Still from video of Hastune Miku Expo 2016 Japan Tour concert at Zepp Tokyo, April 10, 2016.

“THERE WERE SIGNS.” A small Totoro charm hanging just-so off a mini Fjallraven, spotted on the Q train; the Shoto Aizawa from My Hero Academia button on a backpack moving along Thirty-Fourth Street. Clearly something was afoot.

’Twas an anime convention, dear reader, and the inaugural edition of a gathering of weebs in New York: AnimeNYC. Held for three days last weekend at Hillary Clinton’s Waterloo (though most around these parts just call it Javits Center), it marked a terrific opportunity for Midtown councilman Ben Kallos (D) to hail the money and tax dollars that this fan base would bring to the city. It was also the first anime convention I’d attended since I was thirteen. Time to reexamine my foundational narrative at the intersection of high and low.

“Anime is trash and so am I.” Now that we got that out of the way, here are some con thoughts. Anime, even if you haven’t heard of it or seen any of it, has at this point probably its greatest global visibility ever. In the past decade we’ve gone from faceless usernames on the internet swapping DIY-subtitled .avi files and fan-translated scans of manga pages to an impressive—if not always consistent or comprehensive—array of legal, US-based streaming services (Netflix, Amazon, Crunchyroll) vying for the loyalty of the English-speaking audience dedicated to this… I hesitate to say genre—how about behemoth? Or, a cultural expression that has for some time now not even been made exclusively by Japanese people or for Japanese audiences per se. The demand for content is high, live-action adaptations are picking up speed but not necessarily enthusiasm, the wages for animators are generally acknowledged to be miniscule, and some people are perhaps dying of overwork.

But I do go on. What did the weekend have to offer? An alley for artists, the immersive runway that is cosplay, an exhibitor hall of well over a hundred booths featuring Blu-rays, books, nail art, massages, snapback hats, plushies, sailor-style school uniforms, exclusive Sailor Moon merchandise (got one), the New York Public Library, kigurumi suits, T-Mobile, and porn—something for everyone in the fam.

Left: Animator and director LeSean Thomas. Right: Councilman Ben Kallos (second from right).

And the panels! Anime cons have come a long way from handing the keys to nondescript meeting rooms over to future election influencers so they could have free rein to troll each other IRL. Here were convocations of major companies in the field such as Sunrise—purveyors of the Mobile Suit Gundam franchise, which has been running since the 1970s and is now an enterprise unto itself—VIZ Media, Kodansha Comics, and the title sponsor of the event, Crunchyroll (full disclosure, I’m a subscriber, as if you couldn’t guess).

Unlike the panel discussions endemic to contemporary art, these affairs are pretty upfront about the fact that they’re there to sell you something: Primarily what was announced were release dates for boxed sets. Pretzels and the distinctive sweet scent of NYC roasted nut carts came in off the street, there were gender-inclusive restrooms, and the diversity of the crowding swells was not in itself remarkable considering the demographics of this town, but after spending some time in the ranks of the culture industry it does slow your roll a bit when one realizes that across all these rows of folding chairs at the J-pop concert in a cavernous hall in Midtown on a Friday night is a more diverse set of engaged cultural consumers than I’d ever seen in the past six years together in one place in this borough. Headlining the show were Yoko Ishida, Chihiro Yonekura, and TRUE—veritable celebrities in Japan, brought here to sing what were mostly anime theme songs both recent and vintage. The audience had prepared: Neon glow sticks were held aloft, like a wave of dutiful air traffic controllers bringing bombastic tunes (including this banger from Gundam Wing) in for a smooth landing.

Animator LeSean Thomas hails from the Bronx and is the first American to become a full-time in-house animator at a South Korean animation studio, which are the places actually making many of the parts move for both American and Japanese animation. In an inspiring talk on Saturday afternoon, he quickly dispensed with the speechifying and hustled straight to the Q&A, so that the many people gathered could step up to a mic and ask him about the industry, seek advice regarding the barriers kids of color face to achieving their dreams, and the future of animation itself. He invoked the notion of “transgenre” to describe how stories and animation are now made and distributed, and how this is engendered by the turn to subscription rather than advertising-based models for profit. Realness was served, and the people were schooled. Didn’t hurt that his first sign-language interpreter was a silver fox either.

Left: My Hero Academia cosplayers at AnimeNYC. Right: Sunrise's Toshiro Fujiwara, Gundam executive producer Shin Sasaki, translator Mari Morimoto, and producer Masakazu Ogawa.

Hatsune Miku. Have you heard? It’s her tenth anniversary this year. How are you celebrating? Note, it’s not her birthday, and she’s not married, because she’s not a person but a simulation, a voicebank that Saki Fujita lends her talents to and which goes on tour with a live band sequestered at the sides of the stage, the better to spotlight the forever-blue, forever-star, eternally young and fake Miku. Forget the waffling and proselytizing about VR, here’s Panel Room 3 last Saturday, where a video of her April 10, 2016 live concert at Zepp Tokyo was screened to citizens and aliens of Earth in folding chairs for what felt like both a revival and an annihilation. Revived was my faith by the fans rushing from their seats and breaking out the glow sticks to mimic the very same hailing gestures of the Tokyo crowd occupying approximately half the screen; annihilated was any remaining shreds of loyalty to the artifice of authenticity. Mic check: This is what democracy looks like. Not unlike the atomic bomb, a digital pop idol is a weapon so effective it is quite beyond humanity. It is better than us—superior to women and too good for men, even the ones left helplessly screaming “MIKUUU!!!” at the end of her live show. A superior technology if ever there was one. Pop stardom is, frankly, inhumane, and should undoubtedly be automated and outsourced to the machines.

This is the way forward; we need to detach the image of Woman from women. We can shove an image into performance and track her every move, weigh her every word, and measure her volumes, but we simply can’t do this to humans anymore. The anime girls have come for our jobs, and we must let them have at it, they are so strong. Let human performativity go back to its village-storyteller function. It is imperative that we leave Britney alone, and every other Britney to come. In a detour via a detour, “‘[Miku] disrupts the entire hierarchy of creatures that is supposed to culminate in mankind.’” Hatsune Miku is the future, the one true way, and I’m ready to glow up, are you?


P.S., here is what I’d recommend:

Revolutionary Girl Utena
My Hero Academia
March Comes in Like a Lion
Fruits Basket
Haibane Renmei
Serial Experiments Lain
Mob Psycho 100
Yuri!!! On ICE

You’re welcome!

