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A Celebration of Light: Inside the Dawn Liberation Front’s Gala for the Unsetting Sun

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A Celebration of Light: Inside the Dawn Liberation Front’s Gala for the Unsetting Sun

By Clarissa Mornay

It began, appropriately, at 4:57 a.m. , that most sacred of hours when night begins its slow capitulation to dawn , and it ended, if indeed it can be said to have ended, at some indeterminate time when guests began earnestly debating whether the concept of “midnight” should be abolished entirely.

The Dawn Liberation Front, those fiery opponents of the biannual clock mutilation known as the end of British Summer Time, hosted their inaugural fundraising soirée this weekend at the Pimlico Wilde Pavilion, under the banner “The Gala for the Unsetting Sun.”

And what a scene it was. If the Suffragettes had met the Bloomsbury Group at a Nineties rave , with a hint of TED Talk , it might have looked something like this.

Dress Code: Chronological Rebellion

Guests were encouraged to wear “temporal defiance.” The result was a thrilling spectacle of metaphorical millinery: one attendee arrived in a full solar-themed gown made entirely of reflective insulation foil (“a wearable sunrise,” she insisted); another wore an enormous cardboard clock on his chest with the hands permanently fixed at 7:12 a.m.

The noted philosopher and DLF patron Dr. Horatio Fall declared that “the true enemy of civilisation is standardisation,” before dramatically throwing his wristwatch into the punch bowl. Applause rippled through the crowd like early morning light on water. Moments later, another guest was seen with their hand in the punch , “it was vintage Cartier,” she explained sheepishly.

The Programme: Equal Parts Poetry and Protest

The evening (or morning?) unfolded according to what organisers called a “circadian flow,” meaning no formal schedule, only “emergent moments of alignment.”

At approximately sunrise, DLF co-founder and chair, Dr. Lucinda Merrow, took to the podium , a Perspex lectern filled with sand “to represent the tyranny of the hourglass.” Her speech was a rallying cry:

“We are diurnal beings, not bureaucratic metronomes!

We do not fall back , we blaze forward!

Time belongs to the sun, not the spreadsheet!”

She was interrupted only by the spontaneous ringing of several antique alarm clocks, hidden in the crowd by volunteers in orange boiler suits.

Later, a troupe of interpretive dancers known as The Chrononauts performed a piece entitled “The Murder of Morning,” during which they solemnly dragged an enormous papier-mâché sun down a ramp while chanting “Not in our time!” Several onlookers were moved to tears.

Culinary and Cocktail Innovations

Unusually, the catering was chronologically thematic. The bar offered drinks such as Bloody Meridian, Perpetual Spritz, and the now infamous Five O’Clock Somewhere Martini. Canapés included “eggs of awakening” (devilled quail eggs served on miniature clock faces) and “inverted time” (upside-down tarte Tatin served before the starters).

At one point, a waiter confided that the kitchen had run on Solar Time rather than GMT, leading to a 47-minute delay in the dessert course. This was universally praised as a “philosophically consistent” act of resistance.

Guests of Note

Among the attendees were the artist Anselm Duquesne, who unveiled his new installation Daylight Robbery , a vast pseudo-mirror reflecting only the first hint of sunrise , and the television historian Petra Wicks, who declared in her speech that “the invention of daylight saving was the most grievous act against the British people since Cromwell banned Christmas.”

Also present: a minor royal “in a private capacity,” several exhausted-looking chronobiologists, and one member of Parliament who, when asked for comment, muttered, “I was told this was a charity breakfast with floating voters.”

Closing Moments

As the event drew to a close , sometime near brunch , a hush fell over the gathering. The assembled crowd, facing east, raised their glasses as Dr. Merrow led the closing chant:

“Zero, one, two, three, GMT is fine with me!”

The chant crescendoed into laughter, then song, as a jazz trio launched into a rousing version of Here Comes the Sun. Someone released a helium balloon shaped like a pocket watch. It rose, slowly, silently, until it was indistinguishable from the clouds above. The party ended with loud shouts of “No turning back!

