How to succeed at Frieze

Five ways to make your mark at the art extravaganza.

With so many different galleries from all over the world vying for visitors (particularly those of the well-heeled variety), going around Frieze can be somewhat numbing - and that's putting it mildly. What are the winning strategies that make a few galleries stand out from the crowd? Here are five ways to lure in artlovers, collectors and idlers:

1. Position is key

It is no exaggeration to say that where a gallery is situated inside the vast Frieze tent can make or break it. The more prominent galleries, more often than not from New York or London, line one of the principal arteries of the fair, close to the main entrance through which everyone is channelled in. Smaller, lesser-known galleries often languish somewhere on the periphery, in cubicles half the size of those allotted to their more illustrious counterparts. Being placed next to the toilets at last year's fair, I was told by the attendant of an Italian gallery, did his sales more harm than the economic downturn.

2. The element of shock

Given the ambient sensory overload, some galleries resort to shock tactics. Perrotin gallery mounts a full-blown assault on the senses by choosing Daniel Firman's multi-coloured neon Butterfly, inspired by the Apple login-in sign, as its centrepiece. An abrupt change of scale, forcing you to peer at a work from close up or else to distance yourself from it, can equally be arresting. On a different note, pornography is more prominent than ever at this year's fair. Desperate measures for desperate times?

3. The recognition factor

Galleries from far and wide pull out all their big names for the occasion. What struck me was the number of British artists or artists recently featured in major London exhibitions on show. Michael Werner and David Zwirner, two New York-based galleries facing each other from across the aisle, had between them enough works by artists made familiar through solo exhibitions at Tate Modern and Tate Britain, the Whitechapel Gallery and the White Cube, to fill out a choice contemporary art museum. But even smaller galleries are eager to flaunt their work relations with the usual suspects of the British arts scene.

4. Humour pays off

Contemporary art isn't famous for its sense of humour. This may be why two Frieze Talks - "What's So Funny?" and "Susan Hiller in conversation with John Welchman" - choose to tackle this issue head-on. A more subtle alternative to shock, humour can be just as arresting. Witness gallery Jack Hanley's adroit use of astonishingly lifelike, cast-resin effigies of gherkins erected on pedestals in Austrian artist Erwin Wurm's Self-Portrait as a Pickle.

5. Less is more

This principle goes a long way to explaining the success of "Frame", a section of the fair dedicated to solo artist presentations by galleries that have been around for less than 6 years. Some of the displays that worked best at Frieze as a whole were the ones which focused on a single artist or fully worked out one dominant concept. Soothing grey tones in the richly patterned paintings by Japanese artist Nana Funo, represented by Tomio Koyama Gallery based in Tokyo and Kyoto, were a positive reprieve after some of the fair's excesses.

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State