Sometime in November
Why oh why is everybody's love life suddenly gone v.v.complicated ? Either the women of my acquaintance are without a "special" person in their lives or the one(s) they have are proving to be très très difficult!!! Let's first deal with G. How does one deal with G ? The Turner prize managed to stumble along this year without any support from me in the way of accessories or clothes. Bet, as I predicted, bought a stunning number for the event. It looked very Prada. I unfortunately said that she might need (I hate to say it ) a girdle. Not in so many words though! I tried to talk about the line being a bit broken. You know the LINE from the arm pits to the knee.
"Broken line my foot. You mean that I am rather lumpy and that the panty line is visible", she said rather icily.
I sort of stammered at her directness but was saved by G who lurking once again in the changing rooms of Fenwicks, popped her head around the corner, bright and breezy like. We were supposed to meet her later at Maison Bertaux to compare purchases, since I have refused to go shopping with her for the foreseeable future. She took one look at the wobbly jelly like figure of Bet and said dryly: "Marks & Spencers have the most wonderful all in one undergarment. You can have a perfect unbroken line to wear with bias cut dresses this year. It beats working out in the gym" and swanned out. Bet just raised an eyebrow. I could tell she was thinking v.hard. We later bought two outfits, one in white and one in black before we hit the cakes and coffee at Maison Beatuaux. Unfortunately,despite all the heavy shopping that went on beforehand, I could not give a proper critical analysis of the Turner prize-giving as I was not in the country. I was in France. But even more unfortunate, I was with a party of seventeen year olds in Euro Disney, holed up in a wild West village at the Cheyenne Hotel.
Somehow the art department at the Secondary Modern, where I teach half a day, tagged along with the tourism students who were attending a conference at Euro Disney or as I have heard it referred more succinctly as, the "Cultural Cheynobol" of France. The thinking behind this trip being that it was cheaper and we could bus into Paris with our students very easily. Yes, it was but it was also very strange. Paris as usual was just wonderful. No short breaks at sidewalk cafes unfortunately looking dead cool and drinking coffee and smoking. How could anyone with a busload of seventeen year olds look cool. The little farts stick like glue. Paris, because it isn't London, frightens them.
We 'did' the newly opened Museum de Costume (or whatever its called) attached to the Louvre. très wonderful. The students actually asked intelligent questions and our guide at the end of the talk actually said. "Tell me what are they wearing on the streets of London these days ?" Sacre bleu. What a reversal from previous decades ! Mind you there happens to be quite a few English men heading up Paris fashion Houses these days not to mention Stella McCartney...... However its nice to think that one can be dead cool just coming from a place that is thought of as dead cool. I also managed to get all the students, art and tourism into the Musée D'Orsay to look at the Post Impressionists. What I had not reckoned on was the other tourists who tagged on to our little group as I went around giving my spiel. Just after Cezanne I looked around to make sure I had everyone still with me and encountered a small mob of faces most of whom I had no recognition of at all. What's more one of them began to dispute my comment on the fact that Picasso could not have happened without Cezanne. Panic stricken that I had lost the original crowd, I hoofed it to the gift shop and sure enough there they were in high consumer mode, obviously still under the influence of Euro Disney. But the best part of all was stopping at the hypermarket in Calais and shopping just before we hit the ferry home.
The Day After The Absolute Vodka Party, December ???
