My Life as an Art Dealer: Kazakhstan and The Art of Survival

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By Harissa Beaumont

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be spending a week at the Astana Contemporary Visions Art Fair in Kazakhstan, I’d have laughed, poured myself another glass of Sancerre, and assumed you’d been reading too much experimental fiction. And yet, there I was, in a city where temperatures hover around -20°C and everything seems designed to remind you that you are, in fact, not as glamorous as you think you are.

The venue itself was a brutalist palace of glass and steel, as if someone had decided to build the Louvre Pyramid in the middle of a frozen steppe. Our booth was strategically placed between an Azerbaijani artist selling paintings of leopards playing canasta and a Georgian collective whose primary medium appeared to be old tractor parts. Across from us was the pièce de résistance: a towering installation by a Kazakh oligarch’s protégé,a life-sized yurt constructed entirely of loaded AK-47s. It was titled “Nomadism Reimagined,” but mostly it reimagined the definition of “health and safety hazard.”

The fair started with the kind of logistical nightmare that only the art world can conjure. A shipment of works,delicate canvases by British minimalist Bea Faulkner,was delayed in customs because someone forgot to file the proper paperwork. As I stood in an icy warehouse arguing with a customs officer, who kept insisting that the paintings might be “anti-government propaganda,” I experienced what I can only describe as an existential chill. Eventually, the works were released, but not before one of the canvases was precariously balanced on top of a forklift, which I could swear was straight out of an opera: “Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore… and then I lost my masterpiece to bureaucracy.”

Once the booth was set up, things began to look brighter. The Kazakh collectors were a fascinating mix of oil tycoons, oligarchs, and the occasional avant-garde fashion designer. One particularly enthusiastic buyer,a fur-clad magnate with an entourage the size of a small country,fell in love with a neon piece by Sandy Warre-Hole. “This is art,” he declared, jabbing a finger at it. “It says something about our times.” When I asked him what he thought it said, he replied, “That I am rich enough to buy it.” I suppose honesty is a virtue.

A young Kazakh artist named Altyn, who creates immersive installations out of horsehair and sand, came by our booth and loudly critiqued everything. “Too Western,” she sniffed, gesturing at a sculpture of melted iPhones in a sink by Milo. She later softened, though, and spent a full 20 minutes explaining her theory that the Silk Road was the first conceptual artwork in history. At some point, she offered to trade one of her horsehair installations for Bea Faulkner’s Untitled #27. I declined, but part of me regrets it,I could probably have used it as insulation.

By midweek, we’d sold several pieces, including a monumental work of the little known slums of Windsor by Thierry Duval to an Uzbek collector who insisted it would look “amazing in my dacha.” I didn’t have the heart to ask why anyone would hang a painting of urban desolation in a house designed for summer leisure. Meanwhile, I spent the better part of Wednesday dodging questions from a local journalist who wanted to know whether I thought NFTs were “dead yet.” I suggested that NFTs were “evolving,” which seemed to satisfy him enough to move on to photographing the AK-47 yurt. Unfortunately he got too close and fell onto a weapon which was still loaded. Shots rang out across the fair, narrowly missing several visiting dignitaries. The journalist was arrested, the last I heard he was claiming that he was a performance artist.

The fair’s grand finale was a gala dinner at a Soviet-era opera house that had been repurposed into a luxury event space. The theme was “Bridging East and West,” which apparently translated to serving foie gras dumplings while a local folk band performed a very enthusiastic rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. At one point, a rather exuberant collector leaned across the table to tell me, “Kazakhstan is the future of art.” He then spilled a glass of vodka onto his silk tie and declared it “a statement.”

By the time I flew back to London, I had frostbitten fingers, a promising commission from a Kazakh hotel chain billionaire, and an inbox full of emails demanding to know why their art hadn’t arrived yet. As Puccini would remind me, “Non siamo fatti per i climi freddi,” or, as I interpret it: art dealers are not designed for the steppes.

Until next week,

Harissa

Am I the Greatest Artist That Ever Lived?

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Our occasional series wherein an artist attempts to persuade us that they are the greatest artist that ever lived.

Salsa Blower writes…

I have often pondered, in the quiet, contemplative moments between applying layers of burnt umber and Googling “what exactly is burnt umber,” whether I am, in fact, the greatest artist that has ever lived. The thought occurs to me not out of arrogance, you understand, but as a natural consequence of living with my own work. One cannot repeatedly behold one’s own genius without, eventually, asking the obvious question.

