Where Am I?

The night sky seemed vast and dark, inviting me to leave the art show and begin a search for the north star instead.  I could see the hundred bourgeoisie elitists that buy my glass passing behind me.  Their ghosts reflected in the window, as transparent as their souls.  They flitting from art form to art form, wishing the painting would speak to them as it spoke to their highly paid art coordinator.  At least the lofted studio was warm, filled with the heat from art collectors and women named Jasmine that smelled like too much rose perfume. I could see the exit across the room, only 12 or 15 strides…