spittle’s Frieze London rewind: “Margs were flowing, thankfully sewage was not”

It’s Friday of Frieze week, 9:30am. Three hours ago we made a serious error of judgement and lime biked back from an artist’s apartment, where a group of editors and baby gallerists were in full flow about who’s in and who’s out of the London scene. Witching hour had this little group in its cursed grip: the gossip was astounding. At times like these (trying to look yourself in the eye in the Mungo Thompson TIME mirror on Karma’s booth on no sleep, eight golden martinis, three Stellas and a bank account decimated by Gail’s) we turn to our spiritual guide Carrie Bradshaw, and the time she mused, “maybe you’re only allowed a certain amount of tears per man, and I’ve used mine up.” The thought smacked us right between the eyes: there are only so many cigarettes per gallery director that a girl can couch, and frankly we’ve used ours up. With waning élan vital, an unaddressed craving for nicotine and a scene report to write we’ve found a quiet corner in the big tent in which to hunker down and tell you everything…

Thursday 3rd October

It all began on Thursday at Camden Art Centre, where London scene darling, Jack O’Brien, had his debut institutional show. Reader, you may remember that last year Jack won the Emerging Art Prize for his gorgeous booth with even more gorgeous gallerist Freddie Powell, of Ginny on Frederick, so this exhibition has been hotly anticipated. We have it on authority that Camden had never seen numbers like it – helped by the to-die-for concurrent show of works by icon Nicola L. – and the mood was buoyant, with many fawning over Jack’s ambitious new work. (little did we know that a mere five days later Michael Kurtz would sling a dinger in the form of actual criticism in ArtReview! Shocking turn of events!) Hopping on the overground, we hot-footed it back to one of the chicest shows in town, Olivia Erlanger at Soft Opening. While fans shaped like butterfly wings teased a breeze through greasy hair and Hurtence hats, artist Cash Frances was observed to visibly melt at the sight of hot young writer Olivia Allen’s 12-week-old chihuahua Plum (named after OG it-girl Plum Sykes of course). A couple of hours later we found ourselves in Soho, where we caught the tail end of The Artist Room’s opening of reclusive Norwegian artist Victor Boullet, attended by the likes of Vegyn, Merlin Carpenter and Sebastian de Souza from Skins. The gallery served  Golden Wonder crisps in abundance which gave the air a gentle scent of pickled onion. Talk was of Paris overshadowing London given, “collectors’ wives prefer shopping in Paris”… get a grip! When we overheard a YBA reveal that a certain East London gallery “is now using sales data from the Gertrude app to curate their programme,” we couldn’t take it any more and ran screaming out of the gallery.

Friday 4th October

We awoke the next day feeling dirty and ashamed – from the four bags of pickled onion Golden Wonder crisps we ate for dinner the night before – but quickly pulled ourselves together. It wasn’t even Frieze week yet! We set our sights that evening on our favourite Bloomsbury galleries. Like little rats we scurried all over, popping up first at Hollybush Gardens who are showing an unspeakably good exhibition of colour pencil drawings by Charlie Prodger. Next up was a.SQUIRE where we bumped into artist Kristian Kragelund and editor Alexander Leissle, admiring Eli Coplan’s toothbrush horn which sporadically belted out Charli XCX’s song Boom Clap. A hundred feet or so away at Brunette Coleman we observed artists Sang Woo and George Stewart accidentally spill non-alcoholic beer all over the gallery’s front desk, surrounded by gossamer-y Emma Rose Schwartz paintings. The best-attended show of the night was Celia Hempton at Phillida Reid. Developing her practice from portraits of Omegle-sourced penises, Hempton’s transplant paintings had attendees including Prem Sahib, George Henry Longly, Princess Julia, Fiontan Moran, Peter Davies, Sara Knowland, Matthew McLean, Rene Matić, Adham Faramawy, and Mohammed Z. Rahman in a raucous mood. Tragically, the whole evening was much more demure than last year – no road rage, punch-ups or Groucho club gossip to report. Soz!

Monday 7th / Tuesday 8th October

We couldn’t have been more excited to see notoriously hot edgelord Jordan Wolfson in the flesh on Monday for his opening at Sadie Coles’ Bury Street space. Joining the throng outside the gallery, talk was of a Jordan Wolfson quite literally on edge, and with bodyguards in tow, because of an apparent London-based stalker. Did they mean us?! We grabbed a tiny cup of champagne from a passing tray and got to work on our Lost Mary. Also gathered in the street drinking Duralex thimbles of bubbly in the rain were curators Beatrix Ruf and Iwona Blazwick, collector Shane Ackeroyd, critic Dean Kissick, artist Matt Copson and spittle-fave writer Charlie Fox. The single-work show consisted of a freaky bear installation that was viewable through the gallery’s large front window, so we milled about outside with the masses while certain VIPs were let in for a closer look. Surprisingly, ethereal pop star FKA Twigs made an appearance. The next day, we had the pleasure of bumping into Wolfson again (we are not stalking, promise) at Mire Lee’s Turbine Hall commission unveiling at Tate Modern. Utterly soaked en route, we related hard to Lee’s Eva Hess(ish) sculpture that was similarly drenched – in some kind of liquid from a rotating engine. Responses were mixed, with one editor loving it so much they contemplated seeing it twice in one day, while a Sprüth Mager’s director simply observed it “was not his vibe.” Jane Morris from The Art Newspaper summed it up as, “a good idea, put a turbine in the turbine hall!” Sadly we missed (weren’t invited to) the afterparty where apparently artist Michael Ho delivered a stunning 3 am DJ set. Vibes!

