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Dear Uncle Jackdaw, On entering the Art World, I am immediately struck by the growing importance of art fairs as an alternative place to exhibit. All over the world art dealers are switching from gallery into cyber space. But they still need to show. With my gallery, I go to all the art fairs, from the Affordable to Art Basel. These are now, not simply places for people to be seen at, but one of the rare means of viewing art itself, off screen. The transformation process from a messy ocean of bubble wrap streaked with brown tape into a pristine pretend gallery space, as well as the people I’ve met at these art fairs, have taught me far more about the art world than the days I’ve spent as a residue attached to the gallery reception. Art dealers I’ve met at fairs come in two types: male and female. The business-like male has a slimy, perplexed look seemingly gathered from tumbling into the job without meaning to, through parents and business contacts. No surprises there then. The female specimens, however, are the most eccentric extroverts I have ever met. They shoot around in orange PVC coats, waving their colourfully manicured hands and covering the stand walls in little red dots to mark imaginary sales (of course buyers wouldn’t want to take away their prized acquisitions). Above all, art dealers are threatened by other dealers. Only foolish outsiders think that the paintings and sculpture on your stand are of any value to the dealer. The profit from these works could cover a Barclay’s banker’s bonus yet the works are left overnight for any passing picture hanger to put into their tool box and walk off with. The insurers will pay. So what is actually priceless then? It’s the scrappy little visitors’ book. Thieving rival dealers are far more of a menace to the welfare of a business surviving on the back of a mailing list. I am beginning to pick up art dealer language which typically oozes false enthusiasm ìa stunning multi-faceted brown canvasî – which might translate as a Roger Hilton resembling a small turd – ìa fascinating example of Damien Hirstî – because every Hirst is so unique. Moreover, in pretentious art world jargon ìprettyî has two meanings: if you say it to a client whilst raising your voice then it means their flat in Fulham would be aesthetically lacking without it. But, if you say it to if another art dealer then your voice should descend several octaves. You are concurring that it is an embarrassment to be thought of even associating yourself with the framer of such a shallow, unoriginal piece. But under their puzzling facade, the elitist telesales technique of the dealer has been fine-tuned. Potential clients could be spotted from a line-up of thousands. I was informed early on that they must stare at a work for over 120 seconds, have a designer watch and preferably be a young couple moving into a multi-millionaire’s mansion. The hapless art school graduate trying to promote their ìnewî style of twee photography or the OAPs who explain the fascinating fact that they could have bought an Ivon Hitchens for 30p eight hundred years ago, but didn’t, are unsubtly blanked by the dealer. Over the three or four days I spent on my stand I had much time (in between smarminess) for existentialist thoughts about art fair life. No wonder they call one of these events Zoo Art Fair. The more I thought about it the more I felt like some exotic animal trapped behind bars, desperate to protect my territory from clumsy people. I was trapped in a tiny space in which I found myself prowling the few paces up and down, getting nowhere and ultimately threatened and jealous of the Bengali tiger on my left and the boa constrictor opposite when they got more interest in their cage, or worse, made any sales. And until I learnt the formula of spotting clients, then I was ready to pounce on any prey. At art fairs you are deeply conscious of being on display. ìWear a pretty dressî my sales-minded boss said. So there I stood in my condensed ìnatural habitatî, my gallery summed up by a few pictures. All I could do was stare out while the visitors stared in and then bought nothing because the Daily Mail was warning of economic Armageddon tomorrow. I did my duty and attended Frieze Art Fair. And I felt nothing. The leading artists’ works seemed to be clinging onto the bandwagon of twentieth century cheap shock tactics; ready-mades smothered in innuendo, and industrial canvases. The global combination of taboo and pre-credit crunch self-indulgent materialism, made the obscure East-End, ìcool crewî London galleries promote the same visual ideas as the nominally exotic Taka Ishii from Tokyo or PiST from Istanbul. The luscious array of celebrity artists and obscene prices melted into a blur and left less of an impression than the suffocating swathes of spectators. There were wealthy, dressed-down people meeting other clones in a tent in a field. It felt like Glastonbury 2008. Tell Auntie Jackdaw how much I enjoy art fairs, Love Snipe | |||||||
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