Inigo Philbrick used to scream his own name in the shower every morning, as Kenny Schachter wrote in his piece for New York magazine. “Inigo! Inigo! Inigo!” the art fraudster would bellow at the top of his lungs as he psyched himself up for an honest day’s larceny. (The ritual became so ingrained that his girlfriend once made him a sweatshirt with the mantra emblazoned in all caps across the front.)
To be fair, young Philbrick probably needed all the self-affirmation he could get. At the height of his dubious powers, the precocious grifter wasn’t just mixing with the biggest players in the cutthroat contemporary-art world—he was allegedly defrauding most of them, too.