I realise such a claim demands evidence. Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel. I have Over-flowing Laundry Basket (Mixed Media). Van Gogh had Starry Night. I have Starbar Bite, a moody triptych rendered entirely in confectionary.

But let us not get bogged down in comparison. Greatness, after all, is not about fame or sales or whether your work has ever been accepted into a major public collection (though if anyone from the Tate is reading this: my phone is very much operational). Greatness lies in vision. In risk. In applying gesso to a perfectly good toaster and calling it a comment on fast food.

What makes me the greatest? Let me count the ways.

Firstly, I have mastered every medium I have ever encountered, often within minutes of encountering it. Oils, acrylics, tempera, cement, chutney,each has bowed to my will, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes immediately after I have misunderstood its basic properties.

Secondly, my work defies categorisation. Critics have tried, of course. One described my recent solo show as “a compelling argument for stricter curatorial standards.” Another called it “like Duchamp, but angrier and with more taxidermy.” I wear these reviews as badges of honour. Genius is rarely understood in its own time. (Though I would prefer it if people stopped using the word “concerning.”)

Thirdly, and this is crucial: I suffer. Not in the traditional artistic sense (I’m very well-fed, thank you), but in the way only someone burdened with vast creative power can. I see beauty where others do not. I see tragedy in a half-eaten Scotch egg. I once wept over a badly drawn horse in a children’s colouring book.

In short, I bring depth where there is shallowness, complexity where there is comfort, and often glitter where there should really be none.

Of course, greatness is rarely rewarded in real time. My last open studio had three attendees, one of whom was lost and the other two were there for the biscuits. But posterity will understand. One day, long after I am gone (or, ideally, just after I’ve signed with a better gallery), people will look at my work and say, “Ah yes, this is what it means to be truly, unapologetically misunderstood.”

Am I the greatest artist that ever lived? The question remains open. But until the Louvre returns my emails or the Royal Academy stops returning my parcels unopened, I shall continue to create with the full, blinding certainty of a man who once glued a pomegranate to a mirror and titled it Self-Portrait.

Because if that isn’t greatness, I honestly don’t know what is.

Signatories of the Billionairist Manifesto

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1. Maximilian Louxe

An enigmatic artist whose works include the ashes of his own stock certificates suspended in jelly. Once auctioned his own private jet as “performance art,” earning $100 million in resale fees.

2. Claudia St. Fontaine

Creator of Liquidity Eternal and self-proclaimed “priestess of perpetual wealth.” Known for embedding diamonds into seemingly mundane objects, like traffic cones and frisbees.

3. Otto Von Chrome

The mind behind The Wheel of Fortune, Von Chrome merges industrial engineering with jaw-dropping luxury, creating kinetic sculptures that could bankrupt small nations.

4. Aurelius van Goppe

Famous for artworks like Infinity Dividend and sculptures made from melted Fabergé eggs. Claims to “convert capital into immortality” with his gaudy, gilded installations.

5. Belladonna Versailles

Known for satirical,but somehow earnest,pieces like The Velvet Tax Bracket, a literal velvet rope that sold for $25 million. Descended from French nobility, spending her family fortune was “too boring,” so she became an artist.

6. Sebastian Zaitsev

A former crypto tycoon who pivoted to Billionairism. Creator of The Emperor’s NFT, he insists his work “elevates blockchain into a new paradigm of cultural irrelevance.”

7. Genevieve Palladium

Famed for her destructive processes, such as dismantling luxury cars to reconstruct them as art. Her Lamborghini Shard Series set auction records,and set fire to her critics’ sanity.

8. Baron Cosimo Elan

“The Banker of Baroque” , Known for turning financial objects,like rare coins and share certificates,into over-the-top installations. His Gold Brick Sonata involves 400 literal gold bricks, each embedded with a miniature speaker playing Bach.

9. Titania Westwood

An eccentric sculptor whose works combine rare materials with ostentatious absurdity, like chandeliers made from champagne bottles emptied at her own parties. Famous for saying, “If it’s not wasteful, is it even art?”

The Billionairist Manifesto – the 21st Century Art Movement

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By The Consortium for Infinite Value in Art

1. The Age of Aesthetic Poverty is Over

We declare that art has no higher calling than to elevate wealth itself. In an era where the poor cling to meaning and the middle class calls for relatability, we, the Billionairists, proudly proclaim: beauty is dead,long live the price tag. Art is no longer about the tediousness of what you feel but the joy of what you can afford.

