Frieze is well underway. If you weren’t lucky enough to be there on day one, that’s ok. Lydia Eliza Trail’s diary will take you through the day from a balanced breakfast to a raucous after party
8 am
I actually wake up at around 8:30. I pretend to read my copy of Walter Benjamin’s “Illuminations” before closing my eyes and manifesting for the day ahead. Next, I go to look in the mirror and say, “It’s Frieze time, it’s go time”, three times. If I could be an emoji, it would be:
9.30 am
Porridge for breakfast with some flax seeds I found in the cupboard, which makes me feel like a lifestyle nutritionist. I’m freaking out about what to wear, so I’ve asked my mum if I should go for a more demure-artsy-professional vibe or an edgy-artsy-non-professional vibe. She says just not to look too slutty. In the end, Lucila Safdie lent me a jacket, and I didn’t need to think too hard about anything. I was free to “focus on the art”.
Listening to “Naked in Manhattan” on the Piccadilly line, I’m anticipatory. In my limited experience, I have found that at Frieze, people will say two things to you:
“I’m anxious.”
Or
“It’s really f*cking hot in this tent”
Sometimes, people will tell you about what art they’ve seen. As I found this year at Frieze VIP, they will say where they last saw FKA twigs. “She’s by Rose Easton!” or “She’s next to the group of inflatable penguins swaying gently in the wind!”. It’s akin to PokemonGo – but with celebrities.
11.30ish
Walking up to the park is best because you start differentiating Frieze London goers from people with places to be at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday. I nearly get run over trying to cross the road to Regent’s Park, where I see The Art Newspaper is getting people to stand and flog their merch (issues). Print isn’t dead!
My slot isn’t until 2 p.m., so I am milling around outside, filming content for the magazine before going in. It’s a peculiar concept: a vast tent containing hundreds of people and priceless art. In my mind palace, Frieze London is like the contemporary art boot camp that lays the foundation for the breathtaking opulence of Frieze Masters. Think this tent’s art, luxury, and palpable wealth are amazing? Wait till you see the other.
The other thing I noticed before going in was how many hats people wore. There must be some unwritten Frieze small-print rule where, if you are a successful, aloof art person over the age of 35 you HAVE to have a wide-brimmed hat. You’re not allowed to buy art if you dont have a hat.
2 pm
Hatless but not without a sense of determination, I am standing before the gates to another realm (Frieze). A person wearing a floor-length neon-green cape enters before me, contributing to the overall air of irreality.
Of course, I beeline for Frieze Focus. London’s young gallery scene, of which you have to have an esoteric name to be a member, is killing it at Frieze this year. All credits to Stone Island for providing a 30% bonus from the Frieze Fee to these galleries. It’s also worth mentioning that each year the brand collaborates with an artist from the focus section, and this year, Nat Faulkner from Brunette Coleman designed the staff t- shirts at the fair.
Rose Easton presents in an overwhelmingly chic (David lynch-esque) setting with new works by Eva Gold. She killed two birds with this booth by being both glamorous and comfortable. Somewhere in the ether there is a Getty image of Benedict Cumberbatch on said sofa.
Obviously, Michael Werner’s booth is spectacular. Highlights include two works by Raphaela Simon, Anpassung (Adjustment) and Brand (Fire) both from 2022. Nina Davies (@influential_bro) at Seventeen Gallery is also a force to be reckoned with. Her installation Error Gap includes a tracking unit, smartphone, video element, and wax cast. It’s one of those works that will make people go, “Is this art?” and for that reason, it’s really good. Also, I’m super in favour of social media allusions in installation work. It’s our every day; why ignore it?
After this I also saw several people not wearing shoes which was very free love and very hippy ish. I presume these people were from Deutsche bank.
2.30pm
I’m at the Jikoni lunch hosted by Jefferson Hack and Eva Langret to celebrate London’s best and brightest. There are some seriously titanic figures in attendance; Bianca Jagger, Wolfgang Tillmans, Ekow Eshun, Afua Hirsch, Harris Reed, Honey Dijon, Yinka Shonibare, and JulianKnxx to name a few.
