The Art World Provocateur by Beetle Holloway

You’re invited to:

Break THE Mould

Autumn Group Exhibition with Matt Squires

TY Gallery of Contemporary Art

Buck THE trend. Smash THE status quo. Go against the tide. Multi-disciplinarian Matt Squires returns to his disruptive roots in a one-off exhibition alongside emerging artists from the TY Gallery of Contemporary Art. Paintings, drawings, sculptures, videos and installations on display.

Thursday 7 November, Vernissage with Matt Squires, Timothy Young and exhibition artists from 6pm.

*

You know what ‘vernissage’ means to me? Hunting.

They’re always full of clueless collectors, ambitious artists and rich stupid nobodies; even in this shitty gallery. It’s aiming for abandoned loft with its exposed brick and factory windows, but the Ikea furnishings scream Airbnb rental. And it smells of quail’s eggs.

Still, it’s a good turnout. 150-odd, I’d say. Mostly the fawning entourage of Matt Squires, which will aid my pitch to these ‘emerging’ - read ‘desperate’ - artists.

I see potential at my two o’clock. Muslin blouse, upright posture, jealous eyes, and crucially, a large gathering by her neighbouring artist’s stand.

I swan over in my vernissage jacket. I have more than one, of course, I’m not going to wear the same thing twice. But they all have to be striking and memorable and expensive-looking; the artists need to feel my power without me explaining it to them. This jacket is crimson, done in a Chinese style, of which I have not one ounce of heritage, which provokes the right people. I have a West African boubou too. Also in red. Did you know paintings splashed in red sell at higher prices? Deep down, blood and money is all we care about.

Her jealous eyes see me approach as intended. I take an extra glass from the waiter, who speaks with a Caribbean accent despite looking Italian. I give it to the artist but I don't introduce myself. I could say I’m a cut-throat, immoral, attention-seeker that gives zero fucks about the artists I represent and is only interested in extracting as much money as possible out of collectors’ pockets, but I prefer to let others say that on my behalf.

“Not very popular are they?” I say.

“I’m sorry, do we…” She’s so thin-skinned I can see her blood simmer.

“Your paintings, my dear. About as popular as the Nazis.” I nod towards her neighbouring artist, a floppy-haired twink schmoozing some of the rich stupid nobodies. “He’s got flies circling all over his shit.”

She wrinkles her nose, shuffles her feet. “We’re a different medium. Completely different styles. I don’t see how you can compare us.”

I shrug my lips. “All art is comparable, my dear. Each has an artist and a price.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s preposterous. Rufus sculpts silver horse heads for his parents’ posh mates. It’s incomparable.”

I smile at her jealousy. Great attribute to have. Shows ambition.

“Go on then,” I squint at the wall plaque behind my Tom Ford glasses, “Liza. Show me your oeuvre.”

Liza has five paintings on display. The god-awful strip lighting glares across them like daytime TV. The central painting features two topless men. Sculptured bodies and chiselled arms, serious bouncer look with Maori tattoos. They’re lounging on deck chairs by a speaker blaring out aggressive notes - literally angry anthropomorphised crotchets and minims - across a beach of people doing beach things.

“It’s about etiquette,” Liza says. “I find it fascinating as a subject. It changes per generation, location, occupation and social group. These unwritten rules we expect people to abide by, but we never voice.”

Blah blah blah. I inspect her other paintings. There’s two women eating lasagne in a theatre. A man picking his nose in an elevator mirror. A bus conductor forcing passengers to remove their shoes.

“What is acceptable? What is unacceptable?” Liza drones on in a practiced pitch about self-expression and social norms, personal rights and class conventions. I fade out until she mentions her parents’ country club.

I tut loudly, disappointed. I need artists with a backstory I can sell. People are done with aristocracy. Even the ones with abuse stories.

But I do like her vanity and intolerance, so I dangle the carrot anyway.

“Only 2,000€,” I say after inspecting the yellow sticker next to ‘Shoes Off’.

She doesn’t know whether to look offended or pleased. “Timothy thinks we should start low, get collectors on board, get my name out there.”

I hold her gaze like a forbidden flirt. Her eyes look like they’ll agree with whatever I say next.

“Let me guess, Timothy has suggested a group show first, then solo show, art fair, bigger gallery, museum introspective…”

She’s nodding as we speak. Of course, she is. I know Timothy’s spiel.

I lean closer so she can smell my Memo perfume, 240€ a bottle. “I think Timothy is right, my dear. You can’t drop your prices. Ever. But who’s saying you need to start so low? Who’s saying you need to follow the same pattern as everyone else? Someone with your talent. The name of this exhibition is Break the Mould isn't it? Do you want to be like everybody else?”

It’s almost off-putting how much she drinks it in. I continue. “I don’t work with artists selling below 20,000€. And you know what? Most of my artists are what the industry calls ‘emerging’. No back catalogue. No introspectives. No pieces on the secondary market. Know Emily Ratchell? I got her opening at 25,000€ for paintings the same size as yours.”

Liza’s smile fades into caution. “Was that before or after she OD’d?”

“Don't be so cynical, Liza,” I say.