2. Art Shall Be the Playground of the Elite

True creativity is forged in the crucible of excess. A starving artist creates paintings; a Billionairist creates bidding wars. We reject the dull utilitarianism of relatable art and embrace the unapologetic ecstasy of the unattainable. If everyone can understand it, we have failed.

3. The Medium is Wealth

We sculpt with Lamborghinis. We paint with liquid platinum. We compose symphonies of yacht horns echoing across private archipelagos. We reject the notion that art must fit on a wall or in a museum,it belongs wherever it cannot be reached. The museum is a prison for art. This will no longer do. We build penthouses for art.

4. Outrage is a Currency

To the masses who weep and gnash their teeth at our opulence: we hear you, and we monetize you. Your outrage fuels the engine of our artistic genius. Every viral tweet criticizing our $500 million diamond-encrusted treadmill installation is part of the performance. The critics are the chorus to our opera.

5. Value Over Vision

We believe the price is the art. The higher the price, the greater the work. A canvas worth $100 million is not 10 times better than a $10 million piece,it is 10 million times better. This is not theory; it is the new maths.

6. Destroy to Create

Billionairism demands we obliterate the old to build the new. We will shred Monet’s lilies and reassemble them into private helipad mosaics. We will melt Rodin’s bronzes and recast them as doorstops for Swiss chalets. Creation is destruction, and destruction is a tax write-off.

7. Art Shall Be Fluid (and Preferably Liquid)

We reject permanence. Our works must evolve, decay, or disappear entirely, like wealth slipping through unworthy fingers. Installations will require constant maintenance; sculptures will oxidize without costly preservation. Art should be a financial liability, not a cultural one.

8. Exclusivity is the Apex of Creativity

A Billionairist work must be rare,no, singular. It must inspire jealousy, not joy. If more than 10 people can see it at once, has it failed? If more than ten people could afford it, is it a crime against art?

9. Critics are Welcome (At a Price)

We invite critique, provided it comes from voices worth hearing. (And by “worth,” we mean net worth.) The opinions of those who do not buy our works are irrelevant,they are mere echoes in the void.

10. The Future Belongs to Us

We are the arbiters of value, the gods of gilded absurdity, the masters of hyper-excess. The poor will ponder, the critics will fume, and the middle class will gawk. But we, the Billionairists, will shape the future of art,one obscenely expensive masterpiece at a time.

Let the masses have their memes and their murals. We have rotating gold-plated Porsche Ferris wheels and a martini fountain that costs more than your city block.

Signed, with Champagne stains,

The Billionairists

Billionairism: Where the Canvas is Price and Aesthetics Are Optional

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In the shimmering halls of today’s art world, a new movement has emerged that unapologetically rejects the constraints of conventional beauty and meaning. Billionairism, the art movement of the elite, has redefined the purpose of art itself: the higher the price tag, the more profound the masterpiece. Forget aesthetics or social critique; Billionairism celebrates wealth as the ultimate creative force.

A Portfolio of Priceless Excess

Among the movement’s most talked-about works is The Stock Market Serenade by Helena Roth-Smythe, a “living” installation featuring screens displaying live stock market fluctuations framed by platinum leaf and diamonds. Sold at auction for a jaw-dropping $130 million, it is less an artwork and more an emblem of billionairism’s ethos: art is value itself, as determined by the wealthiest bidders.

Similarly, Klaus Doff’s Monument to Infinite Growth shocked the art world with its audacious simplicity. This sculpture,a literal gold-plated ladder, 60 feet tall,was sold for $200 million and installed at the penthouse of a luxury Dubai skyscraper. Its minimalist concept screams “climb higher,” but insiders agree: the price tag is the true artwork.

The Price as the Point

The hallmark of billionairism is its relentless focus on cost over content. Why paint an evocative landscape or sculpt a human form when a blank platinum canvas titled Untitled (Tax Haven) by avant-garde provocateur Marco V. fetched $75 million? The piece, made of nothing but polished platinum and the artist’s signature, epitomizes the movement’s belief that art need not carry meaning,just heft in value.

“The art is not what you see,” Marco V. declared in a rare interview. “The art is what you pay to see it. True creativity lies in the bidding war.”

A Movement for the Few (and the Rest of Us to Watch)

Critics argue that Billionairism is less about artistic merit and more about turning the art market into an exclusive playground for oligarchs and billionaires. Yet, supporters maintain that this is precisely its brilliance. “Who needs aesthetics when you have exclusivity?” asked Hoey’s Billionairism curator, Christine Maltravers. “The act of pricing art at unimaginable levels creates its own aura of mystique and power.”