Paige K. Bradley

This Is Not a Test

Joshua Tree, California

Artist Andrea Zittel (third from left). (All photos: Trinie Dalton)

THE FIFTEEN-YEAR ANNIVERSARY of High Desert Test Sites in Joshua Tree, California brought a rare mix of nostalgia and joy. The peripatetic events and venues organized annually in and around our small, sunny town, nestled in a Dr. Seussian forest of Yucca brevifolia at a median three-thousand-foot elevation, brings locals and travelers together to celebrate, per the HDTS mission statement, a “conceptual entity dedicated to learning from what we are not… often challenging art to take on new areas of relevancy.”

In other words, we reset by escaping our urban feedback loops, and redefine and revise Land art that once primarily destroyed wilderness areas in mock-heroic man vs. nature narratives. Thanks to Andrea Zittel and a handful of others out here who have dedicated themselves to revising utopian ethics by establishing, as Zittel says, “testing grounds for experimental designs in living,” HDTS has become the event to enjoy high-quality, temporary desert performances and installations that invite experience before vanishing like beautiful, perfect mirages.

When Zittel launched HDTS in 2002, these cartographic weekends consisted of annotated temporary artworks lodged in way-out zones on outer edges of neighboring off-the-grid areas like Pioneertown and Wonder Valley. People would rough-ride around, avoiding sand traps en route to the art, building their own adventures by getting lost enough to maintain fun. Often we hardly saw one another, carloads of people passing on dusty routes. Artworks were homespun, the stoner afterparties were wild and wooly, and some events recurred for years, like Ooga Booga’s takeover of Sky Village Swap Meet in Yucca Valley.

Left: High Desert Test Site HQ. Right: Curators Sohrab Mohebbi and Aram Moshayedi.

But in the past decade HDTS has evolved into a sophisticated apparatus garnering impressive rosters of participants with somewhat larger budgets for commissions and small luxuries. Instead a Pokemon-esque treasure-hunt over hundreds of miles, this year, esteemed curators Sohrab Mohebbi and Aram Moshayedi joined Zittel and her studio team—Tatiana Vahan, Elena Yu, and Vanesa Zendejas—to focus on a mellow weekend of fewer, looser events and activities where people could linger and visit. At first I was skeptical of this new, more civilized method, given my love of hectic DIY stuff. But the ineffable spirit remains: Disorientation still ushered us into uncertainty, that key component that introduces our best, marvelous Mojave vortex, as some New Agers call it, situated dynamically on several faultlines, including the mighty, notorious San Andreas.

This year’s escapade launched with a packed pizza party at Zittel’s gorgeous indoor/outdoor studio at AZ West. I stopped by for hellos and a slice, then hightailed it to Pappy and Harriet’s, our beloved saloon, to see Cass McCombs and Farmer Dave’s The Skiffle Players, because a weekend of art needs a blast of live music. Saturday was packed full, starting at Sky Village Swap Meet for an Ooga Booga–inspired booth by Glenn Murray & Co. Lydia Glenn, who ran the Highland Park “mercantile” (aka artist-run) Chin’s Push for some years as an “experiment in valuation” (aka shop) in which she sold art objects by artists alongside “kids, moms, and anyone,” as she put it.

Next was a stop at Ry Rocklen’s Trophy Modern house, for a Rite of Fall performance by his partner, Carolyn Pennypacker Riggs. The house, filled with furnishings built from trophies, was conceived in 2012 when Rocklen adopted a crop of “lost and abandoned trophies” from a thrift store and began constructing furniture like “shish kabobs,” he explained on the porch as we waited for the event to begin in our eighty-five-degree paradise. Fifty people crammed into the living room to witness Pennypacker Riggs and her cast of women. They were dressed as fortifying Caryatids, singing atonally as she launched into songs in a suburban-lady housecoat and mud-mask doubling as death mask, stripping to a “nude” leotard, then skeleton-painted bodysuit. I felt threaded onto a human shish kebab, roasting in a rapt, steamy room. At the end they distributed pomegranates: a total ritual success. From there, some headed far east to the Glasshouse Art Gallery with Edie Fake, followed by Oliver Payne’s chill-out session. I went home for a snack, then repaired to The Palms, a remote bar in Wonder Valley, for a packed nightcap of music and readings musing on the topic of “non-community.” Linda Sibio’s performance, for which she wore a dress adorned with painted portraits of her friends then described each one, was standout. Outside, the Orionids meteor shower was in full swing.

The next day began with a bustling breakfast at our Copper Mountain Mesa Community Center, hosted by local chefs Sarah Witt and Bob Dornberger. They struggled to keep up with our appetites, but given their love of food experimentation—the previous day, their Hole Foods Pit Stop saw roasted pineapples and meats skewered onto dangling chains and spikes on what looked like an s/m swingset—we grazed nibbles and made conversation, as any Sunday morning community center breakfast out here goes. The fire station next door was newly remodeled by community center members including Stephanie Smith and Jay Babcock for the exhibition “An Ephemeral History of High Desert Test Sites: 2002–2015.”

This wonderful new space, available for rent and future fun, housed cubbylike displays highlighting artworks from past years, showing HDTS’s impact. Wade Guyton’s big black X leaning against the fire station wall missed its mark, but David Shrigley’s flag waving “Please Don’t Kill Us” seemed timelier than ever. The Test Sites wrapped up on the most beautiful parcel outside Pipes Canyon Preserve, way up God’s Way Love, a dirt road that leads to a one-hundred-acre chunk that HDTS has been installing on for years thanks to its generous landowner.

Forty of us nestled amid the boulders and juniper and sweeping vistas of Black Butte and Flattop Mesa for architect Neil Doshi’s table reading of his autobiographical play about building a house from scratch on a neighboring land patch inhabited by an “intentional community.” Six actor/artists told a humorous tale that chronicled self-building’s snafus and learning curves, something we’re all too familiar with out here.

“A lot of people say they build with their hands, but they just told an architect where to put rooms,” longtime HDTS participant Dan Anderson—as “naďve builder”—declared from script, opting for the slow, hard, slab-by-slab to achieve a house “with no straight lines.” It was the perfect sendoff, capturing the essence of life on the mesas. But let’s face it: As we also acknowledged, we’re not too tough. In this wilderness theater, we loved our mimosas and popcorn passed around in the shade, and we may not have survived without our wide-brimmed straw sunhats.

Trinie Dalton

Carolyn Pennypacker Riggs's Rite of Fall performance.

