I’ve read about a gallery opening in Brussels, and having an hour or so to kill before a film screening, decide to drop by. I find the location without too much difficulty – it’s only a ten minute walk from the cinemateque – but the door next to the sign engraved next to the building entrance is locked. Did I misread the announcement? I notice a park winding through the backside of the block, and when I come up parallel to the spot where the gallery sits I notice that lights are on in the space and there’s a flurry of activity. I climb a bit higher: from here I have a perfect vantage point through a picture window into the back room of the gallery. I can see a long dining table where a group of caterers is busy arranging the table settings. I stand in the shadows of the park on this hillside, a hidden voyeur, observing the goings-on. I realize that I can easily distinguish the gallery employees from the caterers – the later wear black aprons and are constantly in motion; the gallery people meanwhile stand slightly apart, making suggestions every so often or demonstrating something (the catering staff hurries to comply). I can only imagine the tension surrounding the event: important guests, big expectations, everything has to be perfect. But what can explain this table set for an after-opening party and the apparent absence of a public opening? How could the two have been conflated in the art publication I consulted? And where, exactly, does the boundary lie between public and private in this highly rarified echelon of the art world?