Take, for example, Eternal ROI, a piece by Ezra Monet (no relation), which is a single solid block of rare Burmese ruby inscribed with the words “Worth It” in 24-karat gold. At $400 million, it set the record for the most expensive “functional sculpture” after being used as a paperweight in a private yacht.

Why You Should (Want to) Join Billionairism

Billionairism has made art less about what it represents and more about what it represents you own. In this movement, art collectors don’t seek beauty,they seek dominance. The acquisition of a Billionairism piece is a public proclamation: “I can afford what you cannot even comprehend.”

It’s no surprise that billionaire tech mogul Xander Vance built his latest venture capital office around The Algorithm’s Throne, an LED-covered chair embedded with Bitcoin chips, valued at $320 million. Employees never sit on it, but as Vance famously said, “It reminds us every day that value is perception.”

Billionairism for the Masses? Not Quite.

While the average person may never own a Billionairism masterpiece, the movement’s sheer audacity has left its mark on the cultural zeitgeist. Instagram influencers pose with Billionairism works at galleries, while finance bros daydream about one day owning Fiscal Nirvana, a billion-dollar work rumored to be made entirely out of rare earth metals and shredded luxury brand receipts.

Billionairism is not just an art movement,it’s a lifestyle, a spectacle, and an assertion of dominance. In this gilded world, price transcends aesthetics, and wealth becomes the ultimate brushstroke. As Roth-Smythe once quipped, “Billionairism is not about creating art,it’s about creating envy.”

Billionairism – the best art -ism since Impressionism?

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In the ever-evolving panorama of contemporary art, a provocative and opulent movement has emerged: Billionairism. This avant-garde trend audaciously melds the extravagance of wealth with the profundity of artistic expression, creating a spectacle that is as much about opulence as it is about art.

Defining Billionairism

Billionairism is characterized by its grandiose scale, lavish materials, and themes that oscillate between satire and homage to affluence. Artists within this movement employ a visual lexicon replete with symbols of luxury,yachts, private jets, and exclusive commodities,rendered in mediums ranging from gilded canvases to diamond-encrusted sculptures. The movement serves as both a mirror and a magnifying glass, reflecting society’s fascination with wealth while scrutinizing its impact on culture and values.

Iconic Artworks of Billionairism

One of the seminal pieces epitomizing Billionairism is The Golden Paradox by the enigmatic artist known as QWERTY. This installation features a life-sized, 24-karat gold-plated Ferris wheel, each carriage occupied by intricately crafted figures representing the ultra-wealthy. The work juxtaposes the cyclical nature of amusement with the perpetual pursuit of wealth, inviting viewers to ponder the true cost of luxury.

Another noteworthy contribution is Opulence Revisited by the duo Gild & Gilt. This mixed-media piece incorporates shredded stock certificates and crushed gemstones, encapsulated in resin to form a mosaic of a burning dollar sign. The artwork serves as a poignant commentary on the volatility of wealth and the ephemeral nature of material possessions.

The Satirical Undertones

While Billionairism dazzles with its display of affluence, it is deeply rooted in satire. The movement echoes the irreverence of Pop Art, much like Roy Lichtenstein’s works that left interpretation up to the viewer, often ridiculing the subjects they portrayed.  Similarly, Billionairism challenges the audience to discern whether it glorifies wealth or critiques its excesses, thereby engaging viewers in a dialogue about societal values.

Becoming Part of the Movement

To immerse oneself in Billionairism is to engage with art that is as thought-provoking as it is visually stunning. Collectors and enthusiasts are drawn to its audacious commentary and the exclusivity it represents. Acquiring a piece from this movement is not merely a purchase but an entry into a discourse on wealth, power, and art’s role in reflecting and shaping societal norms.

In a world where the lines between art and affluence continue to blur, Billionairism stands as a testament to the enduring power of art to provoke, challenge, and inspire.

My Life as an Art Dealer: Champagne Problems

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By Harissa Beaumont

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a London art dealer in January is both underdressed for the weather and overdressed for the company. This past week has been a whirlwind of frostbite, self-promotion and truly appalling canapé decisions.

On Monday, I hosted a VIP private view for one of the gallery’s more controversial artists, Pascal Duvall. Pascal is a French conceptualist whose latest collection, “Reckoning with Banality,” features portraits of Amazon delivery drivers,painted entirely in melted vegan cheese. The pieces are surprisingly powerful, though the smell in the gallery is now something between a raclette restaurant and a forgotten gym bag.

