Two days in Turin: “It’s a bit like Crufts for art people”

Wednesday 30th October
AM

It’s 7:30 am, and the day gets off to a rocky start when I receive a £73 fine from the gorgons at East Anglia Rail for not having a valid railcard (a fact I am painfully aware of since turning 26, yet still brazenly select the 18-25 railcard for the Trainline transaction). Time’s up on my Flustered English Girl act, yet leaning into the persona of Bourgeois Art Woman has its downsides – it’s much less convincing to feign ignorance when wearing a blazer, large glasses and sporting a generally jaded expression, all before breakfast. Feeling a bit like Demi Moore in The Substance, I suddenly remember that society hates seeing a woman age, but I accept the fine with a tap of Apple Pay and post up in Joe & The Juice to lick my wounds and down a truly dreadful flat white while casting withering glances at anyone eating Itsu at this ungodly hour. Slightly sleep-deprived from staying up to watch Truman vs. The Swans, I consider adopting a new WASP-ish persona for my  trip to Turin, but decide I’m far too prone to oversharing to keep that up. Instead, I plough on with some Jilly Cooper while the girl next to me underlined passages in a well-thumbed copy of Dostoevsky. I briefly contemplate downloading some Eve Babitz to read on the plane but that feels a bit on the nose.

Wednesday 30th October
PM

Mere hours later, we touch down in sunny Turin. One plate of ravioli, one Coke Zero, and one pack of Vogues later, we’re off to the Castello di Rivoli museum, where a tiny and immaculately dressed Italian lady appears like an apparition, pointing to the suspended glass box dangling off the adjoining building as a prime spot for securing those all-important Insta sunset snaps. Gazing out at the vista, I am reminded of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and make a mental note to expand and upscale my pool of references. As darkness descends, I skulk back to the castle, passing a group of teens clambering over some kind of tasteful ruin, smoking cigs and looking like an Italian offshoot of Skins. Slightly lost, I traipse through room after room before finding myself staring up at a taxidermy horse hanging from the ceiling. While I haven’t partaken in any equine tranquiliser, Maurizio Cattelan’s creation did leave me feeling (to use a phrase coined by Plaster’s own Billy Parker) a little Cracked Out, which wasn’t helped by stumbling into Hito Steyerl’s Hell Yeah We Fuck Die. It depicts a wobbling figure that looks  like it’s falling down the stairs of Dalston Superstore – I feel right at home. Weaving my way back to the entrance, I was comforted by the familiar sight of Homme Plissé and severe haircuts. It was just like being back in Soho, only with the welcome addition of Italian DILFS who look a bit like Dickie Greenleaf if he hadn’t got got. In keeping with my fever-dream state, I end up in a greenhouse, looking down at a sleeping bear in a lacy thong. Precious Okoyomon’s the sun eats her children, 2023. It was all a bit Goldilocks x Savage x Fenty for my liking and I was quite relieved when the curator started explaining about armies of snails and other, more wholesome things. Departing the Castello, we end the evening a couple of carafes deep, putting the world to rights and reflecting that, yes, men really are the worst, aren’t they? A final cig, gazing whimsically across my balcony, and I bid a “buonanotte!”

Thursday 31st October
AM

The next morning, only a little groggy from the house red and a pasta-heavy day, we pop into the Oriental Art Museum. I can’t say much about the work, but the metallic floor and disapproving staff makes it feel like Dover Street Market—no place like home! With a quick tap of my heels, we move swiftly on to the main event and the reason for this whole sojourn: Artissima. Situated in an actual building (Frieze, take note), one fairgoer remarked, “It’s a bit like Crufts for art people” and with all those glossy coats and pedigree certificates, I can’t help but agree.

While most of the London contingent hasn’t made it over, it’s comforting to see that the On Running and white denim combo is still going strong across Europe. Despite the lack of celebrities, I spot several men who I mistake for Stanley Tucci and someone who looks a bit like Katie Price hanging around the Robert Mapplethorpe photographs. Other sightings include numerous pairs of platform Uggs, an alarming number of Artek stools and Plia chairs. One exasperated booth bunny exclaims “I had to tell my boss we’re not close enough for him to take a video of me crying but all he thinks about is content.” Alongside some familiar faces at the Soft Opening and Albion Jeune booths, highlights include hanging out in the smoking area, which looked like the back of a soundstage, prompting some existential musings about “All the world’s a stage,” et cetera. Five hours and four Coke Zeros later, we make a quick stop at Mark Manders’ exhibition at Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, where a very sweet sculpture leaves me yearning for my little rat dog, currently exiled to the Cotswolds while mummy works hard to build a better life for the both of us.

Thursday 31st October
PM

After a gourmet lunch of prepackaged salad at the Artissima Lounge Bistro, I have high hopes that dinner at Patrizia Sandretto Re Rebaudengo’s palatial home will be more House of Gucci than Ikea. I’m not disappointed and spotted at least three Birkins, as someone astutely remarked, “everyone hot from the fair is here.” It’s all a bit Tender is the Night, I thought, as I scarf down a ball of raw mystery meat and marvel at the army of Gaetano Pesce vases while a fellow guest explained, “she could have bought a £150 million yacht, but she did this,” gesturing towards the custom indoor pool. Once seated, I lean into the role of Plucky Young Writer amidst a group of seasoned, serious journalists who quickly voiced their opinion that “London used to be relevant, now it’s peripheral.” We do, however, find common ground on the music of Pharrell Williams and lament the loss of scathing criticism and bad press – it’s all gone a bit “gorgeous show this, gorgeous show that,” don’t we think? While the acoustics at Artissima aren’t optimised for eavesdropping, Casa di Patrizia is a different story, and I  find myself privy to some insightful soundbites including, “he has no eye for culture anymore, ever since Milan.”

Luca Guadagnino is regrettably indisposed this year, presumably busy designing Patrizia’s new house in Venice. However, I am informed about another notable: someone who “cost his family a lot less as a collector than he would have in banking” and who “wasn’t a regular drunk, but a daytime drunk.” Several glasses of Sancerre later, I find myself waiting on the curb for an Uber to C2C – “a forward-thinking showcase of cutting-edge music” (i.e., Turin’s take on Venue MOT) – and can’t help but wonder, should I have accepted the advances of the greying collector who was old enough to be my father? Somewhere on Lake Como, a palazzo and a Campari spritz are waiting for me, but instead, I gracefully accept defeat at the hands of the Turin taxi service and head back to my twin bed.