Bidding at Christie's New York. (Emmanuel Dunand/AGP/Getty Images)

Hey, do you feel like the art world is upside down? In her disco standard “Upside Down,” Diana Ross sings about how her boyfriend is unfaithful, but she looks the other way because “no one makes me feel like you do.” Unlike Diana, I’m not comfortable when things are upside down, and I never look the other way. New year, new beginning, time to think about what doesn’t make sense. Here are just a few of the sundry art-market realities that just don’t add up.

The first thing that comes to mind is an inversion of the spread between the primary and secondary markets. Throughout most of the last decade, a collector could buy “primary,” i.e. fresh-from-the-studio-to-the-gallery, artworks by name-brand artists at attractive prices. Up until 2009, you could buy them for a dollar and then theoretically sell them at auction for two, or three or more (adding a few zeros). This practice became known as the much-maligned “flipping” of art. The better dealers tried to avoid selling to “flippers” out of fear that an artist’s market could collapse, but with secondary market prices spiking, there was ample opportunity for spectacular profit-taking, and we witnessed plenty of it.

Today I find the opposite to be true: very often, when you buy a brand new piece in a gallery, my view is that it’s worth half the moment you walk out the door. Yet still most collectors today buying primary works mistakenly think that they’re getting in on good deals, fantasizing that the new work they are buying is worth what they paid for it or more on the secondary market. Go talk to an auction expert, and you will quickly find out that today this is rarely the case. I understand people love to gamble, but eventually, when collectors figure out that the flipping game is mostly over, they will stop betting on the new and gravitate toward artists who have already stood the market’s test of time, or they’ll finally see the logic in revisiting critically and curatorially proven artists who have not yet had their day in the marketplace. Soon we will see a shift in values; the old stuff will hold its value but much of the newest work will suffer.

You say there are still opportunities in the primary market? Sure, I know of a desirable Sterling Ruby painting bought yesterday for $200,000 that someone is trying to flip for $500,000, and a lovely Tauba Auerbach picture that was $120,000 on the primary market late last year that was recently offered to me for $450,000. Wade Guyton’s work is another prime flip today, but even these will eventually lose momentum and the spreads will inevitably narrow. Mark Grotjahn paintings, which have extremely broad appeal, seem to be the ultimate exception to my rule—their value keeps going up no matter what. In his case I say, ‘exceptio probat regulam in casibus non exceptis’: the exception proves the rule. This year, allowing for such exceptions, the new hot stuff will lose steam in favor of more historical work. It will no longer be fashionable to have an entire house filled with brand spanking new art. In fact, a collection like that will seem plain embarrassing. When the shiny new stuff hits the resale market, it’ll sell like used cars.

The other phenomenon I find strange at the moment is the art world’s, and the media’s, obsession with the alleged manipulation of the auction market. Did you read that recent front-page article in The New York Times in which reporters Robin Pogrebin and Kevin Flynn broke the news that “at major auctions the first bids announced for a piece are typically fictional—numbers pulled from the air by the auctioneer to jump-start bidding”? Haven’t we known this for years? Chandelier phone bids are just a little theater to make it all sound exciting; every auction veteran knows the real bidding doesn’t start until we approach the low estimate.

I often wonder who these do-gooder reporters are purporting to protect. Is it those little old ladies who walk into the sales rooms raising their paddles to bid millions of dollars in total naïveté like blind fools? If people are that stupid in any market, they get what they deserve, and anyway the artworks that are guaranteed are marked with an asterisk right in the catalog, so if you can’t see ’em, get a magnifying glass.

The article also warns that “collectors can find themselves being bid up by someone who, in exchange for agreeing in advance to pay a set amount for a work, is promised a cut of anything that exceeds that price.” It is true that the third-party guarantor gets a single-digit percentage discount in the form of a “financing fee” if he gets stuck with the work, and yes, if it sells above the reserve he gets a percentage of the upside—and again ... so what? In any business I’ve ever been in, people get paid for “writing a put.” It’s now their money that’s at risk. Still confused? Think of it this way: the guarantor has promised to buy the work at the low estimate weeks before the auction, and for doing so, he got a small fee and a percentage of the upside if it sells for more, sometimes negotiated as high as 50 percent (this type of insurance is expensive!). I am well aware of situations in which works have sold for inexplicably high prices and the guarantor made out like a bandit, but I’ve also seen a dealer get stuck with a $30 million picture, so don’t get too excited; not every guarantor gets doused by a golden shower of cash money. Here’s one for you to ponder: how about a regulation that protects the third-party guarantor from getting stuck with an overpriced dud no one wants?

Let’s also never forget that auction experts are just fancy salespeople. They’ll talk up their merch using words like “masterpiece,” “impossible to find,” “fresh to the market” or whatever they think will work on you. If you plan on buying at auction, do your homework, or better yet, find a dealer you trust to do your research for you. As far as the widespread concerns about this market’s regulatory oversight, it mostly comes from people who aren’t involved. Several prominent dealers have joined the critics of late, and I do sympathize with them. Sure, it’s a damn shame so many art buyers prefer to buy at auction rather than in galleries. But the unrealistic and huge prices for bellwether works are what help keep art prices up for everyone. When people think “art” is an “investment,” confidence is high and people spend more, on every type of art, young and old. The art professionals sound disingenuous when they complain about high auction prices—they know this rising tide lifts all boats.

Another popular misconception is the one relating to Gagosian Gallery. Larry Gagosian was the subject of recent extensive profiles in New York magazine and here in The Observer. This came after a huge hoopla relating to the announcement that Jeff Koons would “leave” the gallery to do a show at David Zwirner’s new space. Gagosian Gallery rarely gets sufficient praise for all the amazing shows it’s done; instead, people obsess over every bump it hits along the way. The gallery is far from a one-man show. The list of talented professionals at Gagosian is long, and the product it puts out is unrivaled—just look at the investment it makes in its artist’s books.

So why would Mr. Koons “defect” by going to Zwirner’s? Is the impregnable system cracking? My interpretation is very different. Artists at the top (price) level demand heavy investment and aggressive sales, and so perhaps there are some financial differences of opinion (it wouldn’t be the first time—Mr. Koons once nearly bankrupted Jeffrey Deitch), but I also wonder if the artist isn’t simply looking for greener pastures. His large studio and costly production will always require fresh buyers for the work. The surprising thing is not so much the defection but the choice to show with David Zwirner. His program purports to be highbrow, “European”—it’s heavy with painters, and he has taken pride in deliberately shying away from “market artists.” Now he’s cooly embracing Mr. Koons, the ultimate heir to the Pop Art throne, as if it’s an obvious fit. That strikes me as cynical on Mr. Zwirner’s part, and an odd marriage for Jeff (not his first). Somehow no one raises an eyebrow at all this, perhaps because it is understood that business is business, or maybe because I need Lasik surgery, but I think I see just fine.

As for Damien Hirst’s announcement that he too will leave Gagosian, well, when has he not been a free agent? He’ll swim anywhere he smells blood, and faster than any of his peers: in Damien we trust. Gagosian Gallery has amazed the art world time and again by amassing an encyclopedic list of artists that it either represents or has access to. What is truly remarkable is not that one or two will go, it’s that the majority of them stay.

Speaking of which, why do they stay? Showing with Gagosian, or anywhere else for that matter, is no longer a guarantee of success, contrary to what the naïve would like to believe. Sure, the gallery has done wonders for many like Cy Twombly and of course Mr. Koons, not to forget the current market hype around Rudi Stingel, but outside of the best-seller list, many good artists get lost in this ginormous system. A lot of Gagosian’s mid-career artists are struggling to find their voice; in retrospect, they may have been better served by sticking with smaller and more loyal galleries where they are the bigger fish, because in the Gagosian context, they tend to look like canned sardines. The problem for them now is whether there is life after Gagosian, because once you defect from the world’s biggest and best, what’s your next step? It’s a helluva long way down when you leap from the top.

