The Forumist #03 PARTY

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Some things are just universal. In each issue of The Forumist we aim to take a magnifying glass to a singular theme and explore its facets through art, music, fashion and global culture. This time around, we tapped in to our collaborators across the world and asked for their interpretation of one simple word: party.

One thing is for certain: everyone parties. Whether it’s celebrating the ancient Jewish tradition of ushering a boy into manhood or a rave camp for grown-ups, the enjoyment and abuse of life’s pleasures can be found across all cultures. Stockholm’s Axel Mörner regales us with the history of partying in the super-glam art world, while the photographer Erika Svensson introduces the Copenhagen party scene’s new school of experimental musicians. Nada Diane Fridi falls down the rabbit hole in an endless night debauching around Paris and fashion editor Luci Ellis gets down with the coolest party promoters, Work It, in London, while fashion director Julian Ganio re-creates a London club night with his story. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Every article is packed with super-secret extra content, accessible via the (totally free!) Shortcut app. What? Did you think this was just some regular old magazine? Please.

Don’t have Shortcut yet? Put this down, pick up your phone and download it immediately.

Go ahead, we’ll wait.

Got it? Good.

Now that you’re fully up to speed, open the app and scan each page with your phone to access a ton of awesome stuff such as music, videos and direct links to purchase any of the fresh looks featured on our fashion pages.

Consider this your official invitation to party with us – think you can hang?

Editor-in-Chief Pejman Biroun Vand (STHLM)

Creative Direction Hight & Irons (LDN)

Senior Editor Malina Bickford (LA)

Contributing Fashion Director Julian Ganio (LDN)

Arts & Culture Editor Axel Mörner (STHLM)

Fashion Editor Luci Ellis (LDN)

Sub-editor

Sam Thackray (LDN)

Art Editor Rokas Kamblevicius (LDN)

Contributors Levi Sawyer (LA) Natalie Dembinska (LDN) Mark Hardy (CHI) Jeff Boudreau (LDN) Pani Paul (LDN) Tor Bergman (STHLM)

Nada Diane Fridi (PAR) Safia Clubmed-Schwartz (PAR) Mike Servito (NYC) Ellis Scott (LDN) Erika Svensson (CPH)

Advertising ad@theforumist.com Online Creative Marc Kremers (LDN)

Online Editors Event co-ordinator Gustav Bagge (STHLM) Jon Forsgren (STHLM) Sophie Faucillion (Paris) Lina Söderström (STHLM) Web Producers and Partners Fröjd www.frojd.se Printing MittMedia Print www.mittmediaprint.se

Distrbution HKM Publishing AB

© 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or part without permission from the publisher. The views expressed in the magazine are those of the contributors and not necessarily shared by the magazine www.theforumist.com info@theforumist.com

Cover image by Pani Paul

Online Producer Anna Gullstrand (STHLM)

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Cultures all over the world host lavish coming-of-age celebrations to mark young men’s and women’s transitions into adulthood. Malina Bickford missed out on this rite of passage and became a grown-up the old-fashioned way – by growing up. Is it too late for a do-over?

Photographer: Levi Sawyer Growing up is such an arduous and confusing process. There’s puberty, then sex if you’re lucky, getting a job, figuring out how to order the Starbucks mocha half-caf half-soy chai latte with three ice cubes and a whisper of whipped cream in a venti cup that you love so much, learning to drive a car, accessing all the internet porn you could ever dream of without a Praetorian Guard of parental controls cramping your style, voting, etc. Can anyone actually pinpoint the exact moment they cross the threshold into adulthood?

Fortunately, cultures across the world have developed a handy tool for alerting children that they’re no longer their parents’ problem: coming-of-age parties.

Of course it would be a party. Probably the coolest thing about living in the First World (besides clean water, gel manicures, access to medical care and Cool Ranch Doritos) is all the awesome parties we have. A girl gets pregs? Party. Baby’s first birthday? Party. Second birthday? Party. Third? You guessed it. For most of us, these special gatherings continue until we graduate from high school and first experience a celebration that honours an actual achievement beyond simply living to see another year.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, around adolescence, a whole bunch of kids are treated to a customary event that marks their symbolic crossing into maturity. If you’re Jewish, this means a Bar/ Bat Mitzvah and involves a fuckload of money being spent on the themed festivities of your choosing. All your friends, family and community members dance around a banquet hall as you get hoisted into the air on a chair and paraded around like a little deity.

Central and South American girls have a quinceañera, or fiesta de quince años, at age 15 – lavish wedding-like balls that centre around the young lady and her special dress.

