I sometimes wonder what the point of an art fair is anymore.  I mean, isn’t that why we ‘let our fingers do the walking’ through Artforum every month?  When I expressed this thought on a recent FB post, one of my pals (a well-known artist) rejoined that a “great thing” was “worth seeing in person.”  I agree completely—but at what cost?  I’ve had a few memorable first encounters of great original works at fairs from here to Moscow.  But the key qualifiers here are ‘great,’ ‘original,’ and most crucially, ‘few.’  They’re pretty rare when set against the totality of the hundreds or thousands of ‘things’ one might encounter at any given fair.  I commented that it might be difficult to justify the expenditure of time—and non-renewable resources—to see every ‘great thing,’ even museum masterpieces, much less the single authentic gem in a glittery pile of paste and plastic.  I’m not sure if she took my point or simply intended to flatly contradict me.  Her response was that she intended to “go to everything.”  (There are a couple of other art fairs in the area this week-end, including Printed Matter’s L.A. Art Book Fair and the Paramount Ranch art fair in ‘freeway-accessible’ Agoura.)  Which probably sums up a certain attitude perhaps not exclusive to Los Angeles: give me my ‘great things’ now—the planet and its other life forms be damned.  

We may go to art fairs to see new stuff (anyone who’s been to more than one knows better than to hope for anything particularly great or original, although it occasionally happens); but what is usually most gratifying are the unexpected encounters with friends and acquaintances and the new acquaintances we make in the process.  For example, it is always delightful to encounter John Knuth and Davida Nemeroff, and Thursday evening’s opening of the Art Los Angeles Contemporary Fair at Barker Hanger in Santa Monica afforded an opportunity to see them both, as well as an introduction to John’s Brand New Gallery (the gallery’s actual name—out of Milano, Italy) and its charming directors, Fabrizio Affronti and Chiara Badinella.  I confess that I managed to enjoy myself in spite of the more or less complete absence of liquid or solid refreshment (the only Champagne I saw was in the hands of the exhibitors themselves; and even my glass of G&B coffee was $5; if there was a VIP lounge it must have been located off-site) and the few, unexpected highlights. 

I will say the fair ‘looked’ better overall than last year’s iteration.  I didn’t see everything there (I’ll be making a return reconnaissance this afternoon), but it’s fairly easy to take in.  Speaking of great things, Marc Selwyn was showing Channing Hansen’s gorgeous knit yarn ‘paintings,’ exclusively—all of which were sold out before the fair had even ‘officially’ opened at 7:00 p.m.  (Selwyn smartly picked up the artist not long after the Hammer’s last Made In L.A. brought him well-deserved acclaim.)  Speaking of the spun, knit, or woven, Alyson Shotz’s ethereal works of fiber and metallic skeins were dramatically juxtaposed with a collapsed cylinder or envelope of folds cast in bronze (she’s also executed works in this series in porcelain) at Derek Eller (New York).  Both series in their contrasting media and formal approach reflect something of a trend that has taken hold in recent years.  Alexander Wolff’s fractalized folds of atmospheric color and stain in his paintings at Et al. (San Francisco) were another instance of this. 

There was good painting throughout the fair.  There was a great Tomory Dodge painting at ACME; and I rather liked the striking Blake Rayne silkscreen at 1301PE.  You can disregard the title of Hector Arce-Espasas’ No, these are not paintings they are pineapple décor at Luce (Torino).  It looked like pretty good painting (with screenprint, I should add) to me.  Susanne Vielmetter was showing the incomparable work of Raffi Kalenderian, who makes great painting that actually says something about who we are and the way we live. There were a few other booths and artists who stood out (e.g., Carla Busuttil at Josh Lilley (London) and Mihai Nicodim’s artists).  But I’m also always surprised at what some galleries think passes for talent or originality.  The Stanley Whitney’s at Team Gallery’s (New York) space looked like re-hashed Sean Scully’s.  Give me a break. 

There were a few other highlights. Carson Fisk-Vittori at Brand New Gallery (Milano); Roman Liška at DUVE (Berlin); Alex Ruthner at Ibid. (which apparently now has a space in L.A. in addition to its flagship in London); Amy Yao and Mernet Larsen at Various Small Fires; and Hugo Canoilas’ ‘cautionary tales’ at Workplace (London).  I loved the suspended plastic condiment bottles that looked like morphine drip bottles by Ann Cathrin November Høibo at the Standard (Oslo).  Foxy Production was showing some beautiful Deborah Turbeville’s.  (But again, how much better is this than just looking at them at home in a coffee table book?)  I adored the inventory of rock-roadie paraphernalia (in polychrome ceramic), vaguely reminiscent of Claes Oldenberg, by Rose Eken at The Hole (New York). 

But as always, it’s the surprises that make the experience worth the shlep.  Night Gallery shared its space this year with Phil Gallery, which seems to be a spin-off of Night—the ‘Phil’ being Philippe De Sablet, a colleague of Night’s partners.  Davida Nemeroff seemed as enthusiastic about Phil’s offerings (yet another Phil—Davis, and Peter Linden), as her own stable’s.  But what caught my eye was a work by Davida, herself—added almost as an afterthought (but a richly considered one).  Composed of an appropriated (Warhol) polaroid and a found object, it had a half-accidental look that whispered at the viewer, but in a micro-tonal, multi-valent visual language that spoke across time.