There are several major disconnects between perception and reality in the market today, things that are upside down. I don’t foresee the market ever again returning to the liquidity drought of the 1990s, but a herd mentality mindlessly infected with blind and bullish optimism can’t go on forever. Expect to see a slowdown as some of the wheat gets cut from the chaff while the market gradually cools. But don’t sweat it: remember that “no one makes me feel like you do.”

editorial@observer.com

Zwirner and Koons. (PMC)

Bogie knew, “you must remember this ...” Here are a few art world surprises to remember, and some we’d rather forget.

The Chelsea Flood: Who could ever have imagined that a silly old hurricane would sink the entire Chelsea art district and parts of Red Hook? Sandy not only inundated basement storages; first-floor galleries had their key November exhibitions  floating in six feet of dirty seawater. I walked through the tragic scene the morning after, and saw trashed galleries with dirty art dripping and salty. It’s amazing how fast many of Chelsea’s galleries reopened, some acting as if nothing had happened. What’s next, a tsunami?

A Big Top on Randall’s Island: Who needs another art fair ... Rio? Istanbul? Phnom Penh? Anywhere but New York, right? How could a city that is filled with galleries and that already hosts the Armory Show (which just sold to the eccentric art magazine publisher Louise Blouin) and the ADAA Art Show possibly handle another fair? Turned out it could—and then some. In May, London’s successful Frieze franchise opened a game-changing new fair housed in a big top tent on Randall’s Island with over 170 international galleries, and thousands of shoppers flocked in. It seems like most buyers today can’t be bothered to take in a gallery show; they want their art product sliced, diced and hung side-by-side in tidy cubicles, so they got what they were looking for. It was a huge success, and confirmed that the fairs—art’s shopping malls—are where it’s at. They’re like the World Series and the Super Bowl of art combined. All that’s missing is stadium vendors selling peanuts and Cracker Jack, and one that yells: “Bee-ah Heeyah!”

Schimmel-Gate in Los Angeles: Nearly three years ago, one of New York’s most beloved impresarios, the inimitable Jeffrey Deitch, gave up his gallery when tapped by his friends on the board of the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MoCA) to run their troubled museum. Mr. Deitch was known for discovering new talent and putting on art spectacles that attracted a large and youthful downtown following. When he arrived in L.A., rumors spread that veteran MoCA curator Paul Schimmel was not pleased. Bitter infighting ensued between curator and director, infighting that this past summer led to Mr. Schimmel’s departure and prompted all the artists to resign from the museum board, including hometown heroes John Baldessari and Ed Ruscha. The L.A. press was all over it, as were several in the New York art community who had once lauded Mr. Deitch; in lockstep, they all turned on him. Will he remain in L.A. after the museum’s Urs Fischer retrospective this spring? In hindsight, mistakes were made all around; let’s hope the museum and everyone involved looks at the bigger picture.

Christie’s Record-Breaking Contemporary Art Sale: In November, Christie’s Contemporary Art Auction tallied a sale of historic proportions, totaling a whopping $412.2 million. This type of result creates a myopic view that, despite the bad economy, art is selling like hotcakes. Though big numbers were achieved for blue-chip names like Franz Kline and Mark Rothko, the theater of it all helps keep all the smaller boats afloat—and disguises the reality that, outside the tippy-toppy-type “trophy” auction results, the rest of the art market has slowed down.

Red Hot Richter: German artist Gerhard Richter’s greatest contributions to painting are his photography-based figurative works, especially those relating to Germany’s Nazi past. But his color abstraction paintings, of which he has made many over the years, have recently hypnotized the art market. A large one sold for $21 million a year ago, and soon after that, this past October, came an inexplicable price of $34 million for a particularly luscious picture. Only a month later, a painting of a similar size hammered for only $17.5 million. Go figure. Sure, each one is different, but the prices for pictures of equal size and comparable quality are bouncing between $15 million and $35 million like a dented Ping-Pong ball. It just goes to show how irrational today’s art market can be. As my grandfather always used to say, it’s “Easy come, easy go!”

Koons Flies the Coop: All over Miami earlier this month, rumors were flying that mega-star Jeff Koons was leaving his roost at Gagosian Gallery to have his next show hosted at the new Chelsea digs of the David Zwirner Gallery. Many felt this just couldn’t happen, and then it did. At the highest level, star artists have more power than they seem to realize—perhaps now they’ll start to use it. Fast on the heels of the Koons news came the announcement that Damien Hirst would split from Gagosian. But Mr. Hirst, who had been showing with Gagosian for 17 years, was never really “represented” by any gallery, since he’s always done as he’s seen fit, even when that meant putting his own work up for auction and thereby trashing his market and the collectors who supported it. Then the mysteriously mad Yayoi Kusama, as if she were psychically tuned in to Messrs. Koons and Hirst, announced that she too will leave the Gagosian Gallery. Through “loyalty,” lethargy, apathy or fear, the biggest-name artists have been willingly shackled to their heritage galleries—now that may be changing. I don’t believe this trend is specific to Gagosian. The very foundations of the “artist representation” model are crumbling. Maybe all the top-selling artists will fire their galleries and form one big collective, then they can just set prices and cut out the dealers. I’d prefer it if they charged one price at the door and then a bingo machine randomly chose which artwork you got; that would make it fun again.

Tate Talent to the Met: By hiring Tate Modern’s dynamic curator Sheena Wagstaff, Tom Campbell, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s youthful director, is reinvigorating the Met’s stodgy contemporary program; he’s got the space, too, having rented out the Marcel Breuer building, which the Whitney Museum will soon move out of.

Dishonorable Mention: Venus Over Manhattan, my uptown gallery, opened in May with a theme show titled “À Rebours,” inspired by the story of the Duc Jean des Esseintes, the debauched 19th-century art collector. One day, a thief walked into the gallery and plucked a fine Dalí off the wall, right under the nose of a gallery guard and smack in the crosshairs of a well-focused security camera. After the heist generated over 500 news stories around the world, the culprit shockingly mailed the piece back to the gallery in a poster tube. Was it a take from the old Thomas Crown Affair or some dangerous and delinquent art performance? No doubt it was a wacky prank—don’t get me wrong, we love when people enjoy the show, but kleptomaniacs are no longer welcome.

editorial@observer.com

Correction: Dec. 20, 2012: An earlier version of this article cited a Jack Goldstein retrospective being canceled in favor of an exhibition of the work of Dennis Hopper as a reason for tension between L.A. MoCA Director Jeffrey Deitch and the museum's former chief curator, Paul Schimmel. We have learned from a representative of the museum that what we wrote is a widespread misconception, and that, in fact, the Goldstein show was not cancelled due to the Hopper show. The Hopper exhibition, "Dennis Hopper Double Standard," went on view in July, 2010, a year before the Goldstein exhibition was scheduled. The decision not to host the Goldstein exhibition was related to the fact that Goldstein's work had recently been featured in the 2011 exhibition "Pacific Standard Time," as well as in the museum's permanent collection, and so it was decided that it was better to postpone the Goldstein exhibition, or ask that the show be altered. The Goldstein exhibition, "Jack Goldstein X 10,000," ended up going to the Orange County Museum of Art, in Newport Beach, Calif., where it ran from June 24 through Sept. 9, 2012. It will appear in New York at the Jewish Museum next spring.

(John Parra/Getty Images)

As in years past, my trepidations about Art Basel Miami Beach began days before my departure. This time it started in the waiting room of my uptown doctor’s office, when one patient called out to another: “Hey Freddie, when d-y’a get ta Miami?” Freddie replied, “Can’t make it till Thursday—we’ll rock.” I knew then that the art world had changed irrevocably—there would be no turning back.

