Dafydd Jones

When I started photographing openings the art world was very small. A small group of lenders and donors attended black tie dinners. Artists were rarely to be seen. In the late eighties. Anthony Fawcett, who had been an assistant to Yoko Ono, had the brilliant idea of persuading Becks to provide free beer for openings. The idea caught on and suddenly there was free drink at all openings. Fast forward ten years At Art Basel Miami, the Krug party had an extravagant Krug fountain. By comparison, the Frieze Art Fair (which began in 2003) was cooler, but also more serious. It has its share of glamorous parties, but the social highpoint is the actual Fair itself (unlike Miami where the satellite shows and parties on the periphery were more interesting). 
As a rule, the best exhibitions have the best parties. There is a congratulatory buzz of excitement at seeing something new. When I first saw Damien Hirst's pickled cow and then Rachel Whiteread's beautiful lozenge casts in the early nineties, I could see that the art was something new. It works in reverse as well. There was an opening at the Hayward where the director, perhaps seduced by the name and potential publicity, gave a big show to an artist only a few years out of college. All the celebrities turned up but it was a disappointment and the party felt flat. 
 One of the landmark events in the nineties was a fundraiser at the Serpentine with the Princess of Wales as the guest of honour. Alongside the various aristocrats, actors, writers, pop stars, there was a small group of artists including Damien Hirst and the twins, Jane and Louise Wilson. There was also Jay Jopling, who was making a name for himself as Hirst’s art dealer, who spent the party snogging Annabel Neilson. They seemed to be having the most fun. Unlike most of the room, they were not fazed by the presence of the princess. 
 The art world knows how to party and make the most of having a good time. A party of rich bankers would inevitably be dull. But the mixture of the suits, Russian collectors, socialites, young artists, the newly rich, hangers on, models, some starving artists including journalists, makes for a good party. That formula has worked for the past 15 years.
I began doing panoramic pictures to try to cram in more of the madness and variety going on. Later on, when the art world became awash with funny money, it was common for galleries to have parties in exclusive nightclubs like Tramp and Annabels. Or smart London hotels like Claridge’s or the Dorchester. Some galleries had VIP rooms with champagne, and beer for everyone else. Somehow one privileged class seems to have been replaced by another one. And after seeing Damien Hirst holding court at the country house Sudeley in Gloucestershire, having arrived by helicopter, I realised that the new establishment is now so entrenched it really has turned into the old one.