Once upon a time in the vibrant world of boxy offices, dingy coffee machines, and time cards, I found myself in a tango with a boss so horrendous he could make a rattlesnake seem like a cuddly kitten. Stanley “The Eye” Higgins was not just simply an art dealer but a connoisseur of torment, an aficionado of annoyance, a virtuoso of vexation – and my boss.

Stanley ruled over his gallery with a tyrannical flourish, critiquing paintings with the grace of a rhinoceros on roller skates. “Art,” he claimed, “is either an unbearable tragedy or an unbearable comedy.” That explanation was about as comforting as a cactus blanket, especially when your livelihood depends on a guy who looked like a walrus and had the temperament of a viper.

Higgins was a skilled craftsman at belittling anyone he considered beneath him. He once criticized a Degas sketch with “I’ve seen better lines in a parking lot!” And the poor janitor – Miguel was his name – was constantly at the receiving end of gems like, “That mop has more artistry than you!”

I showed Stanley a piece I’d labored over for months, a swirling vortex of color and emotion. I held my breath as his none-too-artistic eye honed in. “It’s as if Jackson Pollock and Van Gogh had a horrific car crash,” he sneered. Then he forgetfully wiped his sandwich-laden, mayo-coated fingers across the canvas, forever adding an unwanted white design to my masterpiece.

But even in these ghastly, soul-draining times, there was camaraderie. We, the gallery staff, became the band of brothers and sisters in ridiculousness. We wore the badge of the absurd with honor. We also found our own source of office wisdom in the golden heart of Janice, the perpetually smiling receptionist, who seemed to glide through each day on a cloud of unfeigned joy. She was our North Star in the ever-circling whirlpool of The Eye’s tyranny.

One exceptionally frustrating afternoon, after Higgins declared my latest creation ‘a symphony of disaster,’ I found a note on my desk. Simple words written in Janice’s tidy handwriting: “Art lives in the eye of the creator, not in the blathering of idiots.” I laughed, a true belly laugh. It was a light bulb moment in an otherwise dimly lit week.

So, we found our silver linings in lamenting over coffee – okay cheap sludge – but we made it through. We shared stories, eye rolls, comforting giggles and mutual experiences of surviving the iceberg that was Stanley. It was a delightfully weird, absurdly hilarious bond forged in the glaring stare of The Eye.

To all who persevere under the management of horrible bosses, to my gallery comrades, to you brave souls clinging onto sanity and humor in the face of constant belittlement, this is my toast to you. May we always find the time to share an eye roll, a handshake, or a deep pocket of laughter amidst the chaos, and even in the false sanctuary of “an unbearable tragedy or an unbearable comedy.”

So, what do you say, shall we get back to creating our masterpieces or should we let another painting be the casualty of a mayo accident? The choice, as always, is beautifully ours.