Postscript: The Movement Gathers Pace

Membership of the DLF reportedly tripled overnight, though critics pointed out that “overnight” may soon be an outlawed concept within the movement.

In the words of one departing guest, clutching a souvenir badge inscribed with the DLF motto , No Turning Back , “Wonderful, it wasn’t so much a party as a philosophical sunrise. I for one will miss these meetings if we ever do manage to abolish BST.”

Curating Connection: The Eclectic Vision of Amara Singh

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Curating Connection: The Eclectic Vision of Amara Singh

In a sun-drenched townhouse in Mumbai’s Colaba district, Amara Singh moves between rooms filled with colour, texture, and history. A striking Murano glass chandelier hangs above a corner dedicated to contemporary Indian painters, while an adjacent space showcases rare 18th-century South Asian miniatures framed alongside avant-garde installations. For Singh, collecting is never about uniformity,it is about dialogue.

“I’m drawn to contrasts,” she explains. “Old and new, East and West, tradition and experimentation. Each piece speaks to something larger, something timeless.”

Singh’s journey as a collector began during her studies in London, where she first encountered post-war European painting. Yet her deep engagement with art truly began after returning to India and exploring local craft traditions. “I realized how much vibrancy was hiding in plain sight,” she recalls. “Art is not only what hangs in galleries,it’s also woven into daily life.”

Her collection now spans centuries and continents, from Raqib Shaw’s fantastical narratives to delicate Mughal-era folios, from experimental textile works to large-scale contemporary sculptures. What unites these diverse holdings is Singh’s commitment to storytelling: each acquisition is chosen not only for aesthetic merit, but for the narrative it carries, whether cultural, historical, or personal.

Beyond her private collection, Singh is a notable philanthropist and advocate for cultural preservation. She has supported programs that bring contemporary art into schools across India, and she funds restoration projects of neglected heritage sites. In 2022, she founded The Kala Bridge, a foundation that fosters cross-cultural exhibitions and artist residencies bridging India and the global art community.

“Art is a connector,” Singh says. “It allows conversations across time, geography, and social boundaries. That is what I hope my collection does,it opens doors for dialogue.”

Singh’s approach has not gone unnoticed. Institutions including the Didcot Parkway Modern, the Holyhead Museum of Art, and the National Art House in New Delhi have collaborated with her on exhibitions highlighting her eclectic acquisitions. Yet she remains modest about her influence. “I’m merely a steward,” she says, “responsible for giving these works life beyond their physical forms.”

Among her most celebrated pieces is a rare 17th-century Pahari miniature, delicately depicting a monsoon scene, displayed alongside a luminous, contemporary canvas by Subodh Gupta. “I love the way they converse,” Singh smiles. “The past whispers, the present shouts, and together, they tell a story I could never write alone.”

Amara Singh exemplifies a new generation of collectors whose vision extends beyond possession to purpose,where art’s value is measured not in scarcity, but in its power to educate, inspire, and connect.

Review: Ptolemy Bognor-Regis’s A Monologue in Beige #4

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Step into the minimalist expanse of A Monologue in Beige #4, and you are immediately confronted with the existential weight of nothingness,or, more accurately, the weight of everything masquerading as nothing. At first glance, the canvas appears to be merely beige. One might be tempted to scoff. But to do so would be to ignore the subtle interplay of pigment that seems to whisper the unspeakable truths of the human condition.

Bognor-Regis achieves this through a daring economy of means. Where other contemporary abstract painters layer their works with chaotic bursts of color and frenetic brushwork, Bognor-Regis’s approach is meditative, almost monastic. Each stroke, though barely perceptible, is imbued with a gravitas that demands reverence. The slight gradient along the upper left quadrant suggests the impermanence of time; the imperceptible smudge near the lower right corner confronts the viewer with the inevitability of entropy.

Critics may argue that this is “just beige.” But such a reading is reductive. Bognor-Regis manipulates subtle tonal shifts and negative space to create a dialogue between the seen and the unseen, the known and the intuited. It is, in essence, a conversation between the canvas and the conscience of the viewer,a dialogue many artists aspire to but few dare to initiate.