Filipino girls enjoy a similar debut at 18, at which they’re honoured with roses, candles and speeches. Variations of this can be found all over the world. Then there’s the American version: Sweet 16, which may or may not have been invented by MTV to exploit the greedy, rotten offspring of my country’s top-1% income bracket.

The difference between a coming-of-age party and, say, a wedding or graduation celebration is that the coming-of-age extravaganza doesn’t require an actual accomplishment in order to take place. Basically, if you make it to 13, 16, or whatever point in your adolescence that your particular tribe has designated the official jump-off into adulthood, an all-expensespaid rager is yours for the taking. No wonder teenagers are such assholes. They get parties just for existing.

I know what you’re thinking: “It’s about tradition, Malina!”, “Jews are the chosen people; their children deserve it, Malina!”, “Deje que las niñas tienen su fiesta, Malina!”, “Live and let live, Malina!”

But I can’t. I just can’t. Because I’m on the outside, lookin’ in. Stuck in purgatory. Not a girl, not yet a woman.

Because if you’re like me – a middle-class white girl from the Midwestern US of A – you don’t get shit. Nada.

Maaaaybe, if your parents are the generous types and your grades in school are particularly excellent, they’ll hook you up with a rusted-out 1994 Buick LeSabre on your 16th birthday, but that’s the extent of it. Sure, you’ll eventually have a few fetes down the road if you

complete university, marry and squeeze out a pup or two. You might even get a little shindig in your honour for landing a great job or promotion, but crossing the magical bridge from youth into womanhood just never really comes up.

Sometimes I try to figure out the point at which I myself came of age, if in fact I actually ever did. Am I a woman at all?

Without a fancy gala and poofy sequined gown, it’s basically impossible to tell.

Was it when I began menstruating?

Obtained my driving licence? Perhaps I became a woman upon losing my virginity to my high-school boyfriend in his parents’ basement as Pee-wee’s Big Adventure blared out from the television in the background. Could it have occurred the first time I changed my own flat tyre?

Purchased alcohol? How about when I traded that old Buick in for a shiny new whip paid for entirely by moi ? Maybe it was when I left a man who didn’t treat me well because I realised I deserve better.

Or what about the first time somebody called me ma’am? WHO KNOWS? Looks like I’m left with no choice. I’ll just have to throw my own damn party!

Better late than never.

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Fashion director Julian Ganio hooked up with Goodhood London to curate the most essential gear for an unforgettable night

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1. SPEAKERS – to play music on: portable PAL radios by Tivoli 2. COASTER – for your glasses: limited-edition cork coaster by Goods by Goodhood 3. LIGHTING – to set the mood: cord lighting by NUD 4. INCENSE – to scent; incense sticks in Booty Call by Kuumba 5. PARTY SHOES – to dance in: X Snoopy Og Era LX Camp Snoopy by Vans 6. PARTY SHIRT – to party in: long-sleeved leopard-print Head Light shirt by Neighborhood 7. GLASSES – to drink from: Dew Tumbler in purple by Kinto 8. MATCHES – to light doobies with: Strike matches in turquoise by HAY 9. INCENSE – to add to the ambience: incense sticks in Thug Life by Kuumba Scan the page to get your favourite party items

Photographer: Ellis Scott Stylist: Luci Ellis Get the lowdown on the first ladies of the east London 1990s R’n’B and hip-hop revival – aka Dalston’s Work It

Loren Platt, 31 Born in the north of England, Loren’s home became Hackney, where she began longing for an R&B night in east London, hence co-founding Work It in Dalston in 2008: “Our favourite crowd is a happy one that brings the looks and the moves.” Currently has I Don’t by PartyNextDoor on repeat.

Clockwise, from below: crop top by American Apparel, bralet by Calvin Klein, vintage jeans from Rokit. Coat by YMC, crop top, bralet and jeans as before. T-shirt

by Work It Apparel, trainers by Converse.

Crop top, bralet and jeans as before

Sara El Dabi, 31 Born in north London, Sara partied in the West End in her younger days (and worked as a “door bitch”), but now, with Loren and Nell, is a key player on the east London club scene. “We plan to continue the same way we started – with good music and good vibes in a space dark enough for people to let loose.” She’ll be an R’n’B gal until the end.

Clockwise, from below: vintage shirt by Moschino. Vintage jacket from Beyond Retro, sweater by John Smedley, jeans talent’s own. Jacket, sweater and jeans as before. Shirt and jeans as before

Nell Jordan-Gent, 32 A Hackney girl through and through, clubbing first took Nell to Camden and the West End and then back east to Dalston. Life is busy: she combines Work It with projects at BBC Radio 1 and 1Xtra among others, and with Loren and Sara co-founded the creative collective FAM. Right now, her chosen soundtrack includes Spirulina by Chronixx or R2Bees’ Slow Down. And best set at Work It? “Neneh Cherry – such an honour.”

