In and Out of College Life

Life, Art and Freddie Mercury: 1968-70 By Rose Rose PhD

Text and Images © Rose Rose 2015 All Rights Reserved

Dedication To A.K. Maim

Special Thanks To;

Elizabeth Garzon Donnelly

Philippa French Patricia Forster Nardi

Riccardo Nardi Suzanna North Bates

Table of Contents

Dedication Special Thanks To:

Preface

First Happeiistaiices

Ealing School of Art

In and Out of College Life

Meet the Artists?

An Out of Town Gig

After a Chelsea Party and a One

Man Exhibition

End of Baling School of Art & 1Q6Q

Graphics Diploma Show

Women in Love' at a Cinema in

Leicester Square

The Who at The Coliseum

A Meal in an Earls Court

Restaurant

Hamlet at The Roundhouse. Chalk

Farm

An Evening at Patrick Woodcock's?

A Last Evening at Patrick

Woodcock's

The Final Split

ENDNOTE

Preface

It's September 1970, and Rosemary Pearson's day off from her new job in Presentation Graphics at BBC Television Centre; she takes the District Line Tube from a commune in Netting Hill Gate to Kew. She has planned a day out in the Gardens there, to reflect at length on her 20-month relationship with the nascent Freddie Mercury, and also to plan a separate future for herself. How had everything that had first brought them together— their diverse backgrounds, the art, music, and social scene in late sixties London—later contributed to a permanent rift between them? In fourteen chapters this hidden story is revealed in a series of recollected sequences: a story within a story.

Originally created as an unpublished screenplay (Freddie and Rosemary, 2008) Life, Art and Freddie Mercury :1968-70, is a memoir of my personal relationship with Freddie Mercury.

First Happenstances

Walking from the Tube to Kew Gardens' Victoria Gate entrance, Rosemary Pearson thought her day of 'sorting herself out' should start with a quick recap of her early years. She needed to look at her background, and get an objective grip on the significant events of her early life, before she could address the conflicting issues facing her on that autumn day, in September 1970. Skirting round the lake and heading towards the Broad Walk, she summarised her privileged past:

Born in London, in 1946, she was the child of bohemian parents, whose affluence belied their lower middle class backgrounds. Their unconventional lifestyle had meant she'd been sent away, first to be brought up by relatives, and then later to be educated in distant boarding schools. Far from feeling disadvantaged by these experiences, Rosemary never thought of herself nowadays as anything other than an over-privileged bourgeois girl with the world at her feet. Alongside everything that money could buy throughout her childhood, she had been confident of an exciting and independent future. During an extended period of travel in Europe betweeni9&3 andio66, after a year spent at the Sorbonne's Institute Britannique, she had been fortunate enough to have visited Florence, where she saw Masaccio's early Renaissance fresco, The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden [1425]. Her interest in Fine Art awakened, she later made the journey to the Prado in Madrid, and discovered the triptych, The Garden of Earthly Delights [1510] by Hieronymus Bosch; these two experiences were to shape her future.

An overriding passion for Art developed a sense of aesthetics and appealed to the visual side of Rosemary's nature. During that time she had kept a sketchbook of drawings inspired by the metaphor of the life cycle and, although she was never religious, the content of the two works remained with her. Sketching remained her most engaging activity, and led to her spontaneously applying to become a Foundation Art student in 1966 in London. The tutors on the course there were caught up in the cultural changes that were happening everywhere at that moment in time; Rosemary too had been influenced by their radical ideas, aiming to integrate them into her own life, immediately. But the decisions and choices she had made then had not been the right ones for her, and it was now her urgent task to find ways beyond the mistakes. Today was the time to take herself in hand and redress the unforeseen imbalances that had ensued from the folly of her naive enthusiasm for the world of Commercial Design, coupled with a strong sense of social justice and equality.

Moving slowly towards the south end of Kew, which she knew well from previous visits, she hardly noticed the exotic flora, intensified in colour by the warmth of the late Indian summer. She knew herself to be at a definite crossroads. A sense of deep disappointment and sadness filled her mind, which she simultaneously considered to be somehow absurd. Having had almost too much freedom of choice, and making the wrong choices, both in her relationships and in her career, had spelled personal disaster, because she had allowed other unique opportunities to slip by. Or so she had imagined. But perhaps this negativity was just the inevitable flip side of the euphoria that had characterized her London life for the last half a decade: whatever it was, Rosemary needed to get to the bottom of it and soon. So today was the day: she had to make sense of the reasons for the choices she had made over the previous three years or so, and make a plan of action for her future. Somewhere between Art School and the World of Work her perceptions had been shaken up and scrambled together into a chaotic abstraction, and she saw now that she had only acted out of expediency in opting to reject Fine Art, to train instead as a Commercial Artist.

