“Wake the fuck up, it’s Art Basel Paris”

In an international circuit of art fairs, Art Basel’s franchise has smartly capitalised on a healthy demand for big, blue-chip-heavy trade shows. Art Basel Paris, as of 2022 – when it replaced the now-defunct FIAC – is a case in point. Today, it stands as an unmissable pit-stop amongst hundreds. For context, in 2024, there were around 336 art fairs.

Of course, Art Basel is a business, and every addition to its portfolio of events, fairs, talks and cultural programming must make commercial sense. Growth is, ostensibly, the MO. In this arena, the Basel-based MCH Group – the owner of Art Basel – is leading the charge. Shortly after the announcement of an Art Basel Qatar (coming February 2026), Frieze followed suit in a race to cash in on MENA art presence with the introduction of its Abu Dhabi outpost.

When, last year, talk on the ground at Frieze was focused on the loss of international collectors – thanks, in part, to an axed non-dom tax legislation – Art Basel Paris has, seemingly, grown in prestige. But why on earth am I, an otherwise fluffy cultural journalist, discussing such matters? Well, because this year, whispers across the art scene have erred on the side of comparison. New York versus London. London versus Paris. (It’s a bit like the battle of fashion weeks.)

As such, I look at ABP – as harried PRs and gallerinas are wont to call it – from the lens of someone debating the art world as an ecosystem, not just a week in the Issey Miyake-pleated trenches. Like it or not, the corporate sponsors, the presence of edgier, satellite events, what people are wearing, and, yes, the actual quality of art at the fair itself, all play a part in vying for the art world zeitgeist. This is both a financial and attention economy of nomadic collectors where how things look correlates with how things are going. When Suzy Menkes shared a post during Frieze London, noting a trend of unlocked Hermès Kelly and Birkin bags, this was a sign. Forget the hemline index. The core market indicator for art is five-figure handbags.

In 2024, Art Basel and UBS report, there was a 12% decrease in global art sales. For Frieze London 2025, we saw big dog Gagosian and boutique baddie, Ginny on Frederick, sell out their booths, plus a seven-figure sale at Vito Schnabel gallery. Raf Simons showed face, too. Arguably, the Birkins were open for a reason.

Here, in Art Basel Paris, we’re hoping – for the sake of an increasingly hard-up cohort of young artists and, well, the love of art – it’s more sales and more designer bags where that came from.

Wednesday 22nd October

Nothing says, “wake the fuck up, it’s Art Basel Paris,” quite like a 4 am alarm. I traipse myself to St Pancras, avoid eye contact with people I genuinely like and sleep my way to the city of lights. First stop is ABP where I scoff a slice of banana cake, count to ten and debate calling my partner for a pep talk. Once inside the Grand Palais’ verdant shell, I make a beeline for PPOW, my trusty go-to for stellar works and choice discoveries. I exchange a smiley hello with co-founder and New York icon, Wendy Olsoff, noting a substantial, concave-topped sculpture complete with two bent legs by Clementine Keith-Roach, a Dorset-based painter. Positioned between a 1984 Martin Wong and a new, romantic panel scene by Kyle Dunn, it chimes neatly with the circular motifs in each. Nice curation, PPOW. Keith-Roach happens to be booth-side. She met Olsoff at MoMA PS1 a few years ago, before joining PPOW’s programme. “I’m really excited by this pairing,” she says, sipping a bottle of water, parched and a little overwhelmed.

