Wednesday 27^th January 2010

I waited on the steps of Tate Britain for the Multis in the Berrini, Jil Sander and even the new Prada Red silver-grey early Spring coat, although it’s not early Spring. Oh the thrill of hurling forth from the home to such a function. I didn’t expect to know excitement of this kind again in my fifties.

Silly, I know.

No many limos drawing up actually. Ferocious security. Customs-style anxiety – would Adrian Edge actually be on the guest list after all? Drinks and fore-gathering at the junction under the dome. Wine glasses have to be slid out of strange slots on the tray held by staff. Olives to eat. Hordes and hordes, a few we know – Elsa Hodgeman, the Gertrude Stein de nos.., swathed in good grey wool, quite a few art students in those baseball boot things, older Art ladies, coloured in like Zandra Rhodes, looking as they are wearing the Art.

The Multis are full of the dinner held on Monday in the Gallery (now don’t get confused with the Sunday night dinner at Trenton’s gallery). They tell me I could have gone for a donation of only £2000. Note that everybody!  It’s something to aim for when the Kusama Retrospective opens next year at the Tate. The Multis didn’t know anybody but got friendly with an Indian collector couple. She said she’d wandered into Christie’s one day, intending to buy antiques, got into the wrong room and ended up with an Ofili for £600,000. The under-bider was ‘Nicholas’ – can you guess? Later ‘Nicholas’ came and thanked the Multis for their support.

Slightly at a loose end, we decide to actually go round the exhibition. Drinks not allowed, of course. Well, I’m sorry to say, we don’t awfully like it. Slightly takes the edge off the whole occasion. But at least we’ve got depth, we can range beyond champagne and canapés. Very decorative, beautifully made, but all the early ones with annoying lump of elephant dung (I know you’re meant to be bold and say ‘shit’ but I hate that word and elephants only eat grass and trees so their droppings actually inoffensive) stuck on. The Blond Multi says that the previous night’s dinner was Business Class, this is Economy.

Things look up when, before a more delightful picture belonging to the collection of Eileen Harris Norton with its poo piece largely sequined over, we run into Mark Wallinger (name!). Have a little riff wondering if the picture is made of lentils and could you eat it? Not the dung of course. Then I spy a colleague of Smallmeal’s (my arch enemy you recall), head of research in the landfill outfit, and wife. Wonder if they are under orders to cut me, but no, we speak, they are nice. I’m thinking: they won’t know Mark Wallinger. Wouldn’t it be rather glorious were I to be seen in further confab with ? I go on with the Multis into the later rooms, more and more puzzled by the art. And there they are, the Smallmeal colleague and wife, roaring away with…yes, that’s right…Mark Wallinger. Far more to say to him than to me. Tremendously intimate with…

In the final room, at last we see Chris Ofili himself, scrabbling on the floor trying to manage two tiny children. He is said to be a shy man, sweet in nature, who has moved to Trinidad to get away from all this. The flavour of the occasion begins to penetrate, the Economy aspect to drift away. The artist flew over a vast contingent of friends from Trinidad, which explains the presence of many male fabulousnesses in trilby hats. Superb women, from anywhere, become apparent, in difficult shift dresses, however unsuitable, spiked boots and massive weaponry of necklaces and earrings.

So I came not quite full circle. I’m wondering whether to say that nothing beat the frenzy of trotting down the road to catch the bus for the event, but that wouldn’t be quite right. Afterwards, over pizza at Pizza Express (£22 each but Chianti, so jaded today) with all the leading artists of the day, including the name dropped earlier, there was much talk of the show. It seems that we missed a lot. The Multis and I decide to seek enlightenment at the curator-led breakfast tour tomorrow morning at 8.30.

But I must manoeuvre to gain admission.

Art Lady on Escalator at Pimlico Tube Going to Ofili Opening at Tate Britain