Back in 2013 when I was a shit writer and I’d just started this blog, I got rather sniffy about the David Bowie Is… exhibition taking place at the V&A, mostly – I think in hindsight, – because I didn’t have a ticket. As a defence mechanism to protect myself from heartache, I suggested it would be a load of old shit. “Surely the best place to have seen Bowie flouncing around in his Ziggy suits would have been live incarnate, and given that I wasn’t yet salient or solvent enough to see him at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1973,” I said, sniffily, “my Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars DVD will have to do.”
So anyway, we went along to the Parisian edition yesterday at the Philharmonie de Paris and obviously it was fantastic. The attention to detail was exquisite, the curating second to none. My only disappointment was the fact I’d been told Bowie’s coke spoon would be on display, and now I’m wondering if it was an urban myth, somebody was having a laugh or I dreamt it.
Verdict: David Bowie Is was… fantastic. To celebrate, here’s my David Bowie: 10 of the best I wrote for the Guardian recently. How’s that for a bit of neat self-promotion?
At one stage during the viewing, I bent to my knee and took a photo. A security guard came along and started having a go and I thought I was going to get my collar felt. Thankfully I was near the exit so I offered an insincere “désolé” and minced away quickly in the direction of the shop. I felt like a philistine, but fuck ’em I say. I might watch The Man Who Fell To Earth again tonight to celebrate.
Today my beloved, Claire, completed a Half Marathon in Paris. I’ve rarely, if ever, felt so proud. If you’d like to donate money to the Bobby Moore Fund then please click on the link and do so. We’d be most grateful. Thank you!