Dog Days


Left: Artist Camille Henrot. Right: MoMA director Glenn Lowry and Vuitton Foundation director Suzanne Pagé. (All photos: Linda Yablonsky)

IT WAS THE WEEK BEFORE FIAC and tout de Paris was calm. Without much fanfare—but in the presence of the Instagramming French president Emmanuel Macron—the Picasso Museum took the lead by opening “Picasso 1932: An Erotic Year.”

Imagine Donald Trump showing support for a museum! (Or a museum inviting him to see pictures that he wasn’t in.)

Macron picked the right show. Though limited to one year, and basically one subject—amour—this has to be the most resonant exhibition on view in Paris. You think you’ve seen enough Picasso?

Trust me, you haven’t.

“I’ve never seen a lot of this!” agreed one guest, FIAC director Jennifer Flay. A number of paintings and drawings here are seldom, if ever, shown to the public. There are stunning examples of Picasso’s post-Cubist, post-neoclassical periods, including a crucifixion that is pure B&D. (Another has brushwork associated more with Cy Twombly or Joan Mitchell than Picasso, whose technique emerged more clearly than I’d ever seen it. “Maybe it’s the lighting,” suggested dealer Daniele Balice.)

Left: Dealers Alexander Hertling and Daniele Balice. Right: Dealers Janelle Reiring, Kamel Mennour, and Helene Winer.

Paris is a city that loves art, though probably not more than fashion.

If you’re the richest man in the country, and your name is Bernard Arnault, you run with both.

First, you build an empire of luxury-goods companies (LVMH) and then create a foundation, in the corporate name of Louis Vuitton, for a private art collection that you house on public land in a building designed by Frank Gehry.

Because you can.

You can also haul in treasures from other, more historic collections to show your friends. Last fall, when the Shchukin Collection from Russia went on view in the glassy Gehry blimp, the Louis Vuitton Foundation was the toast of Paris, maybe all of Europe.

Art works! It breathes humanity into money.

This year, New York’s Museum of Modern Art brought the LVF two hundred signature works, from Cézanne and Atget to Janet Cardiff and Ian Cheng.

Last Monday, when “Being Modern: MoMA in Paris” settled into its temporary quarters, MoMA director Glenn Lowry was on hand to shepherd it. “Our largest audience is French,” Lowry told me, adding that the show was an opportunity for the museum to give something back.

To a well-funded private museum?

Left: Choreographer William Forsythe and Serptentine Gallery artistic director Hans Ulrich Obrist. Right: Dealer Almine Rech and collector Bernard Ruiz-Picasso.

“MoMA’s collection is also private,” noted Quentin Bajac, the French-born photography curator, who organized this cross-disciplinary sampler with Lowry. “The foundation has given us a platform in Paris that’s unique,” the latter said. “No other venue would have permitted a show like this.” I’m guessing that no other venue could afford it, either.

“In France, we don’t respect money,” said LVF director Suzanne Pagé, a refrain I would hear repeated over succeeding days by several other natives. “It’s a cliché, this notion of money,” Pagé said. “We consider only the work. And we never sell.”

I have to say that it was pretty weird to see Picasso’s Boy Leading a Horse and one of Brancusi’s Bird in Spaces in a below-ground environment, even if it actually does give each plenty of room. Initially, the introductory gallery felt very coals-to-Newcastle, especially considering the origins of some of the works, and particularly Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel, which anyone in Paris can see at the Pompidou any day of the week.

Then again, Parisians who have never been to MoMA might welcome the chance to see art that hasn’t been on native soil in six decades, or that has never appeared here at all.

“If you don’t know what happened before,” Pagé observed, “you can’t break the rules. And all of these artists have been rule-breakers.”

From there, what could I do but dive into the Pompidou, mostly to catch the David Hockney retrospective soon to depart for the Met, where it will be half the size—and possibly stronger for the edit.

Left: Artist Daniel Buren. Right: Artist Marina of Greece and dealer Chantal Crousel.

If Frieze Week in London was replete with exhibitions by American artists, it is even more remarkable to find the house-proud French putting out the welcome mat for our institutions.

MoMA isn’t the only one. “Gauguin: Artist as Alchemist” at the Grand Palais started out at the Art Institute of Chicago. And the Whitney Museum has provided the Musée Maillol, strangely, with an exhibition of Pop art.

Even the weather in Paris has been welcoming. The trees say it’s autumn but the thermometer remains in late summer—perfect for the dedicated flâneur. I spent a couple of satisfying afternoons in the Marais visiting galleries (and avoiding spirit-crushing news from the US) and diving into a wowser of a retrospective for the House of Dior at the Louvre’s Decorative Arts Museum, an overcrowded and overheated experience that was nevertheless enthralling, especially whenever the designs of John Galliano came into view.

The French also like to give out prizes. The Prix Meurice, for example, is given annually to an emerging artist. Now in its tenth year, the jury (including Palais de Tokyo director Jean de Loisy, fashion designer Jean-Charles de Castelbajac, and Montpellier Museum of Contemporary Art director Nicolas Bourriaud) went to Morgan Courtois, who exhibited easily the most distinctive work, a sculpture that looked something like a diseased stalk of corn. “It has a fragrance,” the artist told me, encouraging me to take a whiff.

Left: Artist Cindy Sherman with a French dessert. Right: Kunsthalle Basel director Elena Filipovic and Lafayette Anticipations director Francois Quintin.

During the week, there were dinners in private homes that saw Americans banding together at separate left-bank parties given by artist Alexander May and Young Kim, where MoMA curator Stuart Comer was the guest of honor. Dinner at Beaucoup following the opening of Adam McEwen’s “Ice Ice Baby” at Galerie Art: Concept was more of a family affair. His new paintings of man-made disasters on kitchen sponge—with fetching graphite attachments, like a toilet plunger and a hula-hoop—brought all three of his sisters. (The siblings’ grandfather went down on the Titanic.)

It also drew family friends, like the expat Bruno Schmidt and Carmel Johnson, rarely seen in New York since the days of Club 57, the performance cabaret cofounded by Ann Magnuson and Kenny Scharf in the late 1970s. (It will reappear later this month, on Halloween, in its own retrospective at MoMA.)

By the weekend, other galleries started gearing up for the increasingly visible FIAC influx. Emmanuel Perrotin mounted a double-header for Julio Le Parc and Daniel Arsham. Chantal Crousel presented her third solo with Haegue Yang, whose sculptures turn natural materials otherworldly.

And for his first show in Paris with Almine Rech, George Condo brought both new paintings and canvases he made while living here in the 1980s, when Bernard Ruiz-Picasso (Rech’s other half) began collecting them.