I press on, noting Raf Simons in the walkways, as I had at Frieze London. I also spot Slade-educated newcomer, Siyi Li, cutting about in one impeccably sharp suit. His film, New Energy (2025), is on show at Cibrián’s booth, detailing a bizarre but hi-glam taxi argument between two it-girls in Shanghai. Subtitles flash before me on the screen: “Wait let me call him”, “Do you even know what karma means?”, “Please”. I suspect and quickly confirm that the autofiction-reading girlies are enamoured with this work. He’s based between Shanghai and Frankfurt, if any nu-goth Bethnal Green-dwelling gallerists are in need of a steer on the next hot young thing…

Soon after, I’m air kissing with Farringdon’s favourite art bear, Freddie Powell, the gallerist behind Ginny on Frederick. He’s showing a pristine sculptural installation of greige dollhouses, each of which flash with Farsi words based on shop signs in Tehran. The work, by Arash Nassiri, feels worlds apart from the dusty, Olde Worlde camp of Alex Margo Arden’s presentation during Frieze, but it’s equally as cogent. Powell, clad in a tie and shirt – as opposed to his usual jeans, multi-coloured trainers and Labubu-decked accessories – means business. He explains the approach. Like the singular presentation of Alexandra Metcalf he aired at Art Basel (like, actual Art Basel), this outing follows a similar tact. Nassiri is new to the programme and has a similarly tight practice. “It feels like a really important time to do this because he is just about to have an institutional show, which is being co-produced by Chisenhale and Fondation Pernod Ricard,” Powell says. (Said show is set for January 2026, so look out.)

My meandering resumes. I cross by ICA London soloist Tanoa Sasraku’s almost five-metre tall sculpture at Vardaxoglou’s booth. She happens to be there, soaking up the energy of the fair and enjoying what is undoubtedly a milestone in her young career. I note the garment pattern and pinstripes in the work and ask if this is a reference to her late father Kofi Ansah’s profession as a tailor. “Oh, yeah, yeah,” she says, pointing to an enlarged silhouette of a power suit torso. “I grew up with pattern cutting and garment construction around me.” The work, which she began making during her last few months at the RA, serves as a monument to her father and her time at art school. It’s also a poignant complement to her earthy, worked show back across the pond.

I wonder how such intelligent and less physically practical works square with collector-seducing big hitters dotted throughout the fair. I consult London art advisor, Daniel Malarkey. His shoes are an obscure Prada para-boot, which I note immediately. Wielding a pre-New-Bottega intrecciato briefcase and an acutely cut denim Yohji Yamamoto two-piece – okay, diva! – he gives me his two cents on collecting today. “There’s a lot more emphasis on modern art and mixing it with contemporary art, and seeing how artists today’s work relates to historical artworks. I always say, ‘You can tell if a new work is really strong if you can put it in a room with a Picasso and enjoy both.’” Personally, I think Sasraku would be a fine match.

Is Malarkey tired of the Paris and London comparisons already underway? “Totally, these are two of the greatest cities for art, today and in history. Both have incredible private institutions,” he notes, pointing to the Fondation Louis Vuitton and the Bourse de Commerce, as well as some upcoming private museums in London.

Still, what must be conceded is that the price points are higher in Paris. Even at Paris Internationale, there are works being flogged at €50,000 – yes, I’ve been eavesdropping. One PR, who shall remain anonymous, tells me that “everyone is selling well” at Art Basel. I half believe them. To their point, yesterday – in a first for the franchise – each gallery had a handful of guest collectors they could invite for the VVIP preview (note taken, Art Basel), giving everyone the best chance to sell, rather than natter with time-wasting journos like me.

In the Galeries sector, I happen upon Nicoletti Contemporary director Camille Houzé. His partner, artist Ruby Dickson – now showing at Place des Vosges with Harlesden High Street – hands him a pack of smokes. Chic points! He shows me around the booth he shares with Seventeen gallery, spotlighting a sound work by Abbas Zahedi – not dissimilar to his ongoing Tate Modern commission – and an Afrofuturist, celestial, open-panelled piece by Josèfa Ntjam that blends imagery in a very 2025 take on Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights. “I’ve worked with Ntjam for five years now. So since the start of her career,” he tells me. “Josèfa, in general, is an artist that we sell out.”

