LA MAISON DU DÉLICE
PAUL HAWORTH
USA 2
Where am I? Seoul? LA? Dubai? The white surroundings of this great windowless hangar betray no sense of place. Let me check my phone: I am in Miami and the time is 11.04am.
Get-in day at Miami Art Basel 2.
Hundreds of galleries busy filling the sacred vessel that is a convention centre.
Love a convention centre. From the outside they are always nondescript and always situated in nondescript parts of cities: boring places without distraction or character. There can be nothing to draw attention from what happens within.
A convention centre is a vessel. Its only obligation is to be huge and empty. The way they fill themselves in any image - art, comics, sports, yachts - a new world invented each time: a blast of activity, money-making, fan worship, before being emptied, scrubbed clean, and made ready to do it all over again.
I’m pleased to arrive on get-in day. There’s a chaos and rush at this time that I buzz off. A gallery install can take weeks - here, there are hours.
I roll along the aisles, feeling centred, at ease, and completely present. We all have places where we are our best selves - a climbing wall, a boozer, a gig, high seas, meditating, between the sheets - an art fair is mine. The Miami Convention Center is impeccable and I could float along its straight lines forever.
(Those wondering what I’m wearing: a guayabera shirt with vivid purple-orange pattern-print. There will be no demure tonal dressing in Miami: I must stand out. These summer shirts with their distinctive alforza pleats are very spacious - ideal for the Sunshine State’s sultry climate - and are often made out of dazzling fabrics. I stopped off on the way from the airport at Ramon Puig’s, my favourite Florida tailor, to buy a handful of off-the-rack guayaberas.)
I see paintings go up, videos projected, I see sculptures unboxed, and I think to myself, what a wonderful Artworld.
The best of the best are here. Truly it is a Galeria Greatest Hits ensemble. Could there be a finer way to consume art? What could be easier than to glide by booth after booth, connecting with colleagues, discovering new artists, witnessing trends in real time?
Perfection.
Speculative thought: an endgame for Artworld could be to house every gallery under one roof - storage and exhibition space combined - creating one giant kunsthall. As soon as this dreamy concept enters my head, I realise I’m describing the Freerland National Gallery.
Could I inaugurate an art fair in Freerland - our own Armory Show - participation fee: the donation of a work to the collection? This is why I live for fairs - they really get the ideas popping - and The Secret 101 is to visualise living out the future you want for yourself.
I cheer aloud as I roll past one booth after another of fabulosity. I love art fairs!
On Art Fairs
For years, these were sleepy, desultory affairs. They were hosted by cities such as Salzburg and Cologne and carried a whiff of bland municipality. In the Aughts there came an evolution. Frieze heralded this change and stalwarts, such as Art Basel and the Armory Show, grew - quickly - into something very different and spectacularly bigger.
Next came the offshoots and sequels. Such as this one: Art Basel Miami 2, a summer spin-off of the December original, itself a franchise of the Swiss parent.
Terms to describe the new epoch: unregulated, intense, exposed, luxury, elite, exhausting.
A fair week looks a little something like:
Day 1-2 – Get In and Install
Day 3 – Private Pre-Private View (am), Pre-Private View (pm)
Day 4 – Private View
Day 5-7 – Public.
Come Day 7, a fair is a very gruesome and harried affair. Walls empty as collectors simply take their purchases home with them and sleep-deprived gallerists can’t be arsed to hang new stock. Instead, they crumple behind desks piled with coffee cups and protein boxes, desperate for it to be over so they can sleep/see sunlight again.
But the burnout is worth it - for the fair has become star attraction. It is where artists want to show because it is where they will be seen - the footfall of a single hour at a fair is greater than most galleries achieve during a three-week run of an exhibition - and it is where galleries show their best work. Nothing less than the A-team on their AA-game selling AAA-list artists who supply AAAA-works. Because if they don’t sell at the fair, that’s a wrap - the stakes are that high.
Booths are hired by the square millimetre. You think I’m kidding? Everything in a convention centre is monetised: each light, chair, table, and powerpoint has a price tag. Small galleries are, therefore, penalised. Not wishing to show in a shoebox, they are encouraged to make investments they may well not sustain.
Every fair is do or die. In this arena, it is survival of the fittest.
We are gladiators, this is our Olympics.
*
I move down the central aisle, in search of the V+V booth. Booth is misnomer: V+V always reserve the largest square floorspace, and it is always in the middle of the centre: smack bang at the heart of the matter.
Our exhibition is being handled by Doctor Fergus Mac Donnell. He’ll have just got back from the Magic Circle - tense knot in stomach - but I can’t think about that. I won’t. If I think about that man in the Black Forest with my peers I’ll take my eye of the prize. The prize being Sullivan Leitch. And besides...to get the prize, I need a favour.