I’d never seen these people anywhere near art before. They wouldn’t dare set foot in a museum (except for the gala), nevermind a gallery. And that makes sense—if they actually entered a gallery, they might have to see the exhibition, think about the artist’s intentions, and listen to someone explain something more than the “market” value of a piece. These folks don’t want that. They go to Miami to splurge and rub elbows with everyone they know and want to know. With their requisite accessory in tow—the art advisor or auction expert—they do some damage at the fair and then move on to drinks, a bite at Mr. Chow and a little nightclubbing. Why should they care about art? Hopefully, they can afford the same type of collection their buddies have—name brand art produced in large enough quantities that everyone can enjoy a similar shiny, new collection, in decorator-friendly colors. Old style “collecting” is so over. Today’s buyers make art purchases for social cachet. As far as “investment” goes, well, they’ll get what they deserve…

It was only a year ago that my satirical “Occupy Art Basel Miami Beach, Now!” article created controversy and prompted a couple of soapbox art writers to attack me and defend Miami—and art fairs in general— in order to promote themselves. Now these same pundits are equally shameless in their rush to recant. Suddenly, it’s all the rage to bash the fairs, according to last week’s story on the cover of the New York Times’ art section, and a cover story in the daily Art Newspaper that teed off with my mock manifesto.

The irony is that I was never on the wagon. I may be a cynic but I’ve been “hitting” the fairs for years, and even picked up a few choice pieces along the way.

Collectors—as that word was once understood—are a thing of the past, so people like me are totally passé, I’m a cro-magnon man. Art fairs are the new reality, and as one soi-disant “collector” said to me in Miami, ”Hey man, you know very well no one goes to galleries anymore, all the action is at the fairs or at auction.” Woe is me, the guy who opened a gallery this very year. I already feel like a dinosaur, and Art Basel Miami Beach won’t let my gallery have a booth for years, no matter how good my shows are, because their committee system protects the legacy galleries from new challengers. This all goes hand in hand with the old “artist representation model,” in which every artist is forced by the system to sign up with a single gallery which then takes commissions on sales the artist makes elsewhere. Thankfully this indentured servitude may finally loosen up now that mega art star Jeff Koons just announced he’ll be leaving his roost at Gagosian Gallery to do a show at David Zwirner’s new Chelsea space. This move at the top could be the game changer I’m waiting for, but, then again, only time will tell: old habits die hard.

In Miami, a major Los Angeles dealer leveled with me. “Like it or not,” he said, “we do most of our business at these fairs.” But the trade show turned into retail bonanza is the same phenomenon that happened with fashion shows in the 90’s as they morphed from displays for department store buyers to spectacles directed at wealthy couture clients with a sprinkling of celebrities to generate press. The same is true of the auction houses, which once catered almost exclusively to the trade. These days, the theatrics of their overblown catalogs and their lavish jet-set parties target big fish from Eastern Europe, Asia and beyond.
Why fight’ em? I want to join’ em, and so, in order to better understand the fairs, I attempted to visit every single one of them in Miami last week, why be a snob? Once again, in order to refresh my outlook, I went against the grain, and visited the many so-called “satellite fairs” first—leaving Art Basel Miami Beach for last. Here is what I found.

SCOPE Art Fair: This event bills itself as “the premier launching pad for contemporary art,” so it seemed like the right place to launch myself into the satellite art fair experience. It’s hard to get a firm grip on what ties Scope together, until you look up at the names of the galleries. They were mainly from cities outside the major art centers of NY, LA and London. Here you can find galleries from Tampa and Fort Lauderdale, or—why not?—Carmel and Cincinnati. These guys have no shot at getting into the “real” fair (Art Basel Miami Beach) and they wouldn’t fit in if they did. I found lots of “looks a lot like” paintings and plenty of sculptures with optical illusions and pop art copy catting, the aptly named “eye candy” for art buyers who know nothing and don’t feel any need to. I did make one discovery, the Red Truck gallery from New Orleans, a wonderful place that featured a tattooed and mustachioed artist who made works on paper inside of old matchbooks. Chris Roberts-Antieau, the lead artist of the gallery (and the owner’s mother) sews pieces of vintage fabric into surreal portraits and scenarios with a vintage style that merges quilting with devil worship spun into a naïve bayou fantasy. To add to the ambience the gallery had lots of funky friends just “hanging out,” like that tattooed artist with a handlebar moustache and dice for earrings and a dwarf dressed in black leather who vaguely resembled Sid Vicious and ran my credit card.

Art Asia: The Asian art at this event, housed in the same tent as Scope, was amazing, the kind of stuff you would expect to see in Luke Skywalker’s favorite Chinese restaurant. From wild Gursky-ish photos of the Forbidden City to Manga-inspired paintings of nude Japanese vampire babes in bikinis, this stuff couldn’t be beat.

Ink Miami: This one sounded exciting, since after years of lusting for big bold paintings and sculptures I’ve got a knack for works on paper, especially ones by Betty Tompkins and Salvador Dali—but this little fair was a sad one. The mostly old vendors were selling tired prints and multiples. It was a place to find an old, unloved Sol LeWitt or perhaps a sad Jim Dine.

Untitled Art Fair: This happening tent right on the beach was the first fair to open and was by far the hippest scene that night. It seemed to cater to the Miami crowd without any pretensions of being “better than”. It felt like Scope without the crafty schmaltz. It was all fun, and had about as much bite as a wine cooler.

PULSE Art Fair: This fair has long been considered better than most satellites. It humbly describes itself as “the leading US art fair dedicated solely to contemporary art,” but its pulse was a bit too intense for my eyes to bear. A group of galleries exhibited stuff that looked like it could hang in the bar of a Star Wars movie or in the captain’s quarters of a Klingon Starship: it’s the perfect fair for those who use their eyes but not their brains. The place is fun, but take my advice: don’t go with a pulsing Miami hangover.

NADA: the annual fair of the “New Art Dealers Alliance” had the best energy in all of Miami. Sadly their acronym just about sums up what 95% of this work will be worth in ten years. Still, some of the art was pretty damn good, and many of the galleries are up and comers in the “real” (NY-London-LA) art world. On a Thursday morning NADA was packed with savvy collectors and several dealers ogling many deserving galleries that can’t get into or can’t afford to be in the “real” fair. I did see a lot of derivative art but the buzz was fantastic, and the energy was palpable, so I’m 100% certain that in all that throng of merchandise for sale there were indeed some gems to be discovered, and I spied a few art advisors and big fish dealers snooping for them.

What I loved most about my visit to Miami’s art fair outer space was watching the concept of “art as investment” go straight out the window. The patrons of these events were having fun, and really buying what they like. Case in point: you’ll find almost no art advisors at any of these places except for NADA. The need for “advisors” happens at Art Basel Miami Beach where the stakes are much higher, and there they are ubiquitous. Sure much of the work at the satellites was derivative and bastardized, or in shockingly horrific taste, but frankly Art Basel Miami Beach wasn’t a bed of roses either. The good people shopping in these “other”fairs have no pretense of “collecting” great works; they are mostly into eye candy and a fun time, and these events ensure that they are well served. A more sophisticated would-be speculator/investor scours NADA to find the next hot artist before he or she makes it into the main fair and sees a hefty increase in price. In Latin it is written: “De gustibus et coloris non est disputandem”—dy’a get my point? For the Miami satellite fair go-ers, art’s still about fun and not just for show or to count paper profits. And that’s the good part—there’s no pretense of any other motivation. Pity so much of it is an affront to the eyes.

editorial@observer.com

Frieze Masters. (Linda Nylind)

Last week, London hosted three major art fairs and several smaller and younger ones, enough to make any sane person wonder: have we reached the point of art fair overkill? I’ve often thought—and written—that the art fair scene has gone overboard, and now I’m not alone. On his Facebook page New York magazine’s art critic Jerry Saltz recently lamented the explosion of art fairs and the new custom among hungry galleries to send out email blasts from them announcing how many works they’ve sold. “We’ve built a worm into the system,” Mr. Saltz wrote. “The system is self-supporting and draws its power from everyone.” The point is timely, because London’s annual Frieze art fair—the highlight of a week of art parties and hobnobbing in British style—has sprouted a second fair, Frieze Masters, for more “historical” artworks. I was there for the opening of Masters, and it forced me to change my tune. And so, in the words of the great Marcel Duchamp, I will now “force myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.”