Hair and make-up: Bobana Porojcic using MAC

Clockwise, from left: shirt by American Apparel, vintage top from Beyond Retro. Badge by Work It Apparel. Shirt and top as before, vintage jeans by Levi’s. Sweater by John Smedley, jeans by Levi’s

Scan these pages for your favourite look and more about Work It

Not the silent type. But now more inviting than ever before.

Petter Wallenberg tells Tor Bergman why you should join him and Grolsch Studios in the making of his new death-infested project Fabulous. That is the only epithet that Petter Wallenberg aspires to.

Any other label is just a bonus, he adds. Known as a music producer, author and artist, this grand provocateur has taken his out-of-theordinary magazine Mums and moved into Grolsch Studios, a forum for alternative artistic expressions. The upcoming fifth issue of Mums will be evolving around the theme of death – as in the proposed passing of the classic printed magazine. That is all that we know so far.

“We’re basically opening up the creative process of making a magazine and letting the public decide where we’re heading.

That’s why we we’ve hooked up with GrolschStudios.se, which is a creative platform for interactive culture. Any ideas people might want to see in the magazine are welcome. Is there even going to be a printed magazine, or something completely new? Are magazines a dying art form? We’d like to play with that notion.”

Since day one, Mums has been a magazine with a very extrovert tone, and, like much of Wallenberg’s work, it is steeped in the tradition

of camp. Naturally this tone has its roots in classic gay culture, but it is not necessarily gay, as Wallenberg points out – just outsider art. The art of the mentally ill, children or others who have not been indoctrinated by art school.

It was while studying illustration and graphic design at Central Saint Martins in London that he learned how to stretch the boundaries of his creativity.

“Everything I do I do because of Saint Martins. A great, very anarchistic school,” he says. “I love all things artistic, but not necessarily all art. But without art, mankind is nothing. Creativity is what sets us apart from all other creatures.”

Wallenberg’s own curiosity has moved him far beyond his initial jobs as an illustrator and graphic artist. Today he is equally well known as a musician and producer.

Under the banner House of Wallenberg his single Love Yourself was recently the signature of a major HIVawareness campaign – a song that even the infamous Perez Hilton, with a cool six million Twitter followers, helped to promote to international awards. Not too long ago he also wrote a book on the Swedish hiphop icon Leila K, a study with content as controversial as her life apparently, since it created some heated debates even before its release. Nevertheless, Wallenberg ranks her as the only true rock star in Sweden, and they have also collaborated musically.

Sweden is a cold motherfucking place, in many ways. “The unbearably long and dark winters make you suicidal and maybe creativity is the only way to survive,” Wallenberg says. Nothing comes easy here. “Swedes have been developing skills to make beautiful things, from flat-pack furniture to global pop music. I think that’s pretty fierce.”

In Stockholm Wallenberg is also known as one the most eclectic club managers around. His club nights are overflowing with love and colourful performances – they’re a hedonistic mecca for lovers of classic house music and all under the label of “Mums Mums”. Partying is essential, he believes.

“We party because it’s in our DNA. Mankind has always partied, since the beginning of time, when cavemen danced naked around campfires.

It’s a tribal ritual, and an important part of our survival as a species. It reinforces identity and unity. Sex and magic. Love and togetherness.

Without parties we would never have survived.”

MAIN PHOTOGRAPH: Johannes Helje. THIS PAGE, FROM TOP: GROLSCH STUDIOS, Christian Hagward, MUMS MAGAZINES, Makode Linde. OPPOSITE, INSET: GROLSCH STUDIOS

Scan these pages for more on Grolsch Studios

Photographer: Pani Paul Stylist: Julian Ganio Art direction: Josh Hight

This page: Rokas wears shirt by Jonathan Saunders.