Usually I am excited to see a V+V booth. But with Fergus at the helm? I just know it’s going to be removed from my mood board.
A classic Patric Farmer fair show: Robert Mapplethorpe curated by Elton John. Classic Fergus Mac Donnell: something to do with Land Art.
In this instance, I know he is showing Walter De Maria. Don’t get me wrong, I like Walter De Maria. He’s got a lot going for him: his work is big and he is dead - Walter De Maria ticks my $$$ boxes - but this is Miami, baby! One of the world’s great party towns. Miami in the summertime - people are wanting an art that matches what’s out there, on the beach and in the club. Who wants to look at rows of pieces of metal that demand the viewer to think?
Mac Donnell acquired the rights to the estate of Walter De Maria earlier in the year. Smart move. This artist was conceptual to the point that instructions were laid out for works to be manufactured posthumously. Furthermore, De Maria is a prestige artist. The critics, historians, academics ADULATE him. As is so often the case, minimal art begets maximal word count: De Maria easily fills hefty monographs that in turn are used to inspire sales. Publications, in and of themselves, lose money (no one ever makes a penny off printed matter) but books have other powers: they lend legitimacy, they inspire confidence. To nudge a sale, often all it takes is the sight of a fat publication - this is the reason galleries produce catalogues.
What I’m admitting...reluctantly and against my better judgement...Fergus Mac Donnell...is...good...at his job.
There, I said it!
He’s good at his job. He’s just not good at my job.
“Fergus, hello,” I say as I enter our space. There are crates, extension cables, and tools strewn over the floor. Rolls of bubble wrap abound. Alongside dozens of technicians, Fergus has his sleeves rolled up, power drill in hand.
“Patric?”
When he spots me, he pulls his safety goggles up and they bunch his hair into a luscious pile. His hair is everything. Natural. Easy. The thickness, the shine, buttery black curls of glossy natural locks. It doesn’t look like he’s trying - this isn’t a guy using a ton of product or checking himself in the mirror every five minutes or getting a weekly trim. This is someone who has been blessed by effortless hair and I hate him for having everything I admire, desire, aspire and require of the thinning, ageing strands atop my scalp.
“This is a surprise. And I see you’re driving a mobility scooter.”
I faced a choice upon arrival in Florida: wheelchair or crutches. Appearance is everything in negotiating. One has to carry oneself with authority. A wheelchair could project an air of distinguished eminence (picture Sir Patrick Stewart as Professor Xavier). Crutches, however, have something of the teenage-son-skateboarding-accident about them. As the plane landed at Miami International Airport, an improved answer came: state-of-the-art mobility scooters are standard issue at convention centres. These solo cars have authority and grace - it’s a foolproof solution.
“Climbing accident.”
“Nothing too serious I hope.”
“Sprain.”
“I trust you have an exercise band?”
“Yes,” I fib.
“It’s so crucial to get flexibility back after a sprain. Mind how you go. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have an outreach opportunity.”
“Hospitality?”
“Of a kind.”
“We have a room reserved at NAOE every night, the bubbly is waiting to be chilled.” He points to boxes of Dom Perignon. (I would have chosen Armand De Brignac.) “I think we’re covered.”
“Can we speak privately?”
Eye roll: “Make it quick.”
We enter the lounge. For V+V, the floor space at any fair must accommodate such a sanctum sanctorum, to close deals, hold private viewings, imbibe pick-me-ups. I run my finger across a glass-top table: “Most important object in an art fair.”
Fergus doesn’t laugh.
“I want to organise a concert for fair week.”
“A concert, eh? Something classical? Tilson Thomas and the New World Symphony, perchance? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Dead & Company.”
“I have no idea who that is, Patric.”
“It’s the Grateful Dead, augmented by John Mayer.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Grateful Dead or John Mayer?”
“These are just names. I don’t know what you’re talking about and, honestly, I don’t care. I’m not a disc jockey. So thanks, but I think we’re all set.”
“We’re all set in here. Walter De Maria, perfection.”
“I wouldn’t have thought De Maria was your cup of tea.”
“Are you kidding? De Maria is ideal. Ideal for in the fair. But what about outside? After hours? Where the real deals are done. That’s where we need to be at our best, which means glamour and edge. Jouie de vivre.”
“Ah, jouie de vivre, this must be serious.”
“Don’t think I haven’t been watching this fair. There is a surfeit of exclusive nights and hot tickets.”
“A surfeit, you say?”
“Name one hot ticket.”
“Anton Kern is hosting a Wilhelm Sasnal concert.”
“That is the opposite of hot. It’s a very cold, very damp ticket.”
“Okay, Patric. Tell me something. What has this got to do with me?”
“I want V+V to support it.”
“You mean bankroll it?”
“I do.”
“Use your own budget.”
“I would but...Diplo.”
“Who?”
“I booked Diplo to DJ at Frieze Week.”
