Seven Days in the Art World (15 page)

Three days later, on the Saturday night before the awards ceremony, Channel 4 broadcast
The Turner Prize Challenge
, a half-hour reality TV program produced by the Tate, in which four contestants—two students, one accountant, and an art teacher—competed against one another to explain the work of the four nominated artists to the general public. The contestants had been winnowed from several hundred “screen tests”—videotaped comments that visitors had made in the Turner Prize Video Booth at the museum. (The Tate sees itself as a “content-rich organization.” It has a comprehensive media facility, with in-house editing suites and camera crews who are “out shooting all the time.”) In this program, one of the contestants explained that in the course of her art appreciation “journey,” she had learned that art should not “just please the eye” but “rip open your mindset.” The winner, Miriam Lloyd-Evans, was a full-lipped twenty-one-year-old art history student. She clinched her victory by calling Collins’s reality TV victim hotline to ask if he wanted to hear about her experiences in making
The Turner Prize Challenge
.

Serota and
his jury have been sitting in the vaulted boardroom, trying to determine a winner, for three hours. Four white tables are arranged to form a large square, evenly surrounded by sixteen chairs. Serota has a side to himself. His back faces the only window in the room, which looks out over the muddy Thames. When they first sat down, the art world judges—Renton, Heller, and Higgs—sat in a row across from him, while Lynn Barber sat in isolation on the left. But Serota and Renton made eye contact, and then Renton stood up and moved to the chair next to Barber’s. Barber took this gesture as an opportunity to apologize for her indiscretion and promised not to write about the final deliberations. The jury watched the three-minute interviews with the artists filmed by Tate Media, and the conversation began.

The judges were initially divided, but early in the meeting, three out of four came out in favor of the same two artists. No one made an issue of either artistic medium or gender. Pros and cons accumulated. They talked a lot about relevance and timing. Every statement seemed to change the lay of the land. If Serota had a favorite, no one knew who it was. Just after 1
P.M
. they thought that they had agreed on a winner, and they adjourned to reflect on their decision over salad in the room next door. Then they went back in the boardroom, confirmed their verdict, and discussed what should go in the press release. By two o’clock their job was done.

As he is pulling away from Tate Britain, Andrew Renton calls me from his “espresso black” Saab convertible. “It was very hard work, very intense, but we have a decision!” he says with a slightly hysterical laugh. “There were no fisticuffs—just a fantastic articulation of the merits of all four. It was astonishingly grown-up.” Renton pauses. His indicator clicks loudly as he makes a difficult turn. “All I can say is, the exhibition does make a difference. It is the last hurdle.” Honking and what must be the low roar of a double-decker bus ensue. Renton mutters “Crikey,” then directs his voice back to the phone. “There was an internal logic to the decision,” he says. “It had to be, in the end.”

The Turner Prize has a reputation for being a reliable indicator of an artist’s ability to sustain a vibrant art practice over the long term, but perhaps it is a self-fulfilling prophecy. The personal confidence gained from being nominated can galvanize an artist’s ambitions, while the museum’s public endorsement leads to further exhibition opportunities. Nevertheless, the jury can’t pick just anyone; if they can’t choose the best artist, then they at least need to plump for the right artist. In the course of researching the prize, I’ve experienced a similar chicken-and-egg confusion about the prize’s ability to
reflect
or
create
a defining sense of the moment. It finally hits me that it’s vital for the prize to do both.

At 5:30
P.M
., a little over an hour before the award party is due to begin, Tate Britain’s blockbuster Old Master show “Holbein in England” (a reminder of just how long London has been attracting international artists) is still heaving with visitors. Upstairs, the Duveen Galleries have been transformed into what looks like a swanky nightclub with purple lights and black leather couches. In a side gallery that’s zoned off for the caterers, the cooks are putting the finishing touches on the canapés. In another alcove, a DJ is setting up his decks. At the far end, set between four giant golden stone columns, is a chrome podium where the Channel 4 News crew is doing a sound check.

