Something’s definitely in the water or something’s in retrograde somewhere and we need to take it to the ongoing Thames Water inquiry. Is everything always this difficult at this time of year and we just all collectively forget as our cares melt away during hot summers? Perhaps it’s all of our ways of reacting to Rafa’s retirement?
I finally emerged from my Suffering in Solace era to chew the cud with old friends and new acquaintances, only to discover that everyone’s going through their own circles of hell and back. I swapped stories of more injured spines, other emergency care visits, office tears, and disenfranchisement with The System. Seems we all need a big group holiday.
Otherwise, a week spent lapping up that Frieze feeling that’s washing over the city. Dipping my mindset back into Main Character territory, I slammed my laptop shut and sauntered over to Mayfair in my Cool Outfit (although not quite the Carrie Bradshaw dressing gown look, I’ll work up to that) to finally see The Artist’s pieces in the flesh. In amongst the art collectors, Glitterboy stood out as a collector of people, as it turned out half the gallery’s capacity was somehow connected to him. An evening spent enthusiastically nodding, and thoughtfully cocking my head to the side as I gave each painting the 10-second countdown, I tried to summon an impossibly artistic tear to my eye to catch the attention of some handsome randomer. I unfortunately only caught the eyes of the bar staff, avoiding their gaze as I reached for my third beer.
A Frieze-week gallery opening is rife for people watching, particularly in Mayfair. An impossibly skinny woman in sky-high heels and bare legs, with actually pretty good lip & cheek fillers and a perfect blow-dry did about forty laps of the singular room. I followed her around (with my eyes calm down) as she spoke to no one but her bored looking friend. Roughly an hour later, she was spotted kissing the cheeks of a burly bloke (query Russian?), who then did another forty laps of the place with his hands very low on the waists of both the women.
I’d gotten bored of watching them by the time the guy came along, because an incredible man had entered the room. A handlebar moustache, a bright green tweed suit, a bowler hat, yellow boots, and a booming laugh that echoed across the space and bounced off the concrete floors. Now that’s a London Art Man.
Out in the Frieze-ing cold air, the entire area was alight with Thursday gallery openings and people spilling out onto the streets, flushed with champagne clutching artist statements and gallerist business cards.
We joined hoards making a pilgrimage to the pub round the corner and set about people watching some more. Splitting G’s and swapping weird sex rave stories, we all went a bit quiet as we spotted a celebrity in our midst. The top hat, the cravat, the riding boots, the cane, the daintily sipped glass of wine, the almost imperceptible use of blusher on the high cheekbones and nose. Oh yes, we were inches away from a TikTok icon.
More fascinating than the dude who parties like it’s 1799 was the company he kept. His posse was exclusively made up of Uber-chic Older Fashion Gays, a leather baseball cap, a floor length, sweeping black trench coat, Off-White and Balenciaga meets jjjjound and A Cold Wall. I repositioned myself so I could ogle them all the better.
Anyway, that was a long-winded way of saying I’m back out in society, re-debutanted if you will (Mayfair period fashion and art scene’s gone to my head). Exhausted from flexing my social muscles, I almost nodded off on the tube home but snapped my head up in time to catch Tall Blonde Friend’s own re-deb into art soc - her tube-side billboard shining as a swirling beacon amidst the cheesy musical posters. See if you can spot it at Pimlico and get on my level of artistic prowess.