Further into the rabbit hole of galleries I delve, reaching Lisbon’s favourite, Galeria Madragoa, where I spot the works of Jaime Welsh and the artist himself. He tells me about his new work, Ascension (2025), an impeccably staged, hyper-layered work involving “months of editing”. In the image, we see two toddlers positioned precariously on shelves in a Portuguese former imperial bank. “I could only photograph one baby at a time. And there was someone here [below the shelf, out of frame] because if they fall, they die,” he says. “They’re my nieces.” It’s an impressive tableau, the kind you could see snapped up by a globe-trotting private collector. Yet Welsh is also part and parcel of the more homegrown, queer London scene, having spent many an evening in the late Glory, rubbing shoulders with Josh Quinton and Jeffrey Hinton. It’s pleasing to see someone straddle both worlds.

In need of a little contextual analysis on all I’ve seen, I pick Delfina Foundation Aaron Cezar’s brain. How does he feel coming here hot on the heels of Frieze London? “As you know, I’m not on the commercial side, but I do talk a lot to my gallery friends about how they did because it’s important to me that there’s success in the profit sector,” he says. “It helps the non-profit sector. They do work hand in hand as an ecosystem, and a lot of people don’t understand that.” He notes that artists and curators can be dismissive of the art market, but he thinks the relationship – albeit indirect – fuels what non-profits do. This relationship was clear in London. “Frieze is now trying to reposition itself as this platform for discovering emerging talent,” he observes, noting the reorientation of Frieze such that younger galleries appear at the front but bigger ones near the back – much like a grocery store always puts the milk (what you’re going to buy anyway) at the back. Cezar concedes that there are uncertainties in the world making the market tricky, but points to the fact that, given this, the number of gallerists doing “good enough” in London is a big win. Here, in Paris, he tells me that gallerists are working with higher price points, partly because of the higher booth fee, but also the nature of the Parisian art scene as a top-down one. “Name one non-profit space here,” he provokes. I’m stumped. Touché.

At this point, I make a dash to my hotel. I have an interview for another publication with Juergen Teller, covering his new show in Athens at Onassis Stegi. He and creative partner Dovile Drizyte let me take a screenshot of Juergen on Zoom (cute, right?), provided I call out his book signing for you are invited on Friday, at Yvon Lambert, Paris, 6.30 pm to 8.30 pm. I’ll be there.

For a brief but inspiring interim, I pass by gay punk icon Roddy Bottum’s book launch for The Royal We at The Journal Gallery. He’s a character, the kind that makes working in the creative industries worth it. He’d announced the opening on his ‘gram, teasing Parisians with the promise of free cigs. I don’t smoke, but a comment from chaos drag star, Christeene – “FREEE CIGARETTES” – was an apt clue to the evening’s arty-party vibe. Bottum, who has lived through heroin-tinged, goldfish-eating antics to tell the tale, reads, and the room listens. Afterwards, I ask, ‘why now?’ “It feels like a time in which to share truths. My specific truths are provocative and prickly and hopefully inspirational. In this time of ruin, it feels important to shout, know what I mean?” I do, I think. Has he been to Art Basel Paris? “I came today. It’s overwhelming, like a zoo. I saw beautiful work. A Martin Wong painting on a circular canvas. Worth the trip, that painting. Also, some works by Paul P., my favourite painter.” Good taste, Roddy.

Making a swift switch from thinking to drinking, I waltz on over to Hôtel de Crillon, a five-star landmark located within earshot of the Champs-Elysées. The event in question is collector Hélène Nguyen-Ban’s Docent cocktail party. I drink in the grape-decked platters and gilded walls, noting the Marie Antoinette-stylised actors frolicking through the space. It happens that Antoinette lived here for a period. Gallerist Rose Easton is grazing on the hors d’oeuvres, replete in a bejewelled bustier-suit hybrid from Simone Rocha. émergent mag founders, Albert Galceran and Reuben James, are sipping Champagne. Sadie Coles is also in attendance. There are countless French art bods, far outnumbering the Big Smoke’s contingent. I have a natter with Harlseden High Street’s Jonny Tanna and Margate gallerist Roland Ross, then head on over to the Pompidou’s closing party, where Shygirl and, later, Christine and the Queens are performing to a maze of curators, patrons and otherwise unfamiliar faces. I skull my last beer, noting the poster for Wolfgang Tillman’s recently closed show and return to my hotel for some kip.

