Photo London

I don’t understand Photo London. I mean, I do, it just confuses me. I’d have thought it to be celebration of experimentation. Almost a marker of how far the lines have been pushed this year, which artist is going further into no mans land than the other. Instead I see what I always do – the Bowies, the Jaggers, Kate Moss. A repetition of what works, of what sells. That doesn’t strike me as the purpose of such an institution.

And the disconnect, is immense. You enter the white palace of Somerset House and it costs to sneeze – almost fourty grand. In the main pavilion, I visited David Bailey’s agency ‘Camera Eye’. Within their bubble, a small box of envelopes stood alone at its centre. ‘POLAROID LUCKY DIP’ – that’s what it said. As I reach towards it, the gallerist smirks to say “that will be £1200”. Twelve hundred; I don’t think I need to say much more. If the lottery – that small chance of success we all cling to, costs more than a month’s rent, then where does the excitement remain? Not in the work, that’s all been seen; and less and less in the act of viewing – it seems to be another chance to clamp our hands around another tulip glass.

User: Danny Fisher
18 May 2024