Every year its the same. Everybody gets lobotomies on free Vodka. I, on the other hand, had just enough to drink. The only problem was when I went to go home I must have taken the wrong turning or the roads were changed because after I staggered past the Albert Hall the road didn't look at all familiar and I could have sworn that the scaffolded building wasn't like that when I passed it going to the party. The same was the case, when I stopped to ask the way, everybody I spoke to didn't live in the area so I just had to stumble on to a late night fruit and veg shop. Which was strange in itself, as who buys vegetables late at night? The shopkeeper looked at me rather pathetically when I asked where the Tube was, said nothing and just pointed to it. It was very conveniently next door. It was the Glouster Road station which is the next one along from South Ken. I really do not know how I got there. When I arrived home and slumped in front of the T.V. Near and dear, fast asleep on the couch woke up and asked if I had remembered to pick up his fish and chips then went back to sleep. What was v.interesting of course is who turns up to the Absolute party. Because if you design four post cards, with no identification visible and donate the money raised by the sale at only £40 each, then you get invited to the free party with all the free Vodka coolers you can drink. What is soooooo interesting is picking out the styles of various friends and acquaintances and seeing who has sold and who has not. I sold all of mine. I bumped, literally into S. who, trying to be dead casual, said her work was going on to New York with a select group of others. I asked her if that meant hers had not sold yet and she went puce. Then, before she could give a pithy answer, she was ungraciously pushed out of the way by another old fiend and acquaintance I hadn't seen since the last drunken opening last year. I briefly saw that S. had fallen into the arms of an old flame from her art school days so I figured all's well that ends well. When I told Dee Dee the little episode today she said that as S. was known as the college bike when they were at Central so things probably ended very well for her.
Money being as scarce as usual prompted me into holding another studio sale close to Christmas. Thankfully I sold two middle-sized pieces to a woman that works in the city on the stock exchange converting Deutchmarks into the new Euro money. When I delivered the work to her house on the Isles of Dogs I had to take the Docklands light rail and got to see the Millenium Dome up close from this side of the river. There I was with my nose pressed to the window having a dome experience. It really looks fantastic. I can hardly wait till the opening night. My friend K. only lives three streets away from it so we decided that if I bring an extra refrigerator and fill it up as my contribution to the two day bender I can co- host the party. Unfortunately near and dearest thinks it all a bit naff. He would prefer to spend it with my parents celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary in western Canada. I some how think he has forgotten how cold it can be in winter on the prairies. I for one am not flying anywhere. Who knows when and where the millenium bug will strike. I want to be on the ground near the Greenwich meridian drinking champagne. If near and dear won't come I'll ask the old ex fiance who still fancies me.
Christmas Season - December something
This is the season that I have to actually choose which social or art engagement to attend. So far this year the pickings are good if I can haul G. out of suburbia and away from men. Latest news on that issue is he has dumped her. I knew things were coming to a head and it was messy. We had decided to go out together to a movie. A nice girlie pal thing to do. When I met her at Piccalilly tube station she was all agitated.
"What's up" I delicately asked.
"He's in Milan."
I just smile vaguely.
"But I don't believe him."
I just smile more vaguely.
"I phoned his home and his sister said he was around this weekend."
"What do want to do about it", I ask.
She just shrugged her shoulders and we went off to the cinema. Once there I suggested she telephone him on his mobile from the foyer. Which she did in a flash. I tactfully sat in a corner and drank my dry martini but I could tell by her face it was not going well. When she returned she said that he was in Milan and he was annoyed at her phoning his home to check up on him.
"I told him that I forgot he was away this weekend but he was still annoyed."
"So how is Milan?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, well " I said, "The marvels of modern telecommunications. With a mobile you can be contacted anywhere in the world."
Then she looked at me with very narrow eyes.
"If I telephone out of the country do I have to dial the area code even if its a mobile?"
I looked at her with raised eyebrows. The girl takes a little time to work out things that really are quite obvious. She looked back at me with very, very narrow scrunched up eyes.
"The bastard isn't in Milan at all. He's somewhere in England with somebody else."
"Don't get too mad you'll ruin your make up."
At that point the movie was announced as starting like now so we went in. Later, in a little Irish pub around the corner, silently and very determine, we drank one pint after another as neither one of us was brave enough to be the first to speak. So we kept our silence and drank. After my third Guinness I was beginning to loosen up a bit and said to her:
"What now ?"
She just shrugged her shoulders. After our fourth we left.