Since 2003, Frieze has brought dozens of galleries from all over the world to London every October, and showcased some of the best and worst in cutting-edge contemporary art. The show happens under an architect-designed big top in Regent’s Park, and it has been a smashing success since its inception, drawing thousands of buyers and gawkers who feast their eyes and empty their wallets on fresh pieces of art. By riding the Saatchi wave of hipness and hotness in British art, Frieze founders Amanda Sharp and Matthew Slotover succeeded in crowning London as the world’s second great capital of contemporary art. For one crazed week every year, London’s parties and gallery openings rival anything New York can offer.

So, in 2012, has the sinking world economy affected London’s weeklong art bonanza? Apparently not, since several New York galleries continue to open across the pond in a big way. There was plenty of “friezing” at the opening of Pace’s brand-spanking-new space in the Royal Academy building, which featured the unlikely pairing of painter god Mark Rothko with Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. Then there was the opening of a swanky new townhouse outpost for David Zwirner, who presented a large Luc Tuymans show well-tailored to European taste. There was even an all-new gallery for Milan’s ever-popular Massimo De Carlo featuring new work by Piotr Uklanski, as well as sundry other extensions, expansions and pop-up shops.

With so much going on, it seems that now almost everyone is saying that art fairs are “out of control.” I’ve thought so for quite a while, yet when I satirized Art Basel Miami Beach less than a year ago, some readers were confused, while others, like Mr. Saltz, attacked me as if I had committed heresy against their church. Funny how quickly the tide turns in art’s little pond. In his Facebook post last Friday, Mr. Saltz proved he’s a switch hitter, rightly pointing out that we have “a hundred art fairs and international biennials … skyrocketing prices during a worldwide economic contraction. The art world’s reflexes are shot; its systems so predetermined that they’re driving us; we’re no longer driving them.”

This may be true, but the dynamic has changed for good and there’s no turning back. I can no longer think of the art fair phenomenon as “out of control,” because the fairs are the ones firmly in control. They control a large percentage of gallery sales, and therefore exert a big influence on the size and shape of art; they are a huge force behind art-buying habits and tastes. Fairs are no longer a good or bad thing, they are the thing, the new reality. Fewer and fewer people go to gallery shows, because sadly, people just don’t have the time or the interest. Or perhaps it’s just easier and more fun to show up in London, Miami, Rio or Dubai to see your friends and party like a rock star, while picking up a painting by a hot artist. These days, art fairs are the only weapons smaller galleries can wield against the large and ever-more-powerful auction houses, which continue their incursion even outside the sales rooms, with the expansion of their own privately brokered art sales. Fairs give the art-buying experience an auction-house sense of urgency, and those impulse sales keep many smaller galleries afloat.

Understanding the delicate balance between art and the art market is where the founders of Frieze have proven their mettle. Remember last May when they launched Frieze New York on Randall’s Island and drew dozens of galleries from around the world? Back then, I thought New York needed another art fair like I needed a root canal, but I was wrong. It was a big success—the place rocked, and it was packed. I was at first skeptical about the new London fair, Masters, which ran simultaneously with Frieze in another tent, across Regent’s Park: why would a company cannibalize its own business by running two fairs in the same town at the same time? The stated charter included only a subtle difference between the venues: “old” Frieze (now called Frieze London) shows only newish work, whereas new Frieze (Frieze Masters) is limited to “oldish” art. The criterion for “old” seemed pretty random: the work merely had to predate the year 2000, meaning in order to qualify for inclusion, it only had to be 12 years “old”!

You may recall that London already has a modestly successful fair for older and more expensive art that runs concurrently with Frieze, the two-year-old PAD (Pavilion of Art and Design), located conveniently in Berkeley Square. No matter, the Frieze duo forged ahead and hooked up Masters with a whopping 175 of the world’s top galleries, easily dwarfing the two-year-old PAD and creating a fantastic new art fair experience, arguably the best I’ve ever seen. Pace Gallery had a $17 million early black mobile by Alexander Calder that was drop-dead, and Helly Nahmad rivaled it with his own colorful 1960s Calder mobiles fancifully twirling to a ’60s bossa nova soundtrack, one of them priced at $20 million. I got to ogle a sumptuous 16th-century portrait of Jesus by Luis de Morales at Madrid’s Galería Caylus, priced at 250,000 euros, and then swoon over Donald Ellis Gallery’s Navajo chief’s blanket, arguably the finest in the world (the ultra-rare first phase), justifiably priced at $2.5 million; now that’s fun. Frieze Masters was an unqualified success, another feather in the cap of the British franchise, and a considerable feat.

But what does Masters mean in the grand scheme of things—and what does all of this say about the market today? Remember the story of the Greek god Kronos, king of the Titans. He came to power by castrating his father, Uranus, and then, fearing his own children (the Olympians) were destined to do the same to him, he ate them (Zeus was spared and eventually overthrew him, fulfilling the prophecy). Like Kronos, Frieze Masters has castrated its father—this year’s Frieze, newly dubbed Frieze London to distinguish itself from its younger New York sibling, logically lacked the energy and testosterone of prior Frieze fairs. It was crowded with art and people but lacking in quality, although, to be fair, there were hidden treasures. Why would the Frieze founders jeopardize their successful franchise by creating a fancier and more mature version of the same thing? Going forward, collectors will demand a higher-quality experience—more bang for their art fair buck—and the new Masters fair delivers the goods. This is not a bad thing; now the Frieze London fair can keep to its original course and stay true to its commitment to be younger and, hopefully, edgier.

In a sinking world economy, dollars will, in all fields, seek out the best values. The feeding frenzy and knee-jerk hunt for the hot, the new and the trendy will not come screeching to a halt, but it is definitely slowing down. Art collectors are bound to get smart and demand quality. Frieze has anticipated this shift and built an all-new venue, one that is both elegant and sophisticated. The decision to emasculate your own art fair by creating a new one must have been a tough one, but in the clash of the titan art fairs it was a smart bet, and it paid off. Frieze Masters could also work well in New York, where fairs of historical art are generally to be found in the fustier confines of the Park Avenue Armory. I hope to “see you real soon”!

editorial@observer.com

'Big Campbell’s Soup Can, 19¢ (Beef Noodle)' (1962) by Warhol. (© 2012 The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

The Metropolitan Museum’s “Regarding Warhol” exhibition groups artworks by 60 artists around works by Andy Warhol, as an homage to his far-reaching influence in the art world. The result is closer to a mob scene than to any semblance of meaningful dialogue, and it wasn’t hard to predict that critics would slam the show—slamming this show was, from the beginning, an easy layup. By this point, it’s almost de rigueur in New York’s smarty arty circles to wrinkle your nose at “Regarding Warhol,” which, as you can imagine, makes me want to like it. And so I do ... but still, I don’t.

In the early 1960s, Warhol, as everyone by now knows, had an epic breakthrough when he painted a series of Campbell’s soup cans, and although Los Angeles’s fabled Ferus gallery, one of the first to show Warhol, sold almost nothing, in the end its show made art history. These days, it looks to me like Warhol would have been better off painting ketchup bottles, because today canned soup is rather passé, whereas ketchup goes with just about everything: ketchup on fries, ketchup on burgers, ketchup on eggs, spaghetti, meatloaf, rice, potatoes ... you name it. And, like ketchup, these days Warhol is poured on just about everything.

