Help! I Hate... Fair Week

Every week, The Art Journal’s resident art world Agony Aunt Charlotte Jansen answers your questions about access, gatekeeping and sticky social problems.

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I have a confession that may not be that surprising: I hate fair week in London. I hate the crowds, the small talk, the endless posturing and posing, the frantic WhatsApp messages, the parties I don’t want to go to and the feeling that everyone is being fake.

I hate the strip lighting, the overpriced sandwiches and, mostly, I hate the art. And yet, every year, my job requires me to attend. How do you survive the fairs when you would genuinely rather be doing almost anything else?

How do I get through the week with my sanity, social battery and health vaguely intact – and perhaps even have a good time?

One thing I’ve never heard anyone say, ever, in 20 years of working in the artworld: “Gosh, I can’t wait for Frieze!” But I am glad you’ve said it, because most of us just swallow it down. There is a peculiar, particular kind of dishonesty in approaching fair week in London. For several days each October, London becomes a giant networking exercise in which everyone claims to be having the time of their lives while privately wondering whether they can leave a dinner before the main course. So, first of all, I would say: stop trying to love it. No one really loves it. At least no one I’ve ever met. Lower your expectations all the way down.

You don’t have to love the art. You don’t have to find the strip lighting seductive or pretend that a canvas consisting largely of beige rectangles has changed your understanding of humanity. And you certainly don’t have to enjoy a dry £19 sandwich because it’s all that was available. Your first survival tactic is radical acceptance. Frieze is not happening to you; it is happening around you. Your job is to extract what you need from it.

Think of the week as a professional endurance event. The first mistake is saying yes to everything. This is how people end up at a breakfast in Notting Hill at 08.00, a talk at 10.00 in Regent’s Park, a book signing at midday, more drinks at 14.00, a gallery opening in Mayfair at 18.00, dinner in Soho and a party in Hackney at midnight, ending with drinks at an artist’s studio in east London (that bit actually sounds fun, to be fair).

Nobody needs this. Not even the people who appear to be doing it. Before the week begins, divide your diary into three categories: must attend, useful to attend and absolutely not happening. Be ruthless. If an event doesn’t serve a professional purpose, involve someone you actually want to see or sound genuinely enjoyable, ask yourself why you’re going.

In fact, learning to decline things gracefully is one of the great skills of London's fair week. “I’d love to, but I’m completely booked that evening” is a perfectly respectable sentence. You don’t need to provide a 12-point explanation involving exhaustion, a conflicting event and your therapist’s recommendation that you establish boundaries.

Then there is the fair itself. I do try to walk the entire fair, but I put my headphones in, turn the volume up and move on quickly if something is not interesting to me – you don’t need to spend time at every booth. I also don’t necessarily recommend taking weed gummies, as I did a few years back. It just makes all that small talk under the strip lights with people you bump into even more intense. (The sculptures outside, however, were amazing.)

I like to bring a friend who is not in the artworld as my shield and buffer. It’s also refreshing to see the art with people who aren’t trying to think about it, or analyse it, or even buy it. Seeing it through the eyes of people who aren’t jaded by living it all the time gives a different perspective on the event and actually makes it more enjoyable.

Also, wear flat shoes, bring water and food, maybe even a packed lunch. I know that’s a real ‘mum’ thing to say, but the aforementioned friend not only drove us to Frieze – an absolute luxury – but also brought homemade baked goods. They were especially good after those weed gummies, and it’s so edifying not to spend your money in Gail’s.

It is also fun to play games like the old favourite, Frieze bingo, or nominate works of art for made-up prizes. Ask “why” and “what the hell?” and eavesdrop on other people’s rants and moans – this is what makes Frieze entertaining and lighthearted. The world is heavy, this event is insane and intense, but why not inject a little bit of levity into it? There are much worse situations to be in right now.

Please sleep, please stay hydrated – you don’t want to end up with a bout of the famed Frieze flu. Plan your escape routes from parties in advance, take Ubers as necessary, give yourself a curfew and set a firm cap on how many events you want to do each day. I always set aside a quiet afternoon for normal activity or writing – nothing Frieze-related – so it doesn’t completely take over.

Perhaps the secret to surviving Frieze is to stop treating it as an uphill battle and start treating it as a temporary inconvenience with occasional pleasures. And when someone asks on Friday whether you’ve had an amazing week, you can smile mysteriously and say, “It’s been quite a week.”