A few of my devoted readers know of my link to Fresno County, and a few of you know that, with death absenting our last familial connections, we are absenting our own selves from a place I too often must characterize as benighted. Sited barely a three-hour drive from San Francisco to the north and Los Angeles in the south, Fresno has largely made itself immune to the culture and liberality of these two cultural poles in the same way a stone in a pond makes itself resistant to the penetration of water.

Just now, the local zoo has hosted a family friendly nighttime event in honor of Pride Month. And part of the family friendly entertainment included drag performances. Quelle horreur! Or so claimed (but not in French) very many of the mouthier local grandees and church leaders, who for the millionth time trotted out that old saw about how any exposure to the LGBT community would ‘infect’ younger minds. What balderdash.

For the years Keith McCullar and I lived in England, it was a pleasure to take our godchildren to the Christmas pantomime at any one of a number of venues. For those of you not in the know, I’ll explain. The pantomime is a family friendly performance of singalong, and some manner of fantasy stage play, always for laughs and always slapstick, but based on some familiar story. Aladin and his magic lamp and Jack and the Beanstalk are perhaps the stories most often performed. Another feature- Aladin and Jack, young boys in the story, are always played by girls, and the female characters are always performed by men. If one were to say that this is some kind of aberrant seasonal behaviour that requires parents to spend the rest of the year debriefing their impressionable children, you’d be dead-ass wrong. The antecedents of the panto go back centuries and include venerable traditions that include the Commedia dell Arte, and ‘Twelfth Night’ from the pen of the hallowed William Shakespeare. In what I hope is gratuitous historical note- all the female roles in Shakespeare’s day were performed by men in drag. Something further- panto performances throughout the United Kingdom are invariably sold out.

Back, though to our own burgh of Fresno and those bleating their own notions of moral and right behaviour. I’ve nearly given up arguing the point, as the local opposition to gender fluidity appears concomitant with anti-intellectualism. A dialog about cultural and literary traditions falls on obtusely deaf ears.

And a final note, of particular moment to any parent anywhere who seeks to ‘protect’ their youngster. You won’t, of course, and this from my own self who grew up on a farm in rural Fresno County. I knew I was gay long before I knew anyone else was or anything about it, for that matter. What I did know was shame and embarrassment the germ of which I carry with me still and that I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to expunge. What I can also tell you is that whatever’s done in the guise of protection and avoidance of inclusivity thwarts an LGBT child’s positive sense of self and well-being. And that begs the question, is that what you really want to do? For anyone who answered yes, all I can say is I pity your kids who you’ve destined through close minded ignorance to years of a pitiably anguished existence.

Tomorrow marks the opening of Queer Britain, the museum space in newly redeveloped old warehouses behind King’s Cross Station. With a disparate group of trustees and supporters with backgrounds as varied as are the faces of the LGBTQ+ community, this must then presage the variety of exhibits and purposes the museum seeks to serve.

Both in purpose and chronology, the museum’s founding marks a follow-on from the 2017 Tate Britain exhibition ‘Queer British Art 1861-1967’ curated by Clare Barlow. The exhibition itself marked 50 years since the partial decriminalization of same-sex activity in Britain, which process moved forward with glacial slowness despite recommendations contained in the Wolfenden Report, commissioned by Parliament, and published in 1957.

However, it is 65 years on since the Wolfenden Report, and now, at long last, being queer in Britain, temporized by Tate Britain in 2017, can become quite literally institutionalized. With all that, one needs to realize that, whatever its public objective, it privately becomes a safe space for any and all who identify as queer.

It’s this knowledge that safe spaces are still essential that we should all find troubling, and mea culpa, I have to remind myself of this sad fact of modern life. Out and with a relationship of nearly 42 years’ duration, I lose sight of the fact that I have been lucky enough to create my own safe space and with the ability, if required, to retreat into it. On the days at work when someone sought to denigrate whatever it was I had to say, broadly hinting that as a gay man, my thoughts must of course be addled as those of my straight colleagues would not be, home was and still is a bastion of safety and comfortability.

