Ah, Frieze week, the unenviable (enviable) conundrum every art-worlder thought they wanted until it became a necessity, not a choice. “We were told it was just pretty pictures and flexing archival Martin Margiela,” the fledgling ballerinas cry in unison. How wrong they were! Indeed, no gallery director worth their salt would let a budding intern in on the realities of an art fair – not least Frieze, the double-decade destination of doom.
Yep, sorry, girls and gays, but swilling your way through expensed Lanson can’t temper the shrill tones of your bursting Gmail. That gouty collector wants to know where his Alex Katz is, and pronto. Sure, you wanted to let loose this week – everyone does. However, little did you know that half your booth’s works would get stuck in customs and the Mapplethorpe would be seized for indecency on the way back from Seoul. Hopefully, the British embassy can explain that it’s only a bit of cock-and-ball torture.
Of course, there’s plenty of downtime. From 11am to 7pm, juniors on the booth can set their brains to cruise control, engaging in idle talk with faceless wealth hoarders who bankroll their salary. And, if you really want to get on, be sure to muscle in with anyone rocking Brunello Cucinelli cashmere or the Row tailoring – not that you’d notice.
Luckily, you’re in safe hands. As your resident outsider, I’ve come to indulge in everything you wish you could, bringing you all the starry dispatches from the tote-bagged trenches.
It’s the first night on the tiles, and where better to begin than seedy Soho? First stop: the Axel Arigato store for a fashion-art crossover (get used to it) with Mexican sculptor Débora Delmar. Inside, hulking mercurial orbs form merchandising podiums, while sneakers are conjoined in arcing displays. Helen Neven of the eponymous and newly opened Neven gallery is serving a lewk: Y2K It-bag in tow with a clip-on Lost Mary vape and jewellery by artist Leo Costelloe. Chic! I nab an agua con cas and press onwards.
Next up, it’s Massimo De Carlo gallery’s soirée, held inside the upholstered basement of Mayfair eatery par excellence, Isabel. There, hordes of well-heeled ladies, replete with Max Mara garb and a fresh blow-out, saunter around the bar. The men look sartorial. After all, it’s an Italian-owned gallery. Slowly but surely, as the room fills, the more boisterous characters come out to play. A gold-toothed YBA, Sue Webster, is getting well into the party and obliges a quick snap. “I’ve got no Frieze gossip, yet,” she says. “But, I did get mistaken for Sue Williams and got offered a show tonight!” Where? “Here,” she says, referring to the gallery space, not the haughty restaurant we’re packed into like sardines.
By this point, I can feel the sweat crawling down my back. I head out for air (read: second-hand smoke from filler-lined lips) and make my way to the Box for Saatchi Yates’ do. A gaggle of drag queens pepper the staircase and greet the faces of London’s glitterati. DJ Jodie Harsh trots in – potato-hued bouffant coiffed to perfection – while American Vogue columnist Raven Smith follows shortly after. “Saatchi-Yates gets the ball rolling on a weekday night,” says an evidently press-trained Raven, as one performer, dressed like a writhing tongue, waltzes past.
Finally, I make my way to the grand opening of Ladbroke Hall, a new arts space whose relatively far-out coordinates – spitting distance from Wormwood Scrubs – make for an otherwise strange crowd. I spot Pandemonia, the blow-up doll familiar to anyone doing the rounds at Frieze, plus one seriously Dynasty staircase, now acting as a makeshift catwalk for the odd Rick Owens-clad collector or dainty Simone Rocha girlie quaffing the bubbly. Despite the impressive multi-disco set-up, a yawn slips out, and I decide to save myself for what lies ahead.