Nicholas Glass looks into a camera and says in a deep, smooth voice, “We are all waiting with bated breath for four people to be put out of their misery. They’ve been waiting. We’ve been waiting. And the waiting is just about to be over. Yoko Ono is in the wings. Nick Serota is mounting the podium. Here he comes. Over to Nick.” Glass smiles and lowers the microphone. “Of course, I won’t say that exactly,” he says. “We’ve got six minutes live at the end of the news. After the speeches, we’ll show a clip about the winner’s work, then I’ll ask the winner three questions and hope that he or she will say something, anything, before a voice in my ear says, ‘Okay, wind it up.’”

Glass talks in discrete sound bites. “Serota is absolutely professional. He’ll get on and off the stage quickly.” He stops, smiles. “It’s the interview with the shell-shocked artist that makes me slightly anxious. Depending on who wins, it could be a
very awkward
television moment. But people love that. If the winner has nothing to say, they will enjoy my discomfort.” He pauses, smiles again. “I will probably have had a drink or two by that time, as, I hope, will they. It’s easy to fuck up, but I am old enough not to care.” The seven o’clock Channel 4 news is one of few hour-long news programs on British television, and even though Glass has the luxury of six minutes rather than other newscasters’ two and a half, he admits, “There is no time to be profound. It is like a football event, where you can share people’s anxiety about who is going to win, then take pleasure in someone’s euphoria at the end of the game.”

Over Glass’s shoulder, Yoko Ono is slowly mounting the steps of the podium. She wears trousers, a top hat, and Lennon sunglasses. She adjusts the microphone down to her height and says, “In 1966, I was in New York, I received an invite from London, and made a journey across the water. It…changed my life forever.” Her voice betrays her Japanese roots. “In those days New York was the center of the art world. Now it’s London.” She reads the words ardently, as if she were reciting a poem. “Artists’ power
can
affect the world…” Her voice rings through the cavernous gallery. “I am happy to open the gate of acceptance by the institution of art to another young artist…And the 2006 Turner Prize goes to…” She stops. Her envelope is empty. It is just a rehearsal.

I make a beeline to the spot where her entourage has set up camp. “The spirit of art is to express the truth,” she tells me tenderly. “Politicians are too involved in red tape to be human. Artists are freer to express themselves, but if we self-censor ourselves to accommodate the monetary world, we destroy the purity of art.” I wonder how she feels about the competitive aspect of the Turner. “I feel bad in having to announce one winner, but I think that just being a candidate has made a big difference to the lives of all four. Sectors of the peace industry are always criticizing each other, but the war industry is so united. We need to respect each other’s position. It is great that art is flourishing.”

At 6:45
P.M
. the doors open and the crowd flows past security, into the hall where waiters stand with trays of cocktails provided by Gordon’s Gin, the prize’s sponsor. Among the throng are a number of past winners: Rachel Whiteread (1993), Wolfgang Tillmans (2000), Martin Creed (2001), Keith Tyson (2002), Grayson Perry in a prim black rubber dress (2003), and Jeremy Deller (2004).

Since his win, Grayson Perry has become one of Britain’s most famous artists, and in addition to his art practice, he has written a weekly column for the
Times
. “Rather than carrying on being the subject of the media, I elected to become a member of it,” he explains with a swing of his handbag and a glance at his wife. “In the art world there is a snobbery which suggests that the artist is meant to be a shadowy figure in the background behind the work. That kind of high-integrity marketing strategy is very common. Whether people call it a marketing strategy or integrity is another matter.” Perry stops to be adored by a trio of female fans, then continues. “The monk-artist is an attractive archetype in a world where there are only so many—the belligerent drunk, the batty dame, the flaming tortured soul. It’s a big part of the attraction of art—the work as a relic of the artist/saint/holy fool. People want to touch the cloth or whatever. It’s part of the religion.”

Charlotte Higgins, the arts correspondent of the
Guardian,
has already submitted her copy. “For the first edition, you can submit as late as eight o’clock,” she says, “but it’s heavily frowned upon—an emergency measure, reserved for death and disaster. My editor is usually on my tail by six.” Higgins writes four thousand words and files around five stories in an average week. “Every year I put in a call to the one press officer who knows who has won at around four o’clock, whip up six hundred and fifty words by six, then throw on a clean frock and rush down here.” She glances at the time on her BlackBerry. “After the press conference, I’ll call in a few tidbits and a decent quote for the third edition. Now I long for something jolly to happen—a nice bit of chaos or contention.” Higgins scans the crowd and giggles. “It all looks slightly comedic when you already know the result.”

