Leigh Bowery

There is a huge Leigh Bowery exhibition just opened at Tate Modern. It is hard for anyone to capture the brilliance and originality of Leigh – such was his uncategorizable and unquantifiable talent, but some rooms at Tate Modern are devoted to this and it is really exceptional. I first met Leigh Bowery in my early 20’s when any club worth going to would find him in it, attracting all the attention. You immediately wanted to be in his orbit. It was great being kissed on the cheek by this gigantic, magnificent figure with paint dripping down his head. You felt like you’d been touched by God or by art, but it was also such fun. The designer Rifat Ozbek told me they’d have these hours-long phone calls, and then suddenly Leigh would say ‘Bored now, bye!’ and slam down the phone.

I got to know Leigh when he was sitting for my dad. He would wear his off-duty wig with golden curls, the hairstyle you would imagine of the favoured child. He’d be in casual clothes like a builder. It was such an extreme difference from his club look that it was almost more disturbing. He and Dad used to go to the River Cafe together on breaks from sitting. Leigh began to develop an interest in refined cuisine – I’ve never forgotten him telling me ‘the poached pears with crème fraiche are awfully good.’ An ordinary comment, instead of his existential banter, seemed somehow more controversial than anything.

Going round the Tate show with Michael Clark, Leigh’s friend and collaborator, he said ‘Lucian and Leigh were made for each other.’ It’s true. They were both incredibly entertained and stimulated by each other’s anarchic attitude and intelligence. When Leigh started sitting for my father, he was hungry for knowledge and devoured everything – transforming it into greater and more perverse iterations. He was remarkable in every single guise that he occupied. It was great watching my father be with Leigh, he really loved him. One of the very few times I ever heard my father cry was when Leigh died. We spoke on the phone and his voice broke. It was a devastating loss. I remember when one of the last big paintings Dad did of Leigh was being shown at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, Leigh was in hospital but he came out for the private view. He had an intravenous drip on a wheelie stand – he didn’t want to miss anything. People were saying, ‘When will you be out?’ No one really knew or wanted to think that it could be as awful as him dying. He was 33. Don’t miss this.