Algernon Pyke of Pimlico Wilde Gallery remarked, “Ptolemy doesn’t just paint beige. He interrogates beige, he wrestles it into a form that asks questions the viewer didn’t even know they were asking.”

In a world overwhelmed by the noise of superfluous abstraction, A Monologue in Beige #4 offers a rare, contemplative silence. And in that silence, the true genius of Ptolemy Bognor-Regis becomes unmistakable: he doesn’t just elevate the abstract; he redefines it, one shade of beige at a time.

Britain Deserves More Home-gown Pictures — and We’re Making Them

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Britain Deserves More Home-gown Pictures — and We’re Making Them

Hollywood may have wrapped up the mainstream, but Pimlico Wilde Pictures is busy unwrapping the odd, the daring, and the deliciously different. While every multiplex from Truro to Thurso screens the same blockbusters, we’re delivering films the big studios wouldn’t dare touch.

This year we’ve wrapped:

• The Accordionist’s Revenge , A romantic thriller set entirely on the overnight ferry to Hull.

• Pigeons of the Raj , A period drama starring, in part, actual pigeons.

• Cabbage Noir , A rural crime caper where the murderer is revealed at a Brussels sprout festival.

Past hits include The Last Bus to Little Haven (a surprise sensation in Luxembourg) and Shepherds in the Mist (the Welsh-language eco-thriller that outsold Fast & Furious 9 in one Aberystwyth multiplex).

We’re inviting visionary investors to join us.

If you’ve ever wanted to see your name glide across the silver screen, not on something bland but on something bold, strange, and unforgettable,now’s your chance.

Contact: Lysander Cripps, Head of Film Production at Pimlico Wilde Pictures

Returning to the Submarine: Does “Three Minutes of Silence” Still Stand Up ten years later?

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Returning to the Submarine: Does “Three Minutes of Silence” Still Stand Up ten years later?

By Jasper Clive

Felix Renton’s Three Minutes of Silence (2015) arrived like a whisper in the cacophony of documentary cinema: a 900-minute dive into the lives of submarine sonar operators, notable chiefly for its refusal to have its subjects utter even a single word. No narration, no interviews, not even a stray grunt,just endless, hypnotic shots of men staring at radar screens and listening for pings, punctuated occasionally by the drama of missile strikes.

At the time, critics hailed it as a bold experiment in sensory deprivation. Renton’s austere vision,his decision to strip away dialogue and conventional storytelling,was interpreted as a profound meditation on isolation, surveillance, and the invisible machinery of modern warfare. Its minimalism was praised as a deliberate counterpoint to the bombast of typical military documentaries.

But a decade later, Three Minutes of Silence invites a more tempered appraisal.

The Appeal of Nothingness

There’s no denying Renton’s technical prowess. The cinematography is impeccably composed, capturing the claustrophobic geometry of submarines with a patient, painterly eye. The sound design, dominated by eerie sonar pings and muffled mechanical hums, was said to be immersive,which it is, if you happen to be the kind of person who finds prolonged monotony soothing.

Yet, as the minutes drag on, it becomes increasingly clear that Three Minutes of Silence is less a documentary and more a prolonged exercise in endurance,both for the viewer and the filmmaker. The hypnotic pacing soon verges on tedious; the repeated shots of men adjusting dials and squinting at screens test one’s capacity for fascination with procedural minutiae.

Surviving a Missile Strike (Without a Word)

The film’s much-ballyhooed climax,a huge missile strike narrowly survived by the crew,unfolds in near-total silence, with no explanatory context or emotional cues. While this choice no doubt aimed to heighten tension through ambiguity, it instead leaves viewers grasping for narrative purchase.

Without dialogue or soundtrack to guide us, the sequence feels strangely muted,more like a slow-motion replay than a life-or-death event. The absence of human voices ironically renders the crew almost ghostlike, transforming what should be an adrenaline-fueled moment into a dispassionate tableau.