Conceptual artist Martin Creed is feeling nostalgic. His winning installation from 2001,
Work No. 227: The lights going on and off
, is currently on display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. “I remember being scared of losing and not liking the fact that I cared about it so much,” he says. “I felt a terrible conflict between wanting to win and thinking it was stupid. I learned a lot about myself during the prize. I realized that I was so competitive—so scared of losing—that I had entered a field in which whatever I did, I could pretend I’d won.” He looks suspiciously into his tall glass of some sloe gin concoction before he takes a gulp. For Creed, no one is ever best in show. “If the artists create artworks, then the judges create a winner. Whoever they chose is a reflection of themselves.”

In a side gallery—a gray room hung with William Blake paintings acting as a green room—this year’s nominated artists are trying to enjoy a glass of champagne. Dressed for the cameras, they politely admire each other’s clothes and avoid all mention of the prize. Serota makes the rounds, complimenting the artists on their shows, saying, “I know how difficult this is. I hope it’s been a good experience notwithstanding all the pressures.” Although the judges were invited, when Matthew Higgs drops by, he feels like an intruder, so he flees back to the party in the Duveens.

With the DJ and the lighting, the event feels a bit like a prom, although more cosmopolitan than the one in De Palma’s
Carrie
. Indeed, it is a graduation, or at least an important rite of passage for many British artists. One by one, this year’s nominees emerge and are corralled into an alcove to the left of the podium, like finalists for homecoming queen. Phil Collins has scrubbed up well and is a model of nonchalance. Rebecca Warren alternates between looking giddy and looking grave in a black short-sleeved dress and gray high heels. Mark Titchner is poker-faced in a navy blazer. His girlfriend looks up at him—an emotional buttress. Sitting farther away from the stage on a bench is Tomma Abts. She sports a natty gray-and-beige inside-out dress, but she looks thoroughly morose. She is hunched over, head in hands, elbows on knees. The artists are watched over by their dealers, who wear firm professional smiles. Serota slips in and out of conversational clusters as he makes his way to the stage. He looks handsome, if a tad funereal, in a dark suit, white shirt, and silver tie. A PR woman whispers in my ear, “It’s time,” and the museum director skips up to the podium, delivers a sixty-second speech about “questioning contemporary values,” and introduces Yoko Ono as an “artist of international repute.”

Most people here care about who is going to win. Some long for victory for a friend. Others believe that certain triumphs are more just than others. After an excruciating silence as Ono fumbles with the envelope, she finally declares that the winner is…“Tomma Abts.”

Abts ascends the stage, kisses Ono, and delivers her short, unprepared thanks. She is swept downstage right, where the Channel 4 News crew is set up for her live interview. Serota moves swiftly to the left to kiss the cheeks and shake the hands of the artists who will forever remain nominees. Abts, meanwhile, is ushered into her room of paintings. Cameras flash and paparazzi holler, “Tomma, over here!” “This way, darlin’!” and “Could we have happier?” Facing the press pack, Abts deflects their questions so expertly that the
Daily Telegraph
’s arts correspondent remarks, “She should get a job in the Foreign Office.”

An hour later, back in the Duveen Galleries, the crowd has thinned and gossip is flying. Someone tells me that all the sculptures in Rebecca Warren’s room have sold to a dozen different collectors for a total of half a million dollars, or maybe it’s pounds. (A Turner Prize nomination is often said to increase an artist’s prices by a third, whereas a win doubles them.) Phil Collins will soon be on a plane to Indonesia to research a video. Both he and Warren have slipped off to their separate after-parties; Collins’s is at the Three Kings pub in Clerkenwell Green, while Warren’s “very private” affair is hosted by an Italian “art world figure.”

Mark Titchner is still around, leaning against the bar, surrounded by friends. He’s scheduled to exhibit in a group show at the Venice Biennale. As he knocks back a bottle of beer, he tells me that he’s had better evenings elsewhere. “It was like being dumped by your girlfriend in public, then asked to be ‘just friends,’” he said. “Just because you know it’s coming doesn’t make it any less weird.”