Like a casino, with no natural light or sense of time and about the same odds of beating the house, so goes another iteration of the Basel Art Fair, this time in Miami. Fittingly, gaming impresario Steve Wynn made the rounds towed by a towering blonde, presumably as much for his eyesight issues. But perhaps a high-end trading floor is a better analogy, peopled by the Prada clad rich, famous, infamous and in between, rather than stock exchange jobbers in their lab coats. With more art coursing through the system than ever before, even still at these diminished volumes, it’s a wonder so much content can be absorbed into the system fair after fair, exhibit after exhibit. And so it goes.
Some early drama unfolded an hour before the exclusive VIP preview when tricky financer cum tricky art dealer Asher Edelman effectuated a seizure of works by uniformed marshals to satisfy an outstanding judgment against another gallery. The works confiscated far exceeded the dispute value but all is fair game in the wild world of the art market, the last unregulated bastion of billion dollar business. Not that anyone’s hands were probably particularly clean in this instance, but what an unnecessarily heavy-handed (very) public show of force.
The world of art fairs wasn’t always such a moneyed, glamorous arena to see and be seen in, they are known as trade shows after all. I can even remember the time before nine-figure painting deals and prior to the evolution of Sylvester Stallone’s mature painting style, examples of which were well represented at the fair. There was John McEnroe dropping big dollars on works, Val Kilmer, as noted for his weight as his pink cowboy hat, Naomi and the usual gaggles of Steve Cohen hedge fund cronies. But unlike the Swiss version of the fair, Miami is as much (if not more) about the plethora of parties than high-end art transactions. Sitting with a bunch of collectors before the official opening we compared the hierarchy of admission times on our VIP cards (earlier the better) and invites to parties–a practice known as status Miami style. I am not above subscribing to the self-invite. But compared to the last year, Miami 09 was a rousing success as art proved to be a credible place to park money in light of the uncertainties still pervading worldwide financial markets. Incredibly, Stallone sold more than one of his expressionistic abortions (for $50,000 and up) as he triumphantly made his way around the fair in oversized black sunglasses; an ideal means to appreciate the works of his peers. God bless him though, it’s no easy feat to match Damien Hirst’s painting prowess.
The first rule of law in the art world is never to believe the word of the gallery when it comes to reflecting upon levels of business, especially at a fair and more so to the press. However, the one empirical barometer of sales is the physical turnover on the walls when art is replaced during a fair. In this case, after hour upon hour of rounds, like a single person at a nightclub, I witnessed such biggies as a $6m 1960’s Warhol being removed at Gagosian. And this was far from an isolated case—moving something from one wall to another only counts as indecision. The upside to visiting as a guest as opposed to participating is that aside from hotel rates all else: booze, food and transport, are free. Which is no inconsequential amount. Why can’t London be like that upon my return?
What I never understood was what a truly competitive machismo sport art collecting is. Inevitably at the fair, reference is made to the male organ in art and the conversations surrounding it, especially with the exploits of Tiger and his tales circulating madly. When I thought I recognized someone in the bathroom who was engaged with both hands on two phones, I realized I didn’t know him but couldn’t help noticing he was packing something that might have been his own personal cell phone tower dangling from below. And it dawned on me that much of the swagger of the mostly male hoard of collectors is akin to feral animals swinging their assets around in an effort to prove who has the largest, most important…collection. It’s no longer the family jewels that count.
Even I was engaged in a shoot out when I attempted to buy a painting on behalf of a client. As I negotiated via text message with the proprietor of the gallery to settle on a satisfactory purchase price, a friend informed me that someone was in the booth simultaneously trying to wrestle it away from me. Normally when a dealer states further interest in the very work you are after it gives rise to nothing more than disbelief, but in this case it was perfectly so. Off I scurried to the scene, which with 260+ galleries unsystematically installed throughout endless halls of a massive convention center, is no easy feat. An acquaintance sat in one corner of the both, his back turned to me, unaware he was in midst of a chess battle with an unknown-known opponent. As a famous artist said to me ages ago when we were in a minor spate (hard to believe): “the world is small and the art world is miniscule”. Actually the art world today is worlds bigger than it was then, but the adage still holds true. Though my bid was more than 10% less the collector wanted a 24-hour holding period to make a determination; I was willing to pull the trigger then and there. Notes were exchanged out of the sightline of the seated client illustrating past auction history, a must with secondary market goods. Based on my relationship with the dealer and willingness to commit, I ended up with the work. Welcome to the land of anything goes.
Kenny Schachter