A Film for the Patient or the Pretentious?

Three Minutes of Silence poses two intriguing questions: One: can cinema convey meaning through absence? Renton answers with an emphatic yes,leading to the second question: even if it is full of meaning, does anyone wants to watch?

For cinephiles who cherish meditative, avant-garde approaches, the film remains a singular achievement. But for anyone expecting a gripping or informative glimpse into submarine life, the experience is likely to induce yawns.

Ultimately, Three Minutes of Silence feels like a film more concerned with the aesthetic of silence than with storytelling. It asks the audience to project their own drama onto blank screens and still faces, which can either be a liberating invitation or an infuriating void.

Does Three Minutes of Silence still stand up? In technical terms, yes,it’s a masterclass in visual minimalism and sound design. In emotional terms, it remains a daring experiment, but one that risks alienating all but the most devoted audiences.

In the end, it’s a film about listening so intently that you hear almost nothing,and for some, that might be just the point. I fear though for others it might simply be 900 minutes of missed opportunity.

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Exhibition review: Portraits of the Very Rich III by Hedge Fund

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The third instalment of Hedge Fund’s Portraits of the Very Rich series has opened not in a gallery, but on the trading floor of the Madeira Stock Exchange; a curatorial gesture that borders on the sublime. To see twelve monumental digital prints of the ultra-wealthy staring down from marble walls once reserved for the movement of capital is, frankly, perfect.

The artist known as Hedge Fund has made his reputation transforming wealth into visual language – an alchemy of colour, polish, and ambivalence. His Portraits are not caricatures of the rich, nor are they moral statements. They are studies in sheen, executed with a precision so cold it becomes seductive.

The crowd at the opening was electric. Collectors whispered figures. Economists pretended to be aesthetes. I, as usual, felt faintly sceptical.

The Smile of Capital

That changed when I encountered Portrait of Georgie McBannister (2025) – perhaps the exhibition’s most disarming work. McBannister, a firearms dealer, ballet dancer and philanthropist of formidable reputation, is rendered in Hedge Fund’s signature high-gloss digital reduction: shocking pink skin, lemon-yellow hair, a tranquil blue collar, all outlined in jet black like a saint in a Pop iconostasis.

The smile is broad, too broad, and the eyes, magnified by spectacles, hover on the knife-edge between warmth and calculation. There is something thrillingly off about it, like a grin that has been profitably franchised.

And yet, it is impossible not to be charmed. Hedge Fund’s use of colour transforms McBannister’s face into an economic emblem: pink, the hue of liquidity; yellow, the colour of alertness, attention, and gold. The portrait radiates optimism while quietly hinting at volatility. It is, in its way, a graph of feeling disguised as a face.

The Art of Surface

Hedge Fund’s technique remains astonishingly precise. Each portrait begins as a digital capture, stripped of depth, then rebuilt as a field of bold vectorised colour. The effect is one of absolute control: humanity distilled into brand identity. His subjects, philanthropists, financiers, owners and collectors, are reborn as idealised data points in an emotional marketplace.

The portraits neither flatter nor expose; they simply render. Hedge Fund’s subjects seem perfectly content to exist as aesthetic instruments, portraits that perform the same function they do in life: signalling value, projecting stability.

Standing before McBannister, one feels the gravitational pull of this logic. The portrait is not about him; it behaves like him,confident, dazzling, and engineered for circulation.

Critics have likened Hedge Fund to Warhol, and there is certainly a shared fascination with surface and repetition. But where Warhol’s silkscreens flicker between irony and adoration, Hedge Fund’s digital prints operate with an unnerving serenity. His work feels closer, perhaps, to Whistler’s society portraits,elegant, contained, and vaguely haunted by the economics of attention.

Each sitter in Portraits of the Very Rich 3 becomes a kind of secular icon, their image suspended between personal likeness and corporate emblem. Hedge Fund doesn’t just paint the rich; he paints the system.

