1. The Spark

You always remember your first press badge.

Mine was hard plastic with a blurry photo and the wrong job title—because I wasn’t really press. I was working the ArtReview magazine stand, handling a tiny booth in the publications section of the world’s biggest contemporary art fair. It didn’t matter. I wore it like armour.

I was in my early twenties, and suddenly, the city I knew—the one with sleepy Sundays and greying rooftops—felt like the centre of the world. Basel turned technicolour for one week every year, and I wanted to press my face right up against the pristine glass.

At the time, I was studying design and business at an art school—so not quite fine art, but close enough to feel the current. I was surrounded by artists, ateliers, and studio projects. The environment was electrifying. Even though I wasn’t one of them, I had a knack for connecting the dots—helping set up exhibitions, figuring out where pieces could go, who they might speak to. It was the first time I felt like I could belong in the art world, even if only from the side.

While the artists preferred to stay in their studios, I took this energy to Basel. Back then, everything was still print, tickets could be swapped, and around the magazine booths we’d find unclaimed VIP invites and quietly adopt them as ours. I didn’t know who I was brushing shoulders with at these summer terrace events—but I knew it felt important. It was my first taste of the art world. I was still very much adjacent—but I was there.

2. The Hustle

Later, I worked at Parcours, Art Basel’s free public sector, guiding people around installations I only just about understood. It was hot, repetitive, and weirdly peaceful. No phone. No distractions. Just me, the art, and a lot of people-watching.

Basel became an annual ritual. Even when I was living or interning in other cities, I always made my way back in June. My day job stayed outside the art world, but I kept returning as an “art worker”—reaching out to ArtReview early, staying in touch, finding new entry points. One year, I repped a Swiss magazine on club culture at what may have been the first edition of the I Never Read, Art Book Fair one of many satellite events that have mushroomed across the city during the same week. Working at the fairs gave me an “in” I didn’t otherwise have. It justified my existence there.

3. The Distance

Eventually, I earned enough at my “real job” to buy my own ticket to the fair. I remember the first time I scanned myself in, ticket stub in hand. It should’ve felt triumphant—but I was bored.

The booths began to blur. The galleries looked the same. I stood in front of a Cindy Sherman photo and had déjà vu. I checked my phone, and yep—I’d seen it the year before.

Even the gallerists had that same jaded look on their faces. It was as if no one really wanted to be there. Or maybe I didn’t. It didn’t feel like the same art school energy—the discovery, the daring. The sparkle had faded.

I skipped a few years. I was living elsewhere, and sometimes, the trip back didn’t feel worth it. I wasn’t that excited about art at all, really. Not even adjacently.

4. The Rediscovery

Then, during a family visit to see my brother in Basel, something unexpected happened: during a restaurant renovation, he ripped a vintage vending machine off the wall and wanted to throw it away. Something told me I couldn’t let him get rid of it.

I reached out to Eddie Hara—an artist I’d randomly met in a Hong Kong elevator during an Art Basel edition on the other side of the world—and asked if he’d paint it. Around this time, I’d also started making slightly cynical TikToks about the art world—filtered, faceless, and just anonymous enough to speak freely. So I did what I knew best to get the word out and made a video, shared a call for mini artworks, and it went mildly viral. Mildly viral enough to land me an Excel sheet with 495 artists’ names and emails. Suddenly, tiny artworks were arriving from Lagos, Lisbon, Leipzig.

I placed the finished machine in a friendly local capsule hotel. I’d swing by to restock it, sip coffee, chat with the hosts and travellers. The vending machine corner was small, messy, slightly chaotic—but it felt like something. It was mine.

And still, I kept it quiet. I remember sitting at dinner with “cool art friends from uni days,” wanting to share the story—but worried they’d laugh. So, I stayed silent.

And I kept making semi-anonymous TikToks. Even though the views weren’t massive—maybe 1,000 or 2,000 per post— and an occasional Abramović video that cracked the one million mark. It felt wild that I could reach so many people from my tiny apartment. One by one, I started building relationships and staying in touch with the artists who contributed. Selling art, one button press at a time. And sharing art stories, one click at a time. Still at a distance. Still art-adjacent. Little did I know those clicks and presses were early signs of something bigger—real connections, real momentum. And, maybe, the beginning of finding my way back in.