“What happened to the other fellow?”
“Mark Ronson is great, but I needed something extra and that is Diplo.”
“Again, these are just names.”
“Then let’s talk numbers. One Diplo costs more than the six members of Dead & Company combined. Talk about a bargain. What I am proposing is cheap as chips. And this isn’t just about money or my vanity. The concert is for charity.”
“Dare I ask?”
“The wetlands. The environment. Our earth. You and I may have our differences but we can agree there is no Planet B.”
“How many flights have you taken this week?”
“Then you know this is a cause close to my heart. The Everglades are the lungs of Florida, and the kidneys.”
He pulls an intensely pained expression.
“I haven’t time for this. I’ve work to do and, frankly, I have no interest in getting involved in your schemes. I’m a curator, not a rock promoter.”
There you have it - I’m a curator - he still thinks of himself as an academic, and not a rock promoter is simply code for ‘not a dealer’.
“I really believe this edition of the fair lacks a centrepiece, a must-have invite, and that is an opportunity for us to put our mark on Miami.”
“Like you put a mark on the fields of Meerboorhoeklaan?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t mention that as I’m suffering PTSD.”
“Potentially Terminal Sanity Decline?”
I cast my eyes down, forlorn. This elicits from Fergus a sigh...of resignation? “How much does this rock concert cost?”
“One million dollars.”
“What?”
“US dollars.”
His eyes widen.
“All in.”
A scoff-laughed, “Goodbye, Patric.”
“Fergus, it will bring us many millions in sales.”
“Patric, no. Selling art brings millions. Even if you’d come to me six months ago with a business plan I’d have told you no. I don’t appreciate how you run things in London. Too much hot air, too many shenanigans, too much fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. But here’s the thing, Patric, they’re not your pants anymore. I’m not going to stand for it. Don’t pull me down with your games-playing and trivialities.”
He makes for the door.
“Can I have Tracey?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“On secondment. I could use some assistance, if you can spare her.”
“For God’s sake, Patric, it’s Art Basel Mi-am-i! Of course I can’t spare her.”
“But she’s my protégé.”
“She’s my employee.”
“Fergus, I hear you. I accept that you’re not going to support the show. I think it’s the wrong choice and you’re letting your personal feelings cloud your judgement. But I am going to do it. With or without Verbeke and Verbeke. The show must go on. It’s the only way we’ll save the wetlands. But I could really use some help from the one person who gets me in this business and that is Tracey. So please, I beg of you...”
He picks up a drill and holds it like a gun, revving the trigger as if wishing to drive it through my skull. At last, he snaps, “The rest of today. I want her back, unharmed, first thing tomorrow. And I don’t want you bothering us again.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Wait here,” he says, and he storms out of the sanctum sanctorum.
*
“Wait, the Grateful Dead are now John Mayer’s backing band?”
“No. Absolutely not. John Mayer is a member of the latest iteration of the Grateful Dead, which has had many evolutions since the death of its founder Jerry Garcia.”
“So it’s a tribute band?”
“No. Absolutely not. A tribute band exists to recreate. This band is adamant about moving the music forward.”
“By playing old songs?”
“Much like an orchestra has the repertoire but still shoots to make Beethoven fresh and forward-looking.”
“Okay, okay.” She nods, absorbing the information. That’s something I admire in Tracey: she takes time to assimilate information and is never embarrassed to ask questions.
I’m explaining myself to Tracey over a glass of bubbles at the fair bar. It’s good to see her again. I first spotted Tracey during an install at V+V. Not that a Northern-accented tattooed skinhead in paint-splattered dungarees was easy to miss. I was impressed by her work - she fitted some supremely smooth walls for a projection room built to house a Christian Marclay screening - and charmed by her character. It transpired that Tracey ran a project space where, in a deviation of my usual behaviour and judgement, I attended an opening.
My taxi dropped me in a part of London I’d never set foot in. An industrialised strip near Millwall Football Club (this I knew this because the driver commented, “Wouldn’t be ’round these parts on a match day ’less I wanted to get stabbed in my face.”) London has these geographies - no man’s lands that somehow evade the ravages of development - which appear on Google Maps just as washes of grey.
There were no streetlights, no signs of life. I cursed myself for even contemplating visiting a project space.
As I tried to find my bearings, I passed a caravan park. There weren’t any people there, only a bonfire of burning tyres.
Guard dogs leapt barking at gates.
Further on, garages, with their shutters down and the sound of drilling inside. Next to the garages were churches in industrial units from which muffled gospel music emanated.
In the distance, poked The Shard. It was an extra terrestrial - a far-away signal from the land left behind.
I was close to ordering another taxi to get me out of there when I heard voices. The unmistakable chatter of an opening. It came from a rooftop above a factory. This was the ‘project space’.
