ISSUES


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Editorial

Brit Barton



Angharad Williams, Untitled (portrait) (2026) Oil on canvas, 5 elements, each 120 x 80 cm.
Courtesy of the artist and Fanta-MLN, Milan. Photo: Joanna Wilk




Welcome to Watchville, population: not yet ten million. 

Every June, like clockwork, Switzerland is faced with the existential questions that confirm or undermine its situational relevance—whether to the global economy or cultural understanding at large. In more recent years, the June vote included the successful ban on minarets (2009) and the enactment of an immigration quota (2014). 

For the direct democracy, this year’s vote on pending initiatives took place on Sunday, June 14th. Dubbed the “Sustainability Initiative” in a pseudo-effort to preserve infrastructure, the infamous conservative-backed initiative was the one to watch worldwide—making headlines over whether or not the country would be the first in the world to cap its population. The gesture was inarguably xenophobic and primed to set off a cascade of European reactions and regulations. A ja/oui/sì vote would have instilled an even deeper sense of isolationism for the country that prides itself on its individualism but is both paradoxically surrounded by Europe and dependent on the broader European Union.

The projected vote was neck in neck—something like forty-nine to fifty-one for months—with the very real possibility that it would pass, despite the voices of dismay telling me not even to consider it. I tried to be consoled by the familiar refrain: No one is really that stupid to vote for something like that! Where have I heard that before? I tried not to dwell on the flashbacks of the era just before November 2016, with November 8th being a night I simply will never get over. 

Thankfully, by late afternoon on Sunday, June 14th—before Zürich’s votes had even been counted—it was clear the initiative wouldn’t pass. The familiar cantonal divide of the rural to the metropolitan played out as expected. Swiss direct democracy (i.e. the sixty-five percent of the population permitted to vote) continues as an imperfect but reliable system for the comparatively rapidly growing country of nine million-ish residents.

But the population vote wasn’t the only thing off-center for the country in the last few months. 

In 1912, a union of banks in Switzerland joined together to create a corporation that has since become a multinational leader. Headquartered in Zürich, UBS has been hit with regulatory scrutiny following the collapse of Credit Suisse and its subsequent acquisition—an orchestrated move by the Swiss National Bank (SNB) and regulators to stabilize the country’s assets and reputation. Publicly frustrated by the onslaught of government oversight and prospect of higher capital requirements, rumors of UBS’ desire to leave the country have grown louder. Could that actually happen? What would be the repercussions?   

Over our usual Sunday breakfast, I consulted with my local Swiss banker, asking him to predict the future. 

“No! It is a total power play. They would never leave.”  

       He reached across the table to finish off my untouched avocado.

“UBS knows it is too big to fail. SNB knows they made it that way. But UBS can’t be handed the golden goose without facing the potential for broader regulation.” 

      Too big to fail. Where have I heard that before? The statement sends shivers up my spine;    the immediate flashbacks of the months before November 2008 are unavoidable. 

       He finished his laugengipfel as he prepared his grand point.

“Look, there’s no oil or energy, no minerals, no ports; Switzerland is landlocked without any tangible resources. Thirty percent of it is uninhabitable mountain. Inflation keeps on and the world gets more expensive.”

       I’d really forgotten how heavy his accent is when he gets all didactic.

“It isn’t a question of if but when in this country. There is always adjustment. Switzerland adjusts, but it adjusts very, very slowly. Being stable and risk-averse is its most reliable asset. That's the whole point.” 

“But,” I said, in my most non-Swiss style, “high risks yield high rewards.”

       He picked up the plates and began cleaning the kitchen. His silence neutral but agreeable.


***


Every June, like clockwork, Switzerland counts down for the arrival of the art world. There is always excitement and heightened anticipation; people don’t usually visit us and oftentimes, it’s met with a spate of preordained skepticism or observational antagonism. 

This year, I kept a closer track of the ongoing complaints to which I had become a bit immune:

“It’s soo expensive. I never feel poor except here!” 
“Oh, and it’s wayyy too clean...”
“Everything is tooo ordered, way too precise!”
“...right, there is this sense of balance...there’s no contractions.”
“It’s just so, soo perfect. A fake fantasy.”
“And you feel like you can’t walk out into the street without doing something wrong!”
“I hate that the trains, the trams—everything here!—everything runs on time. It reminds me that I’m always late.”

Considering we were having free drinks in an unruly, backroom studio complex, I was a bit mystified but nevertheless intrigued. What did this Belgian, this Parisian, this Berliner, mean, exactly?

