回复: 读报学英文(Since May 5,2007)
Enduring love
Designer's muse Isabella Blow and her husband Detmar blazed a delightfully eccentric trail through the world of fashion. In a frank and poignant interview only days after her death, he talks to Rachel Cooke about life with a true style original
Bereavement makes people behave strangely, and Detmar Blow is no exception. At Hilles, the Arts and Crafts house which was built by the architect grandfather after whom he is named, the wind rattles the windows and the rain taps at the glass like ghostly fingers. The house, built into the side of a valley so that it feels like the prow of a ship, looks over thousands of acres of Gloucestershire and, in spite of the squally weather, this is where we are heading right now - out into the dripping green. 'I need a walk,' he says. 'I need to get outside for a bit.' He has just made me a cup of Earl Grey tea - I am straight off the train from London - and he now decants it from china cup to stout mug. 'You can take it with you,' he says. 'Yes?' In a flagged hall, he picks out two coats: a red mackintosh for him, a lead weight of tweed for me. 'I won't give you one of Issy's coats. That would be too macabre.' So, off we go: me, Detmar - four days into his grief and still far from acclimatised - and Detmar's pug, Alfie, who rasps like an old steam iron. The air is as bracing as a slap.
After 20 minutes, we return to the house - Wuthering Heights on a withering budget, as Issy always used to call it - where we sit in the gloom in front of a smoking fire which Detmar periodically attacks with a pair of creaking bellows. He tells me that he feels a bit better, now. 'I wanted to make it lovely for you,' he says. 'Light a fire! Get a few lights on!' But it's not really working. When someone has died, there is nothing you can do to make a room cheery and, on a day like this one, it is probably not even worth trying. Better to get on with The Arrangements. Detmar has spent the morning with the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral, where the funeral for his wife, the fashion stylist, Isabella Blow, will be held on Tuesday (it's the only possible place; he and Issy were married there in 1989). It will be only for family, but there will be a memorial service in July. 'Conde Nast [the owners of Vogue and Tatler, where Blow used to work] want it to be in Hanover Square, but that church is too small. I'm thinking of the Guards Chapel. Philip [Treacy, the milliner] says it should be the Abbey.' He laughs.
It's exhausting, I say, all the stuff you have to do in the days before a funeral. 'Oh, I know what to do,' he says. 'My father died by his own hand when I was boy. I know what to do.' The service will include Faure's Requiem; a rousing chorus of 'To Be a Pilgrim', which the Blows always have at weddings and funerals; and a reading from the Book of Matthew: 'Why do you worry about clothes? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.' It was Isabella's niece who put her on to these verses - the same niece whose photograph she sent to Sarah Doukas, the model agent who discovered Kate Moss, days before she died. That Isabella loved these verses tells you, I think, a lot about her obsession with fashion. She adored clothes, from the moment she saw her mother trying on a pink hat when she was a little girl. But perhaps they - perhaps everything - came to matter to her too much.
Detmar told the world that Isabella had died of ovarian cancer. But everyone knows that she had been battling depression, and that she had told people this was a war she did not believe she could win. Two years ago, she jumped from a London bridge, breaking her legs and smashing her feet so badly that she could no longer wear her beloved high heels. (I used to work with Blow and what I remember about her more than anything was her shoes: her favourites then were by Jeremy Scott, and were shaped like a cloven hoof, so that she resembled no one so much as Mr Tumnus the faun.)
Later, she took an overdose. An inquest into her death, which opened last Friday, revealed that traces of the weedkiller Paraquat had been found in her body, and some newspapers have reported that she told her weekend house party guests that she was going shopping, but that they later found her collapsed. Detmar, however, is sticking to his official line, and I don't blame him. 'I've steered people away from the prurience,' he says. 'She had cancer. That's it. She's dead now. We can't change it. But we can celebrate her life, and our love for her.' In the hours after her death last Monday, Detmar spoke to Geordie Greig, the editor of Tatler, where Isabella had been fashion director. 'He was talking about all the obituaries, who would do what. I couldn't understand it at the time. But he was right. They're so comforting. I lie in bed and stroke the pictures. Poor Issy. I am going to be so lonely.' He picks up a book, the diaries of Wallis Simpson. Inside, his wife has written her name and the date: 1 May 2007. 'Look. So poignant. This is the ninth, and she's dead.'
