I must tell you something shocking. Please don’t judge me. I know this is quite the confession and you may look upon my person very differently after you read this. Okay — deep breath — my favourite part of FNB Art Joburg is the vernissage.
I know, I know… everyone with even an iota of cultural gravitas and sincere appreciation for the finer things in life, anyone with a flared nostril and advanced style, anyone with actual taste and a modicum of decorum — all the sophisticates and connoisseurs of this world — every single one of them will unabashedly declare that the opening night is a mess, overwhelmingly social, given over to inane conversations and air kissing — it’s so bad you barely get to see the art — what is the point?
These refined creatures like to wander the fair in contemplative peace with other serious collectors at the real preview three hours before it opens to the invitation-only, rabble-rousing masses. They like to discuss acquisitions in hushed tones with their art advisors hovering at their ears with speculative insights. They like to drink a serious glass of water with the gallerist and the curators in a price-driven huddle.
There is a sense of hushed solemnity about all of this art trading, an expectation that they are involved in cultural arbitrage of the highest order and should be fêted by the artists, who should preferably be on site and suitably deferential. After all, this is a relationship as old as time — everyone knows how this game of creativity economics works. So, I get it — but, oh boy, for an ever-so-slightly frivolous punter like me there is only one reason to be in attendance and that is the joy of seeing our city in full efflorescence.
I love the people of this town, I love their quirks and the enthusiasms of the season, I love the new new thing and all the moaning about the sameness of it all, I love walking slap-bang into the frenetic energy that washes over me as I arrive and seeing everyone in their glad rags, excited and happy, cheeks primed for the next smack, champagne in hand, celebrating.
What are we celebrating, you ask — have you read the news? Exactly, but for these lovely few hours we are saluting the sheer pleasure of everyone being out and about and still alive. And maybe, if you are very lucky, you are about to spot that one perfect artwork that moves your soul or thwacks you in your gut or makes you laugh from a deep place of recognition — that wondrous moment when you see a thing of beauty or wit or baffling sincerity that somehow mediates this crazy world and presents it to you like a flash of glorious insight. It’s the only way to get in on the art scene, I tell you. At least for me. And this year I am absolutely certain that I will make it past the first booth.
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Aspasia
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