Arriving in Paris always feels like a moment, especially when I look down, hiding behind sunglasses, imploring the imaginary paparazzi, “Please, no pictures today.” Luckily, Gare de Lyon is literally next to my hotel, the Courtyard Marriott. Now, I know you are thinking, why not stay at one of those cute Parisian boutique hotels? Or splurge for luxury? Lean in while I impart a bit of travel wisdom, unless you are Mariah Carey bathing in champagne at the Ritz, meaning money is no object and you can as easily waltz into your suite at Le Crillon or Cheval Blanc, then go for the American-sized rooms and amenities at the Courtyard Marriott. While there are no truffles and flowers, for around $300 dollars per night, you can sleep, shower, and lounge in comfort. Trust me, I’ve done the boutique hotels that were so tight I couldn’t even move around the bed. Some will say the tradeoff is being able to walk out your door and immediately have Le Marais or Saint-Germain at your doorstep. But that is what an Uber is for, or, as with my hotel, the subways steps across from the entrance.

My Paris schedule had me visiting old haunts and seeing friends who were now officially expats. Thursday night was reserved for the spark of my trip - Art Basel Paris - and dinner with a friend, Alissa, who, with her husband, had recently left the U.S. for des pâturages plus verts. I read in more than one publication in the lead up to Art Basel Paris, that in addition to its symbiosis with the luxury fashion market, its success may depend on the simple fact that “collectors” just want an excuse to be in Paris in the fall. Works for me. But as I make my way to the Grand Palais and wade through the vernissage, fancy name for opening night, I know that this has now become familiar in a way that is boring. Even though the paintings are (at times) different, the experience is basically the same. The Grand Palais is glorious, but is that enough to look at another George Condo? Yes, there were a few standout moments, in particular the warm greeting I received at the Detroit Salon booth featuring works from artists I follow like Jamea Richmond Edwards and Mario Moore. Or the work of Kyle Dunn at PPOW gallery, which I can say without hyperbole was sensational. But Art Basel Paris felt like a pilgrimage where the prevailing Gods did not respect their devotees unless seven figures were proffered to the altar of feigned indifference. And even though this was opening night, the real exclusivity was reserved for invitees to a VVIP showing two days before.

So why was I here again? I was here to report on the goings-on of all the things, like the conversation overheard in David Zwirner’s booth about three lovely Joan Mitchell paintings, where the gallerist, in the most pleasant voice (seriously, she was like a siren) explained how the paintings were each over $2 million. When the gentleman, who I assume was not an “A-list” collector, somewhat taken aback, responded, “And these will sell…here?” The gallerist responded, “Yes, we sold another one yesterday.” When I turned around, the gentleman was gone. Now, I only assume he was not an A-lister because if one is in the market for a Joan Mitchell painting, you are not asking the price at the fair. Someone has already given you a dossier of available works, and you are there to see them in person or simply connect with the gallerists to let them know you are legitimately in this collecting orbit and, if not today, then soon. But in my mind, I start to think, what if he was like, “I’m so excited. I’m going to the art fair to buy some art. I have a six-figure budget!” And they are like, “Oh, that’s rich…rich as in cute, because this party requires seven-figures to get on the wait list.” You see the absurdity in all of this, don’t you? And my little joke there is not actually a joke. That is how the art world works in the stratospheric levels where art miraculously transforms into an asset class which is something to just be traded or laundered. I can’t honestly say I came all the way to Art Basel Paris to see the art and advise for clients.  No, I came all that way to observe people watching other people - all hoping to be seen - as everyone unceremoniously ignored one another, shuffling through galleries where expensively cheap parfum permeated the air. In that moment, I suddenly realized, “Nicholas, dear, I think we’ve had enough.” And I left the Grand Palais like Cinderella leaving the ball.

