Let me say this straight up front. I am not a collector nor a big fan of contemporary art. Neither am I particularly clued up or really that bothered about it.The exhibitions I’ve been to in the past have all turned out to be about as interesting as the opening of an empty fridge door, and I’ve only really ever attended them to swig the free booze and scoff the food. So why, you may ask, did I find myself in Shoreditch trying to find an address that doesn’t even show up on Google Maps? Simple really: I was in the vicinity and the invitation appealed to my love of minimalism and esoterica. It was an old photograph of an innocuous looking baby with the words “Blank Canvas” underneath and the address, and the clincher for me…a statement proclaiming that all attendees would have to sign a “legally binding confidentially agreement”. I suppose it was really this that compelled me to turn up. What were we about to witness: ritual sacrifice? Prince Phillip revealing that he really is a lizard? Lady Gaga dropping her/his undies and revealing she/he really is a hermaphrodite? Suppressed video footage of David Attenborough buggering a fruit bat? I was intrigued. My curiosity really got the best of me and I was determined to shake off my apathy and go trudging around East London to decipher the cryptic instructions to locate the address.
I’ve attended a few film premiers and screenings in the past where the audience have politely been asked not to “spoil” or “spill the beans” about the film but I’ve never had to sign a legally binding document to keep schtum about what I’ve seen. I started feeling like I’d sleepwalked into a re-edit of Kubrick’s “Eyes Wide Shut” initiation scene. Was I actually going to find myself at a Luciferian gangbang presided over by the Shoreditch Chapter of the Iluminati? I eventually bottled it and nipped into The Griffin pub, deciding to get pissed and call some friends up to join me instead.
I actually made the right turn ( in a day of very strange “turn”s) by opting for the pub. The Griffin was unusually quiet and I took my drink outside with me for a smoke. It was then that I saw him. Bowie! David fucking Bowie schlepping down a side street across the road and obviously heading to the “exhibition” I’d been invited to. I had to double and triple take that here was my cultural hero and lifelong inspiration clearly about to turn up at event that I had bottled out of attending!
There was no doubt in my mind that Bowie and his assistants ( or whatever they were) were not heading to the event. What other reason would he be walking around Shoreditch on a grey autumn afternoon not making a very good job of disguising his unique looks? Where else could he be going? This was synchronicity. I was finally going to meet him and we would become best mates forever.
Now anyone who knows me will tell you that I am not in the least bit starstruck or impressed with “celebrities” or famous people. In fact, on more than one occasion, I’ve been uncharacteristically rude and ignorant to well known people and have had to be reminded that we’re all God children’s no matter how far up our own colons we might be. But, well, this was different. This was Bowie. This was the man that unconsciously acted as a kind of guiding light in my formative years. Here was a man who had inspired me to break off from the path of least resistance and follow my dreams. Bowie was my surrogate mother, father and wider family when I was growing up. He taught me that “doing your own thing” was the most important thing you could ever do. He taught that individualism is sacred and I am forever in debt to him for that.
As I drained my drink and stubbed my fag in preparation of wising up and hot footing after my hero to the event a memory suddenly struck me. My screenwriting partner, Irvine Welsh, is also a big fan of Bowie - I actually think that’s what has cemented our friendship – and he has also had the chance to meet the man. Irvine wanted to use Bowie’s “Golden Years” in the film version of Trainspotting. Bowie actually granted use of the song – a rare occurrence – but added that he’d like to meet Irvine for a chat. Irvine being Irvine declined the request to meet with Bowie. Over the years I’ve pestered Irvine about why he wouldn’t meet Bowie. I’ll never get to the bottom of it because Irvine – in his own inimitable style and modesty – simply repeats the old chestnut about never meeting your heroes. I’ve always nodded in agreement with him but known that if the opportunity ever offered itself I’d grab it with both hands.
Now here was that opportunity and my bottle was going. Was I really going to accost my hero? What the fuck was I going to say to him? Could I use the Irvine Welsh connection? Could I tell him that I’ve been trying to get a screenplay about Aleister Crowley to him for over ten years? Should I just introduce myself and see where it went from there? How far do you go on a first date nowadays?
Excitement and trepidation. I knew whatever came out of my mouth would basically translate to Bowie’s ears as “I’m a middle aged man but as you know I’m now sounding like a knicker wetting teenybopper in your presence.” For a moment I decided to keep my dignity and simply ‘blank’ Bowie in the vague – surreal – hope that he would approach me because he would intuitively know that he’s shaped my life. Bowie would spot me across the crowded room and ignore the likes of The Chapmans, Emin, Hirst, Taylor Wood and make a beeline for me with his hand outstretched, smiling, “Hey Dean, you’re that moderately successful screenwriter and ex-journalist, ex musician, ex whatever, that I’ve always wanted to meet aren’t you?”