The event was invitation-only, which meant, of course, that half of Mayfair’s gatecrashers found their way in. One particular guest, a suspiciously young “collector” named Tyler, cornered Pascal. I don’t know what he said, but Pascal later asked me if it’s legal to deport people for crimes against art.

Tuesday was spent at a fair in Shoreditch, which was as exhausting as you’d imagine. These smaller fairs are ostensibly designed to give a platform to emerging artists, but in reality, they’re just an excuse for tech bros to walk around pretending they “get” postmodernism. One particularly harrowing moment came when I overheard a man in a puffer jacket explain to his girlfriend, “This isn’t about the painting,it’s about the artist’s trauma. But, like, I’d buy it if the frame was gold.”

By Wednesday, the gallery was in chaos thanks to a shipping debacle involving a marble sculpture by Davide Greco. The piece, “Solitude in Marble,” was due to be installed in the home of an oligarch who only communicates via his personal assistant (a man with the personality of a broken fax machine). Somewhere between Naples and Kensington, the crate went missing. After several frantic calls, I discovered the sculpture had been mistakenly delivered to his mansion in Belgravia rather than his mansion in SW3.

Thursday, I attended a charity auction at some stately home in Surrey. It was one of those ghastly affairs where everyone pretends to care about endangered species while bidding on yacht holidays in the Maldives. I contributed a small contemporary piece from an artist I represent, a minimalist called Wilma Stevens who works with charred wood and glass shards. It sold for £50,000 to a woman who declared it would “look divine” in her orangery. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the piece is titled “Collapse of Capitalism”.

Friday brought me to a gallery brunch in Belgravia, a cursed idea if ever there was one. The menu featured “avant-garde avocado toast” (essentially avocado served in a glass box), and the crowd included a woman who loudly pronounced Basquiat as “Bas-QUETTE.” When I tried to excuse myself, she grabbed my arm and said, “You’re an art dealer,can you explain why people are still obsessed with Picasso? Like, hasn’t he been cancelled?”

The week culminated on Saturday night at a dinner party hosted by one of my more eccentric clients, Margot von Helmut. Margot, who insists she was “a muse to Warhol” (she wasn’t), owns a sprawling Georgian townhouse filled with so much Damien Hirst, it looks like a taxidermy enthusiast’s fever dream. The guest list included a DJ who claims to collect “soundscapes” and a novelist who once tried to pay me for a painting in poems.

The pièce de résistance of the evening was when Margot unveiled her latest purchase,a £150,000 neon sign that reads “F. Austerity”. As she did this, a waiter passed around bowls of caviar. I can’t decide if the moment was ironic, iconic, or utterly unbearable.

There you have it: another week in the glamorous, maddening, faintly absurd world of art dealing. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office, googling “career change after 30” and trying to scrub the smell of vegan cheese out of my coat.

On the Virtue of Owning What One Cannot Use

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By Compton Greene

There are those who believe in the merit of utility, who speak reverently of function over form and mutter dark oaths like “practicality” as if it were a virtue. These people, of course, are precisely why the world is so irredeemably dreary. For it is my contention that the highest form of ownership is not of things one can use, but of things one cannot, and probably will not, ever use.

The beauty of an object lies not in its utility, but in its utter refusal to serve any purpose at all. A porcelain snuffbox too delicate to hold snuff, a chair upholstered in silk too rare to sit on, or a clock that neither ticks nor tocks but merely gleams,these are the treasures of the true aesthete. To own such items is not to possess mere things, but to elevate oneself above the vulgarities of practicality and into the ethereal realm of connoisseurship.

The Historical Precedent of Pointless Possession

History, as ever, is on my side. Consider the great collector Charles Saatchi, who famously purchased Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, a dead shark suspended in formaldehyde. What could be less useful than a shark in a tank? And yet, what could be more profound? Saatchi did not acquire this piece to swim with it, nor to eat it, but to display it as a statement: “I own this shark, and therefore I own the idea of mortality itself.”

Even further back, Louis XIV adorned the gardens of Versailles with fountains so elaborate they required an entire river to function. Did anyone truly need fountains that could spray 27 distinct patterns while a quartet played nearby? Of course not. But that is precisely the point. Such gestures proclaim, “I am beyond the tyranny of purpose.”