So, indeed, fortunate, but the fact of the establishment of Queer Britain makes it abundantly clear that not everyone is as fortunate, and that it remains essential that, despite public sanctions, safe spaces exist. As I recall ‘Queer British Art’, I am reminded of the exuberance of Duncan Grant whose Bloomsbury Group freedom allowed his production of art that made no secret of his sexuality. I must, however, contrast Grant with his contemporary Glyn Philpot whose own homoerotic artworks were at odds with his private torment. And this says nothing at all about those in our own time who’ve escaped governments and cultures where being queer is tantamount to asking for- and receiving- a death sentence. Mark Gevisser’s recent The Pink Line: The World’s Queer Frontiers makes it abundantly clear that the danger of being queer is, in the larger world, more the rule than the exception.

And so we have Queer Britain, another step in a very long journey that some of us have found easier to tread than have others. My own challenge, and Queer Britain is a timely reminder, is to be wary of an enveloping comfortability, and remain mindful of one’s queerness and in so doing, make it possible for others who’ve not been so lucky to have the ability to be their own queer selves.

And I thought camp was dead. If you, gentle reader, mournfully thought so too then you’ll be cheered to read the debut letter penned by World of Interior’s new editor in chief, the self-described ginger fop himself, Hamish Bowles. Of course, that Rupert Thomas, founder editor Min Hogg’s long serving successor, was on his way out and Bowles was on his way in is old news, and it was in New York Magazine last fall I read an opinion piece that owner Condé Nast sought to remake the small circulation book into something more like its shall we say gauche American cousin Architectural Digest.

I have to admit, as I saw the size of not just its book but its editorial content shrink, I left off my subscription to AD where, at one time, we had advertised regularly. Perhaps it had something to do with how our advert featuring a 17th century lacquer cabinet on its giltwood stand tended not stand out against a three page lifestyle spread by Fendi. Call me old fashioned, or more likely, go ahead and say it, out of touch with the modern world, but the notion of mass market luxury goods seems a contradiction in terms.

And so it was that I comfortably retreated to the sanctuary of World of Interiors. Its blend, I should say proper blend, of editorial including just the right mix of the cutting edge and the historic and traditional, was in the reading rather in the manner of coming home and sitting in a favorite chair, a respite following a long and unpleasant journey. But I suppose, in this day and age, where everything moves so fast, and if it doesn’t the generally received wisdom is that there is something pathologically amiss, that was considered by Condé Nast the magazine’s premier shortcoming. At a worldwide circulation of about 55,000 it could hardly compare to innumerable social media influencers whose followers often number in the millions. Given my age, temperament, experience, and dare I say it, aesthetic sense, my gentle readers might think it superfluous of me to ask ‘So what?’

But then, print media is in for the fight of its life, displaced by social media but as the old saw goes, if you can’t beat them, join them, and this is apparently what Condé Nast has charged World of Interiors to do. Min Hogg amongst her talents was also an intriguing, albeit rebarbative, personality. Rupert Thomas, less so, but loyal to Min’s vision, which as it was comfortably stable over his 22 year tenure must surely have been his vision, too. Hamish Bowles? Well, God bless him, eccentrically attention grabbing, and the larger than life size personality that seems to articulate well with social media. Does this then bode well for the success of WoI? Time will tell, but what I do know, the current issue that marks Bowles’ debut is a much larger book that while it looks like the old one in format, is significantly bulked up with adverts.

Oh, well, things change, nothing stays the same, I write while thinking wistfully I have over the last four decades enjoyed World of Interiors immensely. And, no, I have no plans to discontinue my subscription. I am sure, he writes sardonically, Condé Nast is relieved to hear it.

As Hamish Bowles concludes in his debut Editor’s Letter ‘Welcome to our new world!’

‘Life must be lived moving forward, but can only be understood looking backward.’ Where was it I read this bit of worldly wisdom? Perhaps a fortune cookie, and I have to say, I never discard any fortune cookie fortune, placed there and finding its way to me I’ve always sensed the result of some grand design.