Left: Artist Sam McEwen and Dealer Olivier Antoine. Right: Artist George Condo and dealer Monika Sprüth.

For the dinner at their apartment, in a building that reminded me of One Sutton Place South, Ruiz-Picasso thoughtfully placed paintings and sculptures by Condo around the salon, where dealers Simon Lee and Per Skarstedt gathered for cocktails with everyone’s favorite charity auctioneer, Simon de Pury; collector and Cahiers d’Art publisher Staffan Ahrenberg; Pompidou curator Didier Ottinger; and Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris director Fabrice Hergott.

“You can see everything on YouTube,” Condo enthused. “Everything!” Recently he watched a film of Glenn Gould speaking extemporaneously about Bach. “He was brilliant,” Condo said. “He wanted to stay behind the times. I do too. I don’t want to be ahead of my time. I never did.”

Ruiz-Picasso, however, had a different perspective. “Artists create our future,” he said.

Compared to New York or London, Paris is a small town. Is it always like this?

Sunday afternoon, the choreographer William Forsythe was the center of attention for VIP guests invited to munch on fish tacos and sliders at the afternoon opening of his “Choreographic Objects” in Gagosian’s hangar of a gallery at Le Bourget airport.

During a twenty-one-minute sequence, two robots waved enormous black silk sails through the yawning space, furling and unfurling their banners in a duet that had them almost touching and then scooting apart, only to catch each other’s rhythm and move together, then resting. “We spent a lot of time negotiating with the air,” Forsythe said, adding that he had the assistance of his son, an AI genius, on the robots’ programs.

William Forsythe, Alignigung, 2016.

More human—make that superhuman—was Alignigung, a confounding slo-mo video that showed two dancers (the tattooed Rauf “Rubber Legs” Yasit and the porcelain-skinned Riley Watts) knotting up together in near-fetal position and rolling across the screen like a flower whose petals never quite open, without once coming apart. “You think you know everything two bodies can do,” Forsythe told Serpentine Gallery artistic director Hans Ulrich Obrist. “And then you don’t.”

And you think you know the calendar until you enter “Camille Henrot: Days Are Dogs,” the third artist-curated Carte Blanche exhibition at the Palais de Tokyo. Though the show includes six other artists Henrot chose, her painting, sculpture, and videos dominate the massive galleries in a restless profusion of installations organized according to the seven days that humankind imposes to form a week—only here they don’t appear in chronological order.

Avery Singer contributed seven paintings that start the show, leading into Saturday, Henrot’s immersive new 3-D follow-up to Grosse Fatigue, the video that won her a Silver Lion at the 2013 Venice Biennale. Saturday features baptismal ceremonies that heal and delude revivalist practitioners, as well as scrolling news feeds of all the horrible events that took place around the world on Saturdays over the past year.

Though the exhibition was shot through with a dark, forbidding, or melancholy tone—you have to get to Thursday to reach a lighter passage—the size and complexity were mightily impressive. “I think it’s great that a woman did all of this,” said a proud Helene Winer, cofounder of Metro Pictures, which cohosted a buffet dinner with Kamel Mennour and Johann König at Alléno, a restaurant in a park off the Place de la Concorde. “It’s also a great moment for Camille to have done it in Paris, where all of her old friends can see what she’s been up to.” A glance at her table showed her surrounded by attractive men.

Left: Artist Bruno Schmidt, Carmel Johnson, and artist Adam McEwen. Right: Artist Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster.

The party also drew other artists from each gallery, including Cindy Sherman, Tatiana Trouvé, and Katharine Grosse, and a couple hundred other people—collectors, curators, and the six other artists’ dealers all gearing up for FIAC week by imbibing champagne, chowing down on paella and pastries, and negotiating the air of Paris.

Outside, the Eiffel Tower sparkled over the Seine and all seemed right with the world, even though headlines from home said otherwise.

Funny thing, though. Suddenly I had no idea what day it was.

Were we getting ahead of our time, or watching it run out?

Linda Yablonsky

Volcano Lovers


Left: Joan Jonas's Moving Off the Land. Right: Poet Anne Carson and artist Joan Jonas.

THESE DAYS, most flights from New York to Iceland’s main airport are red-eyes that land just before dawn. The benefit, until the darkness lingers longer, is that you’re forced to reckon with the rocky landscape through an astonishing sunrise. Last weekend I watched that crimson blaze lift over mountains and slowly illuminate the treeless, moss-covered terrain as my bus puttered along a winding and empty highway to Reykjavik’s eighth edition of Sequences, a ten-day biennial spread out across the city. It was shocking.

Not so shocking: The show’s “honorary artist” was Joan Jonas, whose recent work is inspired by Halldór Laxness’s 1972 novel Under the Glacier. The mercurial environment of Iceland has long haunted Jonas’s output. “I’m so happy to be here,” she told me. “I love Iceland. It’s a place where you always feel closer to the center of the earth because it’s bubbling up through the cracks. It’s so bare, stark, and awe-inspiring.”

One of her early 16-mm pieces, Volcano Film, 1976, stood out in her minisurvey at the Living Art Museum, expertly organized by the biennial’s curator, Margot Norton. The black-and-white film is a compilation of eruptions, which are, of course, not infrequent in Iceland. Across the city at the Culture House (not part of the biennial), a wall text in an excellent show about Icelandic art advised me how “in the middle ages, the country’s main claim to fame in Europe was the volcano Mt. Hekla, which was reputed to be the gate to Hell and spewed massive ash clouds that could even cause crop failure in mainland Europe.”

Left: Musician Kristín Anna, Björk, scientist Kristján Leósson. Right: Artist Ragnar Kjartansson, Sequences curator Margot Norton, and Sequences' Ingibjörg Sigurjónsdóttir.

I had wanted to ask Anne Carson, who happened to be in town, for her thoughts on volcanoes as an apt (if inadequate) symbol of our volatile times, since she has a thing for painting them. (I had also just edited a smart 500 Words interview with Cauleen Smith on volcanoes as noncolonized land: “So, really, the only place you can arrive at and settle in without doing harm is at a lava berg.”) But those images of molten earth too easily slipped my mind as we entered an intimate performance by Ragnar Helgi Ólafsson and Ásta Fanney Sigurđardóttir at the project space Harbinger on Saturday evening. Here, a viewer (in this case, Carson) selects a drawing of a calendar page made by Ólafsson, and then both artists improvise a witchy song.