When I mentioned the Met show to my psychiatrist, he asked me, “Do you even like Warhol, because I don’t.” “No,” I told him, because you can’t “like” someone whom you revere. I’m fascinated by Warhol’s work, both the good and the bad, and it’s funny to think now about how Andy never particularly liked me. I knew him well in ’83 and ’84—we went out all the time because my girlfriend Cornelia was one of his BFFs. He loved her because she was blue-blooded and wild, but he had little interest in me, since I wasn’t gay, and I wasn’t famous or especially rich. No matter, I was all of 21, and following Andy around was fun. We’d dine at Halston’s Paul Rudolph townhouse with Victor Hugo and Studio 54’s Steve Rubell, or go with a spliff-smoking Jean-Michel Basquiat to see Michael Jackson’s Victory Tour in Madison Square Garden. I never succeeded in getting Andy to say much more to me than “great” or “yeah,” and believe me I tried, though he did once come to a dinner party at my parents’ house accompanied by Boy George and a minor pop star called Marilyn who wore a long white party gown. He/she was a great-looking androgynous cross-dresser but I still didn’t take him up on the suggestion that the two of us go for a quick cruise in the water-ski boat.

The most I was ever able to get from Andy was the signed T-shirt he gave me for my birthday (he was about as generous with gifts as he was with words), and eventually I framed it. His own celebrity, and his obsession with the famous, the rich and the decadent was fascinating, though his art, if you weren’t serious about it, made him look like a social hack who was more than half vampire. Years later, my experience of him, and his influence on me, would fuel my own interest in art and its culture—so, like many in the Met’s show, I owe him an enormous but unexpected debt of gratitude.

Today Warhol is virtually ubiquitous—earlier this year, there was, for instance, a good “Abstraction after Warhol” exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles—but too much of a good thing gets stale, and monotonous. The artist Ashley Bickerton recently remarked to me that as much as he once loved Warhol, the sheer ubiquity of his cynical lens on the world has become suffocating. He added that the over-saturated feeling isn’t confined to Andy—take the ruling minimalist, Donald Judd: once you’ve seen his boxes everywhere you begin to, as Ashley put it, “wonder if it’s all just a load of tin.”

The many Warhol masterpieces in the Met’s show can never get old, but far too many of the other artists the curators selected make no sense—their work bears no relation to the work of Warhol, apart from the fact that, like him, they make art. Sorry, guys, but I don’t see any meaningful connections between Andy and Vija Celmins or Andy and Robert Gober, nor do I perceive significant links between Warhol and the painter John Currin. How about an entire room dedicated to Ryan Trecartin? Was that a practical joke (Andy would have liked that) or a feeble attempt to be “edgy”? But it’s just too easy to criticize this show; everyone already has, and so it’s no longer all that interesting to do so. What interests me more is trying understand why the Met would stage a show like this. What’s really at stake for the museum? Let’s try and read the tea leaves ...

The Met is possibly the greatest museum in the world and certainly the best we have in this country. Walking through it provides us with a good look at the long and diverse menu of global art history, from Greek vases and African fetishes to Egyptian temples and Alexander McQueen gowns. But let’s not forget that all this costs money, and plenty of it. Today the wealthy are into contemporary art as never before, and contemporary art is an area that, in recent years, has been the Met’s weak link.

In the days of the great curator Henry Geldzahler (not coincidentally, a champion of Warhol) the Met did famous and influential shows like 1969’s “New York Painting and Sculpture: 1940-1970,” but those days are long gone. The shows the Met has done more recently, with Jasper Johns and Neo Rauch, and the special sculpture displays on the rooftop, are all well and good—and the museum did a terrific survey of the Pictures Generation of the 1970s and ’80s a few years ago—but they are far from making art history. And its postwar galleries are among the least-inspired spaces in the place; they are in need of a major refurbishment. To update and improve things, they’ve brought in a new modern and contemporary art chairman, Sheena Wagstaff, a respected curator from London’s tony Tate Modern. But getting the job done will require substantial patronage. Where will the Met find the financial support that’s needed?

Patrons of contemporary art have been providing plenty of support for MoMA, and there’s some good spillage left over for the Guggenheim and the Whitney, but there may not be as much after the Met enters the fray. The landscape is shifting: the Whitney is moving downtown and will rent out its Marcel Breuer building to the Met for nine years, thereby letting the hungry old fox right into its Upper East Side chicken coop. By the time those nine years are up, the Met will have redone its own contemporary galleries and will be in a perfect position to mount great shows and compete for all the uptown patronage that has historically gone to the city’s other institutional players.

I see the current Warhol show as a strategic move for Met director Tom Campbell. What better way to attract these new patrons than to stage a far-reaching show that brings in all the top contemporary galleries? What could be better than a fabulous Warhol exhibition, one that mixes in most of the top artists of the past 50 years?

If you read the list of blue-chip lenders and galleries (full disclosure: I myself loaned art to this show) you will see that the strategy has worked like a charm; after all, who wouldn’t want to lend art to the museum that houses the Temple of Dendur and sundry masterpieces from the Middle Ages to today?

Then there are the credit lines on the wall labels, which tell their own story. Those of us who read them do so to see who owns what, and whether individual collectors are named or billed simply as “private collection.” Then there are the requisite loans from other museums and, of course, the well-oiled tag line “courtesy gallery X”, which is usually a red herring meaning the work in question is for sale. Many of the works in the Met’s show have been loaned (or perhaps the better word is consigned) directly by collectors or dealers we are all familiar with—there are few surprises.

One hopes this practice of allowing dealers and collectors to lend to museums “courtesy gallery X” will one day stop. There are two things wrong with it: firstly, it’s free and unnecessary advertising for the galleries, and secondly, it looks like the stuff on view is for sale, which leaves a bad smell in the air. Can you imagine a car show where half the cars have the owner’s name and number scribbled on the windshield? I’m all for commerce and open access to art—that’s what galleries are for—and I’ve even opened my own, but museums serve a different and important function. They should maintain appearances by at least trying to keep the commerce outside their pearly gates.

Regarding “Regarding Warhol,” the Met has delivered a must-see show. Can one ever see enough great Warhol? As Shakespeare put it, “Can one desire too much of a good thing?” The critics are right, this show is flat (or perhaps “superflat,” as Takashi Murakami writes in the catalog). But nonetheless, the museum’s strategy makes sense: this exhibition prepares the Met to compete for funding that is currently earmarked for the MoMA, the Guggenheim and the Whitney. More power to it, and welcome to the chase. I hope that in the future it will use its new power wisely, and be willing to take chances, make risky choices and avoid shows as predictable and calculated as  “Regarding Warhol.”

editorial@observer.com

Deitch. (Courtesy Patrick McMullan)

In early 2010, when the news broke that a respected art dealer, Jeffrey Deitch, had been named director of the financially struggling Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art, the museum’s decision was widely considered a controversial one. This had, of course, happened before: back in the early 1960s, Walter Hopps left his partnership in Los Angeles’s fabled Ferus Gallery to head up the Pasadena Art Museum, where he went on to a successful museum career that included a now-famous Marcel Duchamp exhibition. But who ever said the art world has a long memory? In fact, there have been many role changes in the past few years, including Guggenheim Museum director Lisa Dennison’s departure from the museum to work for Sotheby’s, and Picasso guru John Richardson and, more recently, the Museum of Modern Art’s chief curator emeritus John Elderfield joining the ranks at Gagosian Gallery. As well-financed galleries regularly put on blockbuster shows that are ballsier and more spontaneous than slow-moving museums could ever manage, the role of today’s art institution—and its staff—is at risk and thus up for grabs. Veteran curators are not immune to the smell of money, so it’s no surprise that some of them deservedly want to cash in a few chips. What made the MOCA appointment unusual in this context was that Mr. Deitch went in the opposite direction, giving up his eponymous commercial gallery in order to run a nonprofit institution that needed reinventing. Ironically, instead of receiving praise for his decision to focus on art instead of art commerce, he has been dogged by suspicion, accusations and mistrust from the beginning of his tenure.