I was thus reminded of this aphorism when I watched ‘The Andy Warhol Diaries’ on Netflix. Reminded, but also made cognizant of its subjectivity. On the one hand, the show, derived from the diaries, is thorough going in attempting to present in his own words a long-ish slice of the artist’s life, but on the other, as a slice it was perforce limited as the scope of the diaries was limited to the later years of Warhol’s life. And when it might arguably be said his fame was in something of an eclipse, not reinvigorated until the publication of the diaries some years after his death. As it was, a number of those interviewed for the Netflix series, in a rather extended epilogue, were critical of the diary’s editor Pat Hackett, with the most common claim that she was selective and subjectively tendentious in her editorial approach. While it may have been Warhol’s narrative, the diary as presented expressed only what of the artist the editor thought she knew.

And herein lies the tale. I am 11 years older now than Warhol was when he died. His own diaries were largely that, a recordation of the minutiae of his everyday life, and it was from them that one would, if one chose to, abstract varying bits of something akin to reflection and from those bits weave together some manner of personal philosophy. Serving as my own exemplar, I can say that it is only in the last couple of years I’ve begun to be sufficiently reflective, poring over the details of my life, recording them in a journal, and the result of my own periodic review, monitor my progress toward the rudiments of a self-knowledge that might form the bases of a personal philosophy. An involved process, or should I say processes, of for me at least many years duration.

Moreover, all of us, every single human, until they die, are the quintessence of a moving target, a constantly filling repository of experience, and some claim that experience and one’s reaction to it carries on beyond death. I do not disbelieve that and place it on a par with fortune cookie wisdom. But as one considers Andy Warhol, what we know of his early life, and what we know of the incident crowded years of The Factory, including Warhol’s near assassination, it would indeed be difficult for even a person deeply reflective to begin to assimilate, much less make philosophical sense, of such an experiential welter. And, frankly, I very much doubt that Warhol was possessed in any large measure of that particular facility. His genius was in reacting in unique, and arguably facile, ways to ordinary human experience. Witness, of course, the pop art that was his initial claim to fame and established him in the canon of art history. Contrast this with the angry and cerebral work of those ab ex artists who barely predated him. Warhol and his retinue were a marginalized group of shall we say misfits and miscreants, but witness their hedonism, arguably less angry, and in fact, where Rothko and Pollock made no headway in exorcising their demons through art, I would argue that Warhol and those denizens of The Factory at least more effectively sought to, expanding the repertoire to accomplish this with not only traditional art, but film, television, and happenings. Remember ‘happenings’? If you do, then you’ll have to admit your age, and hopefully this will spark some reflection that might assist you in personal insight, furthering the development of your own philosophy. You’re welcome.

No diary or biography ever does express or could explain the whole of anyone, even if it extended through and was as long in its recordation as the entirety of the life to which it was attached. And then, too, there are the twin issues of interpretation and point of view. Pat Hackett requires no apologist, but suffice to say what she edited covering only a few years had the inherent problem of brevity, and with how many characters related therein, and how many subsequent readers post publication, yielding innumerable, and deforming, points of view. She did pretty well, all things considered. And a finite understanding of any aspect of Andy Warhol? It might have been available to the man himself, but will never exist for the rest of us. We can agree that he was enduringly fond of Campbell’s Soup. Note for future biographers- I am enduringly fond of arugula.

The major news flap this week surrounding the Facebook whistle blower puts me in mind of our own experiences with social media which, it appears, forms a significant portion of what is now described in common parlance as big tech. As I am writing this post on my Dell desk top utilizing Word for Windows, for me, big tech means something else. Social media should more appropriately be termed ‘noisy tech.’

But no question, whether big or just noisy, or noisome, social media has remade all of us for the convenience of some and the detriment of many. So many, apparently, and in such an insidious way and with such dire results, those who seek to regulate this portion of big tech liken it to the big tobacco of an earlier day. When I had initially heard this comparison, it seemed overstated, but then the more I’ve heard and read, the more appropriate the comparison is borne out, even by social media’s own internal reckoning. Similarly, big tobacco before being called publicly to account knew in detailed terms the horrific effects its products were having on users. Despite for years posting the required warning labels on its tobacco products, companies have never to my knowledge really acknowledged any real responsibility. Likewise, the major social media platforms, while saying publicly they are working to ferret out problems have never acknowledged their own complicity, or culpability.