Opposite: Rokas wears overshirt and jeans

by Raf Simons X Sterling Ruby

This page: Ogun wears coat by Rick Owens, sweater by Agi & Sam. Opposite: Ogun wears coat and sweater as before, shorts by Rick Owens; Rokas wears top and trousers by Paul Smith; Stuart wears jacket by Carven, shorts

by Public School

From left: Ogun wears sweater and scarf by Gosha Rubchinskiy; Rokas wears sweater by Stone Island; Stuart wears hoodie by Thom Browne

From left: Stuart wears sweater by Acne Studios; Ogun wears T-shirt by Marni; Rokas wears overshirt by Raf Simons X Sterling Ruby

Grooming: Teddy Mitchell using Kiehl’s and Kent Brushes Talent: Ogun Gortan, Stuart Williamson and Rokas Kamblevicius Stylist’s assistants: Ogun Gortan and Stuart Williamson Art director’s assistant: Rokas Kamblevicius

All clothes available from oki-ni.com Scan these pages to get the looks and to hear the soundtrack of this shoot

This page: Rokas wears overshirt by Raf Simons X Sterling Ruby.

Opposite: Stuart wears hoodie and sweatpants

by Thom Browne

Since Mayor Giuliani famously “cleaned up” New York City, the club scene just hasn’t been the same. The clubs are closed, the drugs don’t work and the club kids got old, had kids and moved to the suburbs. While the parties may have gone, like all dogs to heaven – or should that be hell? – their spirit lives on in James St James and Party Girl Text: Natalie Dembinska Illustrations: Mark Hardy Downtown nightlife in the 1990s was the stuff of legends. Nowadays, drug-induced brain-cell loss, egos, lingering clique politics and the passage of time make it nearly impossible to fully capture what that era was like, even for those who were there, but know this: whatever the reality was, it doubtlessly exceeded the wildest fantasies of aspiring Club Kids all over the world. The NYC Club Kids’ antics and gloriously bizarre fashion statements even caught the attention of the mainstream media, as notorious celebutantes like James St James made appearances on national talk shows and in the pages of the New York Post, brazenly flaunting their nocturnal lifestyle of excess.

St James became the unofficial spokesman for the Kids and wrote a bestselling book, Party Monster, about that time and the gruesome, drug-fuelled murder committed by his partner in crime, Michael Alig.

And then there’s Mary: indie queen Parker Posey’s character in the 1995 movie Party Girl. Okay, so she may not be a real girl per se, but she was the epitome of the Club Kids’ Manic Pixie Dream Girl – a fabulous, fashion-obsessed train wreck who never saw a line she didn’t have to wait in. If anybody were to know the true meaning of “party” it would be these two, which is why they sat down to reminisce and bitch about days gone by. Well, what they remember of them anyway.

MARY: So James, have you seen Breaking Bad? JAMES ST JAMES: Yes. MARY: Because I kind of feel like Walter was modelled on you.

Not the cancer part. The cooking part. I think you might be the only person in New York who regularly used their oven for something other than storage.

JAMES ST JAMES: I did.

MARY: And you had the most amazing recipe, too. What was it?

JAMES ST JAMES: Well, it was really very simple. I’d usually set the oven to 250. Then recite the “Once more unto the breach, dear friends” scene from Henry V, followed by four minutes of buntightening exercises. Then I’d sing a little medley of show tunes I had cleverly clipped together to while away the gestation period. I would always start with Rose’s Turn from Gypsy. Then a little Brigadoon, a bit of South Pacific. I also recommend Some Enchanted Evening.

During the Flower Drum Song interlude, I’d check the oven and tap one foot impatiently, keeping beat to the horn section that builds up to a show-stopping Bless Your Beautiful Hide from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

MARY: Imagine if they’d called that Seven Brides for Seven Sisters?

And made it into a full-blown Sapphic gangbang…

JAMES ST JAMES: They did remake it, though. In Brazil. But no lesbians, so yawn. Apart from that one scene where they go ram a load of geese. They should have renamed it Seven Geese for Seven Brothers.

MARY: How do you talk dirty to a goose?

JAMES ST JAMES: How do you understand what they’re saying without subtitles?

MARY: It isn’t in English? But I like to know what they’re saying. I love dirty talk.

JAMES ST JAMES: No. Portuguese… Anyway, don’t interrupt me.

Your baked goods should most likely be ready now. Scrape the Pyrex, grind it into powder and then up and away.

MARY: Well, aren’t you a regular Martha Stewart? I bet you cleaned up after yourself, too. Nobody likes snorting off a dirty surface. I don’t.

I always thought you could have been the next Martha. The illegal substance Martha. Because all Martha does really is make, like, stuff, feed people and throw parties. And that’s basically what you do.

Except you feed them substances. But you make the substances.

And not brownies. You’re like a regular homemaker. I can see you in an apron in front of a live studio audience JAMES ST JAMES: Well, I am sort of in front of a live audience at

all times. I mean, what would you call a line of people clamouring for you if not a live audience?