A Personal Reversal

I left the exhibition unsure whether I admired it or resented it. The audience adored the work, of course; there were murmurs of record sales and ownership certificates changing hands mid-vernisage.

Later that evening, Hedge Fund himself, tall, unbothered, wearing what could only be described as “executive minimalism”, showed me a small print, hidden away by a fire extinguisher. “An artist’s proof,” he said, “for scale.” It was another portrait, unsigned, intimate, and quietly radiant. I couldn’t look away. It was perfection – what was once cold, now feels devotional.

Perhaps that’s Hedge Fund’s true artistry: to make ownership itself the emotional centre of the work.

The Last Great Portraitist of Capital

In Portraits of the Very Rich 3, Hedge Fund completes a peculiar circle – elevating commerce to beauty and beauty to commerce, until one cannot tell which came first. His portraits shimmer with complicity. They are not moral arguments; they are proofs of participation.

Like the Medicis of Florence or Sargent’s patrons of Mayfair, his subjects will live on in these digital reliquaries – faces preserved in flat, radiant eternity. And as for us, the viewers, we are left to confront the uncomfortable truth that Hedge Fund has merely painted what some already worship.

Money, yes. But also the confidence to smile like Georgie McBannister.

Hannah Gralle’s Next Act: What follows her Well-Received Vegetable Version of Citizen Kane?

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Hannah Gralle’s Next Act: What follows her Well-Received Vegetable Version of Citizen Kane?

Fearless innovator and film-maker, Hannah Gralle,yes, that Hannah Gralle of Citizen Kane versus The Vegetables fame,has announced her next project. And if you thought stop-motion brassicas emoting through Citizen Kane was the zenith of conceptual audacity, brace yourself: she is now turning her attention to War and Peace, performed entirely by items found in the “Lost Property” bin at Clapham Junction.

Early reports suggest Pierre Bezukhov will be played by a left-footed Wellington boot, while Natasha Rostova will be brought to heartbreaking life by a novelty pencil case shaped like a dolphin. The Battle of Borodino? Forty-six mismatched gloves moving in slow motion across a commuter platform. The peace treaty scenes will be enacted with mislaid Oyster cards.

Gralle insists the shift away from edible media is “not a retreat from the sensuality of food, but an exploration of the emotional residue of mislaid personal effects.” Translation: vegetables rot quickly and she has had it with the smell of decomposing courgettes in her studio.

Collectors will be delighted to learn that they can purchase the original “cast” members after the premiere. Prices will vary depending on the emotional weight of the item,one mitten with “Mum” stitched inside is already rumoured to have a reserve price higher than a Damien Hirst dot painting.

Naturally, the art world is divided. Some hail the move as a bold examination of loss, impermanence, and the hidden narratives of the everyday. Others suspect Gralle is simply working her way through a list of “Things That Can Be Anthropomorphised And Then Easily Sold to Collectors”.

This is the very highest of fine art and the TV presenter who dismissed it with the phrase “If only these items had stayed Lost and not been Found,” knew not what he was looking at. All sensible collectors will be scrabbling to buy one of the actors from the film. Personally I am after the silver salt cellar which plays Napoleon.

Exhibition Review: “Terra Firma Is So Last Century” – Saki Pentona’s Martian Manifesto in Watercolour and Rocket Science

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Exhibition Review: “Terra Firma Is So Last Century” – Saki Pentona’s Martian Manifesto in Watercolour and Rocket Science

In the sleepy fields near Swindon , England’s very own Space Exploration outpost , Watercolour artist and amateur rocket scientist Saki Pentona has launched (quite literally) an exhibition called “Terra Firma Is So Last Century”. It is less a conventional show and more a declaration of interplanetary ambition, featuring Saki’s meticulous plans, blueprints, and watercolours of space rockets and Martian colonies, all within a three-quarter size rocket. If you expected pastoral landscapes or delicate florals, think again: here, the earth-bound parochialism of the art world is blasted off into the cosmic void.