The Philosophy of Uselessness

To own what one cannot use is to engage with life as the Greek gods do: detached, serene, and ever so slightly amused. Usefulness is the realm of beasts of burden and bureaucrats. Uselessness is the domain of the divine. As the great 19th-century dandy Oscar Wilde wrote, “All art is quite useless.” Wilde understood that to be useless is not a failure, but a triumph,a refusal to be reduced to mere function.

The useless object, then, is not a thing,it is an idea. It exists solely to inspire, to provoke, and to remind us that we are not machines bound to work, but humans born to dream.

Why Own What You Cannot Use?

Owning useless things confers three inarguable benefits:

1. It Demonstrates Power

The act of acquiring something utterly impractical is the ultimate display of dominance. Anyone can own a functional wristwatch, but to own a Fabergé egg encrusted with diamonds,an object that tells neither time nor truth,is to proclaim, “I am free from the petty chains of necessity.” It is a flex of the highest order.

2. It Cultivates Mystery

There is nothing more alluring than a person who owns things they cannot explain. Imagine walking into someone’s drawing room to find a 16th-century suit of armor looming in the corner. Does the owner wear it? Probably not. Do they even know its provenance? But does it make them seem impossibly intriguing? Absolutely.

3. It Elevates the Mundane

To own useless objects is to transform one’s life into a curated exhibition. A paperweight carved from meteorite. A goblet made of Venetian glass too fragile to hold wine. A 12th century 12-foot tapestry depicting a hunt for a mythical beast impossible to identify. Each item whispers of a world beyond the ordinary, a realm where function bows to fantasy.

The Dangers of Utility

Utility, I must stress, is a dangerous and insidious trap. The moment one begins to value an object for what it does rather than what it is, one has surrendered to mediocrity. Consider the tragic case of the modern smartphone: a device praised for its versatility, its endless stream of functions, its ceaseless usefulness. And yet, who among us truly admires it? No one places their iPhone on a pedestal or invites guests to gather round and marvel at its dull perfection. It is, in the end, a slave to its purpose, and thus entirely unworthy of reverence.

Contrast this with a gilded clock crafted by an 18th-century French artisan that no longer keeps time but still captures hearts. It does nothing, but it is everything.

A Practical Guide to Useless Ownership

For those of you new to the world of owning what you cannot use, I offer the following principles:

• Start Small: Begin with something minor but absurd, such as a quill made of solid gold or a top hat made of cement. You will never write with the one, or wear the other, but you will admire them endlessly.

• Curate for Confusion: Choose objects that provoke questions. A marble bust of someone you cannot identify is a good start

• Display, Don’t Hide: The purpose of the useless object is to be seen, not stored. Place it in a spot where it will baffle and delight in equal measure.

Beyond Use Lies Immortality

In the end, the act of owning what one cannot use is not merely a gesture of taste but a declaration of immortality. The useful object fades into obscurity the moment it ceases to function. The useless object, however, endures. It becomes legend, a testament to its owner’s refusal to be bound by the dull mechanics of practicality.

So go forth, and acquire that which serves no purpose. Buy the chair you’ll never sit in, the chandelier too heavy to hang, the painting too provocative to explain. In doing so, you will not only elevate your life,you will elevate yourself.

And remember: Non utile sed splendidum. Not useful, but splendid. Let this be your motto, your creed, your raison d’être.

The Art of Excess: Meet the Middle Eastern Artist Creating Monumental Desert Drawings with a Mercedes G-Wagon

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By Esmé Delaunay

In a remote stretch of desert where the sun gleams unforgivingly off endless sand dunes, a new star in the art world is blazing a trail,literally. Emerging Middle Eastern artist Fahad Al-Rami has stunned critics and captivated Instagram with his audacious technique of creating sprawling, intricate artworks using nothing but a top-of-the-line Mercedes G-Wagon and its tyre tracks. Dubbed “tyre calligraphy” by some and “luxury land art” by others, Al-Rami’s works are as much about high-octane performance as they are about artistic expression.

Who Is Fahad Al-Rami?

Al-Rami, 31, hails from a prominent family in the Gulf, but he has always been determined to break free from tradition,by embracing excess in the most innovative way possible. After briefly dabbling in more conventional mediums (including a short-lived attempt to paint with saffron and camel milk), Al-Rami claims he had an epiphany while off-roading with friends.

“I was doing donuts in the sand,” Al-Rami recalls, adjusting his aviator sunglasses. “And suddenly, I looked back and saw the tracks I’d left behind. They weren’t just tracks,they were lines. Lines with meaning, power, and the subtle suggestion of turbocharged luxury.”

