Art Basel rewind: “There have been countless subplots, some of which I’ll take to my grave”

Ah, Art Basel, undoubtedly the most important pit stop in today’s merry-go-round of art fairs. Held in and around the clinical confines of a Herzog & de Meuron-designed convention centre, the legendary, 1970-founded trade show is catnip for art-worlders keen to catch blue-chip greats, as well as hot-shit breakthroughs. Of course, it’s also an accurate sample of all and one that make up the art market, including but not limited to patrons, curators, collectors, journos, critics and it-kids (and breathe), each of whom interact and move between cultural and social ecosystems that – despite wildly different fashion tendencies – are tightly connected.

Between Birkin-boppers and scruffy airbrush artists, a multitude lives and breathes in and amongst the Art Basel vicinity for one week only. Meandering my way through Basel – a city located at the intersection of three territories – it’s immediately clear this is what people mean by ‘global art’. Because it’s huge and well-endowed with financial support, it’s an easy target for clumsy, quasi-Marxist digs. But really, if I get to see my pals from Old Blighty selling the wares they’ve laboured over in a soon-to-be-demolished East End studio, then what’s not to love? So, for a whole week, I’m schmoozing and cheersing to them, getting the lowdown from PV baddies and established institutional leaders alike. Proscht! 

Saturday 14th June

Yeah, we’ve started already – problem? It’s Saturday evening in a Marylebone pub, and talk has already turned to Art Basel. Inside, a gaggle of culturally astute queens enjoy pints, bathing in the afterglow of Martine Rose’s SS26 show, an off-schedule salon-style catwalk held in the old job centre. When I tell artist George Henry Longly that I’ll be popping my AB flagship cherry, he grins like a Cheshire cat. Foreboding? Ominous? Splendid? I wonder – having visited and been duly impressed by the Paris and Miami iterations of this global trade show conglomerate – how the flagship event will compare. I hail my Uber, already nervy for the week ahead.

Sunday 15th June

Enjoying a brief reprieve from cultural antics, I pack for the week, asking my partner, Herald St associate director Laurie Barron, what to expect. He mentions the obvious: delicious spargel, substantial sausages and the gradual casualisation of dress through the week.

Monday 16th June

Boarding the flight, it’s clear that a good 45% of the passengers are heading to Art Basel. Harried emailing, comfortable suiting and a palpably European aura are dead giveaways. I arrive at the airport, grab a taxi and get down to business. First stop, the Messeplatz, where Unlimited – a section dedicated to large-scale artwork – is open for VIP first-viewers. Petra Cortright’s sapphire cinnamon viper fairy (2007-2023) takes up a sizable chunk of the convention centre, dotted with screens. On them, an endless montage of webcam encounters plays out. It’s an acute reminder of how URL has suffused IRL, turning our memories and daily encounters into one, shared photo album – sort of like this article.

I make a beeline for Felix Gonzalez-Torres’ go-go dancer work, but I’ve missed the bi-daily randomised performance of a shiny-panted man. The absence, in a way, makes it all the more compelling. At this point, I bump into PRs – Jennifer Kibazo and Fabian Strobel Lall – who are carrying, respectively, a vintage Louis Vuitton Noé bag and a newer, Loewe Puzzle. They’re en route to the Hauser & Wirth cocktails. Spoilt for choice, I join Hauser for a swift one, before ploughing on to the Kaleidoscope and Mai 36 Galerie opening of H.R. Giger and Lucas Dupuy’s show. It’s a tall order placing any two artists together, especially when one is a late legend responsible for the Alien franchise. Fortunately, Lucas is a rare star, and the pairing with Giger – initiated by curator and editor Alessio Ascari in the DMs – makes for a convincing dialogue rooted in subtle, but once noticed, terrifying, scythe-like finesse. “A lot of these recent paintings have been [about] trying to find a calm place. I’m a reasonably anxious human being,” says Lucas as we chat on the Bleichestrasse pavement. “Giger was a very troubled person, and that’s somewhat relatable,” he adds, smiling.

During my time amongst Giger’s sculptures and Lucas’ acrylic scores, artist power couple Joseph and Poppy Jones pass by. Joseph is known for his delightful cat portraits, and Poppy for her delicate suede pictures. After grabbing Poppy for a few snaps, I make my way over to Rose Easton’s party for Mexican artist-cum-designer Arlette. (It’s also Rose’s birthday – happy birthday, diva!) Rose and her darling hubby Liam Newnham – a deceivingly happy-go-lucky genius – are both styled in gold-buckled Arlette belts. Rose finishes the look with a Gucci monogram handbag in the crook of her arm. No crumbs. Meanwhile, faces such as West London medic-turned-artist Abbas Zahedi, Ana Viktoria Dzinic and Frieze editor-in-chief (and gay lit king) Andrew Durbin potter outside. It soon transpires that Club Matte is a thing in Basel – not just Kreuzberg, so I slam two. Finally, I board the tram back to my hotel, wide fucking awake.