Pentona’s work owes more to the Futurists than the Romantics, channeling a feverish obsession with speed, technology, and the expansion of human horizons. Yet unlike Marinetti’s fever dreams of mechanised warfare and urban frenzy, Saki’s vision is both whimsical and grandiose , part engineering blueprint, part manifesto. The show reads as a blueprint for humanity’s future, executed with the delicate touch of a brush dipped in Martian dust.

Highlighting the exhibition is a staged “performance art” rocket launch from a Swindon field , an act of theatrical bravado that may have been more impressive for its earnestness than its altitude. It’s hard to say if the rocket actually made it off the ground or simply served as a symbolic gesture, but the spectacle of an artist attempting to literally break free of gravity is undeniably compelling.

Pentona regards his work as a manifesto against the insularity of the contemporary art world:

“The art world is too parochial, too focused on the earth. I intend to be the first artist to exhibit on Mars. My work currently consists of my plans, designs and blueprints for space rockets, Mars houses and associated necessaries. Living on Mars will be a huge step forward for mankind, and my work will be at the forefront of the push to live on other planets. This will be a struggle, it will make Fitzcarraldo’s endeavours look like a stroll round Hyde Park, but I will be there, the first coloniser of Mars.”

Saki’s ambitions include launching the Earth2Mars Rocket from Mount Snowdon in late 2025 , presumably when the Welsh hills will double as a launchpad and exhibition space , and designing a Martian colony flag, perhaps a new banner under which earthlings might trade their cynicism for space suits from the locals.

Collectors are invited to purchase copies of his designs, so long as they don’t actually attempt to build their own rockets. Proceeds from these sales will fund the first Earth2Mars rocket and the colony itself, a tantalizing fusion of commerce, art, and interplanetary colonialism. And for the truly adventurous, there’s an invitation to join Saki on a test flight to the moon , pack your own space suit and lunch.

Pentona’s exhibition is an intriguing blend of naïve optimism and sardonic critique: it skewers the art world’s obsession with the terrestrial while simultaneously indulging in an audacious fantasy of cosmic pioneering. Whether he will be remembered as an avant-garde visionary or a quixotic hobbyist remains to be seen, but one thing is certain , Saki Pentona’s watercolours and rockets make for a boldly singular spectacle. If the future of art lies beyond our atmosphere, then consider this exhibition a boarding call.

So, who’s ready to trade their gallery pass for a ticket to Mars?

Be in our Upcoming Film- Death in a Tree

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Be in our Upcoming Film- Death in a Tree

Death in a Tree: The Indie Epic Everyone’s Talking About

There are scripts, there are good scripts… and then there’s Death in a Tree. Critics have compared the emotional depth of Saus Pilli’s debut script to Dostoevsky at his broodiest. Set in the bracing seaside town of Eastbourne, though filmed in Miami for tax reasons, the story follows a former CEO of a sprawling kindergarten empire who trades corporate boardrooms for a treetop perch overlooking the English Channel. The plot dances between the tragic and the hilarious , one moment you’re weeping into your popcorn, the next you’re wondering if the seagull in shot is method acting.

Of course, Eastbourne itself is a character in the film , which is why it will be recreated almost entirely on a pristine beach near Miami. The English Channel will be digitally added later, complete with authentic British drizzle layered in via a special effects team in Uzbekistan.

Casting has been the talk of the coastal cafe circuit. The inimitable Pansy Troutte has officially signed on to play our heroine, bringing both gravitas and an ability to cry beautifully while up a tree. And negotiations are almost complete with Richie Nogood, who might just swap his usual gritty roles for the part of the tree surgeon whose heart , unlike his chainsaw blade , is in the right place.

The mood in the Pimlico Wilde Miami production office is already electric, and shooting hasn’t even begun. Crew members have been spotted testing wind machines on local piers and ordering “period-accurate” thermos flasks from a warehouse in Belgium. The director Callum Simon has insisted that every outfit be “practically wearable in a tree, yet also suitable for a surprise dinner with royalty.”