Since that moment, Al-Rami has devoted himself to mastering the art of “desert drawing,” using the G-Wagon as both his brush and his canvas. His works span miles, often requiring drone footage to be fully appreciated, and last only as long as the wind permits.

The Process

Al-Rami’s artistic process is as meticulous as it is extravagant. Before creating a piece, he spends hours sketching his designs in the sand with a diamond-encrusted stick,“a ceremonial act,” he explains. Once satisfied with the concept, he climbs into his custom gold-trimmed G-Wagon and begins the laborious task of translating his vision into reality, steering the vehicle with surgical precision over dunes and flats.

Each piece requires perfect coordination between Al-Rami and his pit crew, who monitor tire pressure, fuel levels, and the angles of his turns. “The G-Wagon isn’t just a car,” Al-Rami says. “It’s an extension of my soul. And its all-wheel drive ensures my soul doesn’t get stuck in soft sand.”

The Artworks

Al-Rami’s works are a fascinating fusion of tradition, modernity, and sheer extravagance. Some of his most notable pieces include:

• “The Endless Falcon”: A colossal rendering of a falcon in flight, symbolizing the spirit of the desert. The piece spans 4 miles and required three sets of tires to complete. Critics have called it “the most ambitious avian artwork since Audubon.”

• “Dune Mandala #7”: A hypnotic geometric design inspired by traditional Islamic patterns. Al-Rami’s crew had to refuel mid-piece, creating an accidental but aesthetically pleasing petrol spill at the center.

• “Ego Drip”: A self-portrait of Al-Rami,complete with his trademark sunglasses,rendered entirely in concentric circles of skid marks. Some interpret it as a critique of modern masculinity; others see it as a literal signature.

The Reception

Reaction to Al-Rami’s work has been predictably polarized. Art critics are divided between calling him “a visionary genius redefining land art” and dismissing his work as “the product of an overactive trust fund.”

Pierre Dubois, a curator at the Paris Museum of Contemporary Excess, praised Al-Rami’s ability to combine cultural commentary with “mechanized majesty.” “His use of the G-Wagon,a vehicle synonymous with wealth and status,as a tool of creation is a bold statement about the intersection of privilege and artistry,” Dubois said.

Others are less impressed. “It’s just expensive doodling in sand,” said Dr. Harriet Grimshaw, an expert in land art, who argues that Al-Rami’s works lack the environmental awareness of figures like Andy Goldsworthy. “At least Goldsworthy didn’t require premium unleaded to make his art.”

The Symbolism of the G-Wagon

To Al-Rami, the Mercedes G-Wagon is more than just a luxury SUV,it’s a symbol of modernity, power, and, above all, contradiction. “The G-Wagon is a paradox,” he explains. “It is rugged yet refined, functional yet absurdly impractical for city driving. Much like my art, it forces people to question their relationship with excess.”

Automotive manufacturers, meanwhile, have taken notice. Rumours are swirling that one automaker plans to sponsor Al-Rami’s next piece, tentatively titled “The Spiral of Speed,” which will involve three synchronised G-Wagons creating interlocking patterns across a salt flat in Saudi Arabia.

What’s Next for Al-Rami?

Al-Rami has ambitious plans for the future, including a “global desert exhibition” that will feature works in the Mojave, the Outback, and the Namib. When asked how he feels about the impermanence of his art, Al-Rami is philosophical: “All art fades. Mine just fades faster.”

Despite his critics, Al-Rami’s work continues to inspire conversation,and no small amount of envy. Whether you see him as a trailblazing artist or simply a man with too much horsepower and time on his hands, one thing is clear: Fahad Al-Rami is driving the art world in a bold new direction.

And if you can’t keep up? Well, as the artist himself might say, “That’s what four-wheel drive is for.”

Podcast Show Notes for Episode 69 of Art World Exposed

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Title: “Nice, but Is It Art?”

Brace yourselves, aesthetes and iconoclasts,Episode 69 of Art World Exposed is here, dripping with intellectual pretense and borderline absurdity. This week, Saldo Caluthe and Tomas Sinke revel in their most “critical” episode yet. Expect reviews of London’s hottest exhibitions, existential debates about art’s purpose, and an interview with an artist who may or may not live in a Damien Hirst vitrine.