Tuesday 17th June

The day begins with Art Basel’s VIP breakfast. I’m immediately struck by two things: the copious amount of fizz being consumed pre-midday and the fact that almost everyone is unfamiliar. Sure, I’m a small-fry on the global scene, but it’s refreshing to walk between a tiered staircase and central plaza knowing only a few old pals, namely editor (and newly hired Tate publishing maven) Allie Biswas and art dealer Daniel Malarkey. People are freely smoking in a way that recalls pre-ban England – but chic.

Speaking of smoking, I spot Raf Simons – not smoking – in the trompe-l’oeil belted Prada trews he and Mrs. P introduced for SS25. Fast forward an hour, and I’m deep in the white-walled trenches, brushing shoulders with the Belgian. This time, he’s pottering along with Lucy Chadwick, his trusted and equally [read in Dior and I Raf voice] sublime adviser. The Jil Sander is also cutting about.

I press on, when suddenly, that beehive appears: Maureen Paley, refined in a perforated archival, perforated Dries Van Noten skirt she found second hand in Brussels (yes, I asked). I browse her booth, drinking in a fiery new Wolfgang Tillmans. A Kaye Donachie figurative portrait reminds me of something. Oh, that’s it: Erdem’s AW25 collection, where the artist’s dainty watercolours appeared on Serpentine Gala-appropriate shift dresses and clutches. J’ad, natch.

It’s not long before I catch the Groucho-fabled, Tate collection director, Gregor Muir, who is wearing his usual pristine dress shirt and tailored blue trousers combo. He’s in business mode. On Nir Altman’s booth, sassy Parisian artist Ndayé Kouagou is posing before his installation, a pseudo-news broadcast, ticker-taped with sarcy headlines. One reads, ‘After two weeks of investigation, the UN commission concludes that what is happening here is also happening elsewhere’. Why this work, and why here? “It’s a mirror of what’s happening right now,” he says. “It’s a wake-up call.”

In Galerie Neu, conversation on the ground is less cerebral, more topline. “I approach Kenny Schachter, complimenting his black Adidas trackpants and loose striped shirt – we’re twinning. I also mentally note his yellow-gold Rolex Oyster, jiggling as he footworks past a hanging Cerith Wyn Evans windscreen. How does he approach Basel? “With fear, trepidation and exhaustion, but more seriously a sense of wonderment.” He’s seen a lot of what he likes. “I love art, so it’s dangerous,” he chuckles. As anyone who follows the bespectacled dandy will know, he’s big on Paul Thek, and he makes a point of applauding the late artist’s work. Kenny – visibly twitchy with excitement – dashes off into the bootharium.

I see a lot, and I’m convinced this is a truly international event with seasoned, thoughtful collectors from everywhere: Ethiopia, Guatemala, Texas, you name it. I need to assimilate and ask around for viewpoints. Time passes, I take a few calls and, boom, I’m at a party co-organised by – deep breath – Blum Gallery, Mendes Wood, Crèvecœur, Karma and Taka Ishii Gallery. By this point, I can feel my social skills petering. I resign myself to a lone table and a house white. Suddenly, a young man approaches me. At first, I’m aloof and a bit of a cow, but his persistent smile wins me over. I’m quickly consumed in his story. He’s a 17-year old collector from Dusseldorf, named Fabian Kluth. He’s not a nepo – none of his family are creatives – and he’s admirably clued-up, more so than me. “I started going to museums and exhibitions, and at one point, I decided I needed to buy something,” he recalls of his early purchases. He started buying = age 14. “Today, [my collection] One has more than 30 pieces and keeps developing.” We shake hands, exchange details and continue our evenings.

Stephen Friedman’s sales associate, Bella Bonner-Evans appears. With black lippy and an ash-white Bethnal bob, she’s a picture. Putting her newly copped Comme Des Garçons shirt-dress to work, she schools me on her day, while I make cack-handed iPhone notes (acrylics, soz). “[Today] people were really interested in works of historical significance.” she says. “They’re less interested in fads or trends.” She’s also keen to dispel any myths regarding a market slowdown. “It’s proved to be a bit of a correction [following] people buying recklessly. There are sales, but those sales are serious sales that take time and consideration.” I ask if there’s a strong contingent of young collectors. “I would say there definitely is. In some cases, it’s people who have inherited the habit from their family, but in some cases there is new wealth coming into it.” Bella pulls on her vape, and we bid farewell, ready to go again tomorrow.

Wednesday 18th June

I’m chained to my desk today, trying to juggle a hundred different jobs. Did I tell you I was freelance, babe? A sense of mid-life panic sets in. I stabilise myself outside, wolfing a bread roll as anonymous Stan Smiths float by on the Katharina Grosse walkway. My father calls me, suggesting a life coach (my uncle). Before I know it, it’s 8 pm – time flies when you’re on B2B Google meets – and it’s time for the Vitra party. Yes, like many Western homosexuals approaching the end of twinkdom, I get off on satisfying furniture and gardens designed by Piet Oudolf. And so, after crossing the border to Germany (the Uber driver’s sat-nav makes an alert), I find myself in what can only be described as the aesthete’s Coachella. With carrot hot dogs, waffles and cookies on tap, guests of the micro-festival waltz between grassy tufts, sitting on – you guessed it – Vitra stools, sipping Cava and tanning Camels. As it gets later, a DJ ups the ante, stepping into breakbeat techno. White-shirted Euro queens get down, while fastidiously put together couples with children bob along from the crowd’s outer ring. I take a moment to explore a Rimowa x Vitra installation, held inside the Zaha Hadid fire station complex. My partner hails a cab, and it’s back to Switzerland for the Hot Wheels do.