MARY: Don’t you hate people mauling at you as they try to get in? Ugh. Don’t touch the Gaultier. I don’t know where your hands have been and I don’t want to know.

JAMES ST JAMES: Only the badly dressed ones. If you’re cute, grope away. I’ll take anything I can get.

Are you still seeing the Lebanese Delight?

MARY: No, he fucked off back to Lebanon. And now I can’t get any decent falafel. Apparently he liked the librarian me more than the partyhost me.

JAMES ST JAMES: Honey, you were never a host. Party girl, yes. Party host, no.

MARY: I threw great parties.

JAMES ST JAMES: And you always invited the police.

MARY: So they got broken up a few times. So what? That’s what makes a good party. If they were that bad, why would they bother to come?

JAMES ST JAMES: Police and substances do not a good party make.

You’re talking to the Queen here. I am to parties what the British were to public execution – unexpected and surprising.

MARY: Oh really?

JAMES ST JAMES: Remember when I was strapped to a gurney, covered in raw liver and slabs of beef that turned rancid under the spotlights, being wheeled around a dance floor by two orderlies, retching from the meat and desperate for a bathroom big enough for me to be wheeled into so I could do a bump?

MARY: That’s disgusting.

JAMES ST JAMES: Yes. But it’s also unexpected and the party was great.

And my outfit was ripped off by Gaga.

So at the very least it was memorable.

Who can say that about yours?

MARY: No need to be a bitch about it.

At least they made a film about me.

made out with him once. I think it was at one of my parties.

JAMES ST JAMES: “Fabio” and “party” in the same sentence? Coming out of your mouth? I wouldn’t brag about that if I were you.

MARY: Oh okay, then, so tell me, oh holy grail of everything party, what does make a good party?

JAMES ST JAMES: Well, firstly you need the right venue. Followed by the right theme. And plenty of substances.

And booze to wash them down with.

It’s a delicate balance of the three.

Substances on their own do not a party make. It’s like sitting in your kitchen, staring at a wall, out of your mind. Dull, dull, dull. No one will come. A theme creates excitement. Next comes the music. Superstar DJs might be all the rage, but costs must be kept down, as there are better things to spend your money on than a chimp who can press play. You can be the DJ. And now, thanks to iPods, or whatever it is the kids use these days, you just have to press play once and not worry.

MARY: Oh please.

JAMES ST JAMES: Anyway, to be a superstar DJ there are three simple rules that you need to remember.

Firstly, you can always rely on a Studio 54 compilation set. They’re premixed. And they last for four hours.

Secondly, Madonna. Always works. Who doesn’t want to get into the groove? And when all else fails, play techno. It’s nondescript, non recognisable, and everyone will think you’re so cutting edge.

MARY: I have edge.

JAMES ST JAMES: Dear girl, a bindi does not give edge.

MARY: It was for a themed party.

JAMES ST JAMES: A tired themed party.

MARY: Oh please. The party was good. Everything available was excellent. My future unborn children will emerge from my womb fully formed with gills. They’ll be able to live under water. They will be a marvel of evolution, because when we all live underwater in the future, which we will, because of the icecaps, we will all die and they will be the rulers of Atlantis! And it will all be thanks to Mother’s fabulous party-throwing skills.

JAMES ST JAMES: What the hell are you on?

MARY: Ritalin. And a little Xanax. To take the edge off. Want some? By the way, when did it become unacceptable for ageing queens to take illegal substances? When did we become resigned to prescriptives?

JAMES ST JAMES: When you started ageing. As Dolly always says, if you see something sagging, pull it back and hack off the excess.

MARY: Well, at least that explains why you talk out of your arse.

JAMES ST JAMES: Tease hair, not homos.

JAMES ST JAMES: You know what, I was just thinking, I can remember every outfit I wore to every party going back to 1983.

MARY: Really? Do you have some sort of notebook where you write down everything you’ve ever worn?

JAMES ST JAMES: No. I just have an excellent visual memory.

MARY: What was your favourite?

JAMES ST JAMES: I don’t know if I have a favourite, but remember – was it 2004? – when the tiger mauled Roy of Siegfried & Roy? I think I was in Dallas with Richie Rich, wearing his wig. And I had a stuffed white tiger because it was the actual day the tiger attacked Roy. I think I was attacking club goers with it.

I thought that was absolutely hysterical.

I still do.

MARY: Seriously?!

JAMES ST JAMES: It would make a great party theme – when animals pounce. I mean, I would obviously go as Roy… MARY: Or Fabio. Remember when Fabio was attacked by a seagull?

