DIARY
STEPHAN SHAKESPEARE I begin my first week as director of a Mayfair art gallery — now called Shake- speare Fine Art — with Jeffrey Archer as my chief backer. This is interpreted in the press as my reward for the loyalty I have shown to him as spokesman in the difficult last few months. But loyalty to Jeffrey is its own reward. Nothing gives me more plea- sure than taking a contrarian position; and standing up against the tide of nasty, irre- sponsible invective, monstrous political backstabbing and organised deceit is a rare form of delight which one can hope to enjoy only once in a lifetime.
Amy first staff meeting I gently explain that the gallery is a commercial space, not a museum. We have specialised in the art of the Sixties, which I suggest is there to be sold, not just venerated. While every other art gallery has pictures in the window, ours has been kept tastefully empty. I tell the staff that this must change. There's no point in having the biggest and most luxurious art gallery in Mayfair (plus an annexe in Isling- ton) if we really just want to play at curators. My staff retort that we are not a supermar- ket. At the end of the meeting, three of them hand in their resignations. A fourth resigns in the afternoon. After the shock comes the joy. Now the gallery is truly mine, and I can make it what I want.
Iread that Gilbert and George, Britain's internationally celebrated artistic duo — their works include a cross composed of turds emerging from their buttocks — have ceased their relations with the Anthony D'Offay Gallery. I am thrilled at the chance of signing them up for Shakespeare Fine Art. I have been a fan (of most of their work, not the turds) since I was 16, when I began my career as a performance artist by nailing down the keys of a piano in the middle of a high street. I phone them up, and get Gilbert's refined voice on the answering machine: 'Kindly leave a message after the tone, thank you, good- bye, and good riddance.'
Ihave been pressed by my friends in the media to write a blow-by-blow account of the Archer campaign, in all its close-up sensational detail. With its wild ups and downs, from London to New York, Tokyo to Sydney, it's a story that will be both painful and fun to write. I have appointed Jonathon Lloyd as my agent. The working title: Theatre of Cruelty.
Dinner with Jeffrey at Coast. According to some newspapers, Jeffrey is now a recluse. In fact, he has kept up his punishing schedule of eating at restaurants every single lunchtime and dinner, seven days a week, At our first outing, before Christmas, waitresses flung their arms around him. There is less emotion now, but he is still surprised at how warm people are towards him, given the intense and sustained attack he has received in the media. Perhaps the warmth is a direct consequence of the media's ferocity. Ordi- nary people can distinguish child murderers and war criminals from the likes of Jeffrey.
However, this dinner is not warm. The air-conditioning vent is blowing refrigerat- ed air on us, and we demand blankets. At dinner we discuss the Conservative party's ethics and integrity committee, which has summoned Jeffrey to appear before it. I suggest that the committee should also summon the party apparatchiks, who have been spinning deliberate lies about Jeffrey since the day of his resignation as the can- didate for mayor of London. They have also been telling journalists that the case against Jeffrey is open-and-shut, and that Jeffrey will be expelled from the party. But surely such a pre-judgment, before any evi- dence has been heard, makes the ethics committee itself unethical? Has the party First gay airline set up a kangaroo court? Lord Mishcon has wisely withheld Jeffrey's defence evidence until now, precisely to avoid a real court of justice being tainted by the media trial.
Ican no longer count the number of peo- ple who have urged Jeffrey to run for mayor as an independent. They think he should stand up and say, 'I've been kicked by Labour and the Conservatives alike, I have been kicked unremittingly by the media, and none of it makes a difference. I'm still here, to stand up for London against all- comers.' They urge him to stand as the I- don't-give-a-stuff-anymore candidate. But Jeffrey says no. He refuses to budge from his steadfast loyalty to his party.
I go to see Derek Boshier, one of the best British Pop artists, who was briefly back from America before an exhibition at the Whitechapel. That is to say, the visit was intended to be brief. But when he stepped off the plane in Los Angeles, where he has lived for 20 years, there was something wrong with his visa. He was ordered back to London, leaving his wife and young chil- dren crying at the immigration barrier. As they are US citizens, they were allowed through. His friend David Hockney has intervened with the American ambassador on his behalf, and we hope for good news soon. But Boshier could be stuck here for months. His personal tragedy could end up as an artistic triumph. Shakespeare Fine Art has supplied him with canvas, brushes and some paint, and he is now imprisoned in the lower floor of our gallery, producing a new series of masterpieces.
Norris wins the Conservative nomina- tion for London mayor. It's a bit of a damp squib. Who really cares? Nobody now believes that Ken Livingstone can be beat- en. So, for poor old Norris to win, and effectively to lose, within a single moment must be very painful. If he manages to last the course, and remains the Conservative candidate all the way to 4 May, then of course we will all vote for him, dead or alive. But my guess is there are plenty of big surprises still to come in this race for mayor.
Aa Chelsea party with Nadhim (who was field-operations director for the defunct Archer campaign) we consider our political futures (if any). Looking around the room at the super-rich, we note how the bizarre often leads on to outrageous financial fortune. We immediately decide to launch Shakespeare & Zahawi. For the moment, I can say no more.
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