So much of Sequences invoked serendipitous alliances, usually with the artists attempting to conspire with natural forces. Eduardo Navarro’s performance at Kling & Bang was conceived as a collaboration with the sun, but when his partner didn’t oblige, each performer, dressed in gold from head to toe, popped a squat on the floor. During David Horvitz’s Watering a Glass Flower, a sound bath he performed at Mengi with the emerging Icelandic musician JFDR, they discovered a ghost shrimp in the resonating hourglasses. (Horvitz had accidentally scooped it up in the ocean water he poured into the vessels.) And in (From) Memory, Helena Aőalsteinsdóttier’s video in the basement of Ekkisens, a hand interacts with a stone as if it were a smartphone. The work was shot in an area of northern Iceland known for its magnetic energy that emits high-frequency sounds. During a cozy panel discussion one afternoon, the artists discussed these material aspects of their work while Björk waxed eloquently from the audience about the new kind of magic needed to get through these dark days. “We went from atoms to the cloud and now we need something else.” NBD.

At the theater Tjarnarbíó on my last night in town, Jonas performed Moving Off the Land, a by turns uplifting and depressing lecture-demonstration on mythmaking and the oceanic realm. By uplifting I mean that she deals in the miraculous, and by depressing I mean climate change, though she never uses that phrase in the piece. “I’m not proselytizing,” she told me. “I don’t have to talk to my audience that way. I don’t want to make Channel 13, you know?” Moving Off the Land revolves around recent works she’s performed in Venice, Vienna, and Kochi, and for this version she teamed up with Icelandic composer and violinist María Huld Markan.

“We all come from the sea and we have memories of it in our minds and bodies,” Jonas began, slipping in quotes from Italo Calvino, Rachel Carson, Herman Melville, and Emily Dickinson, among others. In my favorite section, she stood before a video projection of sea life and went full mystic, her body convulsing with the divine love of some invisible entity, which seemed to be vigorously shaking the bells she held in each hand. In a flash on stage I was sure that Björk’s something else appeared, then left. Bless bless.

Lauren O’Neill-Butler

Deep Frieze


Left: Dealer Nicholas Logsdail. Right: Dealer Agnieska Rayzacher, artist Nalalia LL, and curator Alison Gingeras. (All photos: Linda Yablonsky)

THE GREAT GIFT Frieze London bestowed on art aficionados this year was to propel them into galleries and museums.

Not that Frieze itself didn’t offer benefits. Female artists were notable for their quantity and, in the case of a special section curated by Alison Gingeras, historical impact, as well as in-your-face pro-sex feminism. In the age of Trump the Aggressor, that’s risky business. It may not be entirely profitable business, but it is, at least, desirable.

The fair also had an especially good program of talks put together by the estimable Ralph Rugoff, director of the Hayward Gallery, who no doubt welcomed the task while his museum undergoes extensive renovations.

But if you wanted to be absorbed by art, or cozy up to it unmolested by surging crowds and deafening chatter, then you ventured to the institutions beyond Regent’s Park.

Left: Artists George Passmore and Gilbert Prousch (aka Gilbert & George). Right: Dealer Johann König.

In other cities—New York is one—fairs and exorbitant rents are pinching the gallery ecosystem, and while they’ve taken a toll here, too, dealers are also establishing or expanding beachheads in increasing number. (Brexit be damned.)

In other words, London is hot. London is healthy. And Frieze London is the spark plug that sends its art world into overdrive.

The eve of the fair’s VIP preview offered nearly as many options as there were people, as galleries north, south, and east opened exhibitions to meet every taste.

Stuart Shave’s Modern Art introduced a second venue—the dealer’s “six-thousand-square-foot project space”—in the former Wilkinson Gallery on Vyner Street, with a three-part show by the clearly maturing Josh Kline. Appropriately titled “Civil War,” it addressed the consequences of our current economic divide by balancing the rubble of class war with its spoils and forcing together high- and low-end appliances in the manner of a Koonsian Split-Rocker.

Thanks to traffic in London, where (as one cabbie noted) it’s always rush hour, I missed Haroon Mirza’s installation at the Zabludowicz Collection, the Idris Khan opening at Victoria Miro, the blast of performances at KOKO bidding farewell to the David Roberts Art Foundation’s Camden home, and the Douglas Gordon opening at Gagosian Britannia Street.

Left: Filmmaker, artist, and writer John Waters. Right: Artist Glenn Ligon, curator Aphrodite Gonou, and designer Duro Olowu.

As it was, I had to hire a car even to get around Mayfair, which really had it going on.

Jake and Dinos Chapman continue their romance with Goya and contemporary violence at Blain|Southern, their new gallery in London. In his first outing at Gagosian Grosvenor Hill, Brice Marden hung by the door while friends and fans from New York and London took in the unashamed beauty of ten new paintings in his “Terre verte” series.

From there I could walk around the corner to the Almine Rech outpost, where Berlin dealer Aurel Scheibler was showing Bernard Picasso some Ernst Wilhelm Nay abstractions from the 1960s and earlier. I also footed it downstairs to see salacious drawings by Tom Wesselmann, whose female objects of desire were also objectified in a show at Gagosian Davies Street, hard by the T. J. Wilcox video portraits at Sadie Coles.

Continuing the sweep of American artists in London, Sherrie Levine took up the David Zwirner townhouse for a variety of appropriations, including new monochromes that distill the colors of van Gogh’s sunflower paintings. These were very cool, though perhaps not quite as cool as Rirkrit Tiravanija’s show at Pilar Corrias, which featured an impressive, overscale steel cast of a Victorian oven that the artist used to cook a medieval stew consumed in his bucolic new video—and also served to game dinner guests at Carousel. “It’s delicious, I promise you,” said Corrias.

Left: Kunsthalle Basel director Elena Filipovic. Right: Accessories designer Monica Zwirner and dealer David Zwirner.

But the biggest winner that night was at the London branch of Lévy Gorvy, which somehow pulled together all twenty-three of the room-swallowing, multipanel drawings that made up The General Jungle or Carrying on Sculpting, the 1971 exhibition by Gilbert & George at the Sonnabend Gallery in New York (maybe still their best). This was the drawings’ first showing in the artists’ hometown, and the duo appeared very pleased. “So nice to see it all again,” said Gilbert, with a giggle.

So, if the art horde converges on London for Frieze, it’s not so much about the fair. But everyone goes anyway. Dealers at Wednesday morning’s preview had to brace for an onslaught. During my own first minute in the chaotic tent, I was treated to conversations with Tate director Maria Balshaw, collector Maria Baibakova, artist Cerith Wyn Evans, and filmmaker John Waters, before diving headlong into the maw of the most scattershot Frieze to date.