It was a well curated mix of young artists, dazzling creatives, industry titans and musicians. A beautiful representation of our city. And definitely the largest number of famous people that I’ve ever seen in that amount of square feet (two tube elevators, roughly).
I also walked into the back of Dean Kissick and forgot to say sorry. Seeing Konrad Kay and Mickey Down (writers of Industry) was also a major highlight. I wanted to ask them if they like the descriptor “Tory skins” for their show, and if they know anything about stocks.
I am losing my VIP lunch virginity. Lawrence Lek, Lionheart, Lady Shaka, Laurie Barron Van Jenken and I are hiding at the back. Whenever anyone comes up, they say, “I’m here to hide”, and we say, “yes, the back is safe”. A surreal Getty image photo has been taken; see below.
3.45 pm
Next, Ginny on Frederick- Charlotte Edey is just so magical. Something about artists using domestic interiors just really rubs me the right way. Ask me about it anytime. Don’t even get me started on frames – there are just not enough of them! So thank you, Charlotte, for bringing back frames.
On my way to the smoking area – the best section (less hot) – my. friend Theo sends me this photo*. This man’s vibe is probably a pretty accurate portrayal of your average frieze-goer. It’s either this guy or full-body paint and Rick Owens’ geobaskets. He also looks like a Charles Ray sculpture.
People get kind of frenzied around Gails, so I keep a wide berth and head straight to the Illy coffee stand. I meet Belinda, the nutritionist, who has only worn white for the past five years. She doesn’t give her number away, but she makes sure I leave with a coffee and her driver’s number, whom I am to contact if I need nutritional advice.
5pm
I’m leaving because it’s SO HOT, and I can’t feel my feet. I don’t wear anything below three inches, which means if I smile at you, I am smiling through the pain. I have seen a Jordan Wolfson piece that made me feel provoked (which I am sure was the intention); Juliana Huxtable’s zoomorphic prints at Project Native Informant, and finally, a soft sculpture by Sarah Lucas wearing pleasers. The way she’s draped over that chair is so beautiful, so sad. I’d like to get drunk with her.
7pm
Elephant party at the Edition. I change outfits. I have consumed:
a pint of Asahi
a frube-like hangover-preventing substance that my friend bought me from Korea (thanks Kimi)
some popcorn
a spicy margarita
8.30pm
At the Stone Island dinner, we listened to a beautiful speech about Frieze Focus delivered by the seminal Eva Langret and another speech about “Stoney” culture, which made me laugh. In my head Stone Island is fondly remembered from when boys at my school would buy the patches for 50 quid. Stone Island’s support means that emerging artists can show their work next to the most established galleries in the world. It’s a special collaboration that makes me think that the boys I grew up with were onto something with their unrelenting obsession with the brand.
The lobster soup was delicious, but I was too nervous to eat it, so I spoke to Ewan Spencer about skins instead. Did you know it was not filmed in Bristol, but in Watford?
10pm
Ginny-Rose-something party queue. It’s so tense in the queue, and the air is electric. Mayfair says you can’t have more than 200 people in a room, so we are getting let in individually. This isn’t even the main queue; it’s the inside queue. Who would win in a fight: a seriously overwhelmed PR girl or a gallerina denied entry? My money is on the gallerina; I hear they fight dirty.
11-12.30am
Inside, as expected, there is a smoking area, bar, and dancefloor (no one is dancing), and this weird metal cage we found outside is just a tray loader. Art people are the best kind of people when they’re drunk, and boy, were they drunk!
12.30am
Slow-moving, bruised. I recall having a cigarette and talking about journalism loudly. I had a moment of respite in the loo where I stared at a wall and thought about how provoked I was by that Jordan Wolfson sculpture.
1am
Frieze is over. It’s the end. I am going home. As I get an Uber home, I tell the driver my take-home for the day over the sound of magic fm. “Maybe Frieze isn’t about networking, art, or getting gails,” I say. “Maybe, maybe, it’s about the friends we made along the way.”
Words by Lydia Eliza Trail
