July 14, 2010
Since then, I have stood in a 1950s train carriage, the rain lashing at the windows and lights flashing by while a distressed-looking woman searches for a parcel.
I have found a bar, hidden in some packing crates in a dimly lit room where a con-man/magician pulls coins out of ears, cards out of mouths and Shakespeare quotations out of thin air.
Later, in a room that smells vaguely of leather, I watch uncomfortably while a lonely woman in a stunning red dress dances drunkenly to music from an old-fashioned gramophone.
There are long, dark corridors leading to other rooms, and the invited guests wander through them in a dreamlike state. In one, a clock ticks loudly and everything – the desk, the chair, the books – is covered in metal rivets. In another, marionettes the size of adult humans hang from a high ceiling, creepily reflected in a huge mirror in the floor.I meet a collector who keeps his curiosities on high shelves – some of them, if you look very closely, human. I see a Mongolian prince reclining languorously on a bed while belly dancers stroke passers-by and try to feed them little pieces of crystallised ginger.
Then there are the woods: cold and pine-scented with bark underfoot and a tent in the middle where musicians play, tea is offered and in a secret side room a woman offers to read your palm and marks your hand with tiny spiders.
Coming out, I take a wrong turn and come upon a man in a lounge suit, blocking the way. I move one way, he sways to stop me. I move the other, he sways again. But behind him, I can see a ramp spiralling down into darkness with a colourful vehicle parked at the top. I want to see, so we continue to dance, me laughing out loud at the absurdity of it.
‘Say something interesting!’ he finally whispers, and of course I’m immediately tongue-tied. But eventually he gives in, takes my hand and leads me to the seat of a rickshaw, and I’m pedalled away into a cold, dark basement.
I get out, uncertain what to do, but then a man silently appears behind me, guiding me behind a pillar where a woman straight out of a film noir – red lips, dark glasses, headscarf – barks at me to sit down at a table for two.
She pours two brandies, hands me one, and commands, ‘Drink!’ Then suddenly we’re standing again, she has me pinned against the wall, gloved hand at my throat and her lips brushing my cheek. ‘I think you should go now!’ she hisses, menacingly, into my ear. I think she’s right.A showgirl in skimpy red sequins and feathers leads me back up a staircase and suddenly I’m in a big, beautifully lit dining-room full of fashionistas and A-list celebrities including the artists Marc Quinn, Gillian Wearing and Tracey Emin, Jerry Hall, Peaches Geldof, the singer Paloma Faith, Gwyneth Paltrow and Angelica Huston, all excitedly discussing what they had experienced on their own journeys through the doors.louis vuitton