Rosemary's mother had urged her to seek financial stability before all else; she had acquiesced, but out of sheer defiance, rather than duty: earning her own living would mean she could ditch her generous allowance, and be financially independent of her mother; no one else she knew had such a privileged But at that time Commercial Art in all its forms was a world away from the cerebral sphere of Fine Art that she had glimpsed a few years earlier, in those European galleries. At heart she regretted the decision that had turned her into a very employable designer, but little else. It wasn't like the other decisions she'd had to make recently, although she had considerably freed herself up by walking away from two uncompromisingly difficult relationships, only six weeks beforehand. That act alone had showed her that she had the ability to depart from anything that was emotionally dispensable; the austere discipline of her 19503 education had hardened her like that—it had allowed her to overcome complex emotional entanglements, before she could become crushed by them.

But Rosemary wasn't sure where subjective needs and objective decisions crossed over—hence her extreme confusion. Making wrong choices was something she had heard a lot about as she was growing up; her parents regretted their lots in life and had come, sadly, to sorry ends— her dad was rumoured to have ended up in jail!— but that was not a story to be gone over today. Here she was now in September 1970, with four years design experience behind her in the form of a Foundation Arts year, a Vocational Design Diploma, and one year's experience in a Book Illustration job for Nuffield Foundation, Bloomsbury. All that had landed her a BBC TV Presentation Graphics job in July 1970, with a creative future ahead of her. So why was she suddenly so discontented?

Rosemary ventured into the Orangery Restaurant to consider that particular bit of the jigsaw puzzle in more detail. What had really happened at the Art Schools? In the One Year Foundation course, at the Hammersmith School of Art in 1967, she had read Karl Popper's The Open Society and Its Enemies, the Marxist appraisal of Western culture. It had been critical reading, complemented by the radical theories of Buckminster Fuller and Le Corbusier. Together, these writings had led Rosemary to conclude that it was 'Designers', and not 'Artists', who were the avant-garde centre of the contemporary world! Such vocational labourers would be the progressive workers of the future, her new idealist-self had decided. In fact, from an ideological point of view, that theory suggested numerous ideas gleaned from the 1068 Paris uprisings. Although she had only read about them in the papers, she perceived a 'new order' just waiting to be put into practice! By contributing to a progressive and cutting-edge environment, she would be helping to replace the old, reactionary, pre-sixties values with a "classless multiculturalism" that would unite artist and artisan! This, at least in theory, was the world that she had hoped to put all her ideological energies into! So she had worked hard to get the appropriate training and some 'acceptable' drawings and prints together; in reality, it was necessary to have only a reasonable portfolio of work to get a creative job in London in 1969, and that's exactly what she had done.

So after three years in two London colleges Rosemary had been equipped to land each of the jobs of her choice without a hitch; she had even had the opportunity and time to take a two-week Russian holiday at the end of one job before starting the other. Surely independent professional life had never been so fulfilling? Or so she had thought at the time, being driven by the need to earn a living, and nurture her increasingly Red politics and her unrequited sense of social justice. Yet, everyone Rosemary had known in the London worlds of visual culture or popular entertainment during those few years had also been juggling with multiple choices. It had been a complex time to have been both a student and a worker, with many other conflicting political and cultural influences from America in the form of Psychedelic and Pop Art, both these styles being in opposition to the Revolutionary and Minimalist influences from Europe and Asia.

Ironically, Rosemary had not been so much allured by the simultaneous abstracted developments in Fine Art. Witnessing the Fluxus movement performances, and also the Happenings and Cybernetics Serendipity Exhibitions of 1968, had made her aware that Fine Art held unlimited aesthetic possibilities; whereas any form of Design, once lifted from the drawing board, had to definite to become practical, and so engaged directly with life outside of the studio and gallery. Fine Art, in comparison, seemed a remote aesthetic practice, existing only for its own sake. And although Rosemary could draw freehand and had mastered technical drawing, she had realised that the male-dominated, abstract conceptual ideas prevalent in Fine Art at that time were part of a philosophical process she could not easily engage with. She had even wondered if it was a closed shop; at any rate, these ideas had all seemed quite unfathomable to her at that time. She had looked for concrete 'examples' that might clarify these difficult concepts.

The geometric sculptures of Anthony Caro, William Turnball, and Philip King, for example, did not move her as the earlier modernists, Henry Moore or Constant in Brancusi, had done. Moreover, those British artists' intentions were the opposite of those in the neo-Romantic paintings she had seen in the houses of her new artist friends and acquaintances in London after 1968. More significantly, to her, she had been unable to square any of it with the radical or revolutionary politics she had begun to encounter in Leftist circles. The results of all those complex concepts, for her as a young woman in 1070, after much reflection and discussion with peers, had meant that she considered collectivist thought and team production, rather than "hedonistic individualism", to contain the real vigour of the contemporary avant-garde. Here was the crunch then: the little aesthete in Rosemary had guilelessly imagined that becoming a Designer rather than an Artist would be a more 'progressive' career choice! She understood that a designer was about being part of a creative team; a group to contribute to in a collectively creative way. The problem was that although she was said to be good at this type of work, she was not at heart a team player. She had put all this down to being female. Maybe it was even the result of her years in boarding school, where it had been a question of keeping your head down and trying to just 'fit in'. But that couldn't account for her propensity for spending much of her spare time drawing in sketchbooks, secretly wanting to become an artist instead of a designer, and execute ideas purely of the imagination.

After finishing at Baling School of Art in June 1969, and as time had passed during her time in the Book Illustration job at