It’s been a busy month for art fairgoers. And if, like us, you have had moments of wondering how the experience of an art fair could get any more intense- Oda Iselin Sønderland has just the fix: psychedelic mushrooms, of course. Below is Oda’s account of a day at Frieze while tripping. The below is a mix of fiction and reality. As Oda says, “let’s call it magical realism.”
A grey heron without a head is resting on one leg at the pillar of a bridge in Regent’s Park. The sky is cloudy but the light is clear, and I’m on my way to the Frieze art fair in London. I do a google search on the symbolic meaning of grey herons.
“Associated with patience, grace and wisdom.”
I’ve always found the heron to stand out in the pool of birds you find in London parks, contemplative and calm, never making the first move. I open up my little tin box embellished with the engraving of a flower and a coral stone as its pistil. I pick out the little pieces with the taste of dirt and lay them on my tongue, quickly chew and swallow before I make a foul grimace.
As I get closer, a massive white tent comes to sight through the fiery autumn leaves. An art advisor rests on an expressive dead tree taking on the character of an eight legged insect dying in a spasm. Friendly but serious guards scan my ticket by the entrance, and the hum of several hundred collectors, advisors, directors, curators, artists and dealers grow stronger. A woman with a kind smile hands me a map of the fair, and after a quick look I take a turn to my left. While peeking around in one of the booths, I observe a conversation between a visitor and a dealer. I think she is confusing him with a question, and he looks at her almost in disbelief. After her third attempt to explain that she is asking about the invisible door at the end of the hall, he gives in and replies.
“Ah! I’m not sure madame, that’s out of my expertise.”
Tiny little men pull the strings of his two plump cheeks up to a smile, slightly off timed and with his eyes still open wide. My two feet in my favorite black leather shoes take me to another booth, showing an artist who works with real magic. A piece on the wall take on the shape of a shirt, with the fabric stretched out on round metal bars. I stretch both my arms out and feel my skin pulled over my chest. A breathing creature in a formalized posture. I feel my flesh and tissue beginning to tingle, all the voices I’ve been ignoring with my thoughts are becoming intrusive.
“It’s very fun!”
“It’s very big!
Time to pee. With my poor but usable navigation skills I eventually find my way to the bathroom stalls. The floor inside of the festival toilets is made of wood and the walls are painted creamy beige. I stay for a little while in this comfortable little room and take out a newspaper on art. I read about how blue chip galleries co-represent emerging artists with other galleries in order to stay relevant and survive this current economic change. Change can bring upon new structures, new rules. There will always be change.
Coming out of the stalls, the room is filled with floating eyes. All of them are calm but alert, piercing through the room in every direction. I manage to glance through them until I lock eyes with one pair. A face takes shape and with it a body, it’s a man in a fine blue suit, and he is coming towards me.
“I have to introduce you! Oh, they are just wonderful, they will absolutely adore you…”
His insistence slings little tendrils around my ankle, and without a question I’m following his lead. As we walk down the aisle, a tall man with a rounded black top hat and golden lipstick utter these words with a voice so low that I could barely pick up that it was meant for me.
“Don’t follow that guy”
“Don’t follow that guy”
I gulp and take a quick turn to the right before he can see me heading off. I walk further down, turn to my left, then to my right, and left again, until I make a labyrinth between me and him. My pounding heart and heavy breath slowly come at ease, and another sound appears to me. Silver flowers painted with blue and purple enamel whisper to me, I cannot hear them well so I lean in closer. With my ear nearly pressed against the trumpet shaped opening, they hiss;
“Take look under the sssssskin”
“Take look under the sssssskin”
With my touch I follow their stem, down to their branch and the carpet they grow from. My finger is running across the molding of the wall, towards the edge. A little flick of wallpaper is sticking out, I grab it and carefully pull it off. The skeletal structure of the tent is revealed, strong metal bars screwed together. The other side of the white paper is covered in red veins pumping blood, one sprouting out to touch my hand. I look behind me to see if I’m discovered. A good few meters from me is a famous singer with her friends in expensive and grungy, futuristic clothing. She looks at me, then leans in to whisper to her friend. The waves of her soft, harmonic voice hits the snail in my ear.
“The machine with a skin
skeleton of metal bars
its structure is square
Rectangles, lines, white walls crystal clear
It lives and it moves in roots that wander
where they went and where they’re off to
Breathing its magical air”
A loud wobble bass noise rings in my head, and I run off with my hands covering my ears. When silence finally finds me, I find myself in front of a golden sphere locked inside a wooden and glass display. A soul captured inside tells me to go find the back room. I look at the sphere in disbelief. The loud wobble bass rings again, this time uttering the words;
“The invisible door at the end of the hall.”
With my back turned from the sphere, I can see all the way down to the end of the aisle. Two white curtains hide the invisible door. I rush my way down passing all the floating eyes, in my side view I see the insisting man introducing an artist. My feet won’t stop until I’ve pulled the curtains to the side, and there it is, a door with a little black sign that says “The Back Room.” I wrestle the handle, but it won’t budge.
“Hello? Who’s in there?” I ask
A weak and raspy voice responds:
“They put me here…They put me here years ago… Oh, I just… I couldn’t sell… The prices…No one could match those incredible prices…Ooooh…Left me here to an eternal rot…”
My intestines tore my stomach by the sound of her broken spirit. I have to let her out of there, I have to find the key. I have to find that man. I rush back to where I saw him last, the artist was now gone, and he was again alone scanning the room.
“Sir, please, will you let me introduce you… I have to insist.”
I speak with a trembling but convincing voice. I grab his arm and drag him along. Among the eyes I see another pair scanning the room, one in the same fine suit as his. I introduce them, appraising their incredible importance and wonderful contributions. Caught in the seduction of each other I take the opportunity to pull the key out of his back pocket and swiftly slip away without a notice. Behind the white curtains is the same door to the same back room. The key fits perfectly and with a twist to the side the door is unlocked.
Out of the opening the heron’s head rolls across the floor and hits the tip of my feet. I crouch down and pick the head up to slide her down into my purse. Upon leaving the fair I wander past the no longer floating eyes, still fiery, yellow leaves and the now lonely, expressive dead tree.
I am finally back at the pillar where the heron was resting, only to find her gone, and the head along with it.
Words by Oda Iselin Sønderland
