I pulled out a red vintage Margiela number from the back of my closet, added some extra feathers to a thrifted fascinator, teased my hair into a frizzy side ponytail, and finished the look with my dad’s cowboy boots and a touch-up of my favorite Paks lipstick. I was ornamented for the occasion: the uncanny unveiling of the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. A yearly event that walks the line between grandeur and absurdity—and somehow makes it work.
In an industry where so many voices are competing to be heard—and to make it onto the curated walls of the RA—the art extended beyond the canvases. Sometimes, the boldest statements weren’t on the walls, but on the people standing beside them. Some wore Dorothy’s red slippers, others chose kilts, but many reached for a look they could trust—and tonight, that meant Simone Rocha.
One of the people who seemed to be enjoying themselves the most was a Scottish artist named Kevin Kane. It was his first time showing at the RA Summer Exhibition, and he was dressed in lavender from head to kilt. We talked about the weird ambivalence artists feel toward their own work. Five minutes in, he tried to give me a vintage fascinator that belonged to his family. Apparently, being one of the only people wearing one tonight earned me his respect. Or pity. Unclear. I was living, regardless.
Outside on my smoke break, I bumped into the milliner of dreams, Stephen Jones. Touching again on that shifting relationship one has with their own work, he said it took him fifty years to fall in love with some of his early pieces. His advice: “Look at it at 4 a.m., hate it, sleep, then accept it when someone else finds meaning in it.” And in terms of success: “Kiss everybody—because that fraud might be a prince.” Oddly sound advice, depending on your definition of fraud. His words meant a lot to me, as a fashion student still trying to find my own creative voice.
Back in the gallery, crab legs on crumpets in hand, I drifted through conversations and daydreams—wondering who might be my next favorite character. Most people were weighing up what they were pretending to buy. A woman from the States, halfway through her third glass of champagne, told me she was hiding from a former friend. “She’s buying just to feel something,” she said, gesturing toward a wall of work. “Her laugh sounds like an interrupted orgasm trying to escape the ceiling.” Brutal. But after locating the laugh, I fear she may have clocked her down. If holidays can break friends apart, I sure hope placing bids on paintings can bring them back together—to ki once more.
Later, I crossed paths with Grayson Perry, dressed in pink platforms and a mini sombrero—unmistakably himself. At one point, a small tapa slipped from his plate and was swept away almost instantly. It was a fleeting moment, somewhere between everyday mishap and quiet performance. That flash of absurdity stuck with me, lingering even longer than some of the art on the walls.
This year’s theme is Dialogues. And they were there—in bits. Not just on the walls, but in the people orbiting them. Some real, some performative, most of it fleeting. On the way home to Stokey, I felt a wave of clarity. (Totally not tipsy.) Very much like a comedown realization: I really could’ve used another oyster, or maybe one more perfumed gin cocktail from the VIP room. In the end, it wasn’t just about the art—it was about the electricity in the air, the strange little moments, and the feeling that something real had happened, whether or not it could be framed.
I remain,
DalstonSuperStoned