Anyway, it was shit or bust by now. I was signing the “legally binding document” at the door of what looked like a perfect reconstruction of Joseph Fritzl’s Hell Cellar. The young lady handing out the pens and contracts was smiling, which settled me a little, but as I leafed through the twenty “very odd” pages of contract I couldn’t resist yapping, “This isn’t some sort of Faustian pact I’m signing is it?”
“Sorry?”
“You know, I’m not signing my soul over to the devil am I?” I ( half ) quipped.
“No, you just need to sign before we can let you in.”
I glanced at the luminaries happily signing the contract. I knew everybody there, but I didn’t “know” anyone. These were famous people from the world of art and media. It was at that point that I truly thought I was hallucinating from jetlag. What the fuck was I doing there? I have absolutely no connection to the contemporary art world. Zilch. Nada. I know people in the Shoreditch area that are involved but none of them were there as far as I could see. I thought “fuck it” though, I was there now and my train home didn’t depart until the evening. I would have a nosey around, wait for Bowie to introduce himself to me, swap e-mails and make plans to holiday together, and then fuck off back over to The Griffin for a few more bevies.
I now know that I should have read the contract, for reasons I’m legally bound not to disclose, but in defence of my fucking stupidity, it would have taken me a good half hour to read through it and I’d have been holding up the others keen to get in. I reasonably figured that because none of the others were seemingly reading the contract I might as well slip into sheep mode as well, and anyway, it was obviously just a bit of humorous foreplay to get us moist in prep of the exhibition…wasn’t it?
Once I’d inked the contract I followed the “people I knew but didn’t really” into the room and instantly knew why I’d been invited. Playing on what looked like a really crappy 1980’s Amstrad music system in what was indeed a replica of Fritzl’s cellar was a track I had made months back that I’d put out on the internet. I was happily surprised purely because everything instantly made sense about my invitation. The track is unremarkable, and that’s not me being pseudo modest, it really is nothing special and is essentially just a beat/loop with some poached dialogue interspersed. My mind flicked back to an e-mail I’d received from someone calling themselves “SpareRoominOZ” a few weeks back. The e-mail was straight to the point: “Can we use your track for an art exhibition?”
My reply was that seeing as there was no copyright on the track and that I’d just made it and put it out just for fun they could do what they wanted with the track. I asked them to send me details of the exhibition and they replied asking for my address, which worryingly I never sent them, but somehow they had found. I’d instantly forgotten about the whole thing. No time for an autopsy now though. I was in “the now” and was hopeful that SpareRoominOz would introduce themselves and explain how they’d got my postal address to send me the invitation. They never did.
Bowie was stood over in a corner looking at the artwork. I was looking at him. I couldn’t help it even though I knew I looked like a complete twat. The other luminaries were obviously acting like they weren’t impressed that they were stood in a damp and dingy East London cellar with David Bowie on a grey autumn afternoon, but I knew they were just as fascinated by him as I was, only they would rather let a gang of rats slowly gnaw their livers out than admit to it.
I deliberated and tried to pluck up courage to approach Bowie for what felt like an eternity. I knew I was gawping but I really didn’t care. I couldn’t give a toss what these (mostly fading) enfant terribles of the contemporary art world thought about me. Nobody said anything and nobody knew me and I actually felt a little invisible as I surreptitiously inched over towards Bowie. By then I would have just been content to simply pat him on the back and tell him how much I admire his work. I knew he wouldn’t blank me. I know plenty of people that have met him and they all vouch for his manners. All I wanted was very brief contact. That would have been more than enough. How many people can truly say they have made real contact with an alien?
The closer I got to him the more to I realized that I would be complicit in shoring up the ‘cleb madness that has infected our culture and more importantly Bowie wouldn’t appreciate it if I breeched the fourth wall and offered my hand to the wizard.
Bowie’s not just a celebrity or famous, he is an actual star in that his art has illuminated the world and inspired thousands of people who may never have become cultural contributors and creators if he had never existed. To actually speak and press flesh with Bowie really wouldn’t have felt right, and asking him to have a cell phone photo taken with me would have been akin to asking him if I could have his bank card and pin number for a few hours. Just wrong.
I was actually relieved when Bowie slipped out. The burden of choice had been lifted from my shoulders. I don’t know if Bowie bought any of the artwork, or even if it was for sale, but I could see that he was impressed and had decided to actually check it out for himself rather than send someone to do his bidding.
All I can tell you is that the exhibition revolved around really cute looking (and spookily life-like) plastic dolls that when you pull a cord start speaking in a variety of robotic accents. I later learnt that the dolls all represented murderers and tyrants. I never got close enough to actually hear what the dolls were saying but some people laughed and some looked a little uneasy. The people I knew but didn’t actually “know” all seemed to like what they saw.
Luckily I saw some people I really knew. I say “luckily” more for the fact that I knew they’d be up for having a drink than them filling me on this strange event. Martin’s a designer and Alberta’s a film maker. I instantly asked them if they’d seen Bowie. They had but were far more surprised to see me there knowing that it’s not really my scene.
