What happens when you’re bored of finding artists on Instagram?

In an age where discovering a new artist means scrolling through Instagram and sending out DMs, Milo Astaire makes good on his New Year’s resolution and rediscovers the joys of in person studio visits… via a short trip to Copenhagen.

A painting figuritive painting of a number of bodies on a red background
“I thought, ‘I hadn’t seen this on instagram.’ As if following my thoughts, he told me it was unfinished. I told him it reminded me of Alex Katz… if he had taken 2CB.”

How easy is it to discover a great artist? Before social media, apparently, it was quite hard. In fact you had to do something called a studio visit… Now, more often than not, one doesn’t even need to leave their bed. A ‘studio visit’ can be pretty easy today. All you have to do is fire up Instagram, find an account or person who you deem has good taste, check out who they are following, sift through the names, click ones that sound/feel right or have an enigmatic profile picture, quickly scan their grid, check out whether they have a vague resemblance to Kai Althoff or Victor Mann’s work, and, crucially, make sure no one you know follows them yet. Then chuck them a DM and pretend you’ve been following their practice for longer than the 30 seconds you have been on their profile (a quick glance over their bio will help with that). Offer them a show, and voilà, you are a Gallerist, and well respected discoverer of the next hot, market ready artist.  It’s a tried and tested method, one I am ready to admit I have been guilty of, and perhaps many other gallerists (from upstarts to major blue chip), collectors and curators are as well. Although how readily they would admit this I am unsure. 

I am ashamed to say I don’t do enough studio visits. I tend to avoid them at all costs. I find them socially awkward. There is a weird back and forth as you discuss their practice, ask questions that you have no interest in hearing the answer to, or would never ask in any other environment. Blurt out “how does Minimalism’s silent dialectic inform your praxis?” and your friends are going to look slightly perplexed in the pub. The artist usually seems nervous, as they rightly or wrongly think you might be their big break or at least a cash machine. You both feign some semblance of professionalism. Truthfully, I believe I know if I like the work the moment I walk in. Scrap that, I usually know if I like the work before stepping foot on the tube to meet them. Artists, can we just have an armistice? If I walk into your studio, take a look around then turn right back out never to contact you again, you won’t take it personally? Or if I like it, we don’t have to go through the song and dance of talking about your process? That I can look at the work in silence, nod with appreciation and either offer you a show in my fledgling gallery or buy one of your works. All done before the first yawn creeps up seven minutes in. It’s not because I am bored, it’s just that I rarely have a conversation in my day to day that lasts longer than… I’m out of practice. Blame the self-diagnosed ADHD.

It’s far easier just to fire off Insta DMs. But, this year I have made a promise to myself to do better. I want to get more involved, see more art in person. I’ve had enough of sofa curating. Instagram is good, but there is no better feeling than seeing a work of art in person. At least, that’s how I remember it. So I downloaded one sec (an app designed to prevent toxic scrolling, part roadblock/ part meditation) to curb my Instagram habit and boarded a flight to Copenhagen where, in January, I would be welcomed with five hours of daylight. Forget visiting an artist in a city where you can practically throw a rock into any Soho House and chances are you’ll hit an artist. I decided to forge my own path, more accurately a 1,200 km path for an hour long studio visit with an artist that a friend of mine discovered on Instagram (most likely using the above described method). 

I had spoken to Søren Arildsen on the phone once. He was a painter in his final year at the Royal Danish Academy in Copenhagen. I had liked his paintings and had the bright idea of offering him a show without seeing the work in person. In today’s competitive market, a younger gallerist has to move quickly,  so before a rival could discover his page, I locked him down. However, once my New Year’s Resolution had kicked in, I had a dirty, sinking feeling about it all so called him up to say I’d come visit him once the holidays were over. He was delighted, if not a little taken back by the offer. As an art school student, based outside NYC, London or Paris, I’d expect his interaction with international art world figures, great and small, were mostly online. 

