I'd never seen this before I visited the Tate last week. It's in the section entitled States of Flux, situated in small darkened room. This short film consists of a series of images created by Paolozzi in the early 60’s, accompanied by an eerie soundtrack. Although the name Eduardo Paolozzi sounds foreign he was actually born in Scotland. I recall reading about Paolozzi in J G Ballard’s marvelous memoir Miracles of Life. Ballard was a friend of his for thirty years, and they both remained at the cutting edge of their fields during that time.
I find the entire States of Flux exhibition fascinating – Duchamp’s Bride Stripped Bare- Robert Frank’s snapshots of America – the Soviet poster collection Red Star Over Russia – Andy Warhol’s cow wallpaper – and the Fluxus display of newspapers.
That night Alistair and I discuss the provocative nature of some of the images we’d seen at the Tate – Paul McCarthy’s lurid films – Ana Mendieta pouring blood over herself – Marlene Dumas’ obsession with the female body – we agree that most of this is gratuitous and no longer shocking. The talk then turns to erotica and I let slip that I’m friendly with an English erotic artist.
Alistair doesn’t seem that surprised, though he hasn’t heard the name of David Russell. But then he isn’t into that kind of art, preferring the abstract expressionists. He is however impressed by my knowledge of art and suggests that I should join his organization, maybe even as partner. Since Alistair is involved in both wine and art it is tempting and I'm flattered by his offer.
I don't think it's a good idea, I say, to mix business with pleasure.
He laughs - Isn't that precisely what we've been doing this past year?
On an ad hoc basis. But I couldn't commit myself any further at this stage.
You really are a work of art, he says, his hand cradling my waist. We roll onto the bed.
You drive me crazy, he hisses in my ear. I can't resist you any longer.
I struggle as he pushes my skirt up, loosening my blouse, his ardour mounting. He kisses my neck, my bosom, my stomach. I feel almost powerless to resist.
My mobile rings, and Alistair curses. I reach out and answer it.
It's Patrick, the guy I met on the train.
Bonjour Sandrine, he says. We met yesterday, on the TGV.
Hi Patrick, I say. I can already see a jealous look on Alistair’s face.
Listen, I don’t have much time. Are you free Saturday afternoon?
Maybe. What did you have in mind?
Would you meet me for lunch at the Opera House. Is that okay?
Alistair looks quite uncomfortable. This is delicious.
Okay, I’ll meet you at say one o clock. Saturday.
I hang up.
Who’s this Patrick, says Alistair.
Just a guy, I say, another business contact.
I thought you and I were having dinner on Saturday night?
It’s not a problem. There are such things as taxis.
Is he in the wine trade?
Not as such, I say. More the publishing business. He might be able to help with my poetry.
How fucking interesting, he says. He actually said fucking. And he never swears usually.
I want to slap his face, right there. Instead I just wipe my mouth and throw my tissue at him.
You don’t own me, Alistair. Nobody owns me, okay?
Really? How about Etienne wines.
I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder.
I’m leaving now.
Go ahead. Just don’t forget our unfinished business.
I want to tip the wine bottle over his head, but think better of it. Instead I turn on my heels and leave.
