On an important trip to London a couple of days ago, I
managed to find time to make my first visit to the National Portrait Gallery to
view, what else, but Bailey’s Stardust. To me, David Bailey is one of those
names deemed with greatness, exceptional talent and a corker of a phonebook;
making it mildly entertaining therefore, that the first portrait I viewed
featured Marc Newson and Jonathon Ive, the latter being a childhood friend of
my mother’s. This was evidently Bailey’s personal invitation for me to continue
through the exhibition with my head held high, feeling as significant as the
middle-aged women sporting pearl necklaces and Prada handbags, despite
practically entering debt from the smoked chicken and orange salad I had
previously purchased for lunch.
I had a skip in my step, embracing the talent
before me, marvelling at the classic black and white portraits, smiling at the
shots of Bailey and Warhol in bed, quietly singing along to the touch of music
in the ‘Fashion Icons’ room, and staring for approximately ten minutes at the
portrait of “Prince Albert” for his ‘Democracy’ series in pure fascination.
Yet,
it was the room titled ‘Catherine Bailey’ that stopped me in my track. It
consisted of personal and intimate images of Bailey’s wife and children,
including a shockingly heart-warming photograph of his newborn child, fresh
from labour, forcing even myself – a self-proclaimed-disliker-of-children – to
well up ... just a little bit.
