Archives for posts with tag: Alexander McQueen
Alexander McQueen Fall 2008

Alexander McQueen Fall 2008

After a late breakfast I met Michael L at Mud. He was wearing a DIVINE pair of Prada shoes…an extraordinary wing tip/espadrille hybrid with Nike soles.

I LOVE YOUR SHOES.

I told him that I had seen JP at my AA meeting.

On the spur of the moment we decided to go to Savage Beauty, The Alexander McQueen retrospective at the Met. Sunday afternoon, it was OVER RUN with people. JAMMED.

Jammed with people who may or may not love fashion but certainly not enough to line up for two hours!

Thankfully we were Met members so went directly to the front of the line.

I didn’t give a damn how many people were there. I just loved the show from beginning to end.

This enchanting, inspiring exhibition gave me a great deal to think about.

Firstly, let me tell you that I hadn’t seen McQueen’s work up close like that. Why would I ? I don’t know Daphne Guinness.

Not a single photograph anywhere does his work justice. It really has to be seen to be believed. I was utterly dumfounded by the drama, the workmanship, the unexpected depth of emotion it inspired.

There were a million  obvious references: Balenciaga, Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier (fucked him once after the IRA bombed The City of London).  Regardless, it was uniquely beautiful. Uniquely Lee. Westwood without the bustle.  Balenciaga without the cassock.  Gautier without…

I loved the fabric woven for the Plato’s Atlantis collection.  Fabric woven to look like the re-imagined skin of mythical serpents.

The Razor Clam dress was exquisite.  The dress sprayed by ballet dancing robots…heavenly.

My most favorite costume were from the spring/summer 2005 collection,  It’s Only a Game.  Using burlap, hessian, raffia, leather, crude mechanical embroidery.  I loved, most particularly, an appliqued Japanese inspired, floor length dress.  Lilac tulle softly billowing out of the structured bodice around the feet.  Sublime.

This entire collection (as curated) left one breathless.

Eshu 2000, a simple shift made of tiny yellow beads and black horsehair. The yellow beads spread like caviar on crisp toast, dripping provocatively onto the horse hair.

McQueen bejewels the constellation of dead couturier that include Christian Dior, Yves St Laurent, Paul Poirot, Madame Gres etc.  Twinkling stars inspiring us from above. Isabella Blow is sitting right there beside him laughing with her protégé at how mortals now wait in line to worship at his alter. They were never meant to.  The world of high fashion, like the world of high art, is exclusive by design and inclination.

I thought about the very few times we met. Check on Wire Image for the picture of me, he and Lucy Ferry. If you don’t believe me.

I thought about his suicide. How lonely being that much of a genius can make you. How protected he was by the women in his life who never really approved of any of his boyfriends because they felt ‘married’ to him. Lucy, Sam, Naomi, Kate, Isabella, Daphne, Anna etc.

No one was ever good enough for Lee so he became more and more isolated.

Too embarrassed to introduce the kind of boy he wanted to those grand arbiters of taste. How could he spend all day designing beautiful things and bring that home.

Fag hags think they are doing you a big favor by keeping trashy boys out of our lives…in fact…all they did was keep Lee McQueen lonely. I hold all of those women partially responsible for his death. If he had only been allowed to fall in love…but those kind of women are little bit too eager to have an opinion about a gay love life thinking that Lee was just one of the girls.

Straight women really don’t understand gay men as much as they claim they do.

After McQueen we stopped in at the Ben Cohen event at Boxers. Flirted mercilessly with wrestler Hudson Taylor. Will post pics asap.

Ben Cohen is a straight British rugby player who is making a name (and a great deal of money) for himself by championing LGBT causes.  Beloved by the gays he has a cherubic face and huge chest.

“I can’t understand a word he’s saying…but he’s gorgeous.” One man cooed.

Ben was making an impassioned speech about bullying and homophobia.  The gays just looked on in awe.  Objectifying poor Ben and gorgeous Taylor.  They didn’t give a fuck.  “Take you shirt off!”  They screamed as he appealed to them for a more tolerant world.

GLAAD gave him some award.  ‘Cute Straight People Who Like Us’ award…or something.  Michael (?) the head of GLAAD NY was there last night.  “It’s not political.”  He reassured me.

Then something rather irritating happened. Zack’s really dull friend arrived. The sort of boy who thinks he’s attractive but hasn’t got two damp sticks to rub together to get any fire started….anywhere. He pissed me off sufficiently to make me shout at him.

