One of many nearly identical houses on a quiet street in North London suddenly stopped being just real estate and became a space. Temporarily — very temporarily. By next week, a café and a yoga studio will open their doors here. But for one night only, wine is flowing in the hallway, hot canapés are neatly arranged on trays, artists’ business cards are scattered across the floor, and artwork covers everything — walls, staircases, even the back garden.

The house belongs to Gary Heywood-Clarke, a titled lord and property developer. This evening marks his first foray into the art world, and judging by the number of well-heeled guests in statement rings and elegant scarves, sipping wine and wearing expressions of thoughtful admiration, the debut was a success. Lord Haywood-Clark himself seems slightly stunned by the scale of the event.

Drifting between rooms like the ghost of a rock-and-roll past is an elderly gentleman with a cane: Anthony Fawcett, a legend of the bohemian scene, once the personal assistant to John Lennon and Yoko Ono, now a curator and art critic working with some of London’s most prestigious galleries. Surrounded by artists, dealers, and the art-curious, Fawcett is clearly in his element. He seems to know everyone here — and everyone seems to know him.

As for the art itself, it’s plentiful, varied, and full of surprises. Abstract pieces echo impressionistic brushstrokes; expressionism meets postcolonial discourse and cultural identity; in the backyard, painted textiles sway gently in the breeze. Despite the diversity in media and approach, the exhibiting artists share one thing: a hunger for experimentation. Some explore light and shadow, others blur the lines between analogue and digital, or combine found objects with bronze. There’s talk of creating art in the jungles of Papua New Guinea, or in the pages of independent art zines.

By the end of the evening, the atmosphere feels like an arthouse film. Those who came for the art are chatting on the stairs. Networkers are plotting their next shows. An impromptu photo shoot takes place in the garden under the moonlight. Anthony Fawcett puffs on an enormous cigar. And the house? Still a space — slightly wine-scented, faintly echoing with chatter, with cooling canapés in the corners. 

Come Monday, the walls will be just walls again. The floors, just floorboards. And this house, once filled with art and conversation, will once again be reduced to a single word: property.

But for now — thank you for the evening. Once again, art has proven it can live anywhere. Even in a house freshly sold at auction, where flat whites and hatha yoga are just around the corner.