5. The Offering

Miami happened to be next on my travel list. I lined up the dates to sync with the fair. And Miami Unlimited ended up reigniting the art spark. Flip-flops, beach air, chaotic glamour. Artists and gallerists actually having fun.

People in Switzerland often scoffed at Miami—too much, too loud, too flashy. Not the understated charm of Europe. But me? I loved it. Carnival meets gallery week. Every café and concept store hosted something arty, even if they weren’t technically curators. For the first time in a long time, art felt fun again.

It unlocked something in me: if everyone here could embrace art in their own way, why couldn’t I bring a bit of that spirit back to Basel?

So I did. That night, I booked an 8-bed room at the same capsule hotel that housed the vending machine. I set up an Instagram and called it the Basel Art Summer Camp.

Worst case? Eight of my internet friends come to Basel, gallery hop, party hop, and I lose a bit of money. Best case? We sell work, cover costs, make some magic—and have cash left for prosecco.

I launched a Kickstarter. It flopped. But the room was booked, intentions were set. The artists stumbled in—many of them visiting Basel for the first time—and watching them experience the city through fresh eyes was enough.

We hung work in the lobby. Printed zines. Shared drinks funded by someone I’d met during a Sotheby’s course, where I quickly learned everything I was doing was “wrong.”

It wasn’t sleek. It wasn’t perfect. It was slightly more Etsy than East London hipster—but maybe I am, too.

6. The What-If

And guess what: the spark is back, and it’s here to stay.

We’re doing it again this year. Round two. Still slightly chaotic. Still wonderful. The nerves are there—but smaller. We know it can work. There’s a small (but growing) mailing list of artists, friends, supporters. People show up—for the art, for the drinks, or maybe just for the vibe.

And now I’m thinking: why stop here?

What if this version of Basel—my version—could travel? A vending machine in Miami. A zine wall in Hong Kong. A warm, welcoming, creative space in Doha.

Maybe we’re not art-adjacent anymore. Maybe we’ve built our own orbit.

Final Note

This is my Basel.

It’s hand-folded invites, fairly priced prosecco, and vending machines full of little prints.

It’s also a warm, cosy space where one hotel guest said, “I wish the VIP lounge at the fair felt more like this.”

That’s exactly how I want it to feel.

There’s room here for artists. For emerging collectors. For the art-curious.

For the art-adjacent.

And if you’re reading this—there’s room for you too.

Bonus: My Unofficial Basel Cheat Sheet (2025 Edition)

If you’re coming to Basel this year, here are ten things I genuinely think you shouldn’t miss:

1. LISTE – The emerging art fair where you might just catch the next big thing before they blow up. Way less intimidating and much more exciting.

2. I Never Read, Art Book Fair – A beautifully chaotic mix of indie magazines, zines, and experimental print. Go for the books; stay for the vibe.

3. Swimming in the Rhine – A local rite of passage. Grab a Wickelfisch (waterproof bag), float through the city, and don’t forget to wave at the gallerists doing the same.

4. Basel Art Summer Camp – My baby. Come say hi, grab a zine, or put a chunky 5 CHF coin in the vending machine for surprise art.

5. Basel Social Club – The most un-fair fair. Past editions have been in mayonnaise factory and a countryside field. This year: a former bank. Prepare to be surprised.

6. Kunsthalle Basel – Solid programme, great building, and possibly the best art terrace café in town.

7. Vitra Design Museum – Just over the border in Germany. Go for the design icons, stay for the architectural tour, I learn something new every time.

8. Fondation Beyeler – You’ll hear this name again and again. Believe the hype. Ernst Beyeler is actually one of the gallerist founders of the Art Basel fair.

9. Mitte café –A classic café institution. Come for the clink of porcelain, stay for the people-watching. If you need a reset in between fairs to lounge in an Eames chair, this is the place.

10. Get Lost on Purpose – Skip a plan. Follow a stranger. Take a left turn you’re not supposed to. Basel’s best moments are sometimes the unplanned ones.

TikTok – Art Museums of the World

Pop-up affordable art gallery – Basel Art Summer Camp