Apparently my present anger is quite healthy. I am so…fucking angry. With myself. I have NO ONE else to blame.  I used to be angry with The Penguin.  Now I am angry with me.

Livid that I let myself be duped. Blinded by love. Blinded by compassion. I don’t blame him. I can’t blame him. There’s nothing to blame. Other than the CON. I don’t blame him for making me fall in love with him…he is just a child, as was evidenced when I saw him with his parents. Bouncing on his mother’s knee.

Enmeshed.

A sad situation existed in that house. I realised why I found the father so interesting…he reminded me of someone. Rather than concentrate on his son and wife, he was staring at us. Not because he was trying to intimidate…he was just…more interested.

Emotionally absent father, more interested in solving his patients problems than focusing on the needs of his son. The Penguin wanted his father’s love so badly. It’s not his fault. Shame on them! I can imagine that he wasn’t just absent for The Penguin but for the entire family.

Mother and son thrown together in some emotionally incestuous swamp. Hanging onto each other for dear life.

If I can’t have you my husband….I will have him. My darling son.

Enmeshed.

He looked…like an aspergers boy when he was with them. Which is odd because isn’t that his father’s speciality?

Let me tell you how things have changed since I saw him. I blame myself for being so damned stupid. I blame myself for letting a petty conman/thief run rampant through my life. I blame myself for constantly letting him off the hook. I blame myself for convincing anyone who would listen that I loved him. I blame myself for thinking he was beautiful. I blame myself for not running out the door the moment he took heavy drugs from under his bed and asked if it was ok.

I have been a fucking idiot….and I am really, really pissed off with myself.

Hudson Taylor and Duncan Roy

I never met John Galliano.  Nope, never met him.  If I looked for him on FB, if he was even on FB, we would probably have buddies in common but to my recollection I have never actually pressed the flesh with John Galliano.

Love, love, love his women’s wear, never cared for the men’s line.

John Galliano!  The man is a fucking genius and a total KNOB.  He just did that gay, alcoholic cliché thing of totally sabotaging his entire career.

A genius, iconoclast, nihilist…alcoholic.

An alcoholic knob.  I mean…he just flushed that amazing career down the toilet.

He will lose everything.

Why do drunk, powerful people start in on the jews?   Mel Gibson..remember his anti-Semitic rant on the PCH outside Moonshadows bar?

In a brief statement, Dior said because of his “odious behavior” Dior has sidelined Galliano and initiated proceedings to fire him.

I just LOVE the word ‘odious’.

Galliano, in the video I saw of him in that super cool Parisian bar La Perle on the Rue Vieille du Temple…apart from looking totally PISSED (drunk) he reminded me of David Bowie playing the alien with no finger nails Thomas Jerome Newton in the Man Who Fell To Earth.

Lonely, beautifully dressed, politely out of control.

With great poise he told the people he was insulting that their ancestors should have been ‘gassed’.

Unlike Mel Gibson who was screaming anti-Semitic insults at the only jewish cop in the LAPD.

John…darling…lovey, you’ve come so far.  Humble beginnings…your dad was a plumber.  Want a solution?  Want to deal with your grandiosity?  Go to AA.  You don’t want to end up dead like Alexander McQueen or Isabella Blow?  Do you?

Go to AA based rehab.  FAST.

Alcoholics Anonymous was designed for people like you.

You probably don’t even remember your rant.

UPDATE

A sober speech by Christian Dior chief executive Sidney Toledano and a finale bow of applauding, white-robed seamstresses and craftsmen bookended today’s Dior fall-winter fashion show, which went ahead under the shadow of the anti-Semitic outbursts that led to the ousting of its couturier, John Galliano, earlier this week.
“It has been deeply painful to see the Dior name associated with the disgraceful statements attributed to its designer, however brilliant he may be,” Toledano said, in the only reference to Galliano, never mentioned by name. “What happened last week has been a terrible and wrenching ordeal for us all.
“So now, more than ever, we must publicly re-commit to the values of the House of Dior.”
The show, held in a giant tent in the gardens of the Rodin Museum, had little of the usual front-row hoopla, but the usual thumping music and army of models.
“What you are going to see now is the result of the extraordinary, creative, and marvelous efforts of these loyal, hardworking people,” Toledano said of Dior’s teams and studios.
As reported, Galliano is to stand trial this spring in a French criminal court on a charge of public insult after three people filed complaints alleging Galliano hurled racist and anti-Semitic remarks at them.
Galliano has apologized “unreservedly” for his behavior in causing any offence, assured “anti-Semitism and racism have no part in our society” and reiterated he denies the claims made against him and has commenced proceedings for defamation and threats made against him.