Taking both my crystal slippers, I headed off into the Paris night. When the cold air slaps my face, I’m reminded not be jaded but grateful that I’m in a position to “see the world with my own eyes.” I made my way to Alissa for dinner, who is recently retired and living her best life in Paris. Her hug was long and full of genuine warmth. We knew each other from my entertainment law life, where I was her book agent years ago. And then, at some point, we realized we knew folks in common in very different ways. But our conversation was basically an exhalation on the reasons for expatriation and the excitement, fears, and opportunities of writing life’s next chapter. The following day, we were to meet at the Petit Palais to hear EE72 founder and former British Vogue editor Edward Enninful in conversation with the now-iconic contemporary artist Yinka Shonibare on “The ‘90s.” So, our dinner naturally reflected memories of the 80s and 90s when, as Alissa so aptly stated, “Everything was possible.” Indeed, that was the edict for creatives at that time, simply make it happen. Whatever “it” was, you could do it. Even with the AIDS crisis in full effect, taking away friends and loved ones as easily as a knock on the door… “everything was possible.”

Friday, 1 p.m. – The Petit Palais

I am exactly on time for meeting Alissa and her husband at the talk, which means I am late. But I had good reason. You see, my day was to include a leisurely walk through the antique shops of Saint-Germain and then a stroll to the Petit Palais. Instead of starting the day with a cinematic fall montage of me walking through the streets of Paris, sipping a cappuccino, and eating a buttery croissant, I grabbed coffee from an unpleasant barista at the Starbucks next to the hotel and jumped in an Uber headed to one of my favorite neighborhoods. It is entirely possible that the epicenter of my aesthetic being may begin at the Etro store on the corner of Blvd. Saint-Germain and flow down Rue des Saint-Péres towards the Seine. Let it be stated, there is something about sexy men selling you clothes. Dark men with alluring smiles dressed to perfection can make you do some things. As I paused at the €2,300 purple cashmere tailored jacket, I thought, my husband would kill me if I brought this home. But who in all of God’s heaven and earth would be able to tell me anything in this jacket? Alas, I don’t spend that type of money on clothes, those coins are saved for art and antiques. But there was another gentleman who occupied my fashion realm. The two salesmen were doing a choreographed dance as they assisted him with a bevy of options. He was trying on everything with the indifference of “I’ll take this one, that one…can you get this jacket in a smaller size…” And, he was simultaneously talking to someone on the phone about his reservations for the evening and having to stop by a gallery reception before he could meet whomever was on the other end of the line, “so I’ll just meet you there…” I am a dreamer, but never delusional, and even more practical when it comes to making those dreams real. So, the purple cashmere jacket will be placed next to my George Condo and Joan Mitchell in the collection that has yet to be manifested.

Leaving the boutique, I grabbed what might have been the best croissant I’ve had on my entire trip at a nondescript bakery on Rue des Saints-Péres. I was giving myself ample time to stroll the antique shops and meet Alissa and her husband for the talk. “Well, hello little porcelain dogs” I said to myself, admiring their place in the window of Wittmann Antiquités, a rather imposing antique store. “Nicholas, don’t go in there...sigh…look them up online when you get home.” “Wait, isn’t this the store Garrow Kedigian visited on his YouTube channel last month?” Yes, this is one of those streets where one can spend an afternoon in just a few blocks. And even though I was on a schedule, there was no way I would pass by the shrine of bespoke wallpaper without paying homage to all that is de Gournay. Now, for those of you who think you know about interior design, unless you can speak of beaded and embroidered wallpaper, you can’t tell me anything. I made my way into their most lovely showroom. But this is no mere look-about on my part. No, as with my Bisazza tiles, I will have this wallpaper in my Italian apartment. Seriously, this is art. Handmade craftsmanship resulting in unparalleled luxury. Of course, I’ve seen luxury before, but I didn’t know one could have celestial beings beaded on silk wallpaper and put in your home. I simply didn’t know that embroidered birds, monkeys, and crystal fish could frolic on your walls. But once you know, you can never forget. I exchange information with the saleswoman who informs me that there is a manager who specifically handles Rome and that she would put me in touch when I’m ready.

Contacts in tow, my pace is no longer leisurely as I walk across the gloriously ornate Pont Alexandre III Bridge, arriving just in time for the talk, which is a part of Art Basel Paris’ free public programming. I immediately felt a sense of calm seeing two Black men on this world stage, commanding an audience, that in some cases flew across continents to spend 45 minutes in their presence. There are art world figures conspicuously hidden in their all-black designer gear in the room. But this is a space where everyone, unlike the vernissage, feels welcome. The spirits must have had a conference call because Yinka’s comments echoed salient themes from my trip thus far. He discussed missing the urgency of his early career, where he was fighting for visibility and taking control of his own narrative. Underlying his comments on that time is what I glean as a power in the act of creation that actually lasts. The possibility of it all. And with Yinka, who is now part of the art world canon, that narrative he controlled for himself now allows him to create a global community for others.

