I later founded Art Technology Holdings to explore the rapidly changing relationship between technology and culture. Its flagship product, Taste, grew from my belief that technology would transform how art is discovered, valued, authenticated, and transacted. Building the company expanded my understanding of what technology can offer the art world, but it also clarified something more important: technology is most valuable when it deepens our relationship with art rather than reducing art to information, inventory, or financial data.
At the beginning of 2026, I stepped away from the day-to-day demands of running a technology company in San Francisco. The decision was both professional and personal; I wanted to focus on my family, raise my daughter in Europe, and return more fully to the work that first drew me into the art world. That transition brought me back to what I consider my true vocation: developing collectors and helping them build timeless collections. To me, developing a collector means much more than facilitating acquisitions; it means cultivating curiosity, confidence, independence of judgment, and the patience to allow a personal vision to emerge over time.
My approach begins with listening. Before recommending an artist or presenting a work, I want to understand how you live, what holds your attention, which ideas resonate with you, and what you hope your collection might become. One of my favorite things to do as an advisor is introduce someone to an art fair for the first time. Art Basel Miami Beach is a wonderful example because it opens its doors to a wider world in a way few fairs do. Many people arrive for the energy and the parties, but somewhere along the way, they encounter the art.
Before we enter, I usually tell them: “I don't care what you dislike. This isn't the internet; you don't need to give everything a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. There may be five thousand works inside, and perhaps only ten will mean something to you. Those are the ten I care about.” Then I watch as someone catches a work out of the corner of their eye and instinctively turns toward it. It may be a work that would never have stopped me, yet it speaks to them immediately and profoundly. I love witnessing that first moment of recognition: the surprise of discovering that an artwork can feel strangely personal before you have the words to explain why.
Those encounters are among the most rewarding parts of what I do because they remind me that taste is not something an advisor should dictate. It is something already present within each person, waiting to be noticed, explored, and given the confidence to develop. My responsibility, however, extends beyond helping someone discover what they love. I also need to make sure that the fundamentals of what they are buying make sense, that they understand the market they are entering, and that they can proceed with confidence rather than uncertainty.
I have seen people make substantial returns in the art market, and I have also seen people get burned. The difference is rarely explained by taste alone. It often comes down to information, access, timing, quality, provenance, pricing, and an understanding of how an artist's market is actually constructed. Some of that knowledge is highly specialized and not readily available to everyone; it comes from experience, relationships, and knowing which questions need to be asked before money changes hands. My job is to bring that understanding into the room and to be brutally honest about what I see.
If a collector loves a work, I want to understand whether the opportunity supporting it is equally compelling. Is it an important example within the artist's practice? Is the provenance sound? Is the condition appropriate? Who is supporting the artist, and how durable is that support? How does the asking price compare with relevant primary and secondary-market transactions? Most importantly, what is the right strike price? Sometimes my job is to say that a work is a good buy; at other times, it is to explain clearly why it is not, even when the collector is emotionally drawn to it.
I want collectors to develop the ability to assess an opportunity with the same seriousness they might bring to an early-stage investment. If you invest in a young company, you study the founders, the product, the market, the competitive landscape, and the people surrounding it. You also understand that meaningful growth takes time. You do not expect an early-stage investment to reach its full potential in two, three, or four years; you make a long-term commitment because you believe in what is being built.
I see a meaningful parallel in collecting the work of a living artist. You are not simply making a short-term bet on a price; you are making a commitment to the artist, the work, and the ideas that the artist represents. You are choosing to live with that work, experience it every day, and participate in the longer history that may develop around it. The financial dimension matters, and it deserves rigorous attention, but it should exist alongside the personal and cultural value of ownership rather than replace it.
This is particularly important when someone is considering spending one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, five hundred thousand dollars, or more in a market they may not yet fully understand. Confidence should not come from being told that everything will work out; it should come from understanding exactly what is being purchased, why the price makes sense, where the risks are, and what would need to happen for the work's market to develop over time. My role is to provide that clarity, protect the collector from avoidable mistakes, and make sure conviction is supported by substance.
There is also something uniquely powerful about owning a one-of-one artwork. Many people may have the resources to pursue it, but only one person can ultimately live with it, care for it, and represent it within their collection. That exclusivity carries responsibility. The confidence with which a collector owns, preserves, exhibits, and speaks about a work can contribute to the way it is understood over time; ownership becomes a form of stewardship.
From there, I consider how artworks can converse across periods, cultures, and media, as well as how they inhabit the architecture and emotional atmosphere of a home. That intuitive process is supported by careful analysis of provenance, condition, quality, scarcity, pricing, market history, and long-term relevance. I believe a compelling acquisition should withstand both forms of scrutiny: it should remain persuasive when examined rationally and continue to feel essential when encountered privately.
The finest collections, in my experience, are not built by following fashion, accumulating recognizable names, or pursuing financial return in isolation; they emerge slowly through sustained attention, meaningful relationships, informed conviction, and the courage to develop an individual point of view. I do not see my role as directing someone's taste. I see it as helping each collector discover the language through which their taste can become a coherent and enduring collection, while giving them the knowledge and confidence to make decisions they will continue to believe in.
Ultimately, I believe art should be lived with rather than merely owned. It should transform a space, sharpen our perception, preserve a chapter of our lives, and carry meaning from one generation to the next. A great collection reflects both the eye and the judgment of the person who built it; it should reveal what they loved, what they understood, what they chose to support, and what they had the confidence to hold.