The Call to the Wealthy and Adventurous

Now, collectors and readers with well-stocked bank accounts, this is where you can come in. We’re almost fully funded, but still shaking the metaphorical money tree for those last few golden leaves. To tempt you, we’re offering investment levels so exclusive they almost defy logic:


• £5,000 , Your name in the credits, Not spell-checked.

• £10,000 , Your name in the credits, definitely spelled correctly.

£50,000 , Keep a prop leaf from the tree, lovingly signed by the director.

• £250,000 , Cameo as “Mysterious Beachcomber #2,” filmed in Miami but wearing a coat and eating fish and chips as if it’s Eastbourne.

• £5,000,000 , The ultimate reward: one of the lead characters will be named after you. Imagine Richie Nogood whispering your name in a key romantic scene while staring into Pansy Troutte’s eyes. History will remember you.

So, to the bold, the romantic, the eccentric, and those with a fondness for tree-based drama , Death in a Tree awaits your patronage. Act now to be remembered forever.

Vincent and the Van Goghs – Art Dealers Turned Rock Darlings Light Up Frieze Week

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Vincent and the Van Goghs – Art Dealers Turned Rock Darlings Light Up Frieze Week

At Pimlico Wilde Gallery, Magus Street, Mayfair

Frieze Week has its rituals , champagne in plastic flutes, speculative glances over shoulders, and the eternal question of whether the art or the networking is the true medium. But last night, at the Pimlico Wilde Gallery in Mayfair, something refreshingly spontaneous cut through the gloss: an impromptu gig by Vincent and the Van Goghs, the art world’s most beloved band.

Fresh from their myth-making sets on the roof of the National Gallery, under the blue whale at the Natural History Museum and at the top of Nelson’s Column, the group returned to the scene of their first gig , Pimlico Wilde , for an unannounced performance following the opening of the Invisibilist group show, Now You Don’t See It, Now You Don’t. What began as polite applause in the champagne haze quickly became a full-throated singalong that spilled out onto the surrounding streets, as over ten thousand art lovers joined in with Vincent and the Van Gogh’s many hits.

Frontman Scissors Coney (Head of Sporting Art, Jones & Jones) commanded the stage with his trademark mix of louche charm and ironic earnestness. “I’m not sure what’s next,” he confessed mid-set, “let’s sing our new Bristol trip-hop version of the National Anthem. You’ll know the words.” Later, the band launched into Still Life (with Feelings), their crowd-pleasing ode to oil paints and glazing. The crowd, half collectors, half curious hangers-on, swayed and shouted the refrain: “You can’t erase what the heart conceals!”

Safah Pulle, switching between drums and double bass, laid down grooves that were half swing, half swagger. Her timing on The Persistence of Melody was immaculate , the song has evolved from a tongue-in-cheek riff on Dali into a bona fide crowd favourite. Armani Suoff’s harmonies shimmered through Girl with a Pearl Earring (and a Fender Strat), and her delicate triangle work in Minimalism (This Song Is Just One Note) drew a surprisingly reverent hush.

By the time Edward Grunt (of The Grunt Gallery fame) took to the front with his tambourine solo during Kiss Me Like I’m Klimt, the energy had shifted from private-view chic to pure euphoria. Even Sir Wallaby Haggis was dancing , a sight never before seen in Mayfair.

The Invisibilists themselves, who traffic in “presence through absence,” couldn’t have had a better counterpoint. Vincent and the Van Goghs filled the air with the complete opposite: sound, joy, and colour in motion. It was a performance that reminded everyone , even the most jaded fairgoer , that art need not only be looked at; it can be heard, felt, and sung at the top of one’s lungs.

When the band closed with Singing the Phthalocyanine Blues, the room erupted. Phones waved like votive candles, and the chorus , “I’m just a tint away from truth, baby blue, baby blue!” , rolled out into the cool Mayfair night.

Vincent and the Van Goghs are no longer a curiosity of the art world; they are its beating heart , witty, self-aware, and unashamedly alive.

★★★★★

For once, Frieze Week found its soul , and it came with a tambourine.