I’ve been trying to understand the psychology of art collectors. They’re simple creatures, that’s clear enough. Their desires are rudimentary – bright colours, strange shapes – but what do they fear? It’s a question that’s been bugging me. But then, one day, I hit on it: all those long liquid lunches and all those exhibitions to see, combined with a seemingly industry-wide refusal to let people patronise gallery facilities… what art collectors fear is pissing their pants. After all, no amount of money or prestige can save you when your bladder is bursting.
So what happens if you’re caught short on a Mayfair gallery hop? Which galleries will actually let you use their loos? And will the state of their toilets affect your taste for their art? That’s what the editors wanted to know. And that’s why, on a wet Wednesday afternoon, they sent me around west London to investigate gallery toilets.
There’s no doubt about it. The Mayfair gallery circuit is a dangerous place for the weak of bladder.
First up, Gagosian, Grosvenor Hill. That shark Larry is always on the lookout for a good deal – surely he’d be happy for me to spend a penny? As I walked up to the glass doors a doorman opened them for me, a nice touch. Inside, one of the girls behind the desk offered to hang up my coat for me – another good sign. Excellent service; it was almost as if I belonged there. I ‘admired’ the ‘art’ – some neon texts and a pile of retro TVs that made Gogo’s gaff look only somewhat similar to a Simmons bar – then, I made my move. I swaggered back to the desk, collected my coat and popped the question with the nonchalance of a minor noble: “Do you have a toilet I could use?”. The reply was instant, and while it sounded sincere, it was clearly well-practised. “Unfortunately not, I’m very sorry.” No alternatives were given and within moments I was just another bum on the streets.
No matter, just around the corner on Davies Street is a Sadie Coles HQ. I’ve been to enough of their PVs to know that I could pee there. But as I approached, I was momentarily put off – the gallery front was done up like an interior designer’s shop. Nevertheless, I stepped inside, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the gallery assistant explained it was a pastiche of a lamp shop. Are they artworks or are they just lamps made by artists? I pondered the philosophical implications of this question while I waited for the opportune moment to ask the assistant… and yet again, no luck – but, her apology did, at least, seem genuine.
Maybe it was the constant thought of toilets, maybe it was because I’d ‘gone method’ by drinking a bottle of coke, but by now I actually, quite seriously, needed to find a loo. I knew I’d have to put on my best performance. I shuffled around the piss-poor Richters for just a few minutes before returning to the front desk, where I acted out my best impression of Columbo: I asked for a list of works and just one more thing, can I use your loo? “Yeah, of course. Just down on the left.” Mercy. I followed the directions and was greeted by a narrow door and a small, single-occupancy toilet. While I was relieved, I wasn’t sure it was truly an achievement. I hadn’t had to make my case, and while practical, it was hardly exclusive.
I carried on. I knew my next target – Thaddaeus Ropac: London, Paris, Salzburg, Seoul – would be tough to crack, but even I underestimated their protectiveness of their little Beuys room. The question had barely left my mouth before a sharp, snapping “NO” echoed down the corridor of Ely House. I have to be honest, it took me by surprise. Either those behind the desk were skilled at sniffing out VIPs from PIs, or they were recklessly gambling that I wouldn’t feel an urgent need to add to their collection of Warhol Piss Paintings. I left with my tail between my legs.
At Richard Saltoun, the assistant very kindly took my request and directed me upstairs to Max Hetzler, where I immediately spied the WC and decided to try a more direct line: “The loo’s just there isn’t it?” There was no question about it. But, I rather wished I hadn’t asked. I know that beggars can’t be choosers, but after seeing those bogs, I hit the skids. Surely, a central London gallery can splash out on a working toilet brush?
If you’re in the area, you’re better off going to White Cube Mason’s Yard. There, they were more than happy to help. The hand soap was imitation Aesop (I suppose we cannot have it all!), but, I found no noisy hand drier (a bonus) rather, a neat pile of folded paper towels. And I was set at ease by the weight of the steel and frosted glass door. There was no chance a polo-nosed collector could kick their way in. My only complaint is that, as with Zwirner, it was a little too easy to access, there was no loo taboo to break.
Don’t bother with Hauser & Wirth. There was a nice pair of Frank Bowlings, yet despite my clear interest in the works the staff refused me. Instead, they suggested a pub over the road. As I stepped out onto the street I saw a man looking a little worse for wear, urinating against a wall – I guess they’d turned him away too.
Like a dog to a lamppost, so was I to Maddox Gallery. I bounded through the door and began playing nice-but-dim, pointing at every candy-coloured canvas in the room – yeah-yeah-yeah that one’s great – but moments before I made my move, the gallery assistant was accosted by two genuine clients. My act must have looked weak in comparison – the assistant peeled off to talk numbers. Dejected and disheartened, there was simply no chance now. I bailed, but I’ll be back.
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