The art press has always assiduously followed Mr. Deitch’s moves; his entertainer’s knack for drawing a crowd is one of the main reasons he was chosen to lead the troubled and financially weak MOCA. True to form, he debuted with a newsworthy Dennis Hopper photography show, perhaps a nod to LA’s real art and entertainment history, and to the fact that Mr. Hopper, a real LA cult figure, was dying of cancer. Sadly, he died just before the show went up. Then there was the “Art in the Streets” exhibition, a story Mr. Deitch tells better than anyone, all the way from Basquiat to Banksy. The show was a windfall for the museum, attendance-wise, but the purists continued to gripe and turn up their noses. More recently he did the seriously great “Abstraction After Warhol” show currently on view at the museum, and no one can fault that one, though I’d bet it hasn’t been a crowd-pleaser.

There may have been disagreement in the art community over some of those programming decisions, but it wasn’t until two recent events that all hell broke loose. The dismissal of MOCA’s chief curator, Paul Schimmel, who had been at the museum for 22 years (and the decision not to replace him), was closely followed by Mr. Deitch’s confirmation of an upcoming exhibition dedicated to the era of disco, prompting all four artists on the museum’s board—the luminaries Ed Ruscha, John Baldessari, Barbara Kruger and Catherine Opie—to resign in protest. [Update, 7 p.m.: MOCA just announced that it will hire a new chief curator.] In response, a lynch mob of art pundits  have now joined the witch-hunt. During the initial uproar over Mr. Schimmel’s departure, Mr. Broad, a life trustee who rescued the museum with a $30 million matching grant in 2008, came out in defense of Mr. Deitch in an op-ed in the LA Times, but two weeks ago the paper was mysteriously in possession of a letter that former MOCA chief executive Charles Young wrote to his “friend” Mr. Broad, urging him to fire Mr. Deitch, and now rumors are flying around the art world that Mr. Deitch’s directorship cannot survive such a loss of face and faith.

“I hope that the four-alarm fire now enveloping MOCA has at least given you pause for thought about his appointment and your continued attempts to try to save him for a job for which many (including myself) believe he is unqualified,” Mr. Young wrote in his letter. But before hasty judgments, let’s consider the amnesia relating to why Mr. Deitch was brought in: the institution was under financial duress and had poor attendance for years, and so it tried a new direction with a new kind of director.

As for Paul Schimmel, his departure appears to have been long overdue. I’ve heard rumors from trustworthy sources that he had been shopping around for another position for many years, long before Mr. Deitch entered the picture. I’ve always respected Mr. Schimmel because he is one of the few curators out there who speaks his mind and sticks to his deep commitment to art and artists, but it’s quite possible that his strong opinions and charmingly gruff manner didn’t help him in today’s job market. I know for a fact that Mr. Schimmel was very unhappy with the selection of Mr. Deitch as his boss, and if I knew it he must also have let everyone in town know it.

The art snob in me agrees with much in Mr. Schimmel’s style of curating, but in LA, where a competitor museum, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and its photogenic director Michael Govan have been absorbing most of the donor dollars, that strategy wasn’t working, and so the board and its main benefactor made a change. Will it ultimately turn out to have been a bad move? It is far too soon to judge Mr. Deitch, but museum goers did increase from 149,000 the year before Mr. Deitch arrived to 402,000 in 2011. Mr. Deitch’s populist blockbuster shows brought people in the door—and that is what he was hired to do.

Then there are the criticisms leveled at Mr. Broad. Instead of the praise he deserves for saving MOCA with a $30 million matching grant, he has been the victim of absurd rumors and allegations related to the private museum he is planning for a site across the street from MOCA. The spiciest blog post, on Coagula Art Journal, went like this: “If MOCA is downsized into a celebrity-curated kunsthalle style circus, it will give the blue chip Broad museum across the street more Gravitas. And then of course when MOCA is broke yet again—who will save MOCA by purchasing the best paintings in the collection because the museum is more concerned with event programming? The Broad Museum across the street of course.” But not all the attacks and rumors have been so easy to laugh off. The respected and influential curator Robert Storr, dean of the Yale University School of Art, weighed in on the affair by heaping bitter criticism on Mr. Broad and his choice: “Dismissing Paul Schimmel in favor of Deitch is like cashing in all your value stocks and doubling down on junk bonds for the sake of a long-shot windfall.”

It always surprises me when patronage of the arts is met with this level of criticism and rebuke, and it certainly won’t encourage others to be generous with their gifts. As far as Mr. Deitch is concerned, his transition from gallerist to museum director was a natural progression; he always put the artists first and the commerce second. Those of us who’ve followed his gallery’s program always knew Jeffrey was never in it solely for the money: the zeitgeist was what his gallery, Deitch Projects, was about, and that’s what MOCA’s board wanted to bring to their museum. Messrs. Schimmel and Deitch were, understandably, oil and water from day one. The day Mr. Deitch was hired, Mr. Schimmel should have been retired with a respectable severance package, one befitting a 20-year veteran (I’m sure he’ll now turn up as an power-adviser at a major gallery just like Messrs. Richardson and Elderfield). I must assume the board was torn, and so for the past two years they decided not to decide, leaving the two men to quarrel in public. This was a clearly a mistake for all concerned, one that ended up further harming the institution’s reputation.

Now those who claim to love the institution are the ones who are putting it at risk. Charles Young was wrong to put down Mr. Deitch in writing; his rebuke, even if in a “private” correspondence with Mr. Broad, was not in the best interest of the institution he claims to care for. The same is true for those revered artists who left the board: to jump ship en masse at this critical juncture is not simply a rebuke of Mr. Deitch and the board’s direction for the museum; their actions have endangered the credibility and the future of the institution.

There is a popular misconception that museums are on rock-solid footing and that patron dollars grow on trees, but the truth is that, in the U.S., our public art institutions are fragile and subject to all sorts of riptides, especially because they receive virtually all of their funding from private donations. Those who purport to love art should not jeopardize the very institutions that preserve it. It’s a sad and irresponsible reaction to an unfortunate case of mismanagement. Right now it’s easy to sling mud and heap blame, and when famous artists join the ranks of those slinging, the situation quickly goes from bad to painfully ugly. I hope MOCA’s trustees will stick to their convictions, steady the ship and stay the course for better and worse. The worst way to weather a storm is to let it push you around. You end up buried in every swell, and that’s a sure recipe for getting dismasted.

editorial@observer.com

'How I Roll' (2012) by Paola Pivi. (Courtesy Attilo Maranzano/Public Art Fund)

New York is, famously, a city whose seen-it-all citizens are above doing double takes when celebrities walk by. Neither, as it turns out, do some of them raise an eyebrow at a six-passenger, 35-foot-long twin-engine airplane spinning above their heads. How I Roll, which has been somersaulting above Fifth Avenue at 60th Street for a few weeks now, is a monumental kinetic sculpture by the Italian artist Paola Pivi and, jaded New Yorkers notwithstanding, it’s remarkable.

The piece was commissioned by the Public Art Fund, and financed by several generous private donations, including my own. About two years ago, Public Art Fund curator Nicholas Baume and I created a small selection committee to commission a new artwork from a living artist. Joining us on the committee were independent curator Alison Gingeras and Tom Eccles, Executive Director of the Center for Curatorial Studies at Bard College and a former director of Public Art Fund. When Ms. Pivi’s name came up, we all knew we had a winner: she has never had a proper gallery show in New York and is mostly unknown in the U.S. In Europe, she has enjoyed considerable success for a unique style of conceptual art with a twist of absurdity: a leopard walking across a room of cappuccino cups, an alligator in a sea of shaving cream, a zebra standing in snow-covered mountains. Her decision to place a spinning airplane above Doris C. Freedman Plaza wasn’t altogether surprising, given her longstanding interest in large vehicles: she won early recognition in 1997 when she tipped over an 18-wheeler semi-trailer truck, but she has also posed helicopters upside down and leaned fighter jets against walls.