Remember Fabio? He had great hair. I

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Photographer: Jeff Boudreau Stylist: Luci Ellis

This page: sweater by ESK. Opposite: shirt by Gianni, jeans by Paige, shoes by Monki

This page: shirt by Prada, vest by Calvin Klein, shorts

by Louis Vuitton, string vest (used as bag) by Saint Laurent by Hedi Slimane.

Opposite: shirt by Louis Vuitton, trousers by Calvin Klein

This page: dress and boots by Cheap Monday. Opposite: jacket by Hide, sweater

by ESK, skirt by Libertine-Libertine

This page: sweater

by ESK, skirt by Monki, shoes by Repetto. Opposite: shirt by Miss Patina

Hair: Terri Capon using Bumble and bumble Make-up: Theresa Davies using MAC Models: Emily Green at M+P and Maja Simonsen at Premier

This page: leotard and trousers by LibertineLibertine, shoes by Shellys. Opposite: coat by Cheap Monday, dress by Antipodium

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Not yet a member of the international art world’s notorious party scene? Axel Mörner gives you a taste of what you’ve been missing, but don’t get your hopes up – few are worthy of mingling with these legendary revellers When trying to find out who’s responsible for the best parties, the answer is simple: artists are the ones who know how to make the most fun.

Since the earliest days of civilization, people have gotten together to live it up. If you want a swell pastime, look no further than the art world, where you’ll surely meet intelligent, talented, radical and open-minded people who like to indulge in various stimulating experiences and appreciate anything hedonistic.

During the 18th and 19th centuries, artists always knew how to have a good time in the easiest possible way. Lots of cheap booze and a great deal of happy hangerson, including rich patrons and prestigeseeking members of the nouveau riche, were guaranteed to spice things up and create many a memorable night. In the 1920s, Picasso and his colleagues frequented Café de la Rotonde in Paris, which hosted an ongoing feast and a continuous exhibition of the work traded by the poor artists for food and drink.

Flush with charisma and self-confidence, Picasso’s presence challenged the other artists as he grabbed the best girls and made the best contacts with important patrons such as Gertrude Stein. Only in the art world can one be utterly bold and the crowd will love it.

For the art-party circuit, the 20th century devolved into a downward spiral of excessive drinking and outrageous behaviour that ended with Jackson Pollock’s fatal car crash in 1956. A real shift in attitude came in the 1960s, when artists became fed up with the middleclass values and the perverted macho attitude of the abstract-expressionists, and they started to create their own scene. Andy Warhol’s Factory in New York City spearheaded this movement, with his entourage of gays, drag queens and good-lookers infiltrating New York’s most elite parties. They also created their own events with a mix of every ingredient necessary: drugs, celebrities and The Factory’s own house band, The Velvet Underground. Warhol’s guest lists were intentionally diverse, including everyone from millionaires to male prostitutes – anybody interesting was included. Warhol managed to stay ahead in the party zone all the way until his

death in 1987. His protegé Jean-Michel Basquiat died the next year from a heroin overdose, breaking the spell of the 1980s wealthy, indulgent lifestyle – apart from the smack, Basquiat was also fond of Château Latour and blonde women. The wealthier the artists became, the more boring they got, because in order to create the ideal party, someone quite crazy, resourceful and also hungry for life is required.

Luckily, during the 1990s, the British art world suddenly became enlivened by the arrival of a new breed of cocky, wildly talented artists: the YBA (Young British Artists).

One of them was Damien Hirst who, years before he became the multimillion-dollar enterprise that he is now, was quite a crazy head, taking drugs, drinking heavily and always placing himself in the middle of the action.

He could be found accompanied by his then-partner Maia, holding court at Maxwell’s, a Berlin restaurant,

where he would gift the owners with several spot paintings in exchange for tolerating his antics. Hirst also created a huge party scene at The Groucho Club in Soho, London, making headlines with his hooligan attitude, as well as at a pool hall in downtown Manhattan, where he cut a magnetic figure, taunting his fans with gruesome jokes and boasting about his superior talents. He liked the nightlife so much that he opened his own bar and restaurant called Pharmacy in west London’s Notting Hill, which closed within six years, its glamorous clientele having long moved on. Even so, Hirst had the last laugh, making a huge profit from selling all the artworks and paraphernalia from the place at Sotheby’s.

During this time, an increase of art fairs in Europe and the United States was taking place, and with these came the urge to party. The official events were always calm affairs, albeit with bikini-clad babes on roller skates serving up baby bottles of champagne with straws. It was the afterparties and unofficial gatherings hosted by the younger gallerists that were the places to be.

