The Frieze fairs (London and Masters) landed in Regents Park this week, sending ”art people” into their annual frenzy. It’s the art world’s equivalent of fashion week with much more money and much less embarrassment about it. There is absolutely nothing coy, current or trendy about a “Deutsche Bank Wealth Management Lounge”, or champagne at a minimum of £20 a glass. In that sense, Frieze is fundamentally and proudly unabashed.
The fairs take place in what must be two of the largest marquees on the planet, a pleasant 15 minute stroll from one another — but that doesn’t stop them putting on a VIP BMW car service between the two. Frieze London brings together some of the most exciting modern and contemporary artists and galleries in the world, all under one tent.
“Frieze is a fascinating cultural spectacle before even considering the art on the walls”
Frieze Masters on the other hand collects artworks and artefacts of all ages, from Jackson Pollock sketches to fourth century roman mosaics. Frieze London, the significantly bigger and denser show, is like having 10,000 galleries urgently vying for your attention. Masters on the other hand, is spacious, relaxed, more like a museum inviting you to marvel at humanity’s past achievements, but everything’s for sale.
I am not one of the aforementioned “art people”, nor am I an art critic, so please don’t expect a breakdown or highlights from me. I’m far more interested in the event, the vibe, and the utterly fascinating group of people that the fairs bring together. The fact under one roof (tent) you can have CSM students, Benedict Cumberbatch, local queer icons like Opia, and two Princesses (Beatrice and Julia), makes Frieze a fascinating cultural spectacle before even considering the art on the walls.
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Six years in London and it was my first Frieze. But whenever I brought it up, the news was greeted, not with pity or surprise, but with sadness. “Oh,” they said, with a head tilt and a furrowed brow, “I’m sorry.” Not sorry that I had missed out on previous fairs, or sorry that I’d been left out, but that I had now been eventually dragged into it. Or that I had been dragged into against my will (which was not the case, I actually loved it). And this feeling was everywhere. I swear not a single person in that monstrous marquee wanted to be there. Like a gigantic Boschian purgatory, no one thought they deserved to be put through the ordeal. The smiles of the gallery attendants dropped like Jell-O on concrete as potential buyers turned their backs. It was a face that knew that this was only the beginning.
“Imagine. Such a fundamental breakdown in British queueing etiquette at such a posh event”
The most purgatorial of all? Gail’s. Gail’s at Frieze London was really a sight to behold. A long stringy, disorganised queue — “Are you queuing?” “Oh, you’re still looking?“ “Oh sorry” — that passed the sandwiches and the pastry counter, ending in what I can only describe as a gaggle of people, crammed into the corner of the marquee trying to order coffee without queueing for a pastry.
Said mob had merged with the dozens who had ordered and were now waiting for their coffee, everyone was facing different directions, no one knew who had ordered or who was next and the staff (who were angels, saints, and should have been paid double) stayed wisely out of it, politely serving whoever came out the victor of this upperclass Lord of the Flies. Imagine. Such a fundamental breakdown in British queueing etiquette at such a posh event. And this was at 3pm, heaven knows what carnage was beheld earlier that morning.
Some trick of the acoustics of the significantly larger Frieze London marquee, or maybe just the number or kind of people there, meant that every inch of it was filled with stressful hubbub. It was almost immediately affecting, everyone seemed to be rushing around to the soundtrack of thousands of feet trampling wooden boards and a deafening chorus of ”Darling, how are you?” In an almost ridiculous illustration of the saying “money talks and wealth whispers”, Masters was near silent. Even the Gail’s was more civilised.
“It’s easy to forget that the objective of the event is to sell works for tens of thousands of pounds”
One thing that surprised me though, was the variety of alcohol available and the volumes in which it was being consumed — an Illy Espresso Martini cart, the champagne stands on every corner with a corresponding main bar, a separate wine bar and a waiting area for Sessions Arts Club where a glass of bubbles seemed like the must have accessory. But then none of this should have surprised me. It’s easy to forget, when you only ever have three figures in you bank account, that all of it is for sale, that the objective of the event is to sell works for tens (maybe hundreds?) of thousands of pounds. So getting everyone a little liquored up couldn’t hurt.
I’m imagining that familiar feeling of waking up hungover and knowing that you spent too much money last night, but instead of a few too many doubles, £10 on a kebab and £15 on a taxi, you’ve drunkenly bought a £35,000 collection of inflatable penguins.
Though maybe that’s not a terrible problem to have.
Spit, desire and identity: Meet the standout queer artists at this year’s Frieze