Wednesday 9th October

Not attempting to break into that after party was an uncharacteristically wise decision, as it turned out we had to be at Serpentine for breakfast. We saw one of our fave shows at the gallery in years, by Lauren Halsey. And who should we bump into but artist of the moment Ana Viktoria Dzinic, who revealed she is curating Art Basel’s talks programme in Paris next week. We’ve never felt the urge to attend Art Basel Paris before! It is a strange feeling, heavily laced with a sense of betrayal.

Trudging up to Regent’s Park at 10:50 am, there was a sickening intensity of religious fervour thickening the air. At the entrance we were relieved to see that the fair’s crowd control approach had vastly improved from last year, and there was markedly less shrieking. Queues snaked up the stairway and only one or two museum directors lost their shit when told they couldn’t skip to the front. Once in, we lingered in the newly arranged forecourt to see which keenos had turned up. There was Grayson Perry in a neon pink shirt, clashing with Gavin Turk who was in a different shade of neon pink. Charlie Porter and Olivia Laing were chit chatting with Sam Talbot, while Raf Simons made a beeline to Soft Opening’s booth and Jenkin van Zyl made jaws drop in a foxy purple get up. Also in the melée were Benedict Cumberbatch, Gray Wielebinski, Tai Shani, Raven Smith, Olivia Erlanger, Wolfgang Tillmans, Tim Marlow, Nicole Wermers and a hyped up Nimrod Kamer accosting people for “hot takes.” The most heartwarming moment of the day was seeing Brunette Coleman gallerists Ted Targett and Anna Eaves awarded the Camden Art Centre Emerging Art Prize for their booth with Nat Faulkner. Overwhelmed and beaming, the pair posed for pics with Martin Clark and Eva Langret and promptly sold the whole booth. We love to see it <3<3! The flock of young galleries in the fair this year, alongside the canny booth rearrangement, boosted the mood and there were wide reports of good vibes and good sales. Paris could never!! Invited by Jefferson Hack, we snuck off to Jikoni’s pop up restaurant at the fair for what turned out to be more liquid than lunch “in celebration of creativity” We spotted Pam Hogg, Suzy Menkes, Yinka Shonibare and Kai-Isaiah Jamal in the crowd. By 2 pm we were three glasses of Ruinart deep and asked an art advisor if there would be any food: “at Frieze?! Never.” Raven Smith’s hunger pangs must also have been kicking in: he abandoned the event after five minutes to sit adjacent to the soirée and order a full square meal – we don’t blame him.

While sales can never be guaranteed at Frieze, you can always count on one thing: deranged conversation. Here’s what we overheard on the booths (and in the loos):

“Was I really that drunk?” “You kept saying you were beheaded”

“We are one bad transaction away from the whole company collapsing”

“I bumped into a client in Tescos! I was so flustered I accidentally stole two Diet Cokes and one Dr Pepper Zero”

“I’ve got to meet Cate Blanchett then I’m free”

“Once I see Harry Styles I’m leaving”

“I can stay up late and get up early. I am high functioning in that way”

“I’d rather be at home eating beans than go into the Sotheby’s Gold Lounge”

“You don’t often see a smoking room in London”

“‘Frieze makes me such a cunt”

“I’m not sure if it was an accidental touch, it could have been nothing, it could have been something…”

“I don’t want to go to the Groucho Club ever again”

“I’m bingeing on Boots dual defense nasal spray. I’m not ill, I just don’t want to catch strep this week”

“I shouldn’t be allowed free drinks, I had a three-way snog last night”

“It’s getting so cold in London. Is it too early to go to Tangier?”

“I’ve never seen someone commit career suicide so quickly”

“I need my mummy!”