My time is short with Alissa as we walk, discussing the talk and making plans for dinner the following night. I’m off to meet with another friend and I have that grocery store feeling again, you know, “look at me leaving talks – in Paris, with friends, jaunting along the Tuileries Garden so as not to be late for tea with Monica.”  I do this to make myself laugh because I’m in on the joke. I do realize this is my life. It is one I worked, fought, and prayed for. Blessedly, is not the refrain from “Lush Life” but rather my life, and one for which I am grateful. Thoughts circle in my head as I have walked these very streets many times before, but now I’m older. The map in my iPhone is handy, but these streets are ones that little boy now knows. So, when I meet with Monica amongst the bustle of trendy Parisian cafés near the Louvre, we decide on Kosyuen, a quiet Japanese teahouse, instead. Oh, there is so much I want to tell you about Monica. But alas, her story is not mine to tell on these pages. Whereas Alissa and her husband’s expat tale is just beginning, Monica, as she quipped, is living her full “James Baldwin fantasy.” Her story is one that inspires, but let’s save it for one of those internationally chic glossy magazine profiles in due time. Two hours of catching up, sipping matcha tea lattes, filled me with the energy I was looking for from this trip. Enriching stories of people following their dreams and succeeding in spite of brute forces against them will, surprisingly, lift your spirits.

Saturday was my last day in Paris. And even though I loved meeting my friends, I did not ask anyone to join me during the day. For you see, that is my personal time to commune with the art and antique muses at the Marché Aux Puces de Saint-Ouen Clignancourt. Some go to the spa and drown out the world behind steam showers and massages. I travel to Paris and spend the day at the most fabulous flea market in the world. And even though it is called a “flea market,” the shops offer a cornucopia of the best art, furniture, antiques, jewelry, and all-around design essentials one can ask for. I wake up early in…anticipation. The Uber heads about 25 minutes outside of Paris to an area I’m never truly sure of and drops me off on Rue de Rosiers in the middle of it all. I catch my bearings as there are several regions to the overall flea market and then I’m off. Well, not “off” as in running, but I transition to a highly intense mode of leisurely walking. The kind of walk that says, “I’m looking at every single item in your store and at any minute I could pounce with questions of provenance and price.” Having arrived a little after 10 a.m., I don’t leave these sacred grounds until around 2:30 p.m. If I wrote about every wonderful objet d’art I saw, this would be a catalogue, as every type of decorative art is represented here. But perhaps even more intriguing is the people-watching. I love to listen in on the serious buyers with their measuring tapes and transcontinental conversations on which room of which house, in which country, the $8,000 chair will go. Or the ladies who fly all the way from Los Angeles to buy their designer handbags in the nondescript booth that only holds the best vintage LV, Hermes, and Goyard at still quite expensive, but discounted enough, prices so that they can be resold at a profit. In one booth, a man had me laughing to myself as he proclaimed to his wife, “Honey, I will break my rule for this!” Presumably, he had some limit on the spending. I kept walking, but when I came back around the aisle 15 minutes later, they were laughing together as she tried on Chanel jackets. The wife, who looked to be in her late 60s, said in a way not haughty but worldly, “I stopped buying Chanel; my jackets kept snagging.” We live and learn. I leave full of ideas, inspiration, and an ongoing conversation with a couple of 19th-century dragons that would like to rest their weary heads in my bedroom.

Early evening descends, and the shortness of my few days in Paris rang melancholy in my head. I have a few hours to spare before dinner and decide to, as I like to say, “make a few stops.” Which is code for “I want to go shopping even though I know it will make me late.” And though Paris has a perfectly efficient subway system, it does not allow me the proper “I have a driver” fantasy. I Uber my way to the Kenzo store on Avenue George V and try on a suit jacket that I have been pondering online. It was very nice material with a cool pattern, but my personal Black gay James Bond aesthetic is more tailored. I think I’m going to buy a sweater, maybe one of their cool sweatshirts, then I remember, “Nicholas, you know you buy your Kenzo at the outlet store. Leave, leave now!”

