- I depict a riot (guardian.co.uk)
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.
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.
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.
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.
Not sad about Sebastian. Not sad about anything. Loads of messages from friends re. Sebastian. I had long chat with PH this morning about the trip home and how amazing it is that we survived at all.
I have been miserable about turning 50 in three weeks but better to be turning 50 than turning in my grave.
It was such a tonic chatting with my darling PH, she has always been there for me. Always. Anyway, that’s just the way I need to start my day with a bit of loving validation. Suddenly I feel like I can cope with ANYTHING.
Held here in sunny LA aspic. Suspended in solid jelly. I can see out and they can see in but I’m waiting for the jelly to melt around me.
Last night’s dinner with friends was delicious. We played a few games of backgammon after. When John realized he wasn’t going to beat me he ran off leaving his wife to try her luck. Nope, she didn’t win.
My diet means that I can wear clothes I have not worn for a few years. Last night I wore a pair of crisply pressed silk Prada pants and my Comme cardi. Lovely.
From the 26th floor I stared out over LA as dusk fell. The car lights on Sunset Blvd snaking for miles East, white and red. A huge black cloud from the west hastening the night.
Really making an effort to get out of the house. I am not sitting indoors for 12 days. Interminably long days. Perhaps I should just take the car and drive across the USA? Actually, that isn’t such a bad idea.
I could stop off in Nashville and see Joan! How about it Joan?
Very exciting European prospects ahead. I am particularly looking forward to seeing my friends and walking the streets. July is always such a glorious month in London. Did I tell you that I ran into Orlando Bloom at breakfast the other day? Now, he is a sweetheart. Sat next to Alanis Morrisette at Cholada on PCH. That’s the extent of my starry life here in LA.
I am so happy she called. So happy.
Christmas Eve with Amanda Eliasch, Tim Willis and Kay Saatchi in Beverly Hills.
I wore a tweed waistcoat.
I chattered with everyone.
It was a great night.
I was the last to leave.
Amanda cooked dinner for twenty.
We ate turkey, beef, brussel sprouts, assorted roasted root vegetables.
Every scrap was eaten.
The dogs ate beef bones.
I told other guests about my self sufficiency plan.
They were delighted.
Also discussed Health Care debate and-unsurprisingly-reality TV.
Kay Saatchi wore a red silk Marni dress and took many pictures. Tomorrow she is going to Arizona.
Luna was the belle of the ball. Everybody loved her.
The Little Dog found a boy to trust.
They both ate tons of beef and turkey.
Earlier in the day Kay, Jerome (French cultural attache) and I took Kay’s Mustang onto Rodeo and drank hot chocolate bumping into Sharon along the way.
We were way laid by the 50% off Prada sale and Ralphs to buy Cranberry juice.
That morning I fretted for an hour about what to wear. Finally opting for
tweed waistcoat and cordroy trousers.
No jacket-just a shawl.
Once I arrived, formally, that night I wore birds in my hair. Pulled two stuffed birds off the Christmas Tree and made the hat.
As I said, I was the last to leave. No traffic at all on the way home.
Christmas morning 2009 Kay made eggs, bacon and roasted tomatoes. We set the table in the garden and ate breakfast in the Californian sun.
By the way, my presents included these fab highlights: 1. A cashmere covered hot water bottle-I opened it and it smelt just like they used to when I was a boy. Rubbery.
2. A pair of scull socks from New and Lingwood.
3. Several scented candles.
4. A promise of sobriety.
I spent most of Christmas Eve with Tim. We have a great deal to remember together. Trips to Greece, Scotland, Yorkshire a particularly drunken toga party on Patmos when we both fell through a plate glass coffee table.
We remembered Issie Blow who he was with for two years.
I love how Tim gets on so well with Jack and Charles-Amanda’s two grown boys. Jack showing his love for Tim by customizing a pair of kicks for Tim’s Christmas present.
Tim’s delicious present from Amanda: a frock coat by Paul Smith. He looked divine. By Christmas
Mid-Day Tim had been totally made over by Ms Eliasch. Again.
Oh, I am all over the place. My chronology is ruined.
Tim and I love giggling about how RUDE we had been.
I love Tim.
By the time we got home the dogs were exhausted! They went straight to bed and we all slept like logs until the alarm went off on Christmas Morning. I went to a 7.30am AA meeting which was TERRIBLE.
After Kay cooked breakfast I met Jake and his wife for Finnish rice pudding and licorice.
DON’T! I know.
I must have received well over 200 Christmas text messages and emails and tweets, calls and Facebook messages..
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!