The art fair has had an airy redesign. You now have to walk to the farthest tent to reach the grandest galleries. This forces wealthy punters to traverse Frieze London spreading love (and ideally money) as they go. For regulars, the effect is much like when a supermarket moves its stock around, and you can’t find the rigatoni but emerge 45 minutes later with two jars of grilled artichokes and some crumpets. I’d love to think someone will enter Frieze this week intending to buy a Georg Baselitz but get lost and instead impulse purchase an irresistibly camp history painting by Umar Rashid.
This year’s fair feels comparatively soothing, dominated by appealing paintings and smallish sculptures. A crucible of the fearless avant garde it is not. We live in worrying times and the art market is not immune. Most galleries are hedging their bets, showing works they feel confident they can shift. Ergo – fewer solo presentations and less experimentation. Still, there’s ample material for avid window-shoppers.
