Turning in their grave.

What do Charles Dickens, Lord Leighton, and Anthony Trollope have in common? They were founding members of the London Arts club, a rare establishment in the middle of Mayfair where open-toed-sandal-corduroy-trousered artists rubbed shoulders with the more laidback media types, in the faded grandeur of a Georgian Terrace, surrounded by past and present members art, from Alfred Munnings to Ken Howard.
Not any more. Following nearly a year of refurbishment, it reopened a month ago, in a glittering re-launch flourish, under the proud gaze of its new owners, who include Gwynneth Paltrow and venture capitalist Arjun Waney. The interior rehash was carried out by David D’Almada apparently under strict instructions from Paltrow. What a travesty. They have concocted to rape the Arts Club of any semblance of character and delivered another Euro-Global-Anywhere bar and grill.
Gone is every vestige of the Arts Club past. Not a single former painting, sculpture or scrap of its heritage is left on view. How someone who has any vestige of style could confine the fine paintings of former members to the heap is simply beyond fathom. What relevence the artibary abstracts that now populate the Drawing Room suggest, I struggle to wonder. I can only assume that in some vicious sell-out, the former art was merely sold-off.
Now the members only club is just another slick, glossy, soulless vessel patrolled by decorative leggy receptionists and overly-staffed drinks waiters.
On my Thursday early evening visit, the place, usually a sedate trickle of arty barflies and their resting late shopping wives, was fairly pulsating with ‘other people’ – which must please the owners – but at what cost? This is now an Arts Club by name only. I doubt whether the assembled throng could draw a bath. Goodbye respectable, welcoming London clubland retreat. Hello to ‘you are welcome if your face fits, but your contribution to world is very little’ fest.

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