It’s well over a year since we moved to London and I still haven’t attained the peripheral vision necessary to navigate the width-restricting elevated curbs on the Hammersmith Bridge on the school run every morning. Even my tiny Mini cannot cope with the hurdles encountered on a daily basis as I career from side to side, or worse, from side to side and back again. Either way it doesn’t bode well for long-term tyre usage, nice rims or my current adventures.
Speaking of obstacles, during my house search in 2003 I phoned the Frieze people to say hello after making their acquaintance during a curated show in the mid-1990s, to inform them of my impending move to the UK, the nature of my projects and my hope in attending the fair as more than a viewer. The response was, rather ominously, ‘Even if you are rejected, we can list your opening.’
There’s nothing like a self-fulfilling prophecy to weigh down the odds. Two years on and I only gained admittance to the opening by nicking (it’s been over a year, and Madonna speaks like that) the invitation out of the mail addressed to the former tenant of my house.
It’s the capriciousness of the process that frustrates most – well, frustrates me, anyway. I suppose my chances were not helped by comments made on these pages in a prior diary instalment about the fickleness of the organisers when drawing up the invitation list for last year’s opening night party. Galleries are chosen for inclusion in the international fairs by a small handful of galleries that judge one event after another, and amount to a cluster of worms under a rock. Imagine the cliques, snickering after denying admittance to gallery after gallery. Having been on a selection committee or two for various exhibitions, I have indulged in such tastelessness myself, truth be told.
I’ve opened a gallery space on Britannia Street while the planning application for the Zaha Hadid building for Hoxton Square continues. On the opening night there was much support from my neighbours, Gagosian Gallery, in the form of attendance by the international staff and even flowers. I felt like Sally Fields when she gave her acceptance speech after winning an Oscar in 1985 – they like me!, although a few openings later the idea of my posting kids in front of their entrance to direct gallery-goers to my nascent space across the street started to wear thin.
Then came Basel Miami 04. I was asked by the fair to come up with an architectural concept with Vito Acconci, with whom I have collaborated in the past, to create an intervention that would result in a kind of tunnel, within a passageway that had never before been used. Acconci’s contribution was to reconfigure the booth designs that we had worked on for the Armory in New York and a previous Basel Miami.
The result was a series of interlocking igloo shapes formed out of PVC tubes – a superstructure upon which to install art. The final element of the structure extended out in such a manner as to block nearly 85 percent of the passageway from one side of the fair to the other. Word quickly spread among dealers during the installation that I was intentionally trying to disrupt the event, while in reality I was on the phone with the studio to explain why we needed to open the aperture more, so as not to disrupt ingress or egress. Self-sabotaging I am not.
You see the makings of a pattern. I was informed this year that I would not be invited back for the 2005 edition of Art Basel Miami. When I asked why, after such a wondrous contribution from Vito last year and when there is so little to distinguish the goings-on from one booth to another, I was told my art wasn’t up to snuff. Call it the strong arm of the Miami Beach Art Police. When I pressed on, pointing out the quality of the renowned artists I exhibited, such as Karen Kilimnik, Elizabeth Peyton, Ed Ruscha, Vito etc, I was told that Acconci’s design was not what was envisioned from computer renderings prior to its implementation.
Me, I could understand them not liking, but my art? Or Vito’s booth? The show will go on without me, and the only thing I will miss more than the practically effortless sales are the parties.
I find another building in King’s Cross, two blocks from my gallery, as my lease runs out in two and a half years. This is one of the rare times I venture out due to my pathological fear of getting lost coupled with my horrendous sense of direction. Even my sat nav system can’t seem to get it right. In any event, wish I had remained home as I end up finding a breed worse then real estate agents. After we have come to an agreement of terms to purchase the former union clubhouse, I experience a modern-day phenomenon unique to the bloated property market here – I am gazumped! That’s when you shake on a deal, call your lawyers, only to have the rug pulled out by profiteering landowners – or worse, a French collector.
I guess as a way of dealing with these daily art-world frustrations, I have become more involved with cars – collecting them and travelling to circuits in the UK and elsewhere in Europe to drive all out. Before my trips to the track I am queasy at the thought that things won’t turn out well, a sensation only overcome by driving at breakneck speed. I have even successfully campaigned for my competition licence at Brands Hatch; though equipped with the personalised helmet and fireproof coveralls, I don’t think I could actually stomach an event. I’m also working on a car/design magazine that will launch in the spring and have commissioned Hadid to design a car that we will build into a functioning prototype.
And then there was The Armory. Despite three years of participation, but now weary of the selection process, I looked into the make-up of the committee and all was instantly clear: despite having a special relationship with two of the founding members of the fair, I would be, and ultimately was, dropped. Between the members and me there was: 1. An affair 15 years ago that didn’t end well; 2. A dispute from a transaction after being charged 50 percent of the purchase price for shipping; 3. A near fistfight at a boozed-up event at Basel last year; 4. The best friend of the preceding three.
Then there was this email sent by a NYC gallery which is working with many of the emerging artists I used to represent: ‘I thought I might get your thoughts on how to get the Armory show committee to let us into their fair. Currently we are on a waiting list. Several galleries already in the fair are looking to showcase our artists … Many on the committee will be at the Frieze Fair. I’ve written them. Maybe you know these people and can put a word in for us… We could use the $.’
While travelling to one of the many fairs I actually did participate in over the past year, my wife and kids rented bikes in Battersea Park on a Sunday afternoon. When my 5-year-old got ahead a bit he was abruptly and violently pushed from his bike by a 9-year-old girl and robbed of it. For a week he was badly shaken. Now we’ve been mugged as a family – welcome to Britain. London is like New York in the 1970s when politics was only a glimmer in Giuliani’s eyes. Most everyone I know here has been robbed, at least once.
But my kids always seem to extract the last laugh in the rough and tumble world here. In a Rondinone installation at Frieze that consisted of a snow machine raining white paper flakes in a perfect mound on the floor, one of my little monsters approached and proceeded to lie prone atop the pile like a dying cowboy in a spaghetti western. By coincidence, it was a gallery that served on two out of three of the selection committees referred to above.
