15 SEPTEMBER 2017
Art is living outside the safety of the well-trod ancient pathways,
t’is the quest for the perfect ball-gown, the perfect word, the perfect arrangement of notes & harmonies, the perfect set-design, the perfect way to mix a cocktail and turn around when the moment least demands it, and the gramophone’s not been wound and say “I think we need a 17th Century Sedan Chair, darling…”
It is the plastic bucket on a rope,
dropped from my 4th floor walk up on Mount Street in Mayfair,
Awaiting a dozen oysters & a bottle of Ruinart to be placed inside from the chaps at Scotts Restaurant a few doors down. I would ring them every evening when I couldn’t face the stairs
The quotidian rendered glorious by time.
The alchemy of eccentricity is the transmutation of disappointment & loss into a celebration of opulence,
A bandage wrapped around the crumbling Mayfair castle of my dreams & the transformation of my brain-tumour, fractured-bones & mortal-inadequacies, exulted into arts-works, stretched on a dozen canvases & glazed with hope & regret.
I watch them floating along the Venice Canals,
A cotillion of suffering transfigured by the Renaissance splendour of the Floating City.
Tourists watch & take selfies as the glazed canvases pass under the historic agonies of The Bridge of Sighs
Like the faded picture postcards of another woman’s life.
All is made glorious in retrospect-
The Holy Grail of Life,
The fragile, precious exquisite gift
we never know we’ve been bequeathed…
until it begins to slip away…
Yet there’s no truth in being an eccentric if you don’t accept the world is going to mock you & break your heart.
Diagnosed with a brain tumour, I protected myself with an antique tiara and red-lipstick Armour against the pity and concern for others-
the flickering candles of the endless stream of Mayfair balls and occasions that have marked my life,
Resplendent in the poetry of a ruby encrusted collar around my neck,
Swathed in a ballgown as blue as all the bluebell woods I dashed through in my youth…
Swirling under the chandelier-ed ballrooms in mirrored-walled palaces,
Spinning and whirling until we dashed into that fading night
on a champagne fountain of laughter and lost slippers.
We may die tomorrow
But in this moment we have opera, we have art and we have a ball-gown the colour of bluebells…
We go dashing through the moonbeams into a stream of endless memories……