Detmar Blow met Isabella Delves Broughton (her grandfather, Sir Jock Delves Broughton, was accused of the White Mischief murder of Lord Erroll; he was acquitted, but later killed himself) on 24 September 1988, just a week before his 25th birthday. She was five years his senior. They were at a wedding. 'She was with my sister [Selina Blow, the designer]. They walked straight past me. I noticed Issy talking like a little bird; that lovely voice. We came out of the cathedral. "I love your hat," I said. And she said: "I love your coat and I wish I was wearing my violet shoes for you, but it's muddy", which was so unlike her.' Did she ever put practicality before fashion? Didn't she wear wellies when she was here at Hilles? 'Of course not.' He looks at me as though I'm mad. 'Anyway, we went to the reception. She had 100 people round her and, of course, I had no one. So I waited for my moment, and then I leapt in: "Please come to Hilles," I said. Cheeky boy! And then: "Can I have your phone number?" Only her work number. But cool! I was having palpitations. On the Thursday, I rang. I said I was going to cook lamb and marinade it with apricots. She lived round the corner from me in London, in a house belonging to the literary executor of Tennessee Williams. So she came for dinner.
'Silver skirt, little bandana: the Pam Hogg look. Amazing figure. I thought: phwoar! I'd a girlfriend at the time, bit older than me. She was flashing daggers at Issy. Then Issy went upstairs to the drawing room. I rushed after her, closed the door and ...' He throws himself dramatically on top of me, so we're both lying prone on his creaking sofa (I told you grief makes people act strangely). What did she say? 'She said: "Get off me you silly Sri Lanki [Detmar's mother is of Sri Lankan extraction]." So then we went off to the second dinner of the night because, you know, getting Issy at short notice was tricky. When we got there, there weren't enough chairs, so I said: "Do you mind if Issy sits on my lap?"' His relationship with his girlfriend, who spent the evening slamming doors, ended that night and, the following weekend, he enticed Isabella to Hilles (Detmar, a barrister turned art dealer, does not own the house; his mother does, but he pays the bills, and is the sitting tenant). 'I asked her if she liked it. She told me afterwards that she said "yes", thinking: this will pay off my overdraft. Ha. I didn't have any money! On the Monday, I rang her. I said: "I'm coming to London to have my hair cut, and I've got something to tell you that I've never told anyone else before." When she came round, I was very nervous. I said: "I don't want to have an affair with you. I want to marry you."' Did she say yes immediately? 'Of course she did.' Blow pulls his upper lip over his teeth. He looks like the cat that got the cream.
Sixteen days from first meeting to marriage proposal; they married the following year, Issy in - of course - a Philip Treacy hat. Detmar was certain of his wife's talents as a stylist and muse, and determined both to give her a platform (Hilles where, effectively, she could run her salon) and to be her patron. She was notoriously bad with money and he was now on hand, so far as he was able, to bail her out. 'I saw Issy as a supertalent, but also as very nervous and insecure. I put a stop to that. But she was naughty.' He giggles. 'When she was the fashion director of the Sunday Times, she would get an advance on her expenses for the shows. But no sooner would we arrive in Paris than the designers would appear, the money would all be gone [spent on clothes]. So then it would be: "Is my credit card OK?"' What was it like being seen with her? Answer: he loved it. 'This is my mother,' he says. He shows me an old photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful woman in a coat with a collar that is straight out of Blake's Seven. 'We're theatrical. My father used to dress up in armour and stuff. This is my life! This house is a theatre set!'
Their marriage was, he says, incredibly happy and close, though Issy deeply regretted the fact that they had not been able to have children ('We were like a pair of exotic fruits that could not breed when placed together,' she once said). Then, three years ago, it all went wrong. 'I was heart-broken when we separated. I couldn't understand it.' So why did he allow it to happen? 'It was all Issy. She got fed up with my mother.' Detmar's mother was engaged in a battle to winkle him out of Hilles, a battle he has since won (according to Detmar, she wanted Selina, who has children, to live there). 'Issy said: "We should just go." But I said: "No, I'm staying and fighting. This is my home." She couldn't do it. She didn't have the stomach.' Isabella had faced parental rejection before. In 1994, her father disinherited her, leaving her only £5,000 of his £6m fortune; her husband believes that the idea of going through something similar again was too much for her. So, she left. 'I wrote her these letters saying I was heartbroken: I love you so much, I can't bear it, blah, blah, blah. But her reponse was [he adopts a mafiosi voice]: "You just don't get it. It's over."' Her sisters reported that Issy had told them she had not received his letters, so the next time he wrote, he took the precaution of photocopying his note, sending one to Isabella and one to her sisters. 'When I told her this, she said: "Same old shit, huh?" So naughty of Issy!'