Tonight’s first appointment is the Barbican where I and the rest of the fash pack are given a whistle-stop tour of the new ‘Re/Sisters’ exhibition, curated by Alona Pardo. Running late, I hadn’t prepared for an excoriating examination of queer-ecological art, but as a professional pub queer theorist, I’m immediately hooked. Soon after, it’s time for the Vestiaire Collective-sponsored dinner in Barb’s botanical garden with a resident harpist to boot. Chic points, indeed. Here, I’m ensnared by Highsnobiety employees discussing the Frieze collector’s brand of choice, Loro Piana. Further down the spread, Vogue girlies Daniel Rodgers and Alice Cary hold the fort, with the odd sprinkle of TikTokers, including finance-girl-turned-fashion-influencer Ambika Dhir whose styling how-tos have Gen-Z lifestylists in a chokehold. Four million likes – who?!
With a hearty meal inside me, it’s time to hit the – hold your breath – Plaster × Rose Easton × Ginny on Frederick × Auto Italia party, held in the Edition’s basement. It’s only day two, but editors and It-kids are already sounding hoarse. Yet, this feels like the spot. Just announced winner of the Camden Art Centre Emerging Artist Prize, Jack O’Brien, is in high spirits, balancing a bedazzled micro clutch and tipple like a seasoned star. ICA’s current spotlight, artist Gray Wielebinski, is working the dancefloor while Frieze Artist Award winner Adham Faramawy enjoys a well-earned victory boogie. Sure, the bogs have flooded, but a shitshow this is not.
Soon after, queer deejaying legend Jeffrey Hinton arrives with Frieze magazine editor Sean Burns. The two take a pew on the black leather sofas, watching over a sea of sweating PRs. In the middle of the crowd stand unconditionally cool fashion designers Dilara Findikoglu and Sinéad O’Dywer, basking in their post-fashion-week high. Elsewhere, I spot fellow Frieze and Plaster writer Lisette May Monroe and ask what she’s noticed so far about this momentous Frieze week. “Tote bags are finally done,” she confirms. Despite her sage words, I keep my Vestiaire × Barbican canvas number, just so I can tell my friends I once ate burrata with an Instagram influencer whose name I’ve already forgotten. Finally, I walk outside for my cab, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It’s hard work playing socialite with a crippling anxiety disorder and all the chutzpah of a wet salad – just ask this shallow queen.
After hosting a delightful in-conversation with artist Hannah Tilson at Cedric Bardawil gallery, I’m back to the lowly work of partying. I’ve still not had a drink this week, let alone this month. Indeed, fashion week and Frieze are always a sober stint for this writer. How else would I survive the underworld of celebrity and gossip? Tonight, I’m on the guestlist for Frieze’s official party at KOKO in Camden. It’s held in partnership with Stone Island, and as such, the space is ransacked by lads ‘getting the badge in’. Meanwhile, Stone Island’s in-house team of cool Italians have removed their badges completely in a sign of stylistic restraint. To contextualise, that’s the streetwear equivalent of copping one of Damien Hirst’s blotchy acrylics and keeping it in a lock-up. The paninaro’s stealth wealth, if you will.
Everyone is there. Which is to say Tate Britain resident Rhea Dillon, photographer Wolfgang Tillmans, vox-pop connoisseur Miss Jason and special guest, Mark Leckey, dripped out in Stoney and manned the decks with an ever-eclectic deejay set. Miniature slider burgers are being served, which is both a blessing and a curse. For those unaccustomed, there’s a rule at art parties that you eat – but you don’t really eat. Cramped into tight quarters while security guards yank at your arms to ensure you’re wearing the correct wristband, no one wants the remnants of breadstick mush and Angus beef on their breath. The trick? Find a corner, scoff the offending edible in question, swill with sparkling water and return to protocol: discussing the dearth of studio space and Google calendaring coffee catch-ups despite your fears that everyone in this room is ridden with bed bugs.
Again, a yawn is tickling my larynx. And so, I catch an Uber to the ICA, where skate label Palace has just launched a Juergen Teller-shot magazine. It’s already drawing to a close. Half-empty Stella Artois bottles are strewn across tables and the deejay has stopped playing. Designer Grace Wales Bonner, Palace founder Lev Tanju and Supreme-muse-turned-designer Gabriel Pluckrose are milling about. It looks like I missed out on quite the affair, so I pick up a mag, head to the Golden Arches and call it a night. I’ve still not been to the fair.