The time-and-money logistics of putting her airplane in place in New York were arduous and lengthy, and there were moments when it looked like the project would never happen. But Ms. Pivi has a magic touch: all the way from Anchorage, Alaska, where she’s lived for several years, she manages to convince people to realize her dreams. After more than two years of planning and engineering and the clearing of much red tape, the piece is finally installed for its two- month run (the piece was finished so late that it arrived four months into its six- month permit). Well, better late than never—I’m convinced it’s the most daring public artwork New York has witnessed in a very long time.

Shortly before she returned to Anchorage, I caught up with Ms. Pivi over lunch at Bergdorf’s. From the seventh-floor café’s windows, we had a bird’s-eye view of her extraordinary piece, and, after remarking that she loves the way a huge twirling plane that looks like it might easily fit in at an amusement park can also function as contemporary art, she recalled how she scraped together financing for her early projects, in the late 1990s. “My first major outdoor piece was a tractor-trailer tipped over on its side,” she said. Her day job as an aerobics instructor wasn’t sufficient to pay her art production bills. “I had to borrow the money from my uncle and my landlord. Fortunately the piece was a success and I managed to pay them back.”

In 2003, she got a show in New York—really, more of a micro-show, in the tiny Chelsea storefront that served as Maurizio Cattelan, Massimiliano Gioni and Ali Subotnick’s Wrong Gallery. The display was short-lived. “I showed only a single piece, one of my bunches of pearls, but it was too heavy for the wall, and the landlord became afraid of the weight because it was hanging on the door to a boiler room, so they took it down after a single week.”

The idea for the spinning airplane came, she said, from “a vision I had.” As for its title, that came from her husband, Karma, a poet and musician who trained as a Tibetan monk. Ms. Pivi insists that “art has no specific meaning” and that she’s “not trying to say more than what you see,” but how, in a city like New York where everyone is always on the go in all manner of vehicle, could I not read into her artwork my own question, “where are we really going?”

“I am not commenting on New York,” she said. “I am commenting on man and machine, time and beauty. The piece is about transcending limits.”

Isn’t it also about the failure of progress ? “No. … The making of the artwork is huge progress, a big move forward.”

While she wouldn’t divulge what inspired the suspended airplane, Ms. Pivi did agree that, as a civilization, we are not exactly moving forward. “Western society overall is indeed going in the wrong direction,” she said. “For example, they don’t stop trashing the ocean. Think about all the trash; where I live in Alaska we pay only $65 a month for garbage removal, but that’s not the real price. The real price would take into account the impact this has on the planet. This garbage will stay for years; no one thinks to calculate the real long-term cost this has to the planet.”

But if art has no defined meaning, and her piece, as she sees it, is not a commentary on our world, then what, I wanted to know, is she really up to? “What I’m doing is manipulating things that people think can’t be manipulated,” she told me. “This in itself is an extra power. An airplane is meant to fly, and this airplane [though decommissioned] is flying too, but in its own way, and forever. In the workshop, when we lifted it for the first time and we spun it around, we felt the plane was happy, the airplane was happy to be back in the air.”

And then our interview ended, not because my curiosity had been satisfied, or because we’d finished our lunch, but because while I contemplated the happily spinning plane, all other questions evaporated.

editorial@observer.com

(Courtesy Getty Images)

On the eve of this summer’s annual Art Basel fair in Basel, Switzerland, I’ve noted that some art writers have eagerly predicted the demise of the so-called “art bubble”; a few of them are persuasive enough to instill real fear and a loss of confidence. It almost makes you wonder if their doomsday predictions could actually come true. Well, fear not, they won’t.

There are two main reasons for the popularity and persistence of the art bubble apocalypse myth. First, it makes good copy: gloomy predictions always draw an audience. Second, the thought that collectors, speculators, dealers and advisors are reaping the financial gains from these “insane“ prices seems awfully unfair to many of those in the art world who don’t. But it’s not the prices that are wrong, it’s the logic that is flawed: art and the art market are two altogether different things. The goal of the art market is to sell artworks and achieve the highest possible price; there’s no morality in it. Sometimes these prices may sound extreme, vulgar, indulgent or decadent, but many things are this way, and you don’t, for instance, read many articles lamenting the obscene sizes and prices of today’s mega-yachts—or cruise ships, for that matter.

Let’s put the art market in perspective. Think about the value of Google, which boasts a $189 billion market cap, or Facebook, with a market cap of $58 billion, down from an IPO price of about $100 billion only a few weeks ago. The average trading volume of Google in a single day is $2.4 billion dollars. The approximate total sales in the entire global contemporary art market in a year is around $6 billion, or what would likely be only two or three days’ worth of trading in Google stock. If these companies’ young billionaire founders, Sergey Brin or Mark Zuckerberg, bought up all the contemporary art sold in an entire year, they wouldn’t even feel the pinch.

Two weeks ago, in an article in The New York Times Magazine that asked if we are in an art bubble, business writer Adam Davidson admitted to understanding nothing about the art market, but still managed to come to a sound conclusion: the art market “is a proxy for the fate of the superrich themselves.” His view is that as long as the rich get richer, art prices will hold steady or increase. My bet is that he’s right. But he ends his article by confusing art and the art market: “It makes me happy to think that this world of art-as-investment is a minuscule fraction of the art world overall.” But one has nothing to do with the other; why should the “art world overall” bear any relation whatsoever to the $120 million paid at Sotheby’s last month for Edvard Munch’s The Scream?

Mr. Davidson is hardly the first journalist to brood on a bubble in recent years. U.K.-based writer Ben Lewis’s documentary The Great Contemporary Art Bubble, which predicted an art market crash, came out in 2009—good timing. But, though the market did dip, sadly for Mr. Lewis it then rebounded and has now risen, in some cases, to new heights. The esteemed Souren Melikian also recently intimated he felt the bubble when he said: “Right now, the art market situation offers uncomfortable similarities with the state of affairs in the spring of 1990,” so bubble predictions today aren’t the exception, they are the norm.The latest entry in the department of doom and gloom comes from Artnet.com’s endearing Charlie Finch, who last week fearlessly gave us his take on this precarious situation in a piece titled “Will the Art Market Crash?” He posited that the perfect storm of bad worldwide economic news means that the market cannot “continue its contrarian record sales indefinitely.” He then convincingly played the economist, speculating that deflation will make the rich horde cash and stop spending on art, and then midrange collectors “will panic … as collectors argue that the $100 million Munch might just as well be worth $10 million in an environment of falling prices.” Mr. Finch took the full cold plunge when he spouted, “I predict that, in six months, art prices will be down, across the board, by 50 percent, falling faster with no takers.”

Extreme views make for exciting reading. Their conclusions may differ, but Messrs. Davidson, Lewis, Melikian and Finch all share the same premise: art values are in a precarious “bubble.” Having been a zealous contemporary art collector for some 20 years, and having recently opened my own gallery, I do not share their view. No one can predict the future, but let me fill in some of the blanks for my soothsaying, doomsday-predicting friends.

All is not well in the art market and hasn’t been since late 2008. While a few trophy pieces make record prices at auction each season, like colorful Basquiats (if they are from 1982), and colorful Richter abstractions, underneath this spectacle things move with difficulty and sometimes grind to a halt. Today’s collectors are fickle, they find comfort in following the prevailing trends, and so what’s hot now can very easily be cold tomorrow. All that glitters is not gold.

