Sunday, 2 September 2007


She had Warhol on Thursday and The Bacchae on Saturday. We both watched Haxan. I am making a start on The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins.

Get us. By this time next week I expect I'll have produced a slim volume of verse, an existentialist novel on the dark misery of the modern bear, and kippered myself with Gauloises. She will have several disastrous love affairs and end the week in a puddle of absinthe and regret.

She came back from the Warhol exhibition wanting to fill the flat with helium balloons and raving about the pictures he did for a children's art exhibition - bright, lively little paintings of tin toys and their packaging. She hadn't expected the exhibition to be so joyful or funny.

She also went to the Naked Portrait exhibition. Unfortunately that turned out to be pants. Not wearing any and yet still being a big bloomer of a show. I did warn her. I'm a big fan of clothes. She is now a big fan of not leaving bored artists alone in a room with access to a camera because they will try to photograph their bottom and then pass it off as Art. Big Important Art.

When I said I had made a start on The God Delusion ... I've tap danced across it a couple of times and flicked through it to see if there were any pictures I could colour in. I do intend to read it. Just want to wait until I can give it my full attention. Or they bring out a manga version. Or a musical. No. Will read it. Or be squashed flat in the attempt.

I did give Haxan my full attention. Unlike some people who dozed off half way through. No reflection on the film - long day, warm bath, just resting her eyes for a second. Next thing I know I'm sitting in the dark on my own watching strange scenes of devilment and witchcraft.

She's a bit trusting. Who knows what kind of stuff I could have picked up. Using her as a satanic sacrifice. Offering her up to Boo Boo - the god of small bears. I've got some nice feathers and a fetching little robe somewhere. And The God Delusion - it's a good hefty hardback - would make a fine black magic altar.

Cough. Bad bear. Naughty bear. It was, of course, an interesting and curious piece of early cinema. Not a primer to the supernatural and the superstitious - the enemies of all right thinking rational thought. Sigh. I'll just have to wear me feathers and robe while I read Dawkins. He won't mind if I have to stop every now and then to dance about a bit and chant?

Bottoms and magic in The Bacchae. Madame took her mother to see it. They were both curious to see it because they met Alan Cummings many years ago. Ta da. Here is Madame's "I met Alan Cummings" theatrical anecdote. Be prepared. It's like living with Perez Hilton.

Madame remembers that he might have been wearing a stripy jumper. Or someone else was wearing a stripy jumper. The room was kind of dark but it was sunny outside. And she was told off for kicking the table leg because she was so bored. Grown up talk. Yawn. Yawn. Yawn. The 9 year old Madame setting the pattern that continues to this day.

Someday, if you're not careful nice, she'll tell us her Robert Carlyle stories.

The Bacchae was impressive. A relatively straight retelling of the Greek tragedy by Euripides. A fine performance by Cummings and his Bacchae. Simple but spectacular.

So stunning that she left the theatre and, forgetting that she wasn't a Greek god or goddess, she managed to spent £15 on shampoo and conditioner in Lush. For that kind of money I'm expecting dryads and nymphs to pop up the plug hole and help her with her plaits. Will watch with interest.

No comments: