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Despite my resolve to keep this blog up to date I see that two months have gone by without a line. I was busy doing everyday things so at least initially there was nothing to report. Jill and I went to the German Expressionism show at Tate Modern but neither of us found it particularly exciting, nor did it tell us anything new about Der Blaue Reiter.
I went to the launch of the film by Malcolm Boyle and others: Hoppy – Underground Head at the Tabernacle ( www.hoppyfilm.com ) and really enjoyed it, even though, as the title suggests, it concentrated very much on Hoppy’s interest in consciousness-altering substances and had a somewhat confused chronology. It was an emotional experience seeing Hop on screen, having known him since 1961. I last saw him in hospital the day before he died. I was his flatmate 1963-5; we co-owned Lovebooks Limited and published poetry mags in 1965; worked together on the Albert Hall poetry reading of that year; co-founded International Times, IT, the underground newspaper in 1966 (published by Lovebooks); and worked on various other projects together. I do miss him. Here we are together in Basel, 2006, for Albert Hoffman’s 100th birthday:
There were also plenty of other people from my past at the event, including Craig and Greg Sams, of macrobiotic food fame and Michael Mcinnerney, creator of the 14 Hour Technicolor Dream poster, UFO club posters and the sleeve of the Who’s Tommy.
Live performances included Sam Hutt in his alter ego of Hank Wangford, and Vanessa Vie, channeling Bob Dylan: here are Michael, Craig and Greg being interviewed at the event, followed by Sam and Vanessa.
The next big excitement was the arrival of Big Al from Dubai. My friend Valerie, who lives two doors down the street from me, wanted a cat but you can’t adopt a stray from the animal placement organisations unless you have a garden, which, living in the West End, she obviously doesn’t. However, in the Middle East, most cats have feline AIDS and shouldn’t be allowed out anyway in case they spread it. There are charities there that will send you a cat – in a fancy cage, delivered by a man in a cat rescue jacket straight from the airport once they have been cleared. Valerie was at work so I took delivery of Big Al. Who really is big and seems to have lost a part of his ear. He is very happy in London.
Lots of social meals this month: Richard Adams and I had a very pleasant lunch at the Academy Club, as did Simon Caulkin and I. Ed Maggs and I dined at Iberico and Jill and I went to Zeidel, which I always enjoy. My old friend Fran Bentley had me to dinner and we sat in her West Hampstead garden and watched the birds.
At home I cooked for Martha Stevns; Vanessa; Sara Crichton and Len, visiting from New York (quail wrapped in prosciutto); my God-daughter Sara Minard, who stopped in London for two days en route to Marseille from New York and stayed over; Simon and Ginette, with Valerie who ate Bucatini al’Amatriciana with the correct cheek fat from Camisa in Soho; Luzius, Udo and Terry came for their monthly dinner; Hannah and Biscuit came to dinner with Jill and had artichokes stuffed with garlic. Camila arrived for a weekend conference at the end of the month and stayed over, missing the Pride march which yet again involved over a million people. Amazing! There were other people to dinner too, but this is sounding like Andy Warhol’s diary, though with less well-known people. Here’s Camila in Soho followed by the evening with Simon Caulkin, Valerie Orpen, Ginette Vincendaeu, Mina and Theo and next is Hannah and Biscuit with Jill.
Election Day, July 4th, and I’m off to Paris (having used a postal vote). The next day, Catherine and I went to the Red Studio exhibition at the Fondation Vuitton. I almost went to New York to see this show as ‘The Red Studio’ (1911) is my favourite work by Matisse. Almost all the works shown in the painting have been re-united for the exhibition for the first time in a century: six paintings, three sculptures and a ceramic. One other large painting was destroyed at Matisse’s wishes. The work is beautifully displayed with a separate wall for each painting. Even so, Catherine and I felt that the organisers could have included more contextual material – the time the painting spent in the Gargoyle Club in Dean Street, Soho, for instance and any x-rays that might exist of the painting as it was complete before Matisse filled in almost all the background in red, leaving the objects suspended. What colours were used in the original, we wondered, surely there must be evidence at the edges, now covered by the frame? Fortunately, after looking at a ho-hum Elsworth Kelly show, Catherine went to the bathroom and on her way back discovered another, large part of the exhibition containing everything we had asked for: sketches and similar paintings, x-ray photographs explained by a film, large photographs of the Gargoyle Club (which Matisse designed) and so on. The signage in the main room of the show was so poor that we didn’t see the indications that the exhibition continued. We are both confirmed exhibition goers – Catherine is a professor of fine art at the Sorbonne – and yet we missed them. When she spoke to colleagues, they, too, had missed the second half of the show. I should imagine that the same applied to about half the audience. With all its money the Fondation Vuitton should get in a proper sign writer. They might also find a way so that ticket holders don’t have to queue outside, sometimes for half an hour in inclement weather, in order to see the shows. Clearly something as basic as that should have occurred to Frank Gehry but I guess he was too busy with his wonky roof and fountains to consider the actual function of the place.
And don’t forget the Palestinians. One day they will get their country back.
