- 34 Bruton Street
Words by Emily Steer.
We are informed that in five minutes we can sit down and talk to David Bailey. Holy crap, we thought it was a breakfast, for twenty, not one on one. Really? David Bailey. We are a little in awe to say the least. Apparently David doesn’t like to stick to the question; he likes to chat away on his own tangents. Great, we think, let’s ask him the one thing he would really like to talk about. That way we avoid all the annoying questions he has no doubt been asked for the last few decades over and over again.
We go in. Someone shouts “Ooooooh lucky you David, you have two attractive women interviewing you”. How embarrassing. He looks at us and mumbles something along the lines of “they’re alright I suppose.”
“Why are you both interviewing me? What are you, Gilbert and George?”
Oh god he hates us. He thinks we are morons. He appears to want to put us in our place even though we weren’t the ones who said we thought we were attractive.
“So, David” (we are pretty sure he flinches when we call him David. Bit too matey?), “what is the one thing you would most like to talk about?”
He looks at us like utter, utter morons.
“Come on I’m not doing your job for you.”
Oh great. He’s going to be difficult.
“Do you like to talk about your work?”
“Not really, no.”
He looks impatiently around him.
“Do you like to talk about anything at all?”
“Not really.”
Someone else enters the room. “Weyhey look at these girls you’ve got interviewing you!”
Everyone sitting around sniggers.
David tells the man that if it were twenty years ago, we would already be back at his by now. Both at the same time. Fantastic, not only does he seem to think he’s been sent two dimwits to interview him, but he also thinks we’re a couple of bimbos.
“Well, I could talk about Dadaism. Existentialism?”
“Great, go for Dadaism.”
“Dadaism means meaningless, so there is nothing to talk about.”
Oh Jesus it’s getting claustrophobic in here.
“What’s with Donald Duck? He appears an awful lot in your paintings.” (We are in fact at Bailey’s first exhibition of paintings, a mix of pop art media images mixed with photos and some more outsider art style pieces – many covered in images of Hitler and Donald Duck).
“Um…you know who Donald Duck is right?”
“Yes.”
And finally he begins to talk. “Hitler killed Donald Duck for me, because the old picture house I saw all the Disney films at, was bombed by the Nazi’s in the Second World War.” He strangely remembers all of his childhood, right back to when he was three years old.
We ask him: “why is there so much more aggression in his painting than in his photography?”
To which he replies: “I hadn’t noticed that.”
It seems ridiculously obvious. Even the more fashion based paintings are covered in slashes of colour and violent brush strokes. Compared to his glossy back log of photographs, these look much more personal and emotional.
“Do you do one to relax from the other?”
“I find neither relaxing. Neither ever really reach the level I am hoping for, and I find both highly frustrating at times.”
“Do you see yourself as an expert then? Or is that something that other people have attached to you?” Someone chuckles in the corner. How dare we ask David Bailey if he thinks he is an expert! He says it is never good enough. Even his photographs. To be honest he doesn’t seem to be very enamored with his paintings.
“Are they from a particular phase of working or from all over?”
“No they are from all over.”
It seems to be winding back down a bit.
We show him our favourite painting, a manic, gesticulating pope with girls in lingerie either side of him. It’s painted wildly and is all a bit bonkers and ridiculous.
We ask what it’s about.
“Well, Gilbert and George have their pope, I have mine. It would be good to be a Pope.”
“Do you like the Pope?”
Silence, followed by a strange look.
“Err I don’t really know him.”
And it shuts down again.
We once went on a horrendously bad date where we were told that you can actually learn a hell of a lot more about someone in an awkward encounter than a comfortable one. From what we gathered here, Bailey is pretty damn bored of talking, a wee bit prickly and dare we say it, a tad judgmental on a relatively attractive young woman’s potential for mental activity. We received a message from a fellow interviewer the following day, which said: “went really well. He kissed me and called me sexy! I love him!” We wonder who got closer to the real person.
‘Hitler killed the duck’ is on at SCREAM until 12th November. For more information [click here]
All images courtesy of SCREAM, copyright David Bailey.