I hop back into an Uber and make my way to the Marais for AKAA-Also Known As Africa, a fair that specializes in contemporary African art and design. After being disappointed with the lack of inspiration at Art Basel Paris a few nights before, I was slightly aloof about seeing another fair, even though I have wanted to attend this particular fair for years. Ah, but give life a chance… Do you want to know what happened when I entered AKAA? They welcomed me! “Bonjour/Hello!” The attendants were smiling, and guests were mingling, soaking up the palpable positive vibe in the air. As I walked through the various booths, I saw some glorious art, some “nice” art, and some “you gave it your best shot” art. I spoke with gallerists who educated me with enthusiasm on the artists and their works. If I can sum it up with just one word, AKAA was “fresh.” The fair felt alive. And, while fairs are clearly economic engines to sell art, AKAA actually lived up to the words found in the introduction of its 2025 catalog by Artistic Director Sitor Senghor: “Visitors will walk in the footsteps of visionary artists, those who understand that art is an act of freedom, resistance through beauty, and a celebration of life.” I truly felt a creative energy in the space. Also, if you were there, please write in and tell me if I just imagined this…was every third person a supermodel?  There was definitely a young-chic-Afropolitan memo that went out. Glad I got it!

This is where I should compare and contrast AKAA and Art Basel Paris, but that wouldn’t be fair, as they are two very different animals. AKAA is smaller and can more easily control the baseline experience of having fun at an art fair. Yes, I do believe art fairs should be fun and enjoyable moments. Whereas Art Basel Paris is offering an experience that aligns with exclusivity. And, for better or worse, there are times when we do want to just sip a glass of champagne, clutch our diamond-encrusted Cartier pendant, and walk nonchalantly through a crowd of people doing exactly the same thing. The lesson here is understanding which fairs are central to building your collection and making connections with galleries and artists that will help you on that journey.

This time, I didn’t want to leave the fair, but my dinner plans awaited. Rain poured down as I dipped into a fashionable boutique across the street to buy a €70, only-option umbrella. I was half mad because it was cute, and I knew it would have to be left behind. But I was wearing a grey cashmere jacket and the pink cashmere sweater I specifically brought for this trip – I was not about to get soaked. Luckily, the restaurant was within walking distance.  

Alissa and her husband had found a lovely vegan restaurant and treated me before I headed off to London early the next day. I delighted in their stories of getting settled and, in particular, how fresh the fruit is in Paris. It’s the little things as you get older. And as we talked about past and future, fears and goals, Alissa said what I have now claimed as my current motto: “have courage, have ideas, will travel!” And with that, I’m met with another long hug from Alissa, that kind that says, I’m not sure when we’ll meet again, but be blessed on the journey.

Have you considered?

Tegene Kunbi (b. 1980, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia)

Tegene Kunbi is an Ethiopian abstract painter known for his layered color-field compositions that incorporate paint, fabric, and textured grids.¹ He studied painting in Addis Ababa before moving to Berlin in 2008, later completing an MFA at Universität der Künste Berlin.² His work draws on Ethiopian textile traditions while engaging global abstraction. He is represented by Primo Marella Gallery (Milan/Lugano), Gallery 1957 (Accra/London), and STANDING PINE (Nagoya).¹˒³ Kunbi received the Grand Prix Léopold Sédar Senghor at the 2022 Dak’Art Biennale, one of the most important awards in contemporary African art.⁴ His paintings appear in exhibitions across Europe, Africa, and Asia, with growing presence on international sales platforms and auctions.¹˒³˒⁵

Why You Should Consider Collecting Tegene Kunbi

• Major institutional recognition

• A strong fit for a focused abstraction or African-diaspora collection

• A genuinely international market footprint

• Reach out to me for a detailed conversation

Sources
¹ Primo Marella Gallery – Artist biography
² Universität der Künste Berlin – Artist education listings
³ Gallery 1957 / STANDING PINE – Artist profile
⁴ Dak’Art Biennale – Grand Prix Léopold Sédar Senghor, 2022
⁵ Artsy / Strauss & Co. – Market listings and auction data

Do Consider

I’m evolving this section of my newsletter. I plan to re-launch my podcast “soon” (if I say it out loud, I have to do it, right?!). Instead of a calendar list and locations to check off, I’ll leave you with a bit of advice that we can discuss online or during the podcast.

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