Art Basel Paris: a practical guide for the disgruntled fairgoer

It is an oddity of the 21st century that so-called ‘global art fairs’ repeatedly try to convince us, to varying degrees of success, that putting expensive objects and the rich individuals who buy them under a tent, while charging commoners the price of four cinema tickets to watch the ordeal, constitute the pinnacle of cultural experiences. One assumed, perhaps naively, that the climate crisis, exacerbated by a pandemic (both of truly global nature), would have brought an end to this affair. Think again. Bigger, faster, stronger, the third edition of the freshly-renamed Art Basel Paris, fka Paris+ par Art Basel (which doesn’t get a tent but a real venue in the form of the historic Grand Palais, built in 1900 for the imperial spectacle that was the Universal Expo) is here to show us otherwise. So, for the Disgruntled Fairgoers whose Zoloft has proven ineffective in reconciling artistic zeal with late-stage capitalism, I offer the following Practical Guide.

1. What to wear: the benefits of dressing like an undercover celeb

Before venturing out to La Foire d’Art, the aspiring Disgruntled Fairgoer might wonder what an appropriate costume to wear is. This, of course, depends on your personal history. If you are a novice to the art fair circuit, and plan to visit alone, don’t worry – you are safe. If, however, you or the well-born acquaintance you accompany have the great misfortune of knowing anybody in the art world, you will want to wear a generously-sized pair of sunglasses and a headpiece, such as a baseball cap or perhaps a straw hat, to shield yourself from non-consensual air kisses, small talks and other forms of unwanted social attention.

Should you opt for a complete makeover, you might wish to consider wearing a knee-length khaki trench coat and a moustache, too (if you are unable to grow one on time, faux whiskers provide a perfectly suitable alternative). In other words, the more you look like you could be an off-duty celeb, the better. Trust me, this will discourage unnecessary social engagement from other fairgoers, while bestowing you with an adequately mysterious air of je ne sais quoi.

Now, should this strategy prove unsuccessful in dissuading gallerinas from talking to you, try responding with a random combination of French words and idioms, such as “Non,” “C’est la vie,” “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi,” or “Plat de resistance,” delivered in the order of your choice. This, I assure you, will deter your interlocutor, who will leave you alone forever. And if your conversant is particularly persistent, you could always try singing L’Internationale at the top of your lungs and see what happens.

2. How to start a rumour (and why you should)

Rumours are the fuel of art fairs and, as an aspiring Disgruntled Fairgoer, it is your responsibility to nurture this tradition. In order to start rumours effectively, three key ingredients are to be considered: outfit, location, and materials.

We’ve already covered the topic of clothing and, while you might be tempted to shed your goblin mode attire to change into something more respectable, I assure you, that would be a mistake, for nothing says ‘Truthfulness’ like a convicted felon with nothing to lose.

Now, on the topic of location, you must position yourself strategically, where you will be heard by people who matter. If you have the shameful privilege of holding a VIP pass, the Collectors Lounge provides a prime location for spreading rumours. Why not pick a seat with an acquaintance of your choice and casually grab a glass of champagne? Should you be sufficiently knowledgeable to recognise any art advisors and their high-net worth clients, be sure to position yourself close to them – this species is particularly prone to the volatility of hearsay. Failing that, you may try shouting at your telephone outside the press area, where your rumours are guaranteed to be heard and circulated in real time by the news personnel of the fair.

This brings me to the most important aspect of Rumour Spreading: the material. For your convenience, I offer the following rumours, which you may tailor to your liking:

1. Have you heard that [BLUE-CHIP GALLERY OF YOUR CHOICE] is opening a new space in North Korea? I’m so happy for them!

2. Aw, I love [STRAIGHT WHITE MALE GALLERIST OF YOUR CHOICE] – it’s such a shame about those harassment allegations, though.

3. Ok, don’t tell anyone, but [SUCCESSFUL ELDERLY ARTIST OF YOUR CHOICE] is very unwell – it’s only a matter of days now.

4. OMG, I just saw [HEIRESS OF YOUR CHOICE] in aisle B, she is WASTED and splashing her cash like there’s no tomorrow!

5. [INTERNATIONAL ART FAIR OF YOUR CHOICE] was cute, too bad Art Basel is buying it off.

3. If you’re going to steal, steal big

An art fair would not be an art fair without airport-like security control. Art Basel Paris, of course, is no exception. And while the entrance screening is comprehensible (as previously explained, the presence of terrorists, unlike that of white-collar criminals, is highly undesirable within the art-fair environment), the exit check is somewhat more intriguing, prompting the Disgruntled Fairgoer to wonder: what does one steal at an art fair?

