I was wrong to apologise for writing that Tracey Emin couldn't think her way out of a paper bag
Published 11 February 2002
Peering between Jake's ears (my hunter), I spot the cheery face of Richard De'Pelle, whose land we were about to scar with fox-hungry hooves as we thunder through the Blackmore Vale. "Is that a concept whip in your hand?" he smiles, waving his own. I suddenly realise that, in the style of a truly contemporary radical, I've become a hero to the upper classes. All this because I (chairman of the Institute of Contemporary Art or ICA) questioned, in this magazine, whether conceptual art has become the dotcom of the art establishment. Momentarily, a shiver more cutting than the Somerset chill: I remember the hatchet job being planned by Janet Street-Porter. Apparently, she's picking up on Tracey Emin's assertions that I'm little more than a publicity seeker - ironic, considering my accusers. "I hear Saatchi wants to buy you as a bit of conceptual art," pipes up a top-hatted gentleman on a feisty filly.
Neighbours Tom and Jane wave me off from my Frome town house, as a lunch date with the artist Michael Newberry and my sparky assistant, Lisa, drags me from my usual Sunday lunch by the Aga. I thank Jane for the fondue of the night before and wonder whether, perhaps, I'll be finding myself with a little more time to cook for them soon. Freddie, my trusted spaniel, gives me the old dewy-eyed routine. It's so hard being a weekend parent.
Michael turns out to be as earnest as only an American can be. "This is so educational," he announces with a drawl, evidently finding it hard to adjust from the pace of life on the Greek island where he paints. "Soundbite, soundbite, go, go, go!" "Well, it's fire with fire," I remind him, before sending him home for an afternoon nap. Lisa has some information on Kant - the great-grandfather of conceptual art, in as much as most conceptual art is little more than philosophy. I'm not sure how much GLR's drive-time show will want to hear about Kant (an 18th-century philosopher who famously thought his way out of a sack of potatoes). Luckily, 9pm arrives just in time. Nicky Haslam is at the door and he's taking me to the pre-Warhol Party party. They're honouring Nicholas Serota, head of Tate Modern, and one of the "art tsars" I fingered in my NS attack. "Have you met Ivan Massow?" asks Nicky naughtily at the party - grabbing me before I could escape to the bar. "No," comes the cool reply. "Don't worry," I apologise, filling the silence, "they're sacking me tomorrow." Serota, icy cold, exits with the words: "They should have done it two weeks ago."
As it turns out, the party isn't that bad. Nicky was right. I needed to face my demons. In fact, most people - Mick Jagger, Salman Rushdie, Will Self, Alan Yentob - only had words of support. Just one solitary dealer asked for a rope while eyeing up a gallows-shaped rafter - but even he settled down after a vodka.
Tuesday is the big day and I arrive at the office at 7am, where I exchange somnambulist salutations with the Telegraph journalist Nigel Reynolds, who will be accompanying me for the next 14 hours. It's almost 350 years ago to the day, he informs me, when Charles I was taken to Whitehall, a stone's throw from the Institute of Contemporary Arts, to have his head severed from his body. "Are you wearing an extra layer?" he checks. Someone has sent me a cutting from the Independent letters page. Tracey Emin is sounding off again. "He doesn't know the difference between Conceptual Art and Contemporary Art! He must resign!" she screams. "No, no, no," I bark rhetorically, "I said, conceptual art is becoming synonymous with contemporary art in the eyes of the viewing public due to its pre-eminent status . . . silly bitch - I was wrong to apologise for writing that she couldn't think her way out of a paper bag!"
I arrive at the ICA to a blaze of flashlights, in a Jag that Nicky lent me "to make an entrance" (he doesn't approve of the moped). After answering a few questions on the doorstep, I climb the long staircase leading to the Brandon Rooms, where my fate is to be decided. The meeting, however, has been moved; the door is locked. Is this deja vu? It seems only a week ago that the ICA tried to hold a secret meeting without me - and moved it, so that I couldn't pitch up. Thankfully, I find my prosecutors in a huge white gallery in which the tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape and draped with a great white tablecloth. We jump from Charles I to the Last Supper. I drink a Chilean red, and nibble nervously at crisps from a small silver dish while an anal assistant suggests that we close the window despite the sauna-like conditions. "You never know," she mutters. "Someone might be listening." We were on the second floor.
As the meeting progressed, it became clear that the dress rehearsal, the "secret meeting", had been a wise investment. Council members were beautifully choreographed. Each in turn had a fresh and inspired "disappointment" to add to the last. The final council member to speak looked into my eyes and read my mind: "Et tu, Brute," he began apologetically, before sealing my fate with the lines he'd been given. As solemn as a firing squad, all hoping that their rifle contained the blank, I was talked into falling on my sword to save the ICA from further "embarrassment".
Bought cookery book. Well, I have the time now. Does anyone, I wonder, need a life assurance policy, or some pension advice?
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