Despite the highflying golden outliers, there is no bubble and there hasn’t been one since the one that burst in the 1990s. My prediction is that there will never be one again. I don’t see art market history repeating itself, and I don’t fear a tulip-style crash. Fine art was undervalued for a long time, and for a number of reasons. Before the Internet, the glitzy retail auctions and the now-ubiquitous art fairs, collecting tastes were often quite regional. Aside from a few global names, Europeans were primarily interested in collecting European artists, and Americans bought Americans. Even inside the U.S., the Los Angeles art market was separate from the one in New York. West Coast museums know it too; they recently staged the massive “Pacific Standard Time” series of exhibitions to showcase the generation of excellent artists that never quite made it out of L.A. Well, it still didn’t really work.

Today the picture is very different: L.A. dealers who operate from Berlin sell hot artists to collectors in New York, while new and hungry Filipino or Chinese collectors regularly appear at art fairs in Basel or Paris. I’m not suggesting that there are all that many of them; I am well aware that there are very few people with the money and the conviction to purchase a historic Munch for $120 million or a Cézanne for $250 million, but there are a few, and it’s likely that with time there will be more. Consider that this phenomenon is not restricted to art alone; just this week a 1962 Ferrari GTO, one of only 39 ever built, sold privately for $35 million, a world record for a car. The collectable car market also crashed in the ’90s but today, for the top trophy cars like GTOs, Testarossas or Spyder Californias, it is going up higher and higher and looks like it will never turn back. However, if you are thinking that a ’50s Porsche Spyder or a ’60s Aston Martin DB4GT will ever make these numbers, you are likely to be very disappointed. The big prices exist only for the rarest of Ferraris, though a prewar Bugatti or Alfa-Romeo may perhaps squeeze into these megabuck garages once in a while.

Art isn’t the only asset class to have often been repriced. The value of some vintage French Bordeaux wines has tripled over the past few years (though beware this is not the rule with all wine). When the Chinese coveted Château Lafite, it jumped by a factor of two or three times the value of a comparable Château Latour. The Chinese were the big buyers (as recently as last year), so Lafite ruled the wine market, though many experts might argue it tastes no better than a fine Latour or Mouton Rothschild. Now the Chinese buyers have backed off, so Lafite prices are easing off: Château Lafite may have been in a bubble, but the wine market overall was not and is not.

There is, theoretically, a limited supply of “trophy”-grade historic art, though the definition of what is or is not “historic” is a moving target and subject to constant change and review. Those outstanding record blockbuster sales notwithstanding, a global, informed and well-travelled audience has repriced fine art as an asset class. Collectors as a rule are willing to pay more for emerging, young, midcareer as well as blue-chip art, and this phenomenon will not reverse itself—though it might slow down, and I believe it already has.

Nothing is forever, of this we can be sure, but that doesn’t mean we will ever go back to the way it used to be. Those who are enthusiastically waiting to hear a big “pop!” in the market bubble will yet again be disappointed. From now on all we are likely to hear is a tight snap or a faint crackle.

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Installation view of Karen Kilimnik's exhibition at the Brant Foundation Art Study Center. (Courtesy Joe Schildhorn/BFAnyc.com)

Neither Jean nor I ever liked girly art, those petite paintings in fancy frames and fussy works on paper, so it’s no wonder that the work of Karen Kilimnik was never very interesting to us. All I could see in it were frilly pictures of castles and bunnies, and a silly and bad portrait of Paris Hilton dressed as Cinderella. Why, I asked myself, would any painter make work that is willfully wan and whimsical, and that comes across as badly painted, even feeble? The work looked to me almost as though it were designed for failure.

Then, in the summer of 2005, I had a Kilimnik epiphany in the Bevilacqua la Masa Foundation, a palace in Venice that serves as an art venue during the Biennale. Ms. Kilimnik had been invited to take over the entire building with an installation, and the magic she created inside that beautiful but decrepit old palace changed my understanding of her work. I remember walking in and hearing the sound of birds chirping and espying, in the corners, little nests with plastic eggs and fake fuzzy bunnies. She’d strung the chandeliers with pastel colored ribbons, and made paintings of handsome princes and princesses arrayed in 18th-century splendor, surrounded by horses and gardens, castles and lavish interiors, all in the style of some bad painter who worked in a 19th-century mode and mixed present-day celebrities with ancien régime fairy tale whimsy. Ms. Kilimnik’s mad visions cast Leonardo DiCaprio as a prince, Kate Moss as a Park Avenue princess; she brought in Emma Peel, Scarlet Johansen, Nureyev. Hers was a fully kitsch-ified,  candy coated world that looked saccharine at first, but that revealed itself, on closer inspection, to be dark and disturbing.

In fact, Ms. Kilimnik is not a traditional painter at all, she is an installation artist, much like her contemporary, the revered and cultish Cady Noland. This has caused much confusion in parts of the art world, especially when we consider a much younger painter, Elizabeth Peyton, whose masterful portraits of celebrities and art world characters have often been compared to the historical or celebrity-derived works of Ms. Kilimnik. In this comparison Ms. Kilimnik invariably loses because she can’t compete with the masterful brightness and ice cream smoothness of Ms. Peyton’s canvases. But dig a little past the surface and you’ll find this comparison is myopic and non-sensical. Ms. Kilimnik’s paintings must be seen as part of her installations. They are images from an imagination that never reached puberty, and they are not competing with the classic portraiture by the likes of Ms. Peyton, even if, occasionally, their subject matter overlaps.

And so the brand new Kilimnik exhibition at the Brant Foundation in Greenwich Connecticut is a welcome and timely one because it convincingly presents the full range of her oeuvre.  Seeing a single painting reproduced in an auction catalog or hanging in an art fair has never done justice to her work, and almost all the gallery shows I have seen are chock full of sellable paintings but lack the chandeliers, the music and empty perfume bottles that are needed to complete her storytelling.

Mr. Brant’s support and patronage are significant in this regard. He is a seasoned collector who as a young man in the 1960s bought paintings from Andy Warhol and learned about connoisseurship from Bruno Bischofberger, the fabled Zurich-based dealer/investor/collector. A man of many talents, Mr Brant excels at squash and tennis, but in sports he is best known for his polo team White Birch Farm, which dominated US polo for over a decade (I did, however, manage to beat him a couple of times). The patrons of this show are a powerful businessman/art collector and his iconic supermodel wife (Stephanie Seymour); the setting is a beautiful old stone barn abutting polo grounds that have hosted the world’s best and most famous players—there is, in other words, arguably no better fantasy context in which to see Ms. Kilimnik’s work.

The show, which encompasses the entire Brant Foundation, includes an indoor garden as well as chandeliers, birds, landscapes paintings, the requisite portraits and several installations. It’s the first time since Venice that I’ve seen the full spectrum of Kilimnik’s creative output in one place. As such, it is a wonderful testament to her singular dream—or neurosis, depending on how you choose to read it. I came to love the work when I stopped focusing on the pictures and started thinking about the ideas. We are all to some extent locked in our childhood fantasies, whether fond memories of youth or the prison of those painful teenage years, and the effects of formative experiences stay with us, through nostalgia, or longing and melancholy. There is sadness in Ms. Kilimnik’s work, but I also see the childish joys and excitements of adolescent fantasy, even if it is filtered through the mind of a 56-year-old woman.

In my eyes Ms. Kilimnik’s oeuvre is a world unto itself, a strange, kitschy parenthetical expression in contemporary art. I don’t bother comparing her to her art star peers. For most of us, our private fantasies exist in the further reaches of our consciousness. Karen Kilimnik’s are right on the surface: like Peter Pan, she never grew up, and she never will.  This show is a tour de force, so “Brava” to you, Ms. Kilimnik, I hope lots of people make the effort to get up to Greenwich to see just how good it all looks.

Correction: May 16, 2012: An earlier version of this article stated incorrectly that Karen Kilimnik suffers from Tourette syndrome.

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