PARIS — The show must go on.

That seems to be the mantra at Christian Dior SA, which is soldiering ahead with the Dior fashion show today despite John Galliano’s dramatic ouster over anti-Semitic outbursts.

It is expected to be a straightforward affair, with little of the usual celebrity hoopla. News organizations have been instructed that photographers will have no access to backstage or the front row. That hasn’t stopped what Dior’s public relations battalion describes as “overwhelming” demand for invitations. (For more on the Dior brand, see page 6.)

According to sources, the attendance of luxury titan Bernard Arnault — typically flanked by glamorous Dior ambassadors such as Charlize Theron and French government figures — is not assured, owing to the tug of other business obligations.

Meanwhile, the John Galliano fall collection is to be presented on Sunday in its appointed time slot, but in a different format and venue. Sources said plans for a runway spectacle in landmark Left Bank brasserie La Coupole have been changed in favor of a tableau vivant format in a hôtel particulier. The designer will not be present.

Dior, which controls the John Galliano company, has yet to disclose its intentions for the business, now that its namesake designer is to stand trial this spring in a French criminal court on a charge of public insult after three people filed complaints alleging Galliano hurled racist and anti-Semitic remarks at them.

If found guilty, he could face six months imprisonment and a fine of 22,500 euros, or $31,207 at current exchange, according to the Paris public prosecutor. Galliano has apologized “unreservedly” for his behavior in causing any offence, assured “anti-Semitism and racism have no part in our society” and reiterated he denies the claims made against him and has commenced proceedings for defamation and threats made against him.

Dior initially suspended Galliano from his duties on Friday and then ousted him on Tuesday amidst the mounting allegations and an explosive video depicting the maverick designer saying in a slurred voice, “I love Hitler.” Dior condemned the statements made in the video and commenced termination procedures.

Galliano, a London-born wunderkind who was the creative architect of Dior’s rejuvenation, has been its couturier since 1996. Succession rumors continue to swirl in the hothouse atmosphere of Paris Fashion Week.

It is understood Dior is in no hurry — and is legally unable —to name a successor until it has completed its procedure to terminate Galliano’s employment.

Under French employment regulations, the procedure to terminate employees can go quickly for what is known as faute grave, a serious misdemeanor. If the reason for termination concerns a personal matter or incident off the company clock, it can take several weeks.

According to sources, Arnault’s various advisers are pitching a variety of candidates, among them Haider Ackermann, Hedi Slimane and Givenchy’s rising star, Riccardo Tisci.

Delphine Arnault, deputy managing director at Christian Dior and the daughter of the billionaire LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton chairman, is said to be a champion of Tisci. In a splashy cover feature in Madame Figaro magazine in January, Tisci coaxed Arnault to be photographed among five women said to be under his spell. (The others were Liv Tyler, Isabelle Huppert, Vahina Giocante and Lou Doillon.)

“There won’t be any choice for quite a while,” said one source familiar with the French luxury group. “They’re receiving offers.”

It is understood overtures have been made recently to Ackermann as a possible candidate for Dior, or to succeed Tisci at Givenchy, should he be moved over to Dior.

Approached at the Ann Demeulemeester show Thursday, Anne Chapelle, chief executive officer and owner of Bvba 32, which controls the Haider Ackermann brand, declined to comment, saying the focus for now should remain on Ackermann’s own show, scheduled for Saturday. Asked whether the designer would contractually be free to work for another house, should he be offered a role, Chapelle replied: “Everybody is free.”

As principals at LVMH hunt for a successor to Galliano, some are hoping to make a profit from their final decision. PaddyPower.com, the British online betting site, has odds on Stefano Pilati (11-8) or Hedi Slimane (9-4) getting the top job. The odds are lower, however, for Tisci (3-1). Meanwhile, Nicolas Ghesquière, Kris Van Assche and Roland Mouret are all tipped at 4-1. Alber Elbaz trails them with odds of 6-1. The site specifies that all bets apply “To the next permanent, top Dior Creative Director after John Galliano.” The person must be confirmed as a permanent appointment by the ceo of Christian Dior.

Samia

Samia, my ex lover, would describe the people she had least respect as ‘limited’.  It’s a jolly good word to describe those we cannot be bothered with.

I love writing my blog.  Just as I loved writing my diary.