So, in London, Detmar moved to Shoreditch, and had a 'really good time'. Among other things, he had an affair with the lesbian writer Stephanie Theobald. 'I used to be envious of all those boys who had all those girls. But then I realised: oh, it's not so hard. Everyone seems to like me. I'm very loveable!' Was Isabella mad and jealous? 'Oh, Ye-es! But then she got depression and her psychiatrist rang me and said: "You're the key to her."' There was a rapprochement. 'Issy was the sexiest, you see. Of all the girls I've made love to, Issy was always the best. She was super-sexy! She had the most beautiful knickers! One of my great aunts, Aunt Minette, said to me: "You have to have brains as well [to be sexy]." She was my soul mate.' Two tears roll down his cheeks. 'I had my bachelor time; I know what's coming now. And the people I love are always with me: Issy, my grandparents. But I am going to be so lonely.' He wipes his face, and seems to make a conscious decision to pull himself together. 'I am a bit addicted to drama,' he says. 'But let's carry on. I'm talking about the person I love.' Isn't he worn out? Grief is exhausting. 'No, I'm all right. People ask me: what can we do to help you? Well, give me money, or give me sex! Otherwise, just write to me, and let me grieve.' He laughs, naughtily. This is known, I think, as putting on a show.
I ask him if Isabella felt let down by the designers that she supported; a free frock, after all, is not the same thing as a job. 'Yes, she did. Though it wasn't about money for her, even if she did have fantasies about private jets. But Alexander [McQueen, probably her biggest discovery] paid her hospital bills, and he never made a fuss. Did you see the film of her on Channel 4 news? She was wearing a black and white Dior coat. John [Galliano, the designer of Dior] gave her that. She said: "I love it, but I can't afford it." They told her she could have it. "When we had no money you helped us. Take whatever you want."' A coat, though, doesn't put food on the table. In the midst of her depression, Isabella became convinced that she would end up as a bag lady. She knew how it felt to be seriously hard up. When she and Detmar first met, she had accounts at Fortnum's and Berry Bros, so that when the money ran out, she would still be able to eat - and drink - at least for a while.
It's time for me to leave now; a taxi is waiting, and Detmar has a thousand things to do. We go out through an immense panelled hall - ordinarily, I bet it's perfect for parties, but today it is so dank, it's a place to be dashed through - and into the kitchen, where Isabella's sister, Lavinia, sits at a table, looking poleaxed at the shock of it all. Issy's niece is here too, and a handsome young man who, I'm guessing from the look of his trousers, works in fashion or, perhaps, as a photographer (Isabella tried to turn every handsome young man she met into a photographer and, sometimes, she succeeded). On the floor, Alfie and two pug puppies have formed a kind of dog-knot. Detmar looks disdainful; he has eyes only for Alfie, now his best companion.
Time slows down in the days before a funeral, and here it feels like everyone save for the pugs is moving through invisible jelly. Or perhaps this is just the timeless power of Hilles, whose architect - like his grandson - went through life aiming for a certain kind of effect. Hilles helped Detmar to bag his bride, and now it will help to send her off in style. We go outside. I get into my car. The last thing I see as I drive off is Detmar. He's hopping up and down (he always did remind me of a penguin) and waving and trying to tuck his shirt into his trousers. 'Good luck finding Swindon!' he shouts. 'It's over there somewhere! Ha ha ha!' He is laughing wildly, which is exactly what Isabella would have wanted.
如果没人看,偶也不贴了,留给自己看
(当然也不用这么认真对付了
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,还好有准备
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俺还要上班呢，忙里偷闲（牺牲午休时间）上来溜溜罢了，你的地盘还是由你做主啊