Not that anyone ever thought a fair was good for the integrity of art. It’s good for galleries, and even better for connecting with other people. “I’m convinced that I’m doing something meaningful,” said a wistful Anton Kern, who brought only paintings and sculpture by the women on his gallery’s roster. “And then I get to a fair and it’s all so social. It’s good, I guess, in the end.”

Yep. It was an hour before I got past the galleries clustered near the entrance, to where a tall Ugo Rondinone bluestone figure announced the stand for Sadie Coles. A spruced-up and supercharged Johann König, yet another dealer opening a branch in London, scheduled a daily changeover of his booth with a different solo presentation throughout the run of the fair. “We’re having an especially splendid day,” reported dealer Maureen Paley, whose wares included a video by the white-hot, Abraaj Art Prize–winning Lawrence Abu Hamdan bought by the Frieze Tate Fund. “This is the most international Frieze we’ve seen yet,” noted Max Hetzler, who has galleries in Berlin and Paris but not London (yet). “I mean, success no longer depends on dollars.”

Left: Delfina Foundation director Aaron Cezar. Right: Dealer Sylvia Kouvali, artist Christodoulos Panayiotou, and Fiorucci Art Trust director Milovan Farronato.

Back to art. Sculpture by Amalia Pica and Michael Dean at the Herald St stand, and a provocative Thomas Bayrle collage in the theater of Gavin Brown’s booth, stalled my progress toward the far-off quarters housing Gingeras’s “Sex Work: Feminist Art & Radical Politics.”

There, the walls were pink and penises vied with vulvas among the dozen galleries showcasing explicit, own-it imagery by now-senior women who were castigated or marginalized for making it in previous decades.

Marilyn Minter’s porn paintings from the nineties, for example, from Baldwin Gallery (and later crotch paintings from Salon 94 and Regen Projects), still bothered some people, who revisited the tired, old antifeminist feminism argument of the ’80s. So did the closely observed phalluses of Betty Tomkins (Galerie Andrea Caratsch). Other grazers marveled at expository self-portrait collages by Penny Slinger (Blum & Poe).

“I love this work,” gushed MoMA curator Laura Hoptman over the Dorothy Iannones at Air de Paris. Dealer David Lewis scored by selling a Mary Beth Edelman spread to Tate Modern. I wished that the tactile and progressive Birgit Jürgenssen works at Hubert Winter were getting more of the attention they deserved, but I was rather amazed to see a photo grid of gender stereotypes by another Austrian artist, Renate Bertlmann (presented by Richard Saltoun), that anticipated Cindy Sherman’s “film stills” by nearly a decade. Another discovery came at Warsaw’s Lokal 30, where the carnal photography of Natalia LL lost nothing in translation from Polish.

Left: Dealer Stuart Shave. Right: Dealer Gavin Brown.

Aggressive though this section was (especially for men), it might better have suited Frieze Masters, where the secondary market reigns supreme. Likewise the Hauser & Wirth booth, which could have been the gift shop for the Concorde, were it still flying one-percenters over the Atlantic.

The gallery worked with classicist Mary Beard to create “BRONZE AGE c. 3500 BC–AD 2017,” replete with small bronzes by big names and fictive ones, because it could. (The booth’s gift shop raised roughly $13,000 for UK regional museums.) This was a little too Disney for my taste, though it was so crowded with art tourists that I couldn’t actually get in.

So I went to Masters, where soft lighting, carpeting, and spacious aisles provide a more user-friendly ambience. The always industrious, Bologna-based P420 Gallery, in the Spotlight section, literally glowed with neon “subway” paintings (1966–68) by the ripe-for-rediscovery Laura Grisi. Once a core artist in Leo Castelli Gallery, the paintings skirt the edges of process art and Arte Povera without resting in either.

Venus Over Manhattan brought back tire works from the late Colin de Land’s John Dogg (aka Richard Prince) exhibition at American Fine Arts in 1986. (One collector bought a piece without knowing what it was.) And Alexander Gray hung 1950s abstract paintings by the legendary dealer Betty Parsons, who started out as a student of Alberto Giacometti.

Left: Serpentine Gallery curator Hans Ulrich Obrist, dealer Pilar Corrias, and artist Koo Jeong A. Right: Dealer Casey Kaplan.

That’s as far as I got before closing. Not that the clock stopped for recounting the pleasures of the past. At the Store on the Strand, a former office building turned exhibition and performance space by the Vinyl Factory, dealer Nicholas Logsdail was celebrating his fiftieth anniversary in the business with “Everything at Once,” an exhibition of fifty large-scale works by twenty-four gallery artists—Lawrence Weiner, Ai Weiwei, Marina Abramović, Nathalie Djurberg, Richard Long, Cory Arcangel, Susan Hiller, and Anish Kapoor among them.

How does an astute person make an impact throughout five decades of shifting paradigms and prejudices in the art world? “Never give up,” the stoic Logsdail said. “It doesn’t get easier, but it does get bigger.” Kapoor, who has been showing with the gallery for nearly three of those decades, agreed. “Nicholas struggled for twenty-five years,” he said. “It’s hard here in London for a gallery to maintain a space where artists are free to be themselves and do whatever they want. But he did it.”

After a few hours’ sleep, I taxied with dealer Sylvia Kouvali to Kingston University’s Stanley Picker Gallery on Richmond Park. There, gallery program director Stella Bottai led about a dozen sleepy-eyed diehards to The Hollow of Your Hand, a sound piece by Christodoulos Panayiotou in the private Picker House, a perfectly preserved example of 1960s architecture with an interior designed by Terence Conran.

It included a hi-fi on which an assistant played vinyl recordings chosen or made by the artist while he and the rest of us stood around and listened. (The sofas were off-limits.) It was an odd, and oddly mournful, program that progressed from a scratchy old record from the Picker collection to a doubling of Judy Garland’s first and final renditions of “Over the Rainbow” and an approximation of the sound from James Dean’s car crash.

Left: Dealer Dominique Levy and Marta de Mello. Right: Designers Zoe Eckhaus and Mike Latta.

Another cab took us back to Frieze, where Kunsthalle Basel director Elena Filipovic was launching the latest of three new books, The Artist as Curator, published by Mousse, with an illuminating conversation with Hans Ulrich Obrist about David Hammons and Marcel Duchamp, the subjects of Filipovic’s other new volumes.