Wednesday evening

The week’s most hotly anticipated party was undoubtedly the Rose Easton × Ginny on Frederick × Wschod × 56 Henry collaborative event at The Edition, with a guest list 4× the venue’s capacity and decor reminiscent of our high-school prom. The hottest ticket in town featured Lewis Teague Wright spinning decks and some brutal rejections at the door. We would like to politely remind all blue chip gallerinas that repeating “we’re from Hauser” does not magically generate a spot on the guest list. Margs were flowing and, thankfully, sewage was not – unlike last year. At one point, the hotel had to close its front doors against the flood of people, forcing PR Fabian Strobel Lall – who was having to rescue late arriving glitterati from the crowd of chancers shut outside – to give several dressing downs to over-excited rejectees. Meanwhile, around the corner at Tomos Parry’s hot restaurant Mountain in Soho, we ate our first meal of the day (sobrasada followed by lobster and beef short rib) at the star-studded Stone Island dinner, which celebrated the iconic brand’s commitment to Frieze’s Focus section (they generously pay a significant proportion of the young gallerists’ booth fees). Hosted by the CEO, Robert Triefus, we spotted Asap Nast, Santan Dave, Kano, Charlene Prempeh and Frieze’s own Eva Langret.

Later that night, at the Studio Voltaire anniversary party sponsored by Loewe at Toklas (or as Nate Freeman would say, Toe-klas), the food was really the highlight, as crab in radicchio, buttered & salted anchovy on toast, and arancini made their way around the room. Most of the guests, including Jonathan Anderson, had vacated to the smoking area, of course, where four-wick thyme Loewe candles (RRP £200) elegantly masked the smell of unwashed gallerists smoking Vogues brought back in blocks from Paris last week. The music choices were… choice, as one artist noted, “the Macarena plays in the background while cones of chips make the rounds at midnight.” We were gutted to miss the sensual jellies and erotic gifts at Isamaya Ffrench’s ICA dinner but Plaster’s own Harriet Lloyd-Smith shared the juice: “By this point, I was running on literal vapes, but of course I found fuel for dinner hosted by Isamaya Ffrench and WME Fashion at the ICA. The likes of BoF’s Imran Amed, Marc Spiegler, Charlie Casely-Hayford, Ana Khouri and Bruce Herbelin-Earle, Aindrea Emelife and Simon Fox dined around Isamaya’s gorgeously grotesque photo series – fish hooks piercing flesh – tasty! Good job the food was fab – shout out to Sienna Murdoch’s face-shaped jelly dessert pooled with bloody berry coulis. You know shit’s good when you’re the least cool person in the room.”

Thursday 10th October

After the antics from the night before, we had an unbelievably ropey and essentially wordless day but by evening we were back up and running – if not exactly feeling fresh. Of course, our first stop was The Edition where we sat in for the first live recording of Nota Bene podcast, with special guest Dean Kissick. The conversation was a little slow (seems like we weren’t the only ones out until the wee hours), but provided some insightful moments, including Benjamin Godsill telling Nate Freeman his “Bahrain Princess” London itinerary (which includes only ever leaving Mayfair to pop to and from Carlos/Ishikawa with one stop for the lamb chops at Tayyabs, incidentally described as, “one of the best restaurants in the world”). Americans, hey! Also discussed was the lack of “Frieze freaks” this year; the outrageous price of Vogue cigarettes in Soho; and the dangers of running through cowpats in On running shoes. You might be wondering which artwork was Dean’s favourite at the fair. Well, it was Jenkin Van Zyl’s film, showing inside a custom-built sauna on the Edel Assanti booth that had “cyborg mutant people looking like Pink Panther and Matthew Barney.” Dean also revealed his two career goals: he’d like to be either “the creative director of Prada or the president of France.” And a quick PSA to all dog owners, the Edition will not let you in with your chihuahua regardless of its art world connections, as Olivia Allen and darling Plum learned the hard way.

After the weird podcast recording, we zipped off to The Twenty Two for Daniel Malarkey’s party with fashion designer S.S. Daley, which was popping. The biggest rumour spreading across London gallery front desks was that Harry Styles (a financial backer of S.S. Daley) would be attending, but unfortunately Rami Malek was the only celeb we spotted on the night. Artist Billy Parker said what everyone was thinking: “I NEED to have sex with him.” Low lighting and a large buffet table were a recipe for disaster, however, as dealer Fergus Wiltshire was spotted adorning his radish with a large dollop of butter, rather than hummus. As the night took a turn, Princess Julia and Charlie Porter were collaboratively spinning the decks. Talk was of the Frieze collectors dinner, aka the “most boring dinner ever,” that took place in the big tent earlier that night.  Designed to keep people in London (aka away from Paris) scores of VIPs attended, but gallerists and artists reported to spittle that many guests spent the night either on their phones, or shocked to silence after being served sweetcorn risotto.

And that was when we cut our losses and found ourselves on the after party circuit in the depths of East London, vaping with strangers (and worse) and taking unreasonable risks on a Lime bike. But the week isn’t over yet, with the Friday night parties always offering the juiciest goss from exhaustion addled art people. If we live to see another sunrise we’ll catch you on the dance floor at Anal House Meltdown on Saturday, ciao cuties!