Tracey wouldn’t call it a gallery because of that term’s consumerist connotations. The project space, however, was no ramshackle squat. The walls were smooth (undoubtedly her handiwork) and painted a creamy white that absorbed the harshness of the industrial strip lighting. There was a well-written press release printed on 120gsm off-white paper. And the art (a group exhibition containing video and installation) was...decent. This not-gallery had Vibrations.
Later that night, Tracey’s band performed on the rooftop. They made a gruesome cacophony. Their songs were no different to the clatter of drums and drills that were the soundtrack of a day in the life of a gallery technician. However, as I looked at the crowd on that rooftop, I became convinced of Tracey’s talent. While I may not have been the type of gallerist to discover and nurture Young Artists...perhaps I could do that for Young Gallerists?
I took Tracey on permanently at V+V, and she flourished. She was an invaluable aid to me with her sage understanding of the changing socio-political landscape. And, I’d like to think, I taught her a thing or two.
I have no shame in publicly describing Tracey as my protégé. Having a protégé is, in some respects, greater than having a child because, honestly, anyone can reproduce. But it takes a person of wisdom to raise a protégé - someone voluntarily guided by your hand. To be in possession of a protégé is proof of acumen and knowledge.
They say that if you raise your children well they leave you. Well, last year she was promoted to the New York gallery, and, though I came to miss her stabilising presence, technical know-how, and comforting Northern tones, I beamed, internally, with pride. Hence, my pleasure and gratitude to be reunited at Miami, if only for a few hours...
Once we clarify the Grateful Dead-/-Dead & Company distinction, she asks, “Where the hell did the wetlands come from?”
“The wetlands are Florida’s treasures.”
Tracey looks at me like I’m mad, but it’s true: coastal tidal salt marshes, mangrove swamps, inland southern swamps, freshwater marshes and riparian wetlands provide habitat for a vast array of rare plants and animals found nowhere else in the world.
This I only recently learned after it was determined the concert should be a fundraiser to save and protect Florida’s wetlands.
“I was told by Jenna Freer—”
“Woah. Hold up. Where the hell did Jenna Freer come from?”
“I’m consulting for her.”
“Patric!”
“What?”
“She’s a nutjob.”
“I have to wonder, would you be describing her as a ‘nutjob’ if she was a man?”
“She drinks blood. Actual blood.”
“I admire your generation, I truly do, but the thing is, humans are complex. One can’t hold people to impossible standards.”
“Not being a vampire is not an impossible standard.”
“It’s an alternative therapy!” I find I’m shouting. It’s because everyone seems to have opinions about Jenna Freer and, quite frankly, these opinions are not based on facts, just Internet conspiracy mongering. “Besides, she doesn’t drink blood. They’re blood transfusions. People get transfusions every day.”
“Whose blood is it?”
“Young people’s!”
“The blood of unspoiled virgins?”
“How dare you?”
“Okay, chill. I mean, ultimately, I don’t really care about Jenna Freer’s blood-consumption habits.”
“I’m sorry I shouted. It’s this,” (gesturing to my swollen foot) “and this” (gesturing to my discoloured face) “I’m in a lot of pain.”
“I can imagine. Well, tell me about your new friend, the completely normal Jenna Freer.”
“She told me that Dead & Company are highly principled and I would need a cause to lure them to give a private concert.”
“Hence the wetlands,” she says, cottoning on to my ingenious plan. “So you are using the wetlands to lure Dead & Company...to lure Sullivan Leitch?”
“ Précisément.”
“God, I missed this. There’s no skulduggery with Fergus.”
“Let me guess, he tells you the art should speak for itself?”
“I like him, but he is very straight-laced. Do you know where our summer party was? Farr and Wyde.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It is a sober bar, Patric. A sober bar.”
“Another bottle of champagne, please!” I call to the waiter. “We must drink until we forget the term ‘sober bar’.”
“Weren’t you just in rehab?”
“What?”
“In Italy.”
“I was on holiday.”
“In a ‘spa’,” she air-quotes.
“What else have you heard?”
“That Mark Ronson is performing at Frieze.”
“It’s...Diplo.”
“Shame.”
“Why shame?” I say, crestfallen. “You’d have me booking some hammercore band. God, I can’t believe people think I’ve been in rehab.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because you and I know that rehab is for quitters. The walking wounded. It’s like war, no one ever returns the same. I bet that’s why I was pulled from the Magic Circle.”
I recognise this is crazy talk but I always speak openly around Tracey, even when it sounds unhinged. I’m suddenly very self-conscious. I consider racing up and down the aisles of the convention centre informing each and every person that, no, I have not been in rehab.
Does one ever rise above it - leave the swamp of judgement, vanity, status? Possibly maybe perhaps another day or two in Positano could have elevated my soul to the point where I wouldn’t care what people think. But what if they’re right - that I had, for all practical purposes, been in rehab - and I am blind to the fact I have returned a lesser Patric? The disappointing sequel.