Some blog posts get particular public attention.  The most popular being listed to the right of this page.  Kristian Digby‘s Funeral in particular gets as many hits per day than any other post on this blog and cumulatively is the most read post on this site.  It heartens me that so many people leave messages for him there.  Sweet, kind, sad messages from people whose lives he touched.

I am so lucky to have been his bf for a few months.  I am so happy that it didn’t end in recrimination or bitterness.  I am just lucky that I have had the opportunity to know so many wonderful people.

I wish I could pick up the phone and call you Kristian.  I needed you these past few months.   I really did.

Kristian Digby

I am in a sparkling good mood this morning.

Oh my God!!!  Such dark days!  Such misery!  Such a BORE!  Coming to an end.  Well, I still have to deal with my balls.

My balls ache.  My back aches.  Let’s get this testicular party started.  I am sure that by the end of this surgery episode you will get tired of listening to me bleating on about the operation.  Apparently the penis gets quite bruised when they operate.  Black, blue and yellow bruising in the groin department.

Perhaps I should have it inverted and become the ugliest transsexual ever.  I am not likely to be using it recreationally any time soon.

I feel free to leave now.  What has been holding me back is finally resolved.  Perhaps having a vagina would solve my problems.  Maybe I wouldn’t be such a cunt.  Ha ha ha.

My poor doctor in the UK despairs of my hanging around here.  She thinks time is of the essence.  She tells me that I am risking my life.  She will be pleased to know that I am leaving soon.

Back to wintery London.   I wonder where I will stay?

Listening to really loud music.  Elsie de Witt is here, she’s singing along with Simon and Garfunkel.  The Bad Baby is sleeping soundly.  I hope she doesn’t wake him.

Elsie de Witt

The sun is shining.  I spent more time yesterday fixing the spa.  The light is working.  The air jets are fixed.  It’s a real spa!  I think I might heat it today and sit in it with my friend.  Under the stars.

A huge weight lifted from my shoulders.

Tim had his triple by-pass.  He’s only a few years older than me.  My old drinking companion Tim Willis.  His book is doing good business back at home.

Elsie is singing Midnight Train to Georgia.   Hush Elsie!  The Bad Baby is Sleeping.

I must lay my cards on the table.  I like Naomi Campbell.  Perhaps I am indeed the lone member of her fan club as someone suggested yesterday.

I am not in the business of mob justice, or Facebook kangaroo courts.  Wether she has been a silly cow in the past or not is none of my business.  I am sure that for her past misdemeanors and indiscretions she has paid the price.

Since she hasn’t thrown a cell phone or punched an air stewardess for some time I think it best that we give this woman a break.  Perhaps by walking in her stilettos for a mile I might understand where she’s coming from.

Frankly, if I were a model diva on vacation on a yacht in St Tropez forced to fly to a dismal courtroom in the Hague I too might find taking the stand at the war crimes trial of the President of Liberia, as she is now mocked for saying, ‘very inconvenient’.  She has been embroiled in a situation that was not of her own making.  I, for one, am not buying into this new wave of press generated ‘Naomi is a Bitch’ sentiment.

The way she is described in some quarters one might think that she is the one accused of war crimes, that she is somehow a war criminal by association.  Naomi Campell may have briefly accepted a bag of blood diamonds but this does not make her in any way culpable for the crimes of the murderous Liberian President..she is naive at best, greedy at worst.  Whatever she is she is totally undeserving of the vitriol presently coming her way.

Whenever I have chanced upon her she has been sweet and kind and desperate to deal with the well documented problems she has with both her temper and substance abuse.  When Lee McQueen died she called everyone she knew he knew even if they didn’t know her particularly well.  Friends of Lee’s found her unexpected comfort calls at that very difficult time very reassuring.

I had dinner last night with a wonderful producer friend of mine who knew everyone in the restaurant.  I ate a large and delicious salad nicoise.   We popped into an art event/installation that included a ten foot pile of pancakes and a naked man in a glass box with a pancake covering his face and genitals.   Later we ended up at a young Hollywood party on La Cienega.  The next generation of real managers, producers and actors all crammed into a tiny bar.

The best part of my day was spent in Malibu with the little dog.  We walked down the hill to see how the Rambla Pacifico road construction is progressing.  They are making a massive amount of headway, grading the land over where the land slide happened all those years ago and preparing to back fill with huge polystyrene blocks which apparently will lighten the weight of the construction.

On my way back I met two Armenian brothers who have moved into a house at that end of Rambla.  One of them is dreamily good-looking.  Instead of fixating on him however with his brown eyes and hairy chest I felt sad and missed my NYC friend.