00:00 – 04:12 | Intro: “Because the World Needs Us”

Saldo and Tomas kick things off with their signature brand of irony, lamenting that their “vital” voices aren’t being amplified enough in the cultural landscape. Topics include their disappointment with the Tate’s coffee bar (Saldo: “Is unicorn milk too much to ask?”) and an inexplicable digression into Tomas’s recent enlightenment via a Kusama Infinity Room (“It’s like staring into my own genius”).

04:13 – 16:45 | London Exhibitions: What We Love (and Loathe)

1. “Takashi Murakami: Japanese Art History à la Takashi Murakami” at Gagosian Grosvenor Hill

Tomas declares this “a shameless act of ego” but follows up by admitting he bought a Murakami plush on the way out. Saldo insists it’s “Kawaii capitalism at its finest” and wonders aloud if Murakami can turn his grocery list into a $1M screenprint.

• Rating: 4/5 ironic winks.

2. “Brasil! Brasil! The Birth of Modernism” at the Royal Academy of Arts

Saldo waxes lyrical about the “vivid collision of colors and cultures” while Tomas smugly informs listeners he’s “already seen the original Oswald de Andrade manuscripts in São Paulo.” A deep dive into the politics of tropical surrealism ensues, complete with the phrase “neo-colonial guilt.”

• Rating: 5/5 guilty sighs.

3. “Jim Dine: Tools and Dreams” at Cristea Roberts Gallery

Saldo dismisses Dine’s “insipid obsession” with tools as “mid-century dad-core,” while Tomas defends the work as “a poignant study of human utility in decline.” Expect a petty argument over which of them actually knows what a spanner does.

• Rating: 2/5 begrudging nods.

16:46 – 28:30 | Interview: “The Artist Who Pickled Himself”

Saldo and Tomas sit down with avant-garde sensation Victor Kossuth, whose latest show at an unnamed East London warehouse involves him living inside a Damien Hirst-inspired formaldehyde tank for a week. Victor discusses his “journey into self-preservation as a critique of environmental decay,” while Tomas accuses him of being “performance art’s answer to stunt YouTubers.” Saldo interrupts to ask Victor if the tank smells.

• Key Quote: “Am I dead or alive? That’s what I’m asking you, and that’s what I’m asking myself.”

• Don’t Miss: Tomas wondering aloud if pickling himself would finally win him a Turner Prize.

28:31 – 41:02 | Discussion: “Is AI Killing the Painter?”

Saldo and Tomas take on the controversial question of whether AI-generated art is “the death of human creativity or the birth of infinite mediocrity.” They analyze a recent exhibition of AI works at a Shoreditch pop-up, leading Tomas to denounce the tech as “Dada for dilettantes.” Saldo, ever the contrarian, argues that “at least it’s cheaper than Tracey Emin.” The segment devolves into a heated debate about whether an AI could ever “understand” Duchamp’s urinal.

41:03 – 50:25 | Listener Questions: “Ask the Arbiters of Taste”

This week’s carefully curated queries include:

• “Should I invest in a Warhol print or a Rothko fridge magnet?”

• “What’s the etiquette for fake-laughing at bad performance art?”

• “How do I respond when someone asks what my art ‘means’?”

Saldo’s advice is predictably scathing, while Tomas goes full Zen by suggesting all art should “mean nothing and everything simultaneously.”

50:26 – 57:40 | Review: “The Show That Left Us Speechless (Literally)”

Saldo and Tomas review “Silence”, an experimental sound art exhibition at the Barbican. Featuring an entirely silent room, the show is described as “a bold rejection of sensory capitalism” by Saldo and “proof the curator forgot to plug in the speakers” by Tomas. Expect ruminations on John Cage, performative listening, and the ethics of snoring in a gallery.

• Rating: 3.5/5 awkward coughs.

57:41 – 1:03:30 | Closing Rant: “Who Actually Owns Culture?”

In their final tirade, Saldo and Tomas question the ownership of culture in a world of billionaire art collectors and Instagram aesthetics. Tomas quotes Walter Benjamin extensively, while Saldo throws in a reference to Dua Lipa’s latest album. The conclusion? “No one owns culture, except maybe Larry Gagosian.”

Extras:

• Links to all exhibitions discussed (because we know you don’t trust us).

• A Spotify playlist inspired by the podcast (Sad Songs to Look at Art To).

• Discount codes for Victor Kossuth’s new merchandise line (“Pickle Me Victor” t-shirts now available in acid green!).

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Find us on Instagram where Saldo shares blurry photos of wine-stained catalogues, and Tomas posts cryptic captions about “late-stage curation.” Leave a review if you feel brave enough,or better yet, send us a performance art video about your feelings.