Patric II: Farmer Out to Pasture.
“I shouldn’t be joking about this. Whatever’s going on with you, it’s cool.”
“Is Mark Ronson better than Diplo?”
“Depends. What is it you’re going for?”
“I don’t know anymore. October and Frieze might as well be a distant galaxy. We have to sort the Dead first.”
The waiter brings a new bottle. He pops the cork and refills our flutes.
“Where are you going to get one million dollars?”
“I have assets.”
“Not bitcoin?”
“I am a homeowner, Tracey. That’s a million, plus change, once Roland’s done his magic.”
“I love you, Patric. Love your schemes. But due diligence, just for a minute, what’s the upside?”
“What did I always teach you?”
“Smooth white walls?.”
“What else, the key to difficult situations?”
“Expense everything?”
“No, not that. What did I tell you? About life, not just Artworld?”
“Never buy a car when you can hire a better one?”
“About the UNIVERSE, Tracey, the secret of the Universe!”
“Oh, yeah. Seek signs.”
“Yes! In the meetings, words, events that life throws your way, look for the opportunities. Now check this,” I put my phone in front of Tracey, opened to deadandcompany.com. “See their summer tour. A show in Sunrise, Florida.”
“What a beautiful name. Sunrise, Florida.”
“Isn’t it? But look. There’s four days before their next show in Noblesville, Indiana. Four days. As soon as I saw that four-day window, I recognised it for what it is. Fate, Tracey. They are fated to play this show.”
“But Patric, fate can be neutral. I mean what if you’re misreading the signs? How can you know when they’re the right signs and not just signs for someone else or coincidences? I hate to bring it up but if I’d been helping you plan the birthday party—”
“I know. I know if you were by my side on that fateful night, the blimp would not have crashed.”
“There wouldn’t have been a blimp in the first place!”
“I can’t let one disaster inhibit my...panache. I think big therefore I am. And I reconnected with John on Noa Lupukina.”
“John-who? Noa-whatnow?”
“John Mayer on Jenna Freer’s private island. I told you, that’s where I saw Dead & Company perform. And I’m already speaking to their people. The gig is all but confirmed. They just need their fee.”
“I’m not sure if I’ve been spending too much time with Fergus but...this is a lot.” She knocks back the champagne. “I am going to help you, Patric, but - please accept this the right way, in the loving way - there is just a general air of crazy about you at this time.”
“Oh Tracey, I wish I could fill you in on everything that’s taken place, but suffice to say, when you’re my age you’ll understand how profoundly complicated life becomes. A friend told me recently that where you are at 30 is who you are.” Gesturing to the foot, black eyes and the mobility scooter, I conclude, “I need to improve.”
“Newsflash, Patric: you turned 30 a long, long time ago.”
“Why do you mock me?”
“I just don’t want you to get burned.”
“I know,” I say, swiping my phone. “I am transferring you ten thousand dollars...for marketing, bribes, incentives, anything that forcibly encourages people to be, and want to be, at this show.”
“Maybe make it 20.”
“Done. You spread the word that if anyone wants in, they need to come through me. I am the gatekeeper. I am the ticketmaster. It is I who selects the elect who will witness Dead & Company.”
*
How do I know Sullivan Leitch will be at Art Basel Miami 2? One simple reason: he owns the convention centre.
Every titan has their court, a place where they play master of ceremonies. Art Basel Miami is Sullivan’s. During each fair he brings his replica steam-powered yacht to dock and hosts star-studded, firework-filled soirées - to which V+V employees are summarily barred entry. This is a point of contention with many at V+V. They blame me, of course. And I get it - no one wants to be excluded from a party, especially a yacht party (always untamed and dramatic beasts.) Last year, Sullivan chartered twenty other yachts, installing drawbridges between them, to create a flotilla party.
Spreading word in Miami about the concert is easy. A few laps of the fair and a visit to the three hotels everyone stays at is all it takes to ensure the foot soldiers are primed.
But I must reach the jetset - those who will sweep in from the heavens need to know that, come Friday night, there’s only one place to be - and that’s where Tracey’s logistical nous comes in.
She’s one of those people who gets the Internet. She’s only a decade and change younger than I, but those years are enough to make her so much more adept at surfing the web.
In the few hours of her Miami secondment, I watched as Tracey weaved her magic: a handful of messages, a couple of strategic posts, some calls, and away we go...behold the ripples and whispers of that inscrutable hallucinatory mirage-like enigma that is virality.
My phone is quickly abuzz...
“Hallo, this is Hartwig Fischer.”
“Is that Patric Farmer?”
“We’ve never met…”
“I’m calling on behalf of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.”
“Long time no speak!”