My favorite restaurant Axe in Venice has burned down.  Fuck.  I loved that place.

Paula Dubois,  Kristian Digby‘s Mother,  outrageously threatened to disrupt the Memorial Service to be held for hundreds of her wonderful son’s friends and family next week at Southwark Cathedral.

As a result the cathedral will no longer hold the service.

The indignity of it all, that the love he had for so many and they for him could not be felt by his own mother.

The news infuriated me.  It totally ruined my day.   That this so called ‘mother’ who bore such a beautiful, kind-hearted boy seems so determined to destroy any attempt his friends have of getting together and remembering him.

I am confused.  I am sad.  Mostly I am angry.

I killed a snake this week, a five foot rattle snake in my garden.  I chopped it’s head off with a shovel.  I felt bad doing it.  Terrible.  This beautiful serpent that had as much right as I did to live in my garden.  In my canyon.

I will write more about it tomorrow but in the mean time here is a picture to whet your appetite.

The beautiful boy/man remains sleeping in my bed but he is off to Italy on Tuesday for two weeks and so that I might not feel any pain (the pain of separation is the worst) my head is already elsewhere.  We had dinner with his best friend last night which I always hankered to do with NYC man but never did.

I was so nervous.

The Spanish restaurant where we had dinner was expensive and ghastly.

Serpent in the Garden

Mary in the vegetable garden

The transformation begins.  The property is suddenly alive with Sean and his partner Mary pruning, tilling, weeding and the like.   The terraces that run down to the property line in front of the house are beginning to look like vegetable beds and as I have said before the earth is rich and soft after the heavy rain.

The torrential rain caused damage to many roads across the region and this time our neighborhood was not spared.  In the mountains above me the upper part of Rambla Pacifico has fallen away.  100 feet of road crumbling off of the mountainside like royal icing off a wedding cake.

The fencing for the goats has been mapped out and at the beginning of March I hope to complete this part of the project.    After a long discussion yesterday with Mary and Sean I think I may very well become a vegetarian.   This will please those of you who think my plan to eat the goats was cruel.

The only problem for me being in Malibu is what happens to me when everybody leaves at the end of the day.  I feel incredibly lonely.   So, last night I headed over to Jennifer and Jason’s house near Trancas and fell into a deep sleep on their sofa.

My friends Jennifer and Jason are conspiracy theorists and believe in Chem Trails and government corruption and after an evening discussing their worldview I am exhausted by unrelenting pessimism.

It was fun waking up to their three children and their sleepover friends screaming around the house.  We ate thick creamy porridge and black coffee and I drove home.

However, the truth is, before the children woke up I woke up feeling desperately sad.  Apart from the usual sense of doom that overcomes me each morning when I remember that half of America is gripped by a terrible financial firestorm-as well as the snowstorms that have snarled the capital and all other major East Coast cities.  I was sad because I woke up too many thousands of miles away from the man I want to be waking up besides.

I am falling in love.

Falling in love is not an easy thing to do for a sex addict.

The moment things don’t go my way my default is to retire to a safe and quiet place and lick my wounds.  Why should romantic love be so damned painful?

It has been hard these past few days to make sense of what happens to me when the love thang kicks in.    Of course I want to see him but he is in NYC and he is otherwise engaged.    Why can’t I meet someone who lives close by and is good at farming?  Anyone know a good gay farmer who wants to spend his days in total paradise with me..I suppose THAT is the fly in the ointment-me.

Who would want to do that?

PS Obviously anyone in London who knew Lee McQueen is upset by his untimely demise but I am especially sad as he was so maligned after Issie Blow’s death.   Artists are fragile creatures, he was especially so.  Somehow, at the end of the day, art is simply not enough to sustain anyone.

I met Tim Willis on Sloane Street, London 25 years ago.  He was with his then girlfriend Isabella Delves-Broughton.  I don’t remember meeting him that day.

He does.

I remember the first conversation Tim and I had was at Celia and Andrew Lyttleton’s frescoed apartment in Ladbroke Grove.

I remember showing him the invitations I had just had printed for my play The Host starring Lady Georgia Byng who would later become Mrs. Danny Chadwick and after that Mrs. Marc Quinn.  She is now probably best known for writing the Molly Moon children books.

Tim was unimpressed with the invitations.

I was prolific in those days, writing, making plays, living my life between London and Whitstable.

Tim was strangely nonjudgmental for one of the new elite who were making names for themselves during that time in London.

Remember, I was only a couple of years out of prison for a huge, unpaid credit card debt.

