After last week’s gripping fashion shows, the new revealing some quite extraordinary things, I didn’t think I could be moved anymore in fact I was tired from moving, a little shaken. I need to be kept at room temperature and I feel tossed about. I stayed at the Mayfair Hotel, escaping the mood swings from those that work for me. Diving into clean sheets and wishing that I was in my new house. The builders are late, the architects are ratty and I have been like a pot on a stove, simmering and screaming in equal quantities.
I am not good with ill people, and everywhere I look is another sick person. I am turning into a man and Mother Theresa all at once. Not a good look,
a man in a habit. Anyway a friend out of the blue dragged me to see Tristran and Isolde, Wagner’s wonderful opera supported with imagery of Bill Viola’s. It was visual poetry, a sexual explosion of all the senses that kept me transfixed. The Royal Festival Hall was ringing in every corner. It was not a concert performance of some opera, it was the most passionate experience ever. It was mesmerising, it seduced me. If possible you should beg and borrow a ticket, Peter Sellers has a magic that Bill Viola enhanced.
The Mayfair Hotel on my return was empty and hollow next to the orgasmic four hours I had been to, the rapper in the lift was good looking but nothing could bring back the passion of Wagner.
