The Philosophy of the Art Party
Lisette May Monroe reports on frieze magazine’s festive bash, reflecting on what makes an artistic soirée
Lisette May Monroe reports on frieze magazine’s festive bash, reflecting on what makes an artistic soirée

Entering the pub hosting the frieze magazine Christmas party, I was excited – mainly because it was the only work-related seasonal bash to which I had been invited. I was revved up to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus beyond belief, in an outfit – a slightly too tight black top with a low square neck and a skirt that had unintentionally ripped – that I probably wouldn’t usually wear.
Many in the crowd were suffering from the classic seasonal disorder of wearing too many layers for inside but not enough for out. After the first hour of rosy-cheeked, excitable hand-grabbing, the throng broke down into groups: the smokers huddled and gossiped, the dancers spun around, and the drinkers annoyed the bar staff by adding more and more to their rounds. Friends shouted orders from the back of the pub to those at the bar. Most forgot how to queue because the bar was free. No one kicked off about it – it’s Christmas! – but things came close a couple of times.
I mainly roamed around with some gorgeous pals, and absolutely no one flirted with me, which was criminal. Trays of party food were either demolished or waved by. Why did one plate of pigs in blankets survive over another? There was no rhyme or reason. The poor guy giving out complimentary prosecco was having the worst night of his life. People tried to talk to me about work, about art. But what everyone seemed to be seeking was the nitty gritty, the Christmas-party-loose-tongue-illicit-natter, the electrifying tit-bit that would go straight in the group chat.
For an event full of artists and writers, the evening was uncharacteristically full of smiles and laughs. I spotted John Akomfrah – who did not acknowledge how I nearly threw up on him during our Venice interview – and, at a distance, the sculptor Roger Hiorns, whom I have still never met. The everlastingly chic France-Lise McGurn was there, and the writer Deborah Levy left in a taxi just as I arrived (which is word for word what somebody said to me about her last year!) You could feel the year relaxing under us, full, fun and festive.
Downstairs, there was a party room, which was basically a cave. Princess Julia and Jeffery Hinton DJed. In the middle of this grotto, a hole in the floor was dramatically lit with coloured lights and covered in glass. Rumour seemed to have it the hole contained the very core of the party; drunk revellers kept bounding down the narrow stairs and racing over to peer into it enthusiastically.
Art parties are notoriously contradictory. You tell your friends about them, and they say, ‘That sounds glam.’ Truthfully, they can be trenches of anxiety and work disguised as play. Usually, they hang off a thing – an exhibition, biennial, publication launch – so they all swirl around this anchoring entity, forever drawing us back to the day-to-day of work or practice. Even in a thumping warehouse or chic new nightclub, people keep their wits about them and hold steady on their professionalism, even if they give a different impression. A Christmas party, however, whether you observe or not, gives an excuse to circulate around something with little stakes – a more relaxed affair, that lets us all cut a little looser.
It all ended abruptly at the advertised time, which shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. The free bar never dried up, which was the most treasured of Christmas miracles. Old friends just about embraced on the steps, promising drinks in the New Year. Three people donned Santa hats, and absolute fair fucks to them.
The night concluded – or began – as all nights do. A group connected because they were all at the same event, standing outside a shuttered-up pub, hoping someone would take the lead to the next place. The romantic street lighting made us all equally buoyant and bashful. Just as the app gods connected me to a cab home, another one pulled up, alluringly regal, and my dear friend Shola von Reinhold popped her head out: ‘Lisette, you simply must get in’. Reader, I did.
At the anonymous afters, I paid a partygoer £10 to help me source a vape. We then spent a lot of time discussing why port and coastal towns have more karaoke bars than landlocked places. I spent the longer-than-expected drive home playing back the night, and the past 12 months – the party put an apt full-stop on the year.
The party took place at The Sekforde, London.
Main image: disposable camera photograph shot by party attendees