The following week
That was last week. I phoned her up to see if she was coming up to town to attend an opening at a new little gallery in Fitzrovia. She hummed and hawed before saying that she might be going with an architect that she had become some what friendly with this last week. She had been working with him on a project for some months and finally agreed to go out with him. What, I ask you, does one say ? Bett on the other hand never ever discusses her love life. It is strictly off limits. I just get little tantalising glimpses. Em.. well there we have another story. Just the other night as N. & D. and myself were saying how wonderful Em has made the transition from engaged to dis-engaged, the telephone rang and all the world seemed to go upside down. Our poor dear Em telephoned to say she was just about to hospitalised herself for depression and almost attempting suicide. She had come to her wits end and had telephoned her G.P. in great despair saying she was suicidal. The doctor said she should admit herself then she would not be sectioned and that would have had terrible consequences on her future employment and travel. So the long and the short of it all is that Em is in the psychiatric ward of the Royal London just across the road from us and will be there until she is thought to be well enough. Things are a bit topsey-turvey at the moment as I can not tell anyone that Em is in St Clement and I am so upset.
One interesting thing did happen that was a little light of "niceness". A fellow vicar friend of my mate, the gay vicar, had seen my work some where and wanted to come to the studio. So I had him around for tea and showed him my tapestries on the ....well you know my usual stuff about women and love etc. He's a nice sort of chap in a Friar Tuck sort of way but really bright and we had a good old chin wag about all sorts of issues. Well the long and short of it all was that my tapestries are going to be hanging in this Grade II listed church for Advent. They really look great. As I said it was the one nice thing to happen amidst all the Em tragedy.
Christmas Eve.
Em has been let out under supervision. That is, she is with us for Christmas for 24 hrs exactly then we take her back to the hospital. She can not drink because of medication nor be left alone. Dearest is really upset and has out done himself with making sure everything from the turkey to the tree is perfect for her Christmas with us. She is like a little crumpled doll. I went over to see my friend the gay vicar for some moral support and a shoulder to cry on as it's too risky having a few tears in the our house. What with near and dear being so down as well. He was most kind and told me that as he is the chaplain to St. Clement. He would keep an eye on Em and talk to her when he's on duty there. Because of all of the recent events to do with Em I didn't have my usual cocktail party. In fact we didn't really feel like having a drink at all with Em being there and not drinking.
Xmas day
One of my ex-students and his wife came over so we had to put on the works. It turned out alright. It was actually good that they came as it would have been just Em, N.& D. and me plus Em's new boyfriend. So with champagne and apple juice, when the Queen came on television, we even toasted her which just goes to show how merry and stuck into Christmas we got.
New Years Day
I have decided to not use dates any more in my Diary but adopt a means of telling time based more on the Ecclesiastical method. For example breaking the seasons into Candlemas which ends the Christmas season in January followed by Lent Easter, Pentecost so many week after Easter then Advent etc. I always getting dates wrong and times and I don't seem to operate on the same wave length. Especially when it comes to money going in or out of my bank account. Dates seem irrelevant. I have a good concept of time just not a specific one. Anyways according to the professor who lives down the road it's all based on seasons so that is probably why I find it more compatable. No, I have not gone bonkers or had a religious experience! It's just that I have been reading about Julian of Norwich an English Saint who after her husband died got pissed off with everything and decided to become a ....I can't remember what its called but it wasn't uncommon for women to do it in her times. This is something I thought I could do quite easily. She built a little abode onto the side of the cathedral and had a window in the wall of the nave; from there she would give out advice and hear confessions for a ham or loafs of bread or what ever she needed to support herself; a sort of a therapist-in-residence. Apparently it was not unusual and she was one of the best. When she didn't want to hear any more woe and tales of depression she would just shut her window and get on with what she wanted to do. I think I could be quite happy doing that for while in exchange for barter payment. A lot better than being a woman artist scrabbling around to make ends meet and having to put up with all the shit and shinanigans of art school politics and the art world in general. I really feel I need a break from it all. Near and dear thought that somehow the local C.of E. vicar wouldn't look kindly on me attaching an abode no matter how small onto the side of his building.
Well this is the last New Years day in the last millenium and I just spent the last New Years Eve with N.& D. in our local pub celebrating the evening with various neighbours and locals. We didn't feel like doing much this year somehow and it was just around the corner. I was taken back at how well known he is there. Most strange.
