W i l l
Waspe
You would look in vain in the art columns of the posh Sunday papers for a note on Menachem Gueffen's exhibition at the O'Hana Gallery. (Sometimes our art critics can be remarkably charitable). Nevertheless, you will be glad to know that the Gueffen show was almost as successful in sales as in advance publicity. The latter was not altogether unconnected with the fact that the artist is the husband of Diana Rigg, and the sales were not altogether discouraged by the fact that Miss Rigg, at the private view, had her spouse's pricelist tucked in her cleavage.
Among the milling showbiz mob thronging the place, another artist, Penny Slinger, went almost unnoticed. Waspe had last seen her beaming from the pages of the girlie magazine, Alpha — amiably and proudly exhibiting an item of her anatomy as though it were the only one in all the world — and did not recognise her with her clothes on, until introduced by the Jewish Chronicle's ubiquitous arts man, David Nathan.
Even weaklier?
After their experience with the dreadful Frost's Weekly, which Waspe imagined cynically to have been planted on the BBC by London Weekend, it is hard to believe that the Beeb would want to do anything with David Frost except forget him. Hard or not, however, it seems that we shall shortly be asked to believe that he is to do yet another series for them.
Anything but the best
What amusing games the Evening Standard's drama awards panel plays. I see that this week they gave the 'Best Play of 1973' accolade to Eduardo de Filippo's Saturday Sunday Monday, although, in tact, only one member of the six-strong panel actually thought it was the best. This was an improvement, though, on the occasion they gave the award to a play that none of them thought the best.
Our own drama man, incidentally, was not amused at all to see the Standard passing off one of its panel members, one Benedict Nightingale, as "theatre critic of' The Spectator."
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