited as artworks. Today, galleries like Friedman Benda in New York or Carpenters Workshop Gallery in Paris push the concept further, selling unique pieces by contemporary designers. But while these galleries remain in the art world, apartment-galleries risk slipping into lifestyle. "The problem isn’t that art is integrated into an interior; it’s that it becomes just another product," explains a museum curator.

To avoid this trap, some galleries focus on works that resist immediate consumption. The Green Ray in Paris exhibits ephemeral or challenging pieces: sound installations, performances, works that require active viewer participation. "We don’t want people to leave with a photo for Instagram, but with an experience," explains its founder, Yoann Gourmel. "Art should unsettle, not decorate."

05The apartment-gallery as a laboratory for new artistic practices

Beyond its economic model, the apartment-gallery is also a testing ground for artists. Freed from institutional constraints, they can experiment with hybrid formats, mixing performance, installation, and daily life. At L’Appartement, Rirkrit Tiravanija organized dinners where guests cooked together, turning the exhibition into a collective experience. At 55 Walker, artist Alex Da Corte recreated a 1980s apartment, complete with shag carpet, wallpaper, and vintage furniture, inviting the public to sit and watch videos on an old TV.

These experiments challenge the traditional distinction between artist and spectator. "In an apartment-gallery, the public is no longer a passive visitor but a participant," explains an art historian. "The work is no longer an object to contemplate but a situation to live." This approach follows in the footsteps of 1960s happenings, but with a key difference: today, these performances are no longer ephemeral. They unfold over time, turning the apartment into a permanent creative space.

Some artists go further by making their own homes into artworks. In 2019, Swiss artist Roman Signer transformed his Zurich apartment into an installation, inviting the public to discover his intimate world. In New York, artist Tauba Auerbach lives and works in a loft she entirely reimagined as an artwork, with mirrored floors and slanted walls. "For me, the apartment isn’t an exhibition space but an extension of my artistic practice," she explains. "It’s where I live, work, and think. Everything is connected."

06The other side of the coin: precarity, gentrification, and ethical questions

While apartment-galleries appeal, they also raise ethical concerns. In Berlin, where the model is particularly widespread, some galleries have been accused of contributing to the gentrification of working-class neighborhoods. "When a gallery moves into a building, rents go up, and long-time residents are pushed to the outskirts," explains an activist. "The problem isn’t the gallery itself but the fact that it becomes a tool for real estate speculation."

Other critics point to the precarity of the artists who run these spaces. "Many apartment-galleries rely on unpaid artist labor," explains an art sociologist. "They set up exhibitions, welcome the public, manage social media—without compensation. It’s exploitation disguised as a cool alternative." In New York, several galleries have closed after their founders burned out from the pace of exhibitions and events.

Finally, the model raises questions about sustainability. "An apartment-gallery is ephemeral by nature," admits Caroline Andrieux. "One day, the landlord might take back the space, and it’s all over. But that’s also what gives these spaces their strength: they’re not frozen in time. They evolve, disappear, and reappear elsewhere." This instability is both a weakness and a strength. It allows a creative freedom that traditional galleries can’t offer, but it also makes long-term projects difficult.

07Toward a new model? What traditional galleries can learn

Faced with the enthusiasm for apartment-galleries, some institutions are beginning to adopt their approach. In Paris, the Palais de Tokyo launched a residency program in 2020 where artists take over Parisian apartments to create site-specific works. In London, Tate Modern organized an exhibition where visitors discovered artworks in reconstructed interiors. "Museums realize the public is tired of white cubes," explains a curator. "They’re trying to recreate a sense of intimacy, of closeness with art."

Commercial galleries are also starting to integrate domestic elements into their spaces. Hauser & Wirth opened The Fife Arms, a gallery-hotel in Scotland where artworks coexist with guest rooms. In Paris, Galerie Perrotin set up a lounge in its Marais space, complete with sofas and a library, to host discussions and meetings. "The idea isn’t to turn the gallery into an apartment but to break the coldness of the white cube," explains a gallerist. "Collectors want to feel at home, not in a showroom."

Yet these adaptations remain cautious. "Traditional galleries are afraid of losing credibility by becoming too informal," analyzes a critic. "They want to maintain a professional image, while apartment-galleries embrace their amateurism." This tension between professionalism and spontaneity is at the heart of the debate. Should these spaces be structured to make them economically viable, at the risk of losing their soul? Or should their precarity be accepted as the necessary trade-off for their freedom?

08Does the future of art lie in our living rooms?

In 2024, the apartment-gallery is no longer a marginal phenomenon. In Paris, Berlin, New York, and Geneva, hundreds of spaces operate on this model, attracting an ever-growing audience. Their success comes down to a simple equation: fewer economic constraints, more artistic freedom. Yet their future will depend on their ability to avoid the pitfalls of gentrification and commercialization.

For artists, these spaces offer a unique opportunity to show their work without going through commercial galleries. For collectors, they provide a more intimate, human art experience. For cities, they represent an alternative to museums and traditional galleries, often inaccessible. But their greatest strength may lie in their impermanence. An apartment-gallery isn’t built to last forever. It emerges, lives, disappears, leaving behind memories, artworks, and sometimes a new way of thinking about art.

So the next time you push open the door of an apartment turned gallery, remember: you’re not visiting an exhibition, you’re entering a living room. And in a living room, you don’t look at art—you live it.