She looks around the gallery. She scratches her blouse. “It’s a kind offer,” she says. “But I’d prefer to stick with Timothy’s schedule. I…” I let her flounder in silence. “I just don’t think I’ll make that price yet.”

“You could OD too?” I say.

“What?”

“Joking,” I say. “Honestly, if the value of art went up every time someone died, I’d only work with cancer patients.” She pulls this pathetic face that’s somewhere between worried and pacified. “But there are other ways to increase value at this stage,” I say.

“Like what?”

This is the second time I smile, revealing the perfect teeth I bought off a dead 20-year-old in Turkey. I lean in to tell her.

*

I also waste my time with some artist of West African heritage, who has produced an exposé on mining and exploitation. ‘The colonial powers are still excavating wealth from Africa, but this time we call it ‘legal’ ya di ya dah’.

Both losers. Honestly, I don’t know what Timothy was thinking with this show. Well, I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking Matt Squires is the real deal and he’ll draw a crowd to see this slop brigade of up-coming C-grade talent.

I’m thinking Matt Squires is just your run-of-the-mill bullshit artist with shoddy artwork, bad style, an inflated ego and a talent for hyping his own shit. Which is why I agree 100% with Timothy that we must do everything to keep him.

Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m a silent partner in the gallery. But don’t tell the artists. They feel more special when I ‘pluck’ them from obscurity this way.

Just like Matt Squires himself. He was willing to rip off any artist in any fashion I suggested. Totally down for whatever shocking stunt would grab the front page. And look how far he’s come. There’s at least 50 so-called arty types gathering by Matt Squires' side of the gallery. His heady mix of provocative disciplines - all ‘borrowed’ from his inspirations - are on show. There’s the minimal light installation stolen straight from Dan Flavin. The JR-inspired photographic collage. He’s even appropriated the art appropriator-in-chief Richard Prince with images of himself swearing in front of Prince’s images.

There’s also some performance art thing Matt Squires has lifted from Taveres Strachan. The waiter is part of the act. He’s been speaking with a different accent to each group of attendees.

Matt Squires has done so well, I’m almost proud to see this bunch of walking wallets flock around him like iron filings to a magnet. But through the gaps, my sense of fleeting pride is distracted by another potential target. She’s practically pulling the sleeves of the woman leaving her stand and, much to my sheer delight, sneakily drops her card in the departing woman’s pocket.

“Good sleight of hand,” I say.

“Well, I am an artist,” she says. She looks more like the wife of a mechanic in her Rosie the Riveter garb. Behind her, six sculptures on plinths. A narrow serving tray glazed like a forearm. A detailed eye as a plate. The full head centerpiece looks like my ex-husband, gormless expression and all.

“I wouldn’t waste my time on her,” I say. “She acts like a collector in the know. But all she knows is her upcoming divorce will make her too wealthy to want to invest in someone at your price point.”

She introduces herself as Kelly, ceramicist. I say nothing.

“FYI I sell through Timothy,” Kelly says.

“FYI that’s fine,” I mimic. “I’m not trying to pry you from him.”

“No? I know who you are.”

She bets a smug smirk. I raise her an eyebrow.

“A.M., no? Art world provocateur,” she says.

I curtsy.

“You have a reputation,” she says.

“The most valuable thing in the art world,” I say. “Did you know an artist’s renown is their most prized commodity?”

Kelly gives me a knowing look. “And what do you trade then? Stunts and shocks.”

I tut, loudly. “If you form, glaze and fire a platter in the shape of a dead child’s body, it’s shocking. Call the artwork Madeleine McCann, it shocks even more. Feed the platter to Weinstein in prison, voilà, peak outrage. But the art - and I use that word specifically - to making pieces provocative, to adding zeros to the price, is producing a stunt that bottles a moment. Banksy’s art-shredding. Maurizio Cattelan’s banana.”

She fake yawns. “Sounds like a gimmick merchant to me.”

I purse my lips. “All you need, Kelly, is some successful marketing and someone with your talent can bypass the kiddies' pool and start swimming with the adults.”

“And the sharks,” she says.

“There’s a reason sharks don’t swim in provincial ponds, my dear.” I point to the lights of the industrial estate out the window. “Let me ask you this: for what is Van Gogh most famous? Starry Night? The Sunflowers? No, for chopping his fucking ear off. Now imagine if a burgeoning ceramicist, who excels in creating body part platters, started using their own body parts in the process…”

Her lip wrinkle turns into a full sneer. I lean in for the pitch but she pushes away the buttons on my jacket. Another loser.

Not to be all Boomer, but there was a time when young artists would snap off their right arm for my services. Literally. But this overly sensitive, ‘respect me, respect my work’ Gen Z lot? Waste of space.

I get the waiter’s attention and tip my glass. He gives me a nachfüllung. I wander to the back of Matt Squires’ crowd and listen to Matt Squires give a speech littered with non-PC profanities. I almost start feeling that warmth of pride again when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I hear Liza’s middle-class accent whisper in my ear:

“So if I just chop off the middle toe, you think I could get over 30,000€?”

I whisper back: “What’s worse etiquette than cutting off your toe in a public pool, my dear”?