I have booked a jewel of a venue: the Olympia Theatre, a former cinema with velvet-and-gold, old-world charm. Its capacity is a fraction of the number to which Dead & Company is accustomed. Which is perfect: supply versus demand. This band is not such an incongruous booking for Art Basel Miami 2. Much of the art in the fair chimes with the Dead’s California spirituality. The data-driven fantasias of digital artists - renderings that fall between heaven and hellscape - would be familiar to anyone who has been on a long, strange trip. And people are wearing tie-dye again. Tie-dye, neons, baggy sweaters, aviator goggles, clowning trousers, light-up-platform sneakers: the current school of gonzo fashion has always been welcomed at a Dead concert.
Another call.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
It’s Mayer - stoked for the show and requesting a tour of the fair. Viva la vida! I couldn’t script it better myself.
That is a key to ambitious events planning: when one has a clear vision, things have a way of coming together. Those ‘happy accidents’ that aren’t accidents at all - they’re just the Universe’s way of telling you you’re on the right path.
*
Wearing shades, a shawl, and wide-brim hat, Mayer looks every bit the rock star. Favouring brands like Kapital, Visvim and Online Ceramics, Mayer is better known in some circles for his fashion sense. Sense isn’t only knowing what you like: it’s knowing what looks right on you. As with his music, his clothing draws from a wide range of influences - sports, dads, kimonos, formalwear - and these consistently coalesce in that most craved state: effortlessness.
As he walks next to me, the shawl floats easily. It could almost be a dressing gown. Mayer’s star power creates a force field around us. People part and give us room. In the face of trillionaires, actors, models, everyone plays cool in Artworld. But a pop star does something. Bona-fide rockers, rappers, teen sensations, send even the most severe German art theorist lightheaded.
Everything’s bright and shiny at Art Basel Miami 2. All the stars are out. What I love in a fair is how all the art talks to each other. We walk through large-scale metal rings wrapped in used clothing by Kimsooja. A row of horse’s backsides by Maurizio Cattelan hang out of a wall. A lumpy headless body slumped in an office chair. Sarah Lucas. A Yinka Shonibare sculpture of a figure on a plinth whose head is a globe. A globe by Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian made from glass pieces of dancing shades of yellow and blue. Yellows and blues are the primary colours of a double-profile portrait by King Katz. There is a mirror with a rock next to it by Alicja Kwade - a simple juxtaposition whose effect is eerie. More rocks: three on top of each other painted in childlike bright colours. I am unnerved, a little bilious. It is because the artist, Ugo Rondinone, is from CH. I move quickly away from this Swiss Kryptonite and find succour in paintings of Ludovic Nkoth. Textured, sensuous swirling portraits. My very favourite kind of painting.
Large photographs keep catching Mayer’s eye - glossy works by David LaChappelle, Andreas Gursky. I attempt to veer him to painting. Not because I dislike photography, but I like painting more. Glossy, magazine-style photography is the go-to for rock stars. I want better for John.
I’m on Sullivan standby, but it is Fergus who is first to approach. He speaks poetry: “I don’t suppose there’s a few spots on your guestlist for the V+V family?”
“Let me see what I can do,” I say with a wink, driving on with the sweetest of arm candy.
As we continue through the fair, John seems to vaguely appreciate Laura Owens. He feigns enthusiasm for Jules de Balincourt, but I can tell he’s unconvinced. Finally a painting elicits a double-take.
“Ah yes,” I say, driving into the booth to view it closely. “Why am I not surprised you like this?”
It’s a Basquiat.
A full-figure portrait, built of blocky and hectic shapes, pressed in by fields of black, white, blue. There’s a graffiti cock between the legs, arrows firing out of one hand, and, over the head, a vibrating halo.
“Hey Teach,” I call to Barry Teacher, director at Arnos. “I’d like to introduce you to John Mayer.”
“Big fan, sir.”
“And John is a big fan of Basquiat.”
“Then you certainly have an exceptional eye…”
I keep my own exceptional eye on the lookout for Sullivan. There is no way he will not be here. Anybody who’s anybody is at the PPPV.
These open early - 6am. In all fields of business, activity seems to have shifted earlier and earlier over the last couple years. My theory: sobriety people fear the night. And why should Artworld be any different? The early bird catches the Erwin Wurm...
At any moment, it’s going to happen. Sullivan and I will cross paths. He’ll see the priceless Dead ephemera beside me and say something along the lines of ‘Hey Patric, I owe you an apology, things got a little heated between us and we deserve a do-over. Let me introduce myself, I’m Sullivan Leitch, huge fan, Mr Mayer, and I have to say, I’m a huge fan of the Grateful Dead. What you’re doing now with Dead & Company is a beautiful continuation of the myth and magic of a band I hold so close to my heart, and I just want you to know how much it means to be able to shake your hand…’
Mayer eyes the canvas closely, tracing the path of Basquiat’s hand and layering of marks.