Third week in January still in Candlemas
Went to S. from Brighton's private view. She has done all these digital image prints for years and this was a mini retrospective. VERY impressive. She is almost 55 and can wear fake leather trouser and a shiny top very well. She said the top was her son's who used to dress up as a Gothic punk. Well it looked good on her. Saw all my ex-students. I miss them and they me. Have not been doing any privates views the last four months and I have tons of invites for the next five weeks but just can't get the enthusiasm up to go. Also, this whole thing with dates is getting worse. I have now lost my watch. So even if I really really want to go to an opening, I think it's on the Tuesday and then find out it's on the Monday night. I only made it to S.'s because she 'phoned me in the afternoon to remind me.
February near the beginning of Lent which is very early this year.
Missed the Chisenhale opening last week, as well as the Freud Museum opening, and the Arkwright Center also, and the Lisson and the teacher's evening at the Hayward Gallery the week before, and the special private view at the Crafts Council all of which I really wanted to see. I did make it to the Whitechapel because Bet telephoned me when I got home from work. It was Terry Winter and Henri Michaux. Terry, I could miss. Except his drawings were good but he's got no sense of colour in his paintings. Henri is the real treat. So I fed the cats and dashed off. I was well rewarded. Henri Michaux is worth a second and third return trip. But the big treat was a special artist's night at the Royal Academy to view Monet.
What does one say when you have seen heaven! The first room was filled with his paintings of London in her pea soup fogs. They were special and I could quite easily have lived with anyone of them. The rest of the work, until you got to the very last room, was sort of ho hum. Let's just say the man had to pay the mortgage as we all do. The paintings were in the most hideous gold baroque frames. My mind began to wander and I noticed that so many people there looked like the parents of acquaintances and friends. Rather uncanny I thought until it suddenly dawned on me after the tenth one smiled and mouthed hello at me that perhaps they weren't the parents at all. I spied T. who has always looked haggardly and suggested to him that something strange was going on here.
"Yes, I thought the same until I realised it was my friends and that they have just aged," he replied.
I was staggered. These wrinkled and totally un-moisturized beings were my contemporaries!! What had they been doing to themselves.
"Oh you know the usual " he said." Substance abuse, alcohol late nights .All that misspent youth of the sixties, some people just never stopped it."
Well, I suppose so but I had a hell of a good time in the sixties and since then. But I do not have skin that looks like a smoked kipper. I use a good moisturizer and I never smoked. On that sanctimonious note I wandered into the last room and was stopped in my tracks for here was truly one of the great masters of the 20th century. Here hung the three huge paintings executed between 1910 - 1919; predating Abstract Expressionism by decades. What one is deprived of by the photos is their texture and these babies had it. You fell into the paintings and became lost in time, space and jouissance. Colour did not just embrace you but filled your very being. One experienced a sense of ecstasy and never wanted to leave. Everyone was suspended; language was inadequate because here was the ineffable. Now that is what I call ART.
I have also managed to go to one of the Open lectures at The Royal College of Art. Now that was a shocker! Never ever be surprised by people, especially the ex's of your friends. I had registered the name but couldn't match it with the others in the list of distinguished speakers.
"Can't be him. He's not that good!!!"
Well he isn't, but it was him. Dressed as a woman because he is now a trany or transvestite. When I walked into the lecture theatre I am confronted with B., the old ex of S. who I last saw at the Absolute Vodka party, dressed as a "she" and pretty badly at that. He looked like a ten cent whore and stood like he had spent the night on his back with a dozen clients or had just done thirty miles on horseback. Now I knew he liked to dress in her underwear because she used to tell everybody. What I didn't know was after years of therapy he had come out and was using it as an art form. He looked awful. Yet you could tell he was dead chuffed with himself. I could have forgiven him for the bad makeup he was trying to carry off if, it wasn't for all the appalling videos he made one suffer through as well as all the verbiage to justify the fact that he just liked to dress up in women's clothing. At one stage after describing harassment by a cab driver when he was dressed as woman coming home at night (In the dark believe me anybody can look good), I said loud enough to be a heckle. "Welcome to the real world of women!" There was a stunned silence before the proceedings carried on as usual. After one and a half hours of dire footage and more pretentious artspeak on "identity" than I could manage for years to come I slipped out. I wanted to spend some quality time with near and dearest. He may seem boring but he sure is lovely to me!
Copyright © : N.Paradoxa, February, 1999
N.Paradoxa : Issue No. 9, 1999