Thursday 23rd October

At this point, it dawns on me that yesterday was basically four days’ worth of art-ing packed into one. I’m hoarse, but not hungover, and trying to balance schmoozing and boozing with my other, real jobs. Is this work? I hope so. After some onglet de bœuf and cold water in the face, my partner drags me to Paris Internationale. It’s impressive, like really. Waltzing through, I pass by Ilenia gallery’s solo display of Fleur Dempsey’s subtle oil paintings, each a reflection on moments in nature or serendipitous encounters, like a kiss. That might, prima facie, sound twee, but the reality is moving: delicately gradated ombrés, each lined in notebook-style graphite between which daubs of acrylic sing. True to the works, a moment of serendipity was behind gallerist Ilenia Rossi and Dempsey’s meeting. “I was doing a studio visit at the RA with another artist when the fire alarm went off. We were rushed out the building, and I caught a glimpse of Dempsey’s work on my way out,” says Rossi. “It stuck with me, and then two months later I reached out to her, and we did a show in May.” Immediate points for London.

Elsewhere, I note some more pals from home. Yes, Louis Blue Newby and Laila Majid’s graphite on paper, deep-web meme-ry and porn-brained inflections are on show with Niru Ratnam. More points for London. My cruise continues before I’m visually stun-gunned by London export (now in the 10th arrondissement) Goswell Road’s three-artist show. Chris Korda, David Hoyle and Zoe DeWitt. All killer, no filler. Before me, a Korda placard reads, “EAT A QUEER FETUS FOR JESUS”. I mean, sure. Very Dada. Zoe DeWitt, also known as the Zero Kama – the grave-digging musician of yore – appears in self-portraits, fashioning a labia with her ball sack (j’adore!) or posed in a sultry stare. Gel pockets incorporated into the frames’ fronts move in slow, real time. Hoyle – or Divine David as some of you queens might know him – has collaged mundane or deliciously kitsch oddities into philosophical, slightly rambling, epiphanic graphic essays. A grave made from a Benson and Hedges pack catches my eye. Why these artists? “Icons only,” says Goswell Road co-founder, Anthony Stephinson. “These are artists that fit into a part of our programme that talks about archiving, whether that’s artists themselves, someone who is part of an archive.”

Before I make my way, Stephinson tips me off that there’s a Goswell Road opening this evening. I cram a stint of writing, then zip through a gallery called di volta in volta – a garden shrouded space where British hero Merlin Carpenter is showing the tongue-in-cheek ‘Art Paris Basel’, an exhibition advertised in Frieze typeface. I’m here for the introduction of lols into art and appreciate the kitchen utensils he has hung across the space salon style. Oddball conceptualism makes a smart riposte to billionaire fodder, although I won’t, in this instance, pretend I completely get it. Sometimes, not getting it is getting it. That or I’ve exhausted my cultural nous.

Over at Goswell Road, I spot a gaggle of gays. Paris Ass Book Fair director Vincent Simon reminds me of an urgent show he has curated of artist Laila Muraywid’s unseen sculpture at Galerie PCP. I’ll check it out after I’ve written myself to death. Inside GR HQ, artist Raphaël Fanelli has assembled a series of giant sculptural cigarette butts and a used spliff, each one corresponding to a song. Stephinson describes them as “friends”, noting their grouped arrangements evocative of a smoking area. Again, I’m reminded that, sure, Art Basel Paris might thrive on big money, but it’s also the very reason a global set can witness smaller, underground brilliance.

I bid Stephinson farewell, head to Chez Jeannet pour une pinte and brace myself for tomorrow, when I still need to see the Issey Miyake x Eugene Kangawa exhibition and, now later than everyone else, the Helen Marten Miu Miu commission in Palais D’Iéna. For now, I leave you with this. Paris, facing awkward headwinds or not, is safe as a contender for art market nobility, both amongst the grassroots and the Massimo De Carlos of the world.

Bisous, babes.