Frieze, or we'll shoot you dead

Paddy Johnson is caught in an impossible predicament trying to both praise and excoriate the Frieze Art Fair.
What is the purpose of this fair? It's wa-a-ay off the beaten path, on Randall's Island (not to be confused with North Brother Island, final resting place of Typhoid Mary).
Presumably it's so some London galleries can get within sucking distance of New York art collectors but it's "intellectual" because Frieze, the magazine, frequently cribs from the Frankfurt School.
And surprise, it's anti-union, anti-protestor, and its director thinks artists get their ideas of life from Bravo (the TV channel).
The Friezesters pack enough influence to convene a panel of 3/4 of NYC's top museum directors, who mainly want to talk about their pricy buildings and are stunned speechless when some rabble get in and ask about the unions and so forth. They probably thought the 40 dollar ticket and ferry ride would be sufficient screening.
Fairs as a whole suck, the art always looks bad, and trust me, you don't really want to hobnob with dealers whose eyes are constantly scanning around the room for someone more important to schmooze.
Paddy's beat is galleries so she's more professionally obligated to cover this nonsense than say, moi. For me it's good enough to be in NY where there are year-round galleries and I don't have to take a boat to a tent to see art.