The snazzy art crowd and imported DJs could bring a rundown restaurant in Basel or an industrial warehouse in Köln alive with their techno parties.

As the crowds grow for these celebrations of art, they become increasingly segregated. The VIPs prefer to be undisturbed by the masses while having their time in the limelight, but here the gap between the typical partygoer and the celeb is narrow and so one may get lucky and bump into Brad Pitt, Pharrell or Pamela Anderson when venturing through Basel Miami or at the Bauer Hotel in Venice, which gets jam-packed with members of art’s elite – including Dasha Zhukova, Marina Abramovic, the exalted Missoni family and the billionaire collector François Pinault – having a great time regardless of the sometimes-problematic crowds.

The real big time for the art-party scene came along when the offspring of the Art Basel show launched in Miami Beach in 2002. At first it seemed a bit peculiar to combine high-end contemporary art with the beach, but the event surpassed all expectations. Suddenly there was a new place for the major collectors to gather and relax at the same time. Miami is known as a partier’s paradise, so almost immediately there was a big turnout of movie stars, rockers and über-famous art stars such as Murakami, Koons and Cattelan – followed, naturally, by hordes of wannabes and others hoping to get a peek of the famous ones. Soon, the whole circus around Art Basel Miami grew out of hand, with the art playing second fiddle to the celebrities, and the party scene becoming an industry in itself, generating substantial sums of money.

The real challenge is to get into the VIP game – the inner circle, the fast lane. In order to do that you must be an exhibitor, an artist or even a sponsor, and it helps tremendously if you happen to be talented, rich and handsome. Failing that, you could try an old trick and pretend you’re a journalist, but that will only get you in halfway. You had better start planning now! And don’t forget to dress up; these party people are dead serious about fashion.

Art Basel’s only other real competitor is the Venice Biennial, which takes place every other year and attracts the entire art world for five days of round-the-clock events, openings and, of course, parties. It’s especially cozy in the romantic water taxis that glide around the canals with their glitzy passengers on board.

Upcoming Events Frieze London: 15th-18th October 2014 Art Basel Miami Beach: 4th-7th December 2014 The Armory Show, New York: 5th-8th March 2015 Art Basel Hong Kong: 15th-17th March 2015 Art Basel: 18th-20th June 2015 La Biennale di Venezia 56th International Art Exhibition: 9th May-22nd November 2015

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We asked our friend Brooklyn DJ Mike Servito to share his experience of SustainRelease, the two-day techno summer camp in New York’s Catskill Mountains. Armed only with his iPhone, due to the festival’s noprofessional-photography clause, Servito’s candid images perfectly capture the weekend’s vital energy against the backdrop of rustic Camp Lakota. You can practically feel the bass.

t ou sic ab mu e r ’s mo ike or d M f ge an pa se his elea t -R an Sc stain u S

It’s 11 pm, I’m in the taxi heading for that girl’s place. I planned to arrive late, when dessert is served, because I didn’t feel comfortable enough to arrive on time for dinner. I wait at the gate for quite a long time, the numerous iPhones are either on the coffee table, in coat pockets or clutches, while the girls are screaming so loud over Mariah Carey’s Fantasy that I didn’t even have to give the driver the street number for him to find it. One girl’s bladder led her out of the living room and she heard the choir of vibrations and ringtones I triggered and let me in. I had brought with me a magnum of pink champagne; totally out of my budget but… yolo. I step into karaoke hysteria and almost no one pays attention to my arrival. There are cigarette butts on every plate, in every piece of uneaten roast, and lipstick marks of the full spectrum of warm colours, from pale pink to deep purple, on all of the glasses.

Dessert has been served: a masterpiece of French patisserie sits on a beautiful plate that the hostess brought back from either Mexico or Brazil, where she often goes on inspirational trips.

Claude sees me, grabs my hand and pulls me into the middle of the action.

She pauses the song playing on iTunes and introduces me solemnly to everyone. They’ve all seen me around many times; we’ve been going to the same club five nights a week for the past year, but even though the place is pretty small, we don’t occupy the same territory. I guess it is possible to miss someone dancing between the fan and the sound system when your spot is the sofa right beside the DJ booth.

The hostess urges me to have some of the barely eaten cake and starts opening every cupboard in her kitchen and dining room to find a glass for me. She gives up after a while and slides right into a conversation that I would probably find hilarious, too, if I had been to Calvi this year. There must be something like 50 glasses for 12 girls.