Later, I pressed a few others on the topic because all of this sounded a bit deranged to me. Europeans hate cleanliness and order and balance and when trams run on time? Really? You prefer to romanticize the opposite? But when a Basler admits to me that even he finds Zürich too safe, too sanitized, I resigned myself to the whole thing. Alas, there is something to be said about the pressure and projections this country puts on someone, anyone really—but maybe, especially, and curiously, to the nearby visitor who is faced with suddenly feeling foreign.

The thing is: After four years, I am comfortable with the facade because it is quite simply that. I know where it gets filthy and I know where to get the gear. I know about discretion because it’s a society not about being out in the open but rather about being closely calibrated to open secrets. I know the sameness cultivates a sense of stability and thereby a boredom, but I guess I’m getting older; I appreciate consistency and its own embedded elegance. I like calm. I like quiet. I love precise.

At least we can all agree that it is way too expensive here. But just before I leave, you say something like: 

“Let me know if you hear of anything, particularly if it pays Swiss Francs…”


***


Every third week in June, Art Basel | Basel, or simply Art Week—or really just Basel, as it's more colloquially, impatiently known—consists of making plans and breaking them. And with that, there is a welcomed social chaos to the given structure. Although there is a slight schedule that seasoned participants always have outlined: 


  1. to fall back on, like Liste on Monday morning and Unlimited on Monday night; 
  2. or to reject, like Tuesday preview at the fair—which, I find, is tedious if you’re not buying; 
  3. or to look forward to, like the nightcap at Renée Bar or the Kescheme rave on Wednesday. 


This year, unfortunately, I made a dreaded mistake and did the thing where I stayed too long—the whole week—which felt like torture and self-sabotage by Thursday morning. I longed to be alone by the lake rather than contemplating my existence at the Rhine.

I kept circling back to the idea of why I was there and what I was doing or expecting in the first place. I wasn’t commissioned for a feature or review, so I wasn’t anticipating work-work, more of that exhausting observational thinking in light of this issue and editorial. As I spoke with others concerning the same thoughts or feelings, the notion of reputational risk for not being present seemed to be an anxious reality. 

As we know, Basel exists as a thing inside of a thing—a small universe that surrounds the sun known as the fair. It consists of two floors in an otherwise empty art deco trade hall at the Messeplatz; each floor is made up of ‘neighborhoods’ and is broken down into ‘blocks’ that are rows and rows of gallery booths like little properties. Some neighborhoods I avoid, not because they’re too safe, but predictable second market drivel. Some blocks are just an odd vibe. Some blocks you walk through because you get lost trying to get somewhere else, like anywhere else. 

If you’re lucky, you see something unexpected and interesting and that predictably happens upstairs, where Statements is. Many things feel repetitive even if they’re not. Most, if not all, booths are comprised of adequately sized painting, drawing, and photographs. The same can be said for Liste, the young-ish fair tucked behind the mainhall, that has been classically considered to be made up of the best up-and-coming galleries that feature more emerging (read: affordable) artists. But they especially have to make sure they get out of the red and reach the black. 

That Thursday—after I had dwelled in my existential valley—I decided I wouldn’t impose a critical take on the fairs or any exhibited artworks, even if I certainly have my thoughts. At one point, when I escaped to the back corner of the Swiss Art Awards hall to take a nap in the A/C,  I thought about how stupid these sorts of summaries are; as if any one person could narrow down the best of the best, the worst, or make market predictions of “cautious optimism” with a straight face. I find that it isn’t about the stable core but about the peripheral events, exhibitions, parties, and people that make me return. I see it all much closer now and know that everyone works very hard to make it all happen, much less to keep it ticking. 

And like the theory of time, everything really is relative. 

Because every June, like clockwork, collectors, gallerists, artists and the Swiss alike wonder the same thing. For the small Liste gallery, Statement booth, or even blue-chip galleries splitting costs for an Unlimited installation, the question always comes down to confirm or undermine a situational relevance: Is it worth it to be in Basel? Is it worth it to come back? Is it worth it?

Now that Art Basel has spawned into five separate branches—Basel, Miami Beach, Hong Kong, Paris, and Qatar—the spate of complaints, comparisons, hierarchies, and market reach begets growing concerns with every edition. It’s hard not to reconcile them with a question not of if but when. Is Basel really too big to fail? 



The forthcoming issue for August is Death and Taxes. 
 
Thank you as always to the issue contributors and A&O Art Director Razi Hedström. 


Brit Barton is an artist and writer based in Zurich. She is the editor of Art and Order Journal and founder of Relative Press.