The artist hasn't slept in weeks. Potentially, the artist has not slept in up to and including 53 hours.
The gallerist is not sleeping well. Even melatonin doesn't help.
The artist's family isn't sleeping because the artist, in a sleep-deprived fury, said horrible things about them, the past, some random other person, and now the family is wondering what to do.
If the artist has a partner, then he/she hopefully has reconciled themselves to cooking and running errands for someone who will return to them, when the show is complete, a depressed shadow of the ego-driven artist currently barging around. The partner sleeps only a little bit more than the artist.
The artist's friends have disappeared and are presumably having a good time, sleeping in or around–depending on the person. They are looking forward to the opening when their friend will hang out all night and, after the show, enjoy much drunken revelry.
Sleep is portioned to the work. It is necessary but disdained, until the eyes droop despite caffeine, the brush shakes in the stiff hand, and the electric bill suggests that some time off might not be such a bad thing.
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