Forget Yves Klein, master of academic blue. What we want are blue stripes from Ikea

So Ikea is a bigger inspiration, artistically speaking, than Tate Modern. According to the psychologist Alison Kidd, who has been investigating what sort of art we choose to hang on our walls, more people prefer wandering around the flat-pack furniture giant picking up canvases than hanging out in the Turbine Hall musing on the validity of a framed Lucian Freud poster. And certain colours and shapes appeal more than a famous or fashionable name scrawled on the bottom of a picture from a prestigious gallery. At the moment, minimalist blotchy brown is a big deal. As are blue stripes. Forget about Yves Klein, master of the academic blue; just give us blue stripes from Ikea.

It's a relief, frankly. It is a progressive step to have the confidence to choose friendly brown blotches over, say, a work bearing a YBA moniker because you think you should like it. It's in keeping with the opinions of Nicky Carter, curator of the Groucho Club's impressive contemporary art collection. The Groucho - 20 years old this month and still humming - is possibly the only place in London where a truly eclectic snapshot of British contemporary art can be relished (alongside a stiff vodka and tonic and a plate of Twiglets).

Carter got the ball rolling in 1991. A Goldsmiths graduate and practising artist (with her husband, Rob), she knew all the famous names. So up went the Turk, the Hirst, the Fairburn, the Quinn. But gradually the collection began to mean something different. "It is emphatically not a closed shop; it's not about superstars," says Carter. "We have no budget. We don't buy anything. I go to galleries and studios, and pick up things I like and think will work well on the walls. I want to keep reflecting what is going on in the art world, in an honest way."

The collection is indeed varied. A giant Harry Cory Wright photograph of a blooming Norfolk meadow hangs next to a Christo drawing of the draped Reichstag; Chris Buckford's scintillating Bond-style nudes, done with minuscule photographs of the moon, face a pair of Catherine Yass light-boxes; and in the formal dining room, Peter Blake has a quartet of perfect paintings. There are no labels, no red spots and no emphasis on the "restaurant as gallery" notion favoured by Hirst's now-closed Pharmacy.

"I want people to encounter the art as they might do at home," says Carter. "It's good if they notice it, but it shouldn't jump out." Some pieces are owned by the club, while others are on loan from the artists. About 20 per cent of the stuff ends up on the walls of Groucho members, which is presumably why artists are willing to lend. Carter says there is nothing she wouldn't consider hanging on the club walls: amateur, professional, cartoons, RA, Old Master - it's all been there. Bar one genre. "I am often offered self-portraits of artists, but always turn them down," she confesses. "It would look like favouritism." And no rotting carcasses, a la Saatchi.

Carter is not averse to a bit of outrageousness, however. Noble and Webster, who have made a career out of behaving like studied scamps, have a neon piece in the upstairs bar that reads "Fucking Beautiful". "Quite a lot of people say to their friends: 'I'll meet you by Fucking Beautiful'. It seems to work."

Ooh, those Groucho types. So vain.

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