Ouch

From the NYT review of the new Bravo series 'Gallery Girls'

“People think that I just live off my dad, and they think I’m a brat, or whatever,” Liz complains, though really she’s just describing.

nowhere is more welcoming to arrivistes and pretenders of all stripes than the art world.

There’s also Kerri, from Long Island, who plainly admits she knows little about art, but has great bone structure, and therefore an internship with an art adviser.

Chantal, who emphasizes melody over content in her speech, every sentence sounding like a question

The New Yorker has chipped in too:

Joining the ranks of the fifties ladies lounging against sea-foam green Cadillacs on showroom floors, and leggy eighties game-show assistants, poofing their perms and purchasing vowels, are the “gallerinas,” who now find themselves spending long hours vamping in retail. The show was briefly named “Paint the Town,” which is a groan-inducing title. But at least it gave a better sense of the show’s focus. While real gallery girls may face tedium and menial tasks at their desks, Bravo’s gallery girls need galleries like the real housewives need husbands: as an entrée into and excuse for a life of shopping, cocktail-drinking, and backstabbing.