Frieze Art Fair
That's Not a Fire Exit, That's Performance Art
PREVIOUSLY: Met Gala madness, couture cosplay, and one mysterious letter in Greek…
Lynda Benglis, Lasso, 2023. Pace Gallery.
“If you can’t afford the art, seduce the artist. Or the dealer. Or ideally, both.”
Darling readers,
Frieze has returned to London (or is it New York? I stopped checking after my fourth mimosa), and the art is as enigmatic as ever—though considerably less so than the guest list. I arrived with Cosima Vögeli von Lichtenwald-Dufour-Königsberg, who insisted on wearing a dress made entirely of shredded Christie’s catalogues. “It’s a commentary on late-stage capitalism,” she said. I thought it was itchy.
The first installation I encountered was a taxidermied badger reading The Economist. I asked the artist what it meant. He said, “It’s about Brexit and beef.” I nodded solemnly and wandered into a mirrored cube that turned out to be someone’s very expensive coat check. Beside it stood a sculpture that looked like a ballistic casing labeled NK Tactical.
Archie Pippinbottom III was spotted loitering near the interactive AI painting booth, claiming to be an “anonymous patron of the digital arts.” Ten minutes later, he tried to flirt with the AI and was politely declined by its algorithm. It’s the most commitment he’s faced since 2014.
Georgina Baselitz reemerged from wherever she disappears between scandals, gliding past security in a trench coat and opera gloves, holding a glass sculpture shaped like a diplomatic immunity card. When I asked if she’d acquired it legally, she whispered, “What is legality if not perception?” before vanishing into the NFT tent.
Maximilian Bouvier was seen parading through the fair with none other than Sergei Volkov, confirming what insiders have suspected for months: Max is now Sergei’s official art dealer—or perhaps he always was, and they've simply decided the charade of secrecy was no longer en vogue. Between the two of them, there was enough brooding intensity to power a small auction house.
Vivienne de Gournay hosted a “private preview” in a curtained-off alcove, which turned out to be an air vent and a lukewarm bottle of Veuve. She declared it “intimate and disruptive.” I declared it a fire hazard.
Inside, my trusted translator Contessa Gigi de Rossi—still glowing from a recent getaway—regretfully confessed she could make no sense of the Greek letter that Georgina had slipped me at the Met Gala. It was, she said, penned in an ancient script—though whether it was authentic or simply gibberish remained unclear.
She did, however, point out something I had utterly overlooked: a set of coordinates written faintly on the back of the parchment.
I gasped. She urged me to consult an authenticator. Without ceremony, I handed the letter off to my long-suffering assistant, Penelope Thorne, who was tasked with delivering it to Sir Percy Blenkinsop for examination... and sworn secrecy.
Meanwhile, Major Phipps mistook a silent film loop for CCTV and tried to place an emergency call to MI6. To be fair, the footage did resemble espionage, or possibly a Gucci campaign. He left with a print of a pigeon and the impression he had “secured national interests.”
By mid-afternoon, Chip Vanderwall hijacked a gallery booth and, without warning, produced a small megaphone, loudly critiquing the art in real time. He declared it “an act of violent mediocrity against civilization,” while quoting obscure French philosophers—Guy Debord, Baudrillard, someone named Thierry—to justify the spectacle.
Security was summoned, but naturally, everyone assumed it was part of the piece. Livestreams lit up; people thought Chip was the artist. The chaos peaked when he accidentally toppled a $3.5 million dollar Jeff Koons hulk sculpture mid-rant, prompting an audible gasp across the fair.
It was, objectively, the most meaningful art performance at Frieze this year—and it wasn’t even on the schedule. Chip: 1, art world: 0.
In sum:
Art: Occasionally moving. Frequently confusing. At least twice edible.
Fashion: Half haute couture, half haunted curtain.
Gossip: Louder than the installation of whispering mannequin heads.
Rating: 8/10 wine-stained VIP lanyards. Subtracting two for emotional damage caused by a 45-minute video loop of someone crying into a fax machine.
I left with a limited-edition print, a collector’s wristband, and mild vertigo from staring too long at a spinning orb labeled “Capitalism.”