Still, as with big tobacco, social media companies know and can profitably rely upon the knowledge that there are millions, or more probably billions, of the weak minded who will intentionally put themselves in harm’s way.

As well as the technology employed to pen this post, all of my gentle readers will have accessed it through some arm of big tech, most likely through a search engine, so what I’ve written above might seem to make me out a hypocrite. I’d like to think that, as I do not smoke, I can also, possessed of moderately good judgment, with reasonable safety employ big tech in a productive way. But I have to be honest- though I can’t say that I have been the victim of body shaming, my own shall we say discreet use of social media has been influenced by some negative incidents.

Years ago, when we established our own page on Facebook as what appeared the coming thing, I sought to expand our commercial reach through attracting what were then and are now termed ‘friends’. Mind you, when I use the word, it means something different than the tangential point of commonality that is meant when it is employed in social media. Can you imagine, though, clicking on a request to become someone’s tangential point of commonality? So I suppose, in this context, ‘friend’ becomes useful shorthand, though for me it has, sad to say, become a neologism.

Still, we have attracted so many friends to our social media platforms we are now informed by several platforms- through messages sent on their own platforms, of course- that Chappell & McCullar are now, wait for it, ‘influencers.’ As this is something new to me, you’ll pardon this question posed in a contemporary idiom- is this a thing? Apparently so, and as I have seen people so designated on social media, it is also apparently a vocation, albeit an ephemeral one.

I should further say it is a poorly paid one. Frankly, our own social media posts have been nakedly venal, almost entirely for the purpose of supporting our core antiques business. This naturally begs the question, has it helped? And as with any other promotion we’ve ever employed, the best I can answer is, perhaps, but as with any other promotion, there has been a cost.

No, no revelations here about body shaming, but several weeks ago, in response to a blog post on social media, one of my ‘friends’ took me to task, online of course, with her terse criticisms employing terms like ‘wanker’ and ‘left-wing asshole’ with her tirade concluding with a demand that I, wait for it, ‘unfriend’ her. ‘Unfriend’ is also a thing. By the way, I had never otherwise had any interaction of any sort with this erstwhile friend, and the why it was that when reading my posts she did not take the first step and seek to unfriend me is a mystery, beyond the fact that, had she done so, she would be denied the opportunity to call me a wanker.

Hopefully my gentle readers have found that my social media posts are not primarily a virtual cudgel for online invective, and as I use it mostly to promote our business perhaps it is similarly useful to some of our colleagues. A trade association of which we’re a member held an online seminar about how to use social media effectively, with one of the key takeaways that, when one’s page is ‘friended’ or ‘followed’, or ‘liked’, one must reciprocate, friending, following, or liking in kind. I pity those of my innocent colleagues who took on this suggestion wholesale, as they’ve doubtless found many of their ‘friends’ to be a bewildering number of porno websites. For those who have attempted to use paid promotion to further their social media presence, many are frightened to find sometimes successful attempts to hack their credit card accounts perpetrated by friends let in to personal information by the virtual front door. A sidebar- it astounds me that so many of my colleagues post online, real-time events including where they are on holiday, and then shocked to find upon returning their home has been broken into and ransacked. When I see these fun holiday posts, it is all I can do to refrain from commenting ‘Is the front door key still under the mat?’

No question, social media has a lot to answer for, but, too, just like the putz who continues to smoke, or like most other things in life, come to that, a level of personal responsibility must be undertaken. No, no one forced me to be online, and no, no one forced me to smoke that cigarette, no matter what the blandishments. A final sidebar- we do have a couple of clients who are at the most senior management level of big tech. Their purchases of our traditional material, for those of you interested to know, were made not virtually or in response to a social media post, but in the traditional way, by coming in through the actual front door and shopping in person.