I explained about the invite and the music but they were still intrigued because the exhibition was clearly a bit of an “elitist” event. At this point I’d like to add that I forgive Martin and Alberta for being so shocked at my appearance. I suppose I’d have been as equally shocked if I’d bumped into them at my beloved local pigeon fanciers club.
We started to retire to The Griffin after it became obvious there would be no aftershow party in Joseph Fritzl’s cellar. I found it weird that there seemed to be a ‘no show” from the actual artist as well. Martin and Alberta told me they’d explain.
They were both quite excited in the pub and told me I should be honoured to have been invited to the exhibition and that I should really safeguard the actual invitation because it would be worth quite a lot in a couple of years. I agreed that it was a cool design and chuffed that I’d be able to eventually E-bay it and then asked them about the whole “legally binding confidentially” bullshit. Martin said it was part of the installation. The artist, Jonesy, apparently, made the guests put their name to something he had wrote and that it would be incorporated into his (or her) next piece of work.
Aaaahhh, the coin dropped. I smirked at them knowingly “Jonesy, eh? As in Jones. David Jones, Duncan Jones, right? It was Bowie’s son’s exhibition right? That’s why Bowie was here, right?”
They explained that the Duncan Jones theory had already been discounted and then proceeded to get into an animated discussion about the identity of the artist. I instantly figured out what was going on and chipped in, “This is like one of those anonymous Banksy things isn’t it? You know, guess the artist, all that bullshit.”
Apparently I was wrong. Alberta and Martin started rapping on about all the theories surrounding “Jonesy” (if that’s his or her real name, though I doubt it; they were probably christened Astral Moonbuggy III or something and just started calling themselves “Jonesy” to sound more mysterious) and they started dropping names of artists who I’ve never heard or can honestly say I’m interested in Googling. They said nothing that convinced me it wasn’t Bowie or his son that had created the art so I started to swig some Devil’s Advocatt and join the debate, “So this is an artist that nobody knows, right? How do you know it’s not just a chancer. Someone just taking the piss out of the art world?”
Alberta came back with an unarguably reasonable reply, “Do you think an unknown artist could have got those people at their exhibition?”
I was then given a summary of how the art world really works. I’d obviously read about Saatchi and Hirst and Banksy and all that palaver in the past and knew that it was a strange world where everything runs on a kind of topsy turvy logic and that it was ultimately a very small clique that revolved around ghetto’s in London and New York but that it created huge ripples all over the shop, so I wasn’t totally ignorant, but I learned that the “scene” is even more Gnostic and elitist than I’d ever imagined. Saying that, I still stuck to the theory that the exhibition was either the work of a chancer or Bowie’s son but they said that even if it was a “chancer” doing the work they would have already had to have been established as an artist because A) the work was (in their opinions) fantastic and B) there had been an exhibition in New York attended by the “Art Elites” that had also created a real “buzz”.
I gave up caring about who ‘Jonesy’ was or wasn’t and got back to the meat of the issue. David Fucking Bowie! What are the chances, eh? I told Martin and Alberta that I was a cock hair off of introducing myself to the great man but pulled out at the last second. Alberta thought I should have but Martin thought I’d done the right thing.
“You should never meet your heroes, mate. They always let you down.” He smiled. In the final analysis Martin’s probably right – but I can’t see how Bowie could have let me down by simply shaking my hand…mmm…unless of course he gripped it, pulled me into him and stuck the nut on me, which is far fetched - but I feel now that I ultimately stole defeat from the jaws of victory. Fuck knows what difference making contact with the alien would have made to my life, but now I’m left with a bit of a post-fuck melancholy without having actually come.
We drank until we were all fresh and then I fucked off over to Kings Cross for a banging headache accompanied trip home. I listened to Miles Davis’ ‘Bitches Brew’ rather than Bowie on the way home. Nothing Bowie has ever done is remotely as fucked up and cosmic as Miles’ masterwork and I wanted something to fit the mood of the day.
My wife picked me up at the station.
“Good meeting?”
“Yeah and you won’t believe who I met?”
“Go on.”
“Bowie. David fucking Bowie! Can you believe it?”
“Bowie? Where?”
“Well, I didn’t actually meet him – didn’t talk to him – but he was at this art thing in this place that was done up like that fucker Joseph Fritzl’s cellar and there were these talking dolls and-”
“-woah, woah, wait a minute…what have you been smoking down there?”
I knew I should have asked him to pose for a photo with me. I’ve probably spunked my chance of ever letting my hero know I exist. Mmm…but that simply begs the question: why does it matter if he knows I exist anyway? Oh fuck this crazy contemporary art and celeb worshipping world! It’s too confusing! I’m going to concentrate on rearing my pigeons now and waiting until I can sell this “work of art” so I can retire to the sun and listen to Miles Davis everyday while I lay on a golden beach.
© Words – Dean Cavanagh/ ZANI Media
