The Barmaid's Arms

What was a pub landlord doing at a Photography lecture? What was I doing, talking about arms and ‘pulling barmaids’, with a passing-nod to Rose Selavy’s ‘ready-mades’? After the lecture, in the bar (where else?), the pub landlord, stalks me - sweet-talks me - tells me I come over ‘all exotic’ – I’ve clearly got pulling-power: a cross between an oar and a mermaid. But I think he’s pulling my oar (leg) when he says, “Why didn’t I come and pull pints in his pub?” So I get an interview to be a barmaid.

The interviews were taking place the following morning, in a disused lido. Beer taps (and optics) had been installed on the walls (sides) of the dry pool. The idea being: the interviewees demonstrate their skill by slowly filling the dry pool with ale. But what does a girl wear to a job-interview in an empty swimming pool? Something that looks as dazzling dry as it does wet but can still leave an impression, when moist. The top also needs to double as a lifejacket in event of the interview going tits-up: “Not waving but pulling”. Either way: not drowning. I need to wear something attractive, eye-catching, and buoyant. The top can’t be too low-cut and has to show a bit of arm. No, what am I thinking: it has to show a lot of arm. And I know what you’re thinking: Shespy, your personal shopper, let Shespy choose your top. Shespy. Topshop. Wrong. A mistake. Shespy’s (own) tops are almost always very low-cut and the one’s that aren’t, are dangerously unbuttoned. No: even Ispy Shespy (in that way). Talking of tennis balls. I need false breasts and tennis balls float, as well as bounce.

Normally, I’m not the kind of man who’d steal women’s clothing off a washing. But I’ve never wanted be a barmaid before: I don’t know what normal is anymore. So when I spy this little sleeveless rhubarb and custard number flapping in the breeze, on a washing line, I was over the garden wall like a shot: “the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind”. 

And when I came across the dog-eaten innards of a pink tennis ball - washed-up on the beach – with a dash of pink fluff beautifully complementing the rhubarb and custard of the stolen top I’d just nicked – I had a breast to boot, and a buoyant one at that, albeit only one.

The interview got off to a good start: the pub landlord and a good-looking life were questioning me. I pulled a few pints into the empty lido. They were both wearing lycra shorts, and were clearly impressed by my wrist action. But as the beer rose up to my thighs, I found myself unprepared for their psychological approach: word-association: They said, “pull”. I said, “up”. They said, “bar”. I said, “dog-eaten tennis-bra”. They said, “lemon and lime”. I said, “washing line”. They said, “service”. I said, “tennis”. They said, “bitter”. I said, “tart”. They said, “mixer”. I said, “transvestite”. They said, “transparent-top” (the beer was up to my chest by now). I said, “vest”. They said, “Finger”. I said, “strength”. They said, “skirt”. I said, “length”. They said, “barmaid”. I said, “mermaid”. They said, “Rudolf Hesse”. I said, “cross-dress” (I wasn’t going to be tricked in to saying, SS). They said, “Spandau”. I said, “ballet”. They said, “prison”. “I’m too good looking”, I said. They said, “beer”. But I wasn’t going to be tricked by beer. So I said, “hunter”. They said, “cider”. I said, “straw”. They said, “pour”. I said, “oar”. They said, “Blouse”. I said, “big girl’s”. They said, “biceps”. I said “curls”. They said, “pub signs”. I said, “The Barmaid’s Arms”. They said, “barstools”. “I’d take no shit”, I said, “job”? They said, “it’s yours”. 

Doorknobs and Duchamps

Believe it or not an adjoining door – an orifice - connects Marcel Duchamp and Larry Grayson. As we all know, Grayson’s catchphrase was “shut that door” - you can still ‘get it’ on vinyl and DVD; Duchamp too relished wordplay - enjoyed nothing more than a good pun (the night he died, he was reading Alphonse Allais). Duchamp believed naming something transforms it – and would have appreciated Grayson’s wordplay and role-play; both men punned, both camped-it-up, both men played with our perception of doors (doors of perception?).

But first, consider Duchamp’s appropriation of the Mona Lisa (1919). He gave her a beard, moustache (convincingly turning her into a man) and added the inscription L.A.O.O.Q. (pronounced in French as Elle a chaud au cul, ‘she has hot ass’): Grayson would been 'at home' with Duchamp, as Duchamp too had something to say about the opening and shutting of doors.

Much of Duchamp’s oeuvre illustrates the reconciliation of opposites – of contradictory or opposing entities – and perhaps the clearest example of this can be seen in a work simply known as Door: 11 rue Larrey, a fully functioning door Duchamp designed to connect two rooms in the tiny apartment he’d recently moved into in 1927 on the rue Larrey in Paris. This door was located in the corner of the main living area, positioned in such a way as to close the entrance either to the bedroom or the bathroom, but not both at the same time! Duchamp’s Door functions in opposition to the axiom implicit in the common adage “a door must be open or closed”; so if Larry Grayson had found himself in Duchamp’s cramped apartment on 11 rue Larrey, he may well have felt at home, but he couldn’t have “shut that door”.

So where are we? Larry Grayson minces down the rue Larrey, meets Duchamp and is lost for words – can’t “shut that door”; but as one door fails to close, another opens and we’re back outside on the street: Danny La Rue, remember him? After working in a fashion store in Exeter and a stint in the Navy Danny La Rue (1927-2009) had a glittering and glamorous career as one of the most popular and prolific entertainers Britain has ever known; La Rue entertained the Queen, looking like a Queen. In his legendary drag-act La Rue impersonated such diverse female icons as Marlene Deitrich, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Margret Thatcher. Bob Hope described him as “the most glamorous woman in the world” But clearly, Bob Hope never met Rose Selavy, Marcel Duchamp's alter ego; Rose Selavy (a reconciliation of opposing sexual identities).

A portrait of Duchamp, done-up as Rose Selavy, appeared on a perfume bottle, Belle Haleine, eau de voilette (Beautiful Breath: Veil Water) in 1921. But Duchamp couldn’t have had beautiful breath: he, like me, puffed cigars. But even something as macho, phallic and poking-out as a cigar, can be reconciled (as famine) by a puff.