I’m very lucky to live in the beautiful old town of Lewes, nestled in the South Downs, with its castle and narrow Anglo-Saxon lanes. One particular treat the town offers up twice a year is Lewes Speakers Festival. In January and again in May, over a long weekend, the festival takes over the converted church of All Saints for a series of hour long talks. The speakers are usually authors with a book to promote; historians, academics, journalists, politicians, and sometimes simply someone with an interesting life story. Almost exactly a year ago at last January’s festival I saw a talk by Orlando Whitfield, a stocky, red-bearded, tattooed, thirty-something, about the downfall of his former close friend and high-end art dealer Inigo Philbrick, who was at the time serving a prison sentence for fraud in the US. It was all incredibly fascinating, with tales of a secret world, where “nobody gets out of bed for less than $500,000.” Afterwards I queued up to buy the book, exchange a few words, and get it signed by Whitfield. It’s sat on my shelf for a year, but now, during my winter hiatus before I take up interwar history, seemed like the perfect time to read it.

Londoner Whitfield met the American Philbrick when they were both students at Goldsmiths College in the mid 2000s. Goldsmiths was at the time riding high after the success of its students, know as the YBAs (Young British Artists) in the 90s, and also as the alma-mater of britpop legends Blur. They became friends, although right from the start it seems that Whitfield was rather in awe of Philbrick’s glamorous background and huge personal charm. They both aspired to become art dealers and as students managed to wangle a couple of small deals between them. Philbrick’s career got off to a good start after college with a job at the famous White Cube gallery run by Jay Jopling. He soon rose to become head of secondary market sales (the much larger collector-to-collector market, as opposed to the primary, or artist-to-collector, market). After a few years Jopling backed him to open his own gallery, Modern Collections, in Mayfair, specialising in the secondary market for modern art. Meanwhile Whitfield had effectively left the art word and was working as an editor at a small London publisher. He felt his life was going nowhere, so he jumped at the chance to work with Philbrick again when offered a job at Modern Collections. They worked together for a year or so, then parted company again when Philbrick ended his partnership with Jopling to set up his own independent art dealing business. Whitfield opened his own gallery, but it wasn’t a success and he wound up on suicide watch after a mental breakdown. Philbrick became the most successful young art dealer of his generation, putting together ever more impressive deals, and signing up ever richer clients. As Whitfield explains, the art market, especially at the high end, is murky in the extreme, and the motivations of the participants are more driven by money than a love of art. It’s quite common for works to never leave their temperature controlled warehouses in tax-free freeports as they are traded among the world’s super rich. Philbrick concocted ever more elaborate financial schemes, often involving selling shares in a work to multiple collectors. This eventually, and almost inevitably, led to him selling shares worth more than 100% of a work, and it was this that eventually brought him down. In the face of legal action and probably a jail sentence, he disappeared. Nobody knew where he was until Whitfield, to his great surprise, received a text from Philbrick saying he was in hiding. It seemed that Philbrick wanted Whitfield to write an article giving his side of the story and exonerate him, or at least mitigate the impact of his crimes. Unfortunately for Philbrick his luck ran out when he was abducted from his hiding place in Vanuatu by the FBI and extradited to stand trial in New York. The article never got written, but Whitfield expanded the material to include their entire history together and which eventually became this book.

One comes away from this book disabused of any thoughts that the art market, especially at the high end, has anything to do with a love of art. The artworks are merely tradable assets, no different or with any more intrinsic value than a bitcoin. The simple fact that anyone is willing to pay money for a work, especially someone recognised as a collector, gives it value. Another wealthy person will be willing to pay for the work regardless of whether they actually like it, or want to put it on their wall. Whitfield gives examples of identikit uninspiring abstract work produced by young artists that can suddenly fetch huge prices just because a collector has decided to take a punt. Even better if the work is exhibited in a recognised gallery. There’s a small number of elite taste-leaders who determine what is hot and what is not, and an army of followers who persuade themselves that they too have the same exquisite taste to appreciate the unappreciable. So next time you’re at an exhibition of modern art and you’re asking yourself how such rubbish gets chosen to be exhibited, remember, being good-art is not actually the point.

The book is at core a distillation of friendship. Whitfield can’t work out if Philbrick is actually a friend, or just used him. It seems obvious that there was a connection to start with when they were both students. The long nights excitedly discussing art and their joint futures as art dealers. Philbrick was no doubt both cynical and self delusional, an out of control ego, believing that his charm could take him anywhere and fool even the most hard nosed of wealthy collectors. The dynamic of a friendship can change with the fortunes and status of the participants. As Philbrick rapidly rose in status while Whitfield stagnated the dynamic was bound to turn against the latter. Philbrick probably thought he was helping out his friend when he initially gave him the job. He also brought Whitfield into his confidence when he was on the run, so he must have at least considered him a ally. It must have hurt him immensely when Whitfield’s book came out and laid bare his fraudulent dealing for all to see.

I really enjoyed the book. Whitfield writes well, if at times a little flowery. He expertly evokes London in the naughties and the cynicism and farce of the high-end art market. It was wonderful reading about arranging for the entire wall of a shop to be removed when a Banksy appeared on it, or drinking late into the night with a mad portuguese art dealer in Lisbon while trying to make the sale of a friend’s small painting.