Sunday 28th October 2012

Harry Rollo, through self-devised performance, is adored in London, in Paris, in Los Angeles, in Sydney and Santa Fé. He devises his own performances, which are completely new. But New York… could he conquer New York? There is no greater height, no more gruelling pinnacle.

With the Gay Mother, I was present in Manhattan, as were Reggie Cresswell, Simeon Bond, Rufus Pitman, Raj Zoraster and, yes, at the last minute Bruno-France Bruno, the mystery Poor Little Rich Gay, was announced – direct by air from Sydney via London (so not exactly direct) – and went straight into the front row despite being ticketless on arrival.

The audience was lavish with diamonds and hatchet, growling low, ready to tear with jaws… the Gay Mother and I sat in the vast gilded cavern, awaiting the commencement. Her wow factor was G’ma’s embroidered evening bag (self-embroidered by G’ma) and Aunt Amy’s garnet necklace. Next to us was an unknown tiny Upper East Side exquisition with chinchilla wrap and many, many tiny diamonds mounted on white silver. ‘Who is this Harry Rollo?’ she asked. We found out all about her: her husband has passed. Now she goes to perfs. She could take a friend but she’d rather go to 8 perfs than 4 so comes alone. Her husband was an ambassador but in America you can talk to anyone.

I’ll leave it to others, and to history, to evoke Harry Rollo’s great performance. It was astonishing. Chinchilla wrap loved it and even came back for the second half. The Wall and the Times, the next day, raved and raved. How to describe? sights are sounds, and sounds are sights. A human on the stage becomes electronic. Nobody knows how Harry does it or what exactly it is.

At the end, the reception was massive. There was ovation, on feet. Rare in New York, where patrons of the institution especially must make a point of leaving 10 seconds before la fin.

Then we were ushered privately into the Cabriolet T. Krisp Grand Tier. Harry was once in the same house for a perf. by another. ‘Hi, I’m Cabriolet T. Krisp,’ a whooshed Greatness said to him. Going out for a sandwich in the interval, he discovered that she was also a Grand Tier.

In America, I should explain, a Grand Tier is outside the auditorium; it is a reception area.

There was to be a buffet in the Cabriolet T. Krisp Grand Tier: great silver dishes with gas burners underneath (faint whiff) were in view. This Grand Tier’s red carpet, by the way, goes up the walls. It’s a heaven of plush and cream, with chandeliers. Nearby a woman appeared: her Star Trek-style pants suit (the top half a ‘top’ with no opening at the front) was rose silk overmounted with mauve net with a deep pattern woven into it. For the shoulders and arms the rose silk was discontinued and only the net covered the lady. But she was up to it,although over 50, toned and svelt either by machine or own exercise. She was wearing all her jewellery, with an egg-sized diamond ring. ‘I’m Mrs Pfinnin,’ I heard her say.

Just couldn’t believe it. It was actually her.. I never thought to gaze in person…. Harry had told me all just a day or two before. $4 billion. 4 storey Pent on the Upper East. Art collection, different region for each floor. Harry and the other performers had been received. It wasn’t ‘Red or white?’ but ‘Montrachet or Haut bages Libéral?’. The Gay Mother said, ‘She looks perfectly normal.’ In the face, she meant. But if you looked carefully you could see that she was actually a different colour.

Rich people are a different colour.

Meanwhile the Gay Mother was in danger of shutting down. She was becoming dangerously inert. Not much chance to tell the story of her recent pheasant bite, should a Manhattan greatness with hooked, crow hair descend – which looked unlikely anyway. Other rural topics a dead loss surely.

What to do ? What to do? Who would we talk to? Then I thought: ‘This is America. The free’s land. We’ll do what we like.’ There were tables laid, for billionaires only possibly. We commandeered anyway. The Gay Mother was installed on a banquette, the dinner fetched and Bruno-France Bruno joined and was charming to the GM. The previous week in Australia he’d given a musical evening with Cate Blanchett. By great good fortune he hit on the topic of Salmon Rushdie, which is a favourite because the Gay Mother can’t bear him. Then we moved to another table and the Gay Mother talked to a poet about the High Line garden in New York which we’d visited a day or two before.

So there we were, perched on this precipitous world pinnacle in Manhattan, after all perfectly at home.