“The downtown New York scene appeals to John,” I begin, figuring Teach might need convincing to let this major work go to the Mayer Collection, “who has recorded many of his greatest records in the famed Electric Ladyland Studios— I’m sorry, am I boring you?”
“Pardon me,” Teach says, looking over my shoulder.
I turn around.
“Just admiring your boy do his thang.”
Do his thang - repugnant phrase.
John’s attention has been diverted from the painting by a woman. No surprise there. He is a famed Casanova.
I can’t see who it is, but John looks pretty smitten. He’s even taken his shades off and is flashing his hazel eyes.
Teach says, “Is that Sullivan Leitch’s fiancée?”
The script is on autofill…
Wives are always the gateway to powerful men. Not only is Sullivan a Deadhead, but no woman has ever not wanted to be in the presence of John Mayer.
From a distance, I survey my cosmic ordering, admittedly with a smug smile on my face.
Things then take a turn.
Mayer starts singing - a capella - at Becca.
“I still keep your shampoo in my shower, in case you wanna wash your hair. And I know that you probably found yourself some more somewhere, but I do not really care. ’Cause as long as it is there, I still feel like your man!”
He gathers quite the crowd as he belts it out. I can’t help but tense up. It’s too reminiscent of my least-favourite form of performance: the flashmob.
Is Becca his ex? Is he trying to woo her / win her back? I’m trying to fill the gaps, but whatever’s going on, it isn’t great. What happens next is a blur.
Sullivan Leitch. Charging.
He surely can’t be wanting to punch me some more? I prepare for collision, but then he veers away from me and smashes into the back of Mayer’s legs.
Mayer comes down.
Mobility scooter trumps his wheelchair - in terms of size and power - perhaps I can barge him.
I jam my joystick forward.
Sullivan leans to one side and rides his wheelchair on two wheels.
He mounts me and springs upwards to get to Mayer.
Sullivan swings, Mayer ducks (with the agility of a man who’s dodged many a punch thrown by jealous partners) and this fist lands on my jaw.
TKOh no, not again!
“First, you roger my woman and then you roger my band.”
Another scuffle ensues.
“You are no Jerry!”
A whole lot of commotion. My scooter is overturned. Falling, flailing, the scooter crushing me. Security swarms, onlookers crowd, and I spot Jennifer Lopez. Wearing a black vest and artichoke-green paperbag trousers. She looks smoking.
*
One of my last lucid memories of the night: John on stage announcing, “Show some appreciation for the man who has made this beautiful evening happen, my friend and a true lover of the wetlands, make some noise for Mr Patric Farmer.”
They made some noise, alright. My goodness. To experience that - the roars, the cheers, and the applause, and to know it is for you - an unsurpassable feeling, no wonder old rockers live forever. But ultimately it was an empty pleasure. The concert was wonderful - otherworldly even - but in terms of my grand plan, it was a flop, a failure, all for nothing.
I left the venue a man defeated in every way - forlorn, dejected, bankrupt, crushed, humiliated, unemployed, unemployable. I dove straight into the land of the living Deadheads.
Their fans, who follow the band across the country from show to show, had built a campervan-tent-hammock-yurt city in the streets surrounding the Olympia. The sweet odour of marijuana filled the air.
Paradise for a man who wished to delete himself.
I zigzagged through the night popping pills, inhaling lines, dropping acid, and taking a shotty on each and every bong I saw. How I tripped that night! Far-out galaxies of the soul were explored, but my destiny was always to be the gutter…
Literally.
I am lying on the actual street, tucked into the kerb. The Florida sun brings me around. Opening my eyes is torture. What time/day/psychic plane is it? I reach for my phone. It’s gone. Sun-baked puke coats my guayabera. The mobility scooter is lost also. Add ten grand to my debts. Whatevs. There comes a point when money is abstraction: the numbers don’t not add up, on any level, and so mean nothing.
No use fretting.
You are homeless now, Patric.
I should go live in a shack on the wetlands I just protected and think about what I have done, about who I’ve wronged in this life mis-spent…
I roll over to hide from the sun. This movement brings up more vomit. It pools next to my cheek.
Look at you.
Patrick III: Farmer, or Fertiliser?
You had to throw the dice. Risk it all. There was happiness: in Positano, in Leanne’s bed, in a picnic in Burgess Park. Jan and Dougie. Remember them? Are they worth a tear, what with them now most likely losing their home? Boo-hoo. I try to cry. But no tears. Why can’t I cry? What is wrong with me? I drag myself to the doorway of a closed shop. My ankle is in agony. The safety boot is gone, too. I close my eyes and...I wouldn’t call it sleep, I fall into unconsciousness.
Wake me when I’m dead. I assure you, I’ll be grateful.
“Is that him?”
“Is that puke?”
“Take the legs.”