The story behind that debt had, the day I was sentenced, appeared in every British newspaper.  Christened: Lord of The Lies by the News of The World Sunday tabloid that title, unlike the one I had assumed, tended to stick.

Pretending to be Lord Anthony Rendlesham was the defining moment in my young life.   It set me on an unintended course the night I told that 4-word lie to the man I told it.  I wonder what happened to him?  Dermot Verchoyle-Campbell.

By the time I met Tim I was just ordinary (as the press loved to call me) Duncan Roy but he didn’t seem to mind how ordinary I was.   We were both social misfits.  The others came from good pedigrees and were gearing up to take their places in the British social stratosphere.   Their roles already defined.

Unusual for a heterosexual he was socially mobile.  Flexible.  The girl he was with that day on Sloane St went on to become Mrs. Detmar Blow and invigorate the world of British fashion.  Today her legacy, after a tragic suicide, is still evident as Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Stephen Jones and Phillip Treacy are testament.

Although homosexuality offers the same kind of social flexibility (as I found when I told my big lie), I was wholly disinterested in the ‘gay lifestyle’ on offer at that time in London.

I knew a few other ubergays but we were frosty with each other as all of us wanted to be the only gay pet around.  Mario Testino, Patrick Kinmonth, Johnny Shand-Kydd were three other ‘about town’ gays but, as I said, they were all pretty disinterested in me.

I had had a brief affair with Patrick when I was Lord Rendlesham.

I discovered Peter Doig’s degree show at St Martin’s Art School and bought one of Doig’s paintings that Peter then stole from my house whilst I was in prison.

Craigie Aitcheson the minimalist painter of crucifixes and Bedlinton Terriers accused Patrick of handing me over to the police when they were looking for me.  He squealed, “Look, there’s the man who handed his gay lover over to the police.”

I had, of course, explored everything gay in London but it simply never inspired me enough to keep me going back.

Tim was really the first person I met whom I could share my wonderment with.  One was encouraged, when in a huge and ancient houses, to take everything for granted but with Tim I could behave like a tourist.  Ooing and arring about what we discovered there.

A few years later after Jay Jopling discovered Damien and the new British artists all of our lives would change irrevocably.  We would no longer be living in someone else’s shoes, delighted by other older peoples choices, and would ride the British New Wave.

Meeting Kay Saatchi the other day at Amanda’s I now have a far more complete picture of what was going on when I knew Jay Jopling.  I certainly remember Jay telling me about meeting Charles Saatchi.  That Charles had discussed the possibility of running the Saatchi gallery on Boundary Road and how Jay had scoffed (to us) at that idea.

At the moment that Charles was offering Jay a job, Jay had other plans, he knew, and said as much, that Charles would ultimately work for HIM.    I am, and have always been, in awe of Jay’s balls.  Who wouldn’t have accepted to work for Charles?  Only a man with massive ambition knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it.

It was at this time that Jay would bring a harem of girlfriends to my tiny cottage on Island Wall in Whitstable.  But that was all to end the day he met Maia Norman with whom he would fall deeply in love.

Visits to Whitstable became rare as they ensconced themselves in his house on Shakespeare Road in Brixton.   The last memorable Jay visit was with Danny Moynihan, Louise Jackson and Maia.  We would take ecstasy, drive to a ghastly local gay bar and dance to Pink Cadillac.

I think we may very well have had a rather wonderful orgy that night but Maia and Jay ended up alone as he was loathed to share her.  The events of the next few years proved deeply unsettling.  Maia would leave Jay for Damien and break his heart.

Jay submerged himself in the international art world, making huge amounts of money, marrying a girl he did not love and ending up in locations he loathed.

The last time I sat alone with him he told me how incredibly bored he was seeing the same faces day after day, the same gossip, same conversation and hankered after a the life he had at the edge of the world.

I will never, ever not love Jay.  He was the one who looked out for me when I had my stint in hospital and collected me when I was discharged.  He, for the longest time, was an occasional lover if no other pretty blond girl was available.  He was an inspiration to a legion of young artists and remains so, something they all aspire to: a show at one of his many galleries.

I watched from the sidelines as he and Lily Allen publicly shattered the vestiges of his marriage.

The truth is, I couldn’t bear Sam Taylor Wood because she wasn’t Maia.  It wasn’t her fault; she’s a perfectly nice girl.  Not a very good artist.

So goodbye Tim, have a safe flight back to London.  You make me remember the life we shared with this extraordinary cast of characters.  I miss you when you are gone.  You are a good friend.

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