Clearly, art requires tireless attention. Since the fair’s Reading Room was near the Focus section for galleries younger than twelve, I took it in, stopping first for a chat, naturally, with dealers Malin Stahl and Lisa Panting. Their spunky Hollybush Gardens gallery harbors not just one but two of this year’s Turner Prize nominees, Andrea Büttner and the always appealing Lubaina Himid.

Focus, meanwhile, really lived up to its name, yet it was the least populated. Something was wrong with this picture. Aren’t collectors still pursuing emergent talents? They’re making a mistake not to support these galleries, the first rung of the ladder to stardom, and the hardest to keep up.

It sent me back out to catch shows I’d missed earlier in the week. The sun was up, the temperature mild, and the art in every gallery seemed happiest in quiet, domestically scaled environments.

It was civilized, and reminded me of something Filipovic had said about the way the ephemeral makes history and accumulates value—not by putting a big price on an object but by putting it in a context that creates meaning.

Art fairs have their place.

London’s is bigger.

Now let’s see what Paris has to offer.

Linda Yablonsky

Left: MoCAD senior curator Jens Hoffmann. Right: Frieze cofounder Amanda Sharp and collector Andrew Hale.

Left: Dealer Lorcan O'Neill and architect Luca Cipelletti. Right: MoMA chief curator Stuart Comer and dealer Peter Currie.

American Pie


Left: ICA London director Stefan Kalmár and dealer Sadie Coles. Right: Artist Sarah Lucas and dealer Sarah Watson. (All photos: Linda Yablonsky)

BREXIT OR NOT, London has thrown open its arms to American artists in what may be their biggest embrace since Pop.

On the cusp of the current Frieze Week, the Royal Academy featured Jasper Johns, and the Serpentine Gallery had a show by the increasingly captivating Wade Guyton imported from Munich’s Museum Brandhorst. Tate Modern entered the home stretch of “Soul of a Nation,” its deeply satisfying survey of African American art. The Barbican had the spirited and atmospheric “Basquiat: Boom for Real,” while the ICA prepped for Seth Price, and Damien Hirst’s Newport Street Gallery readied a full-on survey for Dan Colen.

It was no different in the galleries. Gagosian, David Zwirner, Thomas Dane, Stuart Shave/Modern Art, Maureen Paley, Herald St, Timothy Taylor, Alison Jacques, and the Sunday Painter had Brice Marden, Sherrie Levine, Catherine Opie, Josh Kline, Tim Rollins and K.O.S., Jessi Reaves, Alex Katz, Sheila Hicks, and Cynthia Daignault, respectively.

Left: Artist Wade Guyton and Museum Brandhorst curator Achim Hochdörfer. Right: Artist Seth Price.

To inject some national pride into this unofficial Festival Americana, Tate Britain offered the open-plan embrace of a Rachel Whiteread retrospective, with the Chapman brothers on tap at Blain Southern and Gilbert and George at Lévy-Gorvy.

But it was Gary Hume who spearheaded the pushback as the artist inaugurating Sprüth Magers Gallery’s newly expanded quarters in Mayfair. The opening, last Thursday, brought out a starry cohort of smoking YBAs, such as Tracey Emin, Sarah Lucas, Gavin Turk, Fiona Banner, and Whiteread, along with Michael Craig-Martin, Anthony Gormley, Paul Simenon, Don Brown, Rebecca Warren, Nicola Tyson, and such institutional top dogs as the Whitechapel Gallery’s Iwona Blazwick, the Heyward’s Ralph Rugoff, and the ICA’s Stefan Kalmár, as well as Frieze cofounders Matthew Slotover and Amanda Sharp.

“It’s not about me,” said the modest Hume, whose new enamel-on-crinkly-paper paintings invited a wholesale reconsideration of work that skitters between formalist abstraction and flat-out sentimentality with utter joy. “It’s not about the gallery,” countered Rugoff.

It was both. By taking over the Georgian townhouse, where they used to have hardly more than a storefront, dealers Monika Sprüth and Philomene Magers opened up and exposed to natural light domestic spaces friendly to viewing art. “We worked so hard!” said Magers, clearly pleased with the splendor of her surroundings. “Can you believe we’re standing in a basement?” remarked Craig-Martin, of a lower-level gallery with such high ceilings that what might once have been a bomb shelter felt like a grand salon.

Left: Artists Georgie Hopton and Rebecca Warren. Right: Artists Brice Marden and Gary Hume with Royal Academy exhibitions director Tim Marlow.

The mood was just as bubbly at the dinner for two hundred, catered by Arnold & Henderson at One Belgravia. The Berlin-based gallery, which also has a huge outpost in Los Angeles, attracted a few Germans––mainly, Thomas Ruff (on show at Whitechapel) and Andreas Gursky, and collectors Dayana Tamendarova and the Rubells––but mostly this was an evening of artists’ artists who all collect each other.

Like several of his formerly bad-boy and -girl friends, Hume is now an esteemed member of the Royal Academy of Arts. There, on Saturday morning, he waxed both funny and poetic in an exclusive talk with Marden and RA exhibitions director Tim Marlow. Marden, clad in his signature navy watch cap and bright orange socks, confessed that he likes to touch paintings in museums and recommended the experience, while Hume told the crowd of about sixty patrons that he became an artist because “painting has problems that are all soluble by feeling.”

Thus stimulated, I headed out to discover a developing neighborhood of a dozen galleries in the Bermondsey area of Southwark, where Tyson had large- and small-scale drawings at the stalwart Drawing Room, Damien Ortega had pride of place at White Cube, and Marianna Simnett impressed with the syringe-inflected Worst Gift, a comic/creepy video installation at Matt’s Gallery. (“Clearly an artist to watch,” Serpentine Gallery artistic director Hans Ulrich Obrist would tell me later.)

Left: Artists Lynette Yiadom-Boakye and Catherine Opie. Right: Graphic designer Peter Saville.

From there it was off to Clapham to meet artists Sam McEwen and Pablo Bronstein at Studio Voltaire, where Glaswegian curator Paul Pieroni had mounted a heart-stopping show of cartoon drawings by the little-known Vittorio Scarpati, who was married to writer Cookie Mueller and made them in 1989 as they both were dying of AIDS in New York.

Nearby, Daignault was opening the Sunday Painter’s new location with alpine imagery, and the always-edgy feminist dominatrix Cosey Fanni Tutti, formerly of Throbbing Gristle, debuted new video animation of her hometown, Hull, that was so hypnotic that we stayed past closing time.