Bundled into the back of a van.
Good things don’t happen in backs of vans.
Fade to black(out).
Traffic sounds. Hum. Muffled radio. ‘Sussudio’. Is that Phil Collins or is it Genesis?
Van doors open. I squint. Crawl out. Artificial lights. Takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Boxes, bubble-wrap, fork-lift trucks.
“Where am I?” I ask a passing man in overalls.
“The end of the road.”
Appearing from behind a shipping crate, Sami.
Water. Someone pours it into my mouth. I’m a baby with a bottle, the way I suck at this life-giving force - blessèd H2O! - I gasp and let it splash over me.
Sami chucks the bottle to the floor.
“Look at you.”
“I’d rather not.”
He shakes his head.
“Sami, where am I?” I ask, fearing the worst: that I have been shipped to Switzerland.
“Miami, still. We are packing the babies off to their new homes. Mostly storage. What a world, Patric. The rich, they keep their homes empty and their art unseen. Art should be on show, no? That is why I am so excited by le Galerie Nationale de Freerland. You look surprised, Patric. Pourquoi? In this line of work, one hears every piece of gossip. One hears because they don’t think we are listening. Because we do not matter. These are just brutes with power-tools,” he gestures to the workers. “Moi? Une secrétaire. Mais Patric, je sais tout. Who owns what, who wants to get rid, who wants to buy - and why - the disputations, the divorces, the deaths, that drive sales. With the knowledge amassed at Montandon-Ramseyer, I could be the greatest dealer in the world.”
“Can we finish this later?”
“We finish this now!” Sami picks up a nail gun and holds it to my head.
“Do it!”
“I will!”
“Do it!”
“Don’t push me, Patric!”
“End this misery, this farce! Please! I beg!”
He pulls the gun away.
“You, Patric! You do this to me.”
He paces with his finger still on the trigger.
“I was furious when you refused me. Furious. Sacré blue. But I knew I only had to wait. I could see it in your eyes that day in the Rudolph, you were not the Patric of old. You were always so confident, so sure of yourself. You had The Secret. You only had to visualise success et voilà. You would tell me ‘Thoughts become things.’ Well, I have thought only of Samia and I have nothing. Now you have nothing also. Look at us, two men with nothing. But, you know, Patric, there is one thing I have over you. Do you know what that is? Dignity.”
“What do you want from me, Sami?”
“What do you want, Patric?” He puts the gun down. “I know about you and Jenna Freer.”
“So what? The deal is dead. As I wish I was.”
“Now you understand une petite partie what I have suffered since the assassination of Samia.”
“You’re right. Any jobs going at Montandon-Ramseyer?”
“Oh ho ho, you think that’s funny? You wouldn’t last a day. For one thing, we are based in Switzerland, and I do not forget your disdain for that magnificent country. No no, we shall not be colleagues at Montandon-Ramseyer, but there is one final opportunity on which we can collaborate. What if there was something I could do to bring the deal back from the dead? Would that be something that interests you?”
“Go on.”
“Sullivan Leitch, nous sommes amis. It is not for nothing I am a guest at his wedding.”
“Who isn’t?”
“You, Patric. You. What a fool you were to think you could waltz up to that great man and convince him to join your little scheme, with what? Charm? Your knowledge of art history? You know nothing!”
“I’m finished, I get it.”
“Patric, I have brought you here because I believe we may be of service to one another. Familiar, no? We have been here before, me coming to you with a proposition, but now you are in no position to refuse. So listen very carefully. It happens that Sullivan Leitch is in the throes of a very expensive divorce, and a much more expensive marriage with a potentially costly prenuptial. These matters are time-sensitive. It serves his interests to offload certain assets, such as art. Therefore this offer from Miss Jenna Freer would certainly be timely and highly palatable were it to come from, honestly, anyone but you. However, I am sure in my capacity as a friend and the principal manager of logistics for his collection, I could be of service in the persuasion for a sale.”
Sami awaits a reply. I don’t speak. I look at him. The expression on his face: what is that? Quizzical? Exasperated? I am not playing hard to get. I’m buffering: letting this new information seep through the brain-fog, evaluating whether there is opportunity here, or if it merely is grasping at straws.
“Consider me your assistant,” he persists. “The playboy dealer’s dealer.”
“And in return I move your Modiglianis?”
“You? You don’t do a thing. Take a time out. You deserve it. A little R&R would do you a world of good. A friend must be honest and tell you, Patric, you look unwell. Leave this with your old pal, Sami, who knows Sullivan’s collection better than the man himself. It is enormous, and it is dispersed obliquely within les facilités of Montandon-Ramseyer. Who better than me to perform a fastidious inventory.”
“And what do you get?”
“I get paid for a job well done and with that money I get my Sami back, returned from the dead. I assure you Patric, I would be most grateful.”