We catch the embers of the party. All the beers have been skulled, and – unlike life on Vitra Campus – there’s no artisanal soft drinks being handed out. Artist Sang Woo Kim is present – signature Matrix shades perched atop his shaved scalp – with a girl gang of the East London art scene’s feistiest PRs: Kitty Malton, Isabel Davies, Lore Alender. They are already heading to the next soirée, while Neven Gallery’s Helen Neven toys with the idea of a Warp Records-headlined rave. It’s said she has a special membership back home for Unfold, so I’m unsurprised.

Finally, we settle on a party celebrating Julian Charrière’s oceanic exhibition at Museum Tinguely. The club is called Tolga, sizable and quickly rammed. The Art Newspaper’s Kabir Jhala is cutting about in a c*nty cropped jacket and low-rise pants, while Plaster contrib, Isabel Walter, is debating what she made of Jordan Wolfson’s new show at Fondation Beyeler. I finish my El Tony Matte drink and ride the Strassenbahn back to my hotel.

Thursday 19th June

Returning to the fair, I decide to finish what I started on Tuesday – Art Basel, that is. I head out on the Parcours hike, making my way across the Basel locale. Of special note is Ebun Sodipo’s shop window display, an astute commentary on romance and love in trans-feminine lives, as well as the urgent and complex issue of visibility. Here, archival imagery and mylar assemble for a successfully moving work. I speak with Stefanie Hessler, director of the Swiss Institute, about how she went about curating Parcours for the second time. (Last year, she programmed a major Alvaro Barrington work that was both thoughtful and immediately engaging for the public.) “One of the main projects is by Sturtevant,” she says, understated and cool in a pair of Nike TNs. She tells me about a video work made in 2010 that now plays in an underpass next to the Rhine bridge. It’s a projection of a dog running left to right on loop, simple yet prescient in that it predicts the incessant flows of information we now know, not least the blurring boundary between nature and digitality. “For Parcours, many of the artists came for site events, and then we chose the locations for the projects with the artist,” explains Stefanie.

I return to the fair to check out the big dogs. Jeffrey Deitch is holding court at Deitch Projects, resplendent in his circular glasses and royal blue suit. I take a mental note of the ‘90s Rammellzee pieces, the newer Futura work, and of course, Keith Haring classics. Like him or not (I like him), his early eye has proven his worth. Elsewhere, I pass through PPOW, ticking off legendary works from David Wojnarowicz, Hilary Harkness and a wooden-framed Martin Wong. New York legend, Wendy Olsoff, is working her magic, with strappy, gargantuan Prada sandals on foot.

From there, it’s Liste time. The satellite fair – a bevy of academic and forward-thinking work that, experience has proven, often reaches Art Basel’s top floor in a few years – is strong. Over at the Insitut Funder Bakke booth, Reba Maybury’s submissive-painted works stand strong. Marcus Jefferson appears alongside Larry Achiampong in a cold set, haunted with clandestine meanings and double-entenre. Great job, Harlesden High Street and Copperfield. Then there’s Arlette’s pewter-like work at Rose Easton, Solomon Garçon at 243 Luz – complete with a listening device implanted in the faux suede wall – and Ana Viktoria Dzinic’s stacked imagery and cheeky jibes at TERF titan (JK Row****).

I return to the Art Basel co-working space and grab a focus cubicle. Work happens, and soon, it’s time for the Art Basel Awards reception at the Kunstmuseum. It’s an imposing space, furnished for the occasion with sleek, clinical table dressing and animated screens showing the variety of medallists. For context, the AB Awards is the first of its kind, billed as a sort of Oscars for the art world. With it, 36 names have been announced as medallists, spanning Grace Wales Bonner (who would have been there had she not been drowning in SS26 show prep) through to Ibrahim Mahama and Lubaina Himid. I grab a white wine with a few of the names behind this huge project, but they’re keen to let it speak for itself. In the smoking area, writer and curator Will Ballantyne-Reid and Art Basel editor Dr Jeni Fulton luxuriate with a few Gauloises after a long week. Helen Neven meets us outside and we hit the Rhine for a few drinkies and a Basel debrief.

Friday 20th June

I’m sitting here in Heathrow at baggage reclaim. I wave at Chisenhale’s Edward Gillman, then hug him, ready to return home. Thinking back on my week so far, there have been a few throughlines – actually strong art, premium mediocre meals and plenty of young names getting their dues. There have also been countless subplots, some of which I’ll take to my grave. But what I can say is that Art Basel is a place to see and be seen. I grab a Diet Coke and submit my entry using Heathrow Wifi.

Tschüssm, girlie xxx