Yours in Art & Artifice,
Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Patroness of the Arts & All Things Chic
💋 Artist Watch
Ferdinand Megève’s pièce de résistance, Frostbite Fantasies #7, recently sold for €2.5M at the Brothelby’s ski auction in Switzerland. It features two lovers, a taxidermied stoat, and a bottle of 1992 Krug—frozen mid-pour. He is now being represented by my archnemesis Vivienne de Gournay at her gallery in Paris.
“His art’s all frostbite and foreplay. I prefer my investments to thaw eventually.”
💸 Auction Absurdities
Weeks after its hush-hush export to Qatar, the infamous Habsburg portrait has reappeared—now discreetly slotted into Brothelby’s Paris evening sale under the euphemistic label “Continental School, 18th c., in the manner of.” Sources say the catalogue was hand-delivered to a select group of collectors, including one oil baron, two ex-wives, and a disgraced museum trustee. And while Brothelby’s denies any connection to previous ownership, the provenance trail appears to have been wiped cleaner than a Geneva trust account.
“Funny how a painting can go from ‘missing’ to ‘mint’ with just the right amount of laundering. I do hope the cleaners aren’t getting a commission.”
💔 Exes in the Wild
• An anonymous tipster spotted my ex-fiancé Archie Pippinbottom III looking suspiciously touchy-feely with my assistant Penny in the background of Chip’s livestream. Tucking that little betrayal away for a rainy day.
• Count Luca del Mare was seen canoodling with a woman young enough to say “hashtag.” She mistook a Louise Bourgeois spider for a coat rack.
• Gigi de Rossi’s ex tripped into a mirrored Anish Kapoor sculpture and had to be extracted with museum tongs. The reflection was less forgiving than the fall.
“Exes, like art installations, tend to be more impressive before you’ve seen the entire exhibition.”
🥂 Overheard in the VIP Lounge
• “She said she was an art historian…but she meant Instagram captions.”
(Filed under: Inflated Titles & Filtered Credentials.)
• “The painting’s theme is despair. So chic.”
(Filed under: Miserycore & Market Optimism.)
• “She’s only on the board because she *once* lent Larry a helicopter.”
(Filed under: Boardroom Bedfellows & Aerial Favors.)
👗 What Allegra Wore (and Spilled)
Allegra von Bischoffshausen was spotted at Hauser & Wirth—wearing Loewe and loose morals. She let slip (over a martini, of course) that she and Sergei Volkov once had a fling, which she claims ended when his jealousy reached homicidal levels—something about a threat involving the last man who dared steal his ex-fiancé. And no, she insists, she wasn’t the heiress in the car after the Met Gala… cufflink or not. Then she spilled vodka down her décolletage and triggered a small paparazzi stampede.
“Allegra always did have a talent for mixing prints, lies, and international incidents.”
👀 Sergei Spotting
Sergei Volkov was seen conversing with a shadowy figure in the back corner of the VIP lounge, their conversation hushed, too deliberate to be mere pleasantries. No one knows exactly what was discussed, but a few discreet glances exchanged in the crowd suggested that a deal—or perhaps a secret—was in the works. By the time the fair ended, Sergei had vanished without a trace, as if he’d never been there at all.
“With Sergei, disappearances are never accidents. They’re invitations.”
🖤 Lady F’s Blacklist
That Swiss collector in yellow trousers. He knows what he did.
“Geneva hasn’t looked me in the eye since.”
LADY F REVIEWS
Event: NADA New York
Location: Chelsea
Vibe: High ceilings, low budgets, and suspiciously good cheekbones
Review:
Ah, NADA New York—where baby gallerists and emerging artists go to scream into the void—and sometimes, someone actually buys it. Think MFA energy with a side of oat milk existentialism. I was accosted by a performance artist in a balaclava whispering “late-stage optimism” and handed a zine made of recycled tote bags. Naturally, I took two. Honestly, 7/10 for effort, 10/10 for air conditioning.
Highlight: A gallerina offered me a Negroni in a Solo cup and then tried to sell me a felt sculpture titled “This Is Not a Tax Write-Off.” Tempting, darling. Very tempting.
Stars: ★★★★☆
(Four out of five unpaid interns)
Follow the Scandalous World of Lady Victoria Fenwick-Smythe, 14¾th Marchioness of the Fenwick-Smythe Manor
Society columnist, former debutante, and unhinged socialite art collector with a taste for scandal and sapphires. Click here to meet the cast of Lady F’s social misfits, beautifully dressed disasters, and barely-disguised frenemies.