As a freelance journalist, I spend far too much time ensconced in my festering paper mountain of an office, tapping away on subjects as vital to the world as the size 00 ‘debate’ and the imminent reunion of The Police. It’s always nice to get out, so a visit to the opening of ArtFutures was very welcome. An annual show curated by the fantastic Contemporary Art Society, and staged at Bloomberg, ArtFutures is packed full of buy-me-now pieces by artists who are poised to be something big. The idea is that the work displayed is affordable and portable, so you can snap it up and whisk it away to show to your accountant. ArtFutures is a big art shop. Early-evening Wednesday, there was a vast and dazzling selection of work. And a vast (the men) and dazzling (their wives) selection of buyers. Art attracts such cash! Much more so than fashion, and far more than pop music. The Brit Awards are populated by corporate lawyers and money-men (it’s almost impossible to find your mates, your eyes are so blinded by hi-gleam bald pates); yet they are but sad pauper mice compared to the big gold-plated gorillas of the art world.
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I once went to a party held in a west London townhouse in honour of Gillian Wearing. The place was so swanky I thought it was a restaurant. When we reached the swimming pool in the basement, the owner blithely informed me that she’d told her husband that the only way she’d consider a move to London from Hong Kong was if they had an ensuite pool. ‘I couldn’t survive in the city without it,’ she announced, and we all made murmuring noises as though we quite understood, and hadn’t ever dismissed a £70-a-month gym membership as far too pricey.
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