Overheard at Frieze...

Eliza Pritchett

Conversations in Couture: What They Wore, What They Said: Frieze Week, London 2025

At the edge of Regent’s Park, a quiet, pensive queue of people moves up the gentle ramp: slow, sludgy, and rich. The sort of crowd you never see on an average London day. The ramp may as well be a red carpet. Judging by the number of Birkins being clutched by women (and men), the fair was in for a profitable weekend.

Behind me, a French family of four. I admired twins in matching tweed jackets, sipping turmeric lattes (naturally) as I tried to hide my hot chocolate. Together we reached for the season’s true fashion accessory: the Frieze magazine. Last year I couldn’t get one and shamefully rescued a slightly sticky copy from a bin just to carry it around.

Inside, no music is needed. Frieze hums like a thousand school trips happening at once: bright lights, loud conversations, expensive looking couples. The sound of cheek kisses, bangles clinking, and heels fills the clinically white tents. Designer bags are casually flung onto empty chairs while their owners examine sculptures, as if this were Dubai, not central London.

Deeper in, men who look straight off a Prada runway are pouring champagne (performatively, of course) while women sneak selfies and ask if they model. People complain about £25 glasses of champagne, then immediately buy another. It’s 11 a.m. Someone tells me her sister was standing next to Leo. No last name required.

Every goodbye becomes “See you in Paris.” Every “Let’s meet soon” turns into “What times your Eurostar?” Frieze barely opens before Art Basel begins.

By Sunday, you can tell who’s been there all week. The booth assistants have upgraded their outfits but downgraded their enthusiasm. Collapsible chairs that began as jokes are now lifelines. They sip large lattes because the matcha booth isn’t cutting it anymore. Some hide an AirPod beneath their hair; others stare blankly, haunted by the art they’ve been guarding since Wednesday.

My cousin and I queue for the mirror installation (another “moment” to capture) as an international couple walks past, black sunglasses covering half their faces. “Oh my god, Times Magazine, let’s get a photo in it,” one of them sarcastically jokes. But I think the curators know exactly what they’re doing. The mirrors are bait, and we’re all complicit.

The art world has always been about money and power. This year, Frieze added sex. The nudes were maturely received (officially) though parents with children disagreed. The oversized penises, displayed with zero discretion, made unexpected enemies among the grandparents, who had planned a wholesome weekend outing.

Everyone is uncomfortable in an art fair. My coping mechanism: listening. The art of looking at art is gone, and now the real masterpieces are in the conversations. People are too wary to speak about the work itself, which makes what they do say even better. So, if you missed it, here’s what was really heard at Frieze Week.

Overheard at Freeze... Click the carousel below to read each image's caption!

“He’s been pretending to understand this painting for ten minutes.”

“My wife needs this because Kris Jenner has it in her house”

“I could have painted that in reception”

“He’s making me reconsider Ozempic. ” “But what about the Ozempic shits?”

“Damn, I forgot how rich people really are”

“I feel like it’s such an ick to hold this. ” (clutching a Frieze map)

“Frieze really is London fashion week’s quieter twin.”

“I’ve had too many nibbles” (almond mum, holding 1 olive)

“THERE’S JUST NEVER ENOUGH TOILETS!!!”

“I need to find a plug socket to inflate my outfit”

“If you actually like this piece, you’ve had too much champagne.”