Should you be in the business of petty theft, a number of small and trivial articles are available at the Art Basel Shop. For instance, the aspiring Disgruntled Fairgoer might consider taking an Art Basel perfume bottle worth 390€. Its woody undertones nicely allude to the wide range of illicit activities taking place in forests, such as burying corpses or hiding from law enforcement. In this pursuit, your trench coat will come in handy: just ask the shop attendant for une bouffée de parfum, and, when they are distracted with another customer, gently slip the bottle into the inside pocket of your coat and walk away, ni vu ni connu. Moreover, the shop boasts a large selection of Art Basel-branded caps. Why not just take one? I assure you, no one cares. (In fact, the Art Basel personnel would be well advised to develop a special shop section specifically targeted at its growing disgruntled audience, featuring all necessary accessories to complete their look.)

The Disgruntled Fairgoer, however, would do well to aim for more substantial items. If given the option, the bank robber is unlikely to choose coin rolls over gold bars. The same principle applies at an art fair. In other words, if you’re going to steal, steal big. Why not, for instance, go for a minimalist 1960s Takis sculpture? Its long and pointy horizontal wire will likely be perceived as a hazard, discouraging any security intervention, which will help you get away with it. Or how about this teal-coloured polyester sculpture of Saint Michael, the warrior angel battling evil, by Katharina Fritsch? Its religious iconography will deter the faithful from questioning the criminal nature of your deed.

Now, the Disgruntled Fairgoer should be advised that theft at the fair will very likely result in prosecution (hence the airport-like security system). And, as previously stated, I will be of no use to you in prison. However, I can assure you that my help will not be needed in this particular case, for the perpetrator of such highly-creative robberies will be hailed like a legend by fellow inmates and will undoubtedly receive an unlimited supply of free soap and cigarettes for the duration of their sentence.

4. Party in Pareeh? Non merci

It is imperative that the aspiring Disgruntled Fairgoer declines all invitations to social events labelled as ‘Cocktail Receptions’. Not the Miu-Mius, Vuittons, not the Cartiers – trust me, there is no amount of free Veuve Clicquot and vol-au-vents that warrants your presence at such gruesome spectacles of empty flatteries. The only social venue tolerated by the Disgruntled is Le Raidd – the Marais’s infamous gay bar, where well-built men shower in public for the pleasure of a nondescript, intergenerational clientele (which occasionally even includes Emily in Paris). For everything else, I offer the following excuses to help you stay out of trouble:

1. I’m sorry I can’t attend [COCKTAIL RECEPTION OF YOUR CHOICE] tonight, I rescued a cat during my short stay in Paris, so I need to go feed it.

2. I’m sorry I can’t attend [COCKTAIL RECEPTION OF YOUR CHOICE] tonight, the only way I could convince the French Ministry of Culture to fund my press trip was to promise I’d read all seven volumes of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, so I’ll be doing that tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after.

3. I’m sorry I can’t attend [COCKTAIL RECEPTION OF YOUR CHOICE] tonight, the cat I rescued during my short stay in Paris is sick, so I need to bring it to the vet.

4. I’m sorry I can’t attend [COCKTAIL RECEPTION OF YOUR CHOICE] tonight, I’m attending the General Assembly of the French Communist Party (coincidentally, this year, its Niemeyer-designed headquarters are hosting an exhibition by the Scottish painter Gabriella Boyd, and it’s not half bad).

5. I’m sorry I can’t attend [COCKTAIL RECEPTION OF YOUR CHOICE] tonight, the sick cat I rescued during my short stay in Paris died, so I’m giving it a burial at the Père Lachaise cemetery near Edith Piaf’s grave.

5. Avoid ‘satellite fairs’ – your disgruntled soul can’t take them

In an effort to preserve their hard-won disgruntledness, Disgruntled Fairgoers would be well-advised to avoid so-called ‘satellite fairs’, whose free entries and comparatively affordable contents risk giving the illusion that art can indeed be a democratic pursuit. Paris Internationale is a prime example of this misguided trend. Now in its tenth year and housed in a former telephone exchange in the ninth arrondissement, the fair attracts cutting-edge international galleries who insist on presenting artworks that are far too compelling for the Disgruntled.

Among those is a selection of oddly appealing earthy and pastel-y paintings of Kafkaesque figures by Barcelona-based artist Jose Bonell, displayed by Portland gallery Adams and Ollman. This Disgruntled Fairgoer was admittedly so enthralled by them that, in a moment of deep confusion, they briefly perused the price list (which merely reminded them of how unprofitable the business of art writing was). Other works that risk eroding your blooming disgruntledness include white turtle-necked sculptures mounted on wooden furniture by Belgian artist and designer Dirk Van Saene, presented by Antwerp gallery Sofie Van de Velde, and yowling mechanic cats resting on glazed ceramic snakes by German artist Gerrit Frohne-Brinkmann, presented by Berlin gallery Galerie Noah Klink. (You should refrain, however, from trying to rescue the cats, who will invariably get sick and die, prompting you to make burdensome burial arrangements on short notice.)