TeFAF

I’m on the train back to London after quite the gruelling weekend. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but it was a bit of a marathon when it comes to network building and being tres charmant. With 5 hard-won business cards in tow as well as several open doors it feels worthwhile.

Afghan Hound and I took two different sides of the same coin, she went for Decorative Art (DecArts) and I went straight after the Old Masters. And fittingly, the masters of this realm are quite old. The entrance hall to TeFAF this year consisted of two undulating walls with black and white striped columns and backlit panels with white roses stuck onto them from floor to ceiling in between. My only thought was:

Wow, so THIS is money.

At the fair there were champagne bars, posh brassieres, and the rows weren’t numbered and lettered, rather they were named after posh shopping streets throughout the globe, from New Bond Street to Fifth Avenue. Once again:

Wow, so THIS is money.

Once I was wandering the stalls I could feel the gaze of the glitterati on me, not so nice when you’re wandering around in cheap shoes. It was a day where footwear demanded function over form. Though other people may have led you to believe form over function was par for course especially as women teetered perilously on their heels.

Wow, so THIS is money.

In each stand there was a need to create a delicate balance between being approachable but aloof. It’s as much about demeanour as it is about knowledge in the art world. Meeting gallerists with enough clout to come to Maastricht was, for me, nerve-wracking. Everyone is trying to suss out everyone else, and in seconds. I could see the wives looking me over with great distrust. In the corner of my mind, I realised this was prime Sugar Daddy territory and the wives knew it. How sad that they felt threatened at what was clearly a’ Wives-Only-Mistresses-Need-Not-Attend’ event.

And the fair was a visual feast. Everything from ceramics, furniture, modern & contemporary art, art on paper and antiquities were there in addition to the old masters section. Pressing on I toured the booths, looking for the art that interests me most, British painting.

‘Hmm, let’s see, Virgin Mary…no. Bleeding Jesus…nope, not so much. Ut-oh, Dead Jesus, definitely not…Ah-ha! A Whistler and Millais, that’ll do!’

After a few tense moments of being observed I went up to the man doing the most aggressive surveillance and asked about his English works. I failed the test, he did not ask my name, did not give me a card.

Fuck.

Then again, nothing ventured nothing gained. Even though I was already head down, I looked back up and rallied, ‘Do you do any Scottish art?’

‘Why yes, we have a gallery in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh excellent, I’ll be there in a few weeks. May I stop by?’

‘Well, yes, of course. Here have my card, and your name is?’

As I introduced myself, I looked at the card and caught the name of the gallery, XXXXX XXXXXX Galleries.

‘And you are?’

The name of the man and the gallery matched. With my most gracious smile I offered my hand and a sincere, ‘It was nice meeting you and I’m looking forward to visiting both your London gallery and your Edinburgh gallery.’

Hello little platinum card of potential you’ll be going straight into my wallet.