I take one and wash it. Once in the living room I look for my bottle of champagne and find it on the table, empty, next to many others. Within a few minutes, taxis and chauffeurs have been called and the procession of party-goers is clicking its

Nada Diane Fridi cracks the glittering glass ceiling of Paris’s most elusive It-girl clique in one heady, endless night Illustration: Safia Clubmed-Schwartz out of here.” I follow her into the street. Taxi moment again, but this time in total confusion. “Do we need more taxis?”, “Who’s getting in this taxi?”, “Is this your taxi?”, “Who called this taxi?” The door of a minivan slides open and she screams, “Get in!” We ask the driver to play Mariah Carey, open the windows and sing along as loud as we can. Man, Mariah just hits the spot in moments like these. We go to another club, a few blocks down, and gather in front of the entrance. The bouncer says we can’t all get in, there are too many of us. One of the guys gets angry and starts insulting him. He rambles on about the fact that the bouncer’s a nobody – who does he think he is? He feels all important deciding who gets in or doesn’t. Does the bouncer know who HE is?

The bouncer says, “This one is too drunk anyways, he’s not getting in.” The girls are making frantic phone calls and, after a few minutes, the manager of the club walks out, calms everyone down, says hello and walks into his club with a girl on each arm. The bouncer smiles and wishes us a good evening. It’s my first time here; everything is so luxurious and fancy. We go straight backstage.

There are people there waiting for us, people I follow on Instagram, people who collaborate with sneaker brands and whose names bring in hundreds and thousands of kids to any party anywhere if they appear on the flyer. There’s a bowl on the table in which everyone is tossing bills. We’re asked to participate; I just stand there and watch.

Twenty minutes later, the dealer is here and everyone rushes around the table and the empty bowl again to divide the goods.

Now we’re out on the dancefloor, Claude finds me and gives me a glass of vodka something. Her friends like me, I think; everyone is so friendly, we’re mingling and hugging and dancing and laughing for what feels like hours. Claude disappears, so I look for her and find her smoking in the toilet. She looks sad. She tells me she hates her life, she’s really broke and depressed and her ex-boyfriend posted a photo of him with some girl on Instagram. I look down and my eyes meet her brandnew Balenciaga shoes. She can’t deal with all of this right now, she’s going to New York for a while until she feels better.

She asks me if I can lend her money tonight for taxis and such. Of course I can. We leave the toilet and tell everyone we’re leaving.

heels down the freshly waxed staircase of the elegant building in northeast Paris. After a ride just long enough to reapply lipstick, we’re there. There’s a long, winding line in front of the club and a bunch of people smoking and chatting around the entrance. The bouncer’s face lights up and, after 12 pairs of kisses on his cheeks, he opens the door to the girls that walk in front of the impatient crowd and into the club. Claude takes my hand and pushes her way to the bar. She asks for two house cocktails for her and her friend – that’s me! Everyone comes to greet her and, depending on who it is, she gives them a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek or just waves her hand. We join her friends on the dancefloor, where they are all sipping on their fruity drinks, going through the crowd with their gaze, commenting on everything and anything, as if they were in charge of writing up statistics on the clientele of this place. The music is working its way into our bones. I feel good, I feel like I’m in the right place. We’ve been joined by lots of people: producers, photographers, stylists, shop owners, artists.

It’s 2am, the club is about to close, I’m almost alone on the dancefloor, the others keep running in and out of the room. I go to the bathroom and when I grab the handle of the stall to get in, the door opens and five people walk out, laughing. “There you are,” she says. “Let’s get

It’s 5am and we’re out on the street trying to figure out where to go now, what apartment to gather in.

We hop into taxis headed towards the 18th district, and through the window I see people taking the first Métro.

After buying snacks and alcohol at the convenience store we go up to this guy’s place. I couldn’t imagine a nicer place for a man. It’s decorated with exquisite carelessness, full of bits of trips and life experiences, with the right amount of sports gear, old objects, smart books and magazines. He looks just like his place; he’s funny, his hair is beautiful and his shirt is just right. He brings glasses, fresh herbs and lemons to the table. He puts on music – need I say that it was perfect? Then he goes around asking everyone if they have anything with them. No one does, so he goes around again asking everyone if they can call to get the stuff. Claude changes the music and starts to dance lasciviously; some dude joins her and pushes her slowly into a room. There are little groups all over the apartment doing different things, chatting, drinking, dancing, eating, going through their handbags, talking on their phones, smoking on the balcony, making out on couches and in corners, reading, sleeping. I’m tired but I just don’t want to leave.

It’s 8am. The few people who are awake are in deep conversation in the kitchen. I take my things and leave quietly. I’m in the street now. I put my headphones on and play some Mariah Carey as I walk home.

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