Just as compelling, by the way, is Bronstein’s show at the Royal Institute of British Architecture, where his eyebrow-raising drawings enhance shoddy low- and high-end “developer rubbish” in London dating from the 1960s to the 1990s. (Think Grenfell Tower.)

With McEwen at the wheel, we raced across London to the Approach, a gallery optimally situated above its own downstairs pub, and then to the packed Reaves and Rollins openings at Herald St and Maureen Paley. The two galleries cohosted a bibulous buffet at St. John Bread and Wine that went late, got loud, and spilled out into a typically English downpour.

Left: Choreographer Michael Clark. Right: Dealer Maureen Paley, artist Tim Rollins, and dealer Chantal Crousel.

To brace myself for the fair week ahead, I spent my so-called day of rest lunching on Yorkshire Pudding with Sarah McCrory, director of a promising future gallery at Goldsmith’s, and writer Charlie Porter and his artist fiancé, Richard Dodwell, at the East End’s Marksman Pub before diving into “The Grime and the Glamour,” a film program accompanying the Barbican’s Basquiat show. (Its tagline, “Films about the wild days and nights of New York’s coolest era,” made me feel special.) But the Basquiat show, which focuses on early works that rarely appear in museum surveys of the artist, actually does quite a good job evoking a sense of the downtown Manhattan that birthed him. I liked it a lot.

By Monday, I was starting to feel as if Frieze Week was already anticlimactic. Then Tate Modern literally sent the pendulum swinging the other way with this year’s Hyundai Commission for Turbine Hall: “One Two Three Swing!” by the all-media Danish collective SUPERFLEX.

The public can now lie on a carpet striped with the color of British paper money—the “Zone of Apathy”—and pray that the five-hundred-pound gazing ball swaying above with the rhythms of the planet doesn’t drop on them. “You can actually hear it breathe,” said a gleeful Frances Morris, Tate Modern’s director.

That turned out to be true, sort of, when I previewed it with Tate performance curator Catherine Wood and could hear this shiny wrecking ball of an artwork strain against its anchoring chains. Or were we hearing it gasp at the Switch House wing’s American-style renaming as the Blavatnik Building? (Unusual for here.)

Left: Tate Modern curator of performance art Catherine Wood with Tate Modern director Frances Morris. Right: Artist Geumhyung Jeong.

We felt less anxious on the three-person cork swings that SUPERFLEX made for both the hall and the plaza outside, where they hope people will gather around the clock. (A video of Morris swinging like a Fragonard damsel with Tate Gallery overall director Maria Balshaw was already going viral.) It’s all about community.

“There are enough one-person swings in the world,” observed SUPERFLEX’s Jakob Fenger, explaining at a press conference that more swing parks are in the works for sites all over the city, or as many cities that will take them.

The collective’s three artists have been collaborating since they met in school, and as SUPERFLEXer Rasmus Nielsen said, they don’t even believe in individual expression. They want strangers from alien cultures to get chummy in public space, help forge a less divisive world that, he admitted, seemed to be “living in the last hours of the Titanic.”

In the Age of Trump, all I can say is good luck with that.

Meantime, it was back to individual vision, specifically that of the young Korean performance artist Geumhyung Jeong, whom Obrist was keen to watch. She gave an amusing, totally perverse minidemonstration of massage techniques in the beauty spa she had installed in the Tanks, swinging from an orange leather sling and rubbing her flesh against upright brushes sprouting from a male sex doll.

Left: Artists Michael Craig-Martin and Jeremy Deller. Right: Artists Thomas Ruff and Andreas Gursky.

Over at White Cube Bermondsey, artist Eddie Peake was running his troupe of four dancers through Relinquish, a new piece of looping choreography to what Performa director RoseLee Goldberg cited as “great DJing,” and Francesco Vezzoli was welcoming guests to a dinner on the Astroturf grounding his absolutely credible evocation of de Chirico’s world at Nahmad Projects.

After visiting Opie’s show of truly magnificent artist portraits at Dane, where a few subjects—Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Isaac Julien, Duro Olowu—were seeing themselves through her eyes for the first time, I hopped a ride with Sprüth and her London gallery’s director Andreas Gegner to Kalmár’s first benefit gala as ICA director.

Somehow, we arrived an hour early—unheard of! But so did Craig-Martin and dealer Chantal Crousel, who passed the time till cocktails by donning headphones and intently watching the many videos in “Seth Price: Circa 1981,” installed in the darkened, freshly renewed ground-floor gallery, a sunken living room of a space that previously presented itself more like a barrier than a welcome mat.

Kalmár clearly has wasted no time remaking the ICA, bringing in Richard Birkett, his curator from Artists Space, opening up ceilings to skylights, and installing a new bookstore and a regular bar and restaurant, helmed by Arnold & Henderson, in what used to be a small café.

Left: Artist Tracey Emin and Stefán Kalmar. Right: Artist Pablo Bronstein.

Despite all this, some locals have been grumbling about his program. Not radical enough! Not British enough! Too commercial!

That was because the evening’s honoree was Bryan Ferry, the rude boy turned artisto rock star. (“I love him,” said one guest, “but his politics are rubbish.”)

Some people are never happy. Which is, after all, the way of art. Contrariness is welcome, including by Kalmár, who characterized the ICA in opening remarks as “a site of examination, experimentation and production, giving agency to new forms, progressive ideas, marginalized voices, and opposing opinions.”

Because dinner was served in two separate rooms, opinions divided according to placement. Many people inevitably felt as if they were in the wrong seat—particularly those who weren’t anywhere near the guest of honor. Meanwhile, the lionized, handsome Ferry expressed his radicalism by declining to be photographed, nor did he want to speak or be spoken to. “He’s very shy,” Kalmár said. He was not, however, averse to taking selfies with friends like Peter Doig. And after a toast by Michael Bracewell, who named him the ultimate collagist by recalling Ferry’s stated influences as Smokey Robinson and Marcel Duchamp, the singer rose to say, “I’m not gonna sing,” before thanking, first, Lanvin, the evening’s sponsor, and then Kalmár.

Price sat quietly by his side, happily talking about his show. The artist had seen it only that afternoon, already in place and looking supreme in its mutual beneficial setting. “I told them to think of me as a dead artist,” Price quipped, “and to go ahead to do their thing.”

Now Frieze is here and we’re all doing it. And once again London is swinging.

Linda Yablonsky

Left: Artists Gavin Turk and Joseph Kosuth. Right: Artist Phobe Greenwood and Claire Rouen Books founder Lucy Moore.