The Royal Danish Academy is located in the heart of Copenhagen, built in the Neoclassical style and has remained an academy for over 250 years. As I stood in the cobbled, three-storey tall courtyard, the burning pinch of cold piercing my face, I texted Søren to let him know I was waiting for him. A tall, brutish, viking-esque  man of around 60 bundled out of the building and headed towards me. It wasn’t quite the look I was expecting of an ambitious student artist. I had thought Søren was more likely to be in his mid twenties and perhaps a little more wide-eyed. 

“August?” he asked

“No, January,” I replied

“Oh sorry, I am looking for August.”

This was not Søren, but another artist waiting on another visitor, perhaps a mature student or a professor. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one on a studio visit. Maybe studio visits are still a thing in Denmark? Maybe it is what helps them remain the second happiest people on the planet?

Behind my new friend, Søren appeared looking more in line with what I had imagined. He beckoned me into the halls of the academy, and I followed him up to his studio. To my surprise, given English was his second language, the conversation flowed. Any nervousness of stilted conversation soon disappeared. His studio was one of four temporary studios split up by large plywood partitions. In Søren’s section, a beautiful iron wrought window looked down below onto Nyhavn Harbour, the famous tourist spot. Although given this time of year and early hour, it was devoid of the usual bustle.

I am struck by the luminous feeling of the paintings. They appear as though they are glowing, like the screen of the iPhone I had so desperately wanted to leave behind in my hotel room. Originally, he had sent them to me over WhatsApp and I had, wrongly, dismissed them. Standing in front of them now, I saw a mystical quality I hadn’t seen through the phone.

Milo Astaire

Søren’s paintings hung collectively on one wall. On the opposite wall were hundreds of beautiful sketches on paper. The floor was cluttered with the usual array of oil paint materials, but it was clear Søren had made an effort to tidy up for me. I was drawn to a red painting in the far right corner: a group of figures enraptured in a communal dance; strong muscular men, all with their backs turned from the viewer while beautiful women with arms stretched outwards gaze downward as their red dresses flow and bleed into the red background. The painting was crowded. The perspective of the painting left me feeling as I was part of the scene, engaged in some sort of trance rave or ritualistic ceremony. I thought, “I hadn’t seen this on instagram.” As if following my thoughts, he told me it was unfinished. I told him it reminded me of Alex Katz… if he had taken 2CB. I felt excited by this discovery. I felt a connection I’d been longing for while sitting on the sofa deciding to make more studio visits. 

Besides the red painting hung a collection of porcelain paintings. One in particular grabbed me: a Venus like figure lying face down in the grass surrounded by swans. In the distance a line of dark trees marking the edge of a forest. The woman’s eyes, half hidden, peer at you. It is seductive, as any Venus should be. I am struck by the luminous feeling of the paintings. They appear as though they are glowing, like the screen of the iPhone I had so desperately wanted to leave behind in my hotel room. Originally, he had sent them to me over WhatsApp and I had, wrongly, dismissed them. Standing in front of them now, I saw a mystical quality I hadn’t seen through the phone. The burnt wooden frames that had seemed clumsy in the photos he sent now seemed necessary. 

Considering the academy had seen recent successful graduates like Oliver Bak and Tomas Leth, the building was eerily quiet. Søren explained to me that it was always this empty. Painting at the school was far down the pecking order and with only 30 students a year on the painting course, Søren’s experience has been isolated. He also explains, as we leave his studio to get a coffee together (obviously I was enjoying our conversation) that very few career artists visit. Søren has been building and learning without much support, which makes his painting more impressive. 

After an hour, I’d finished my coffee and it was time to head back to the airport. On the plane back home I realised I had spent a total of seven and a half hours travelling, 19 hours in a foreign city all for one studio visit. However, I felt nourished. To have seen paintings hung on an artist’s studio wall is a privilege. You see it before it takes a life of its own, before people make a judgement (or lack of judgement). It’s like being backstage at a concert. Instagram is a great tool, and a great way to share your work with the world, but nothing beats going to a studio, to understand and witness the work in person. Maybe I didn’t need to travel so far, as there are plenty of great artists working in London. Anyway, I’m committed to my resolution and have already arranged my next studio visits. It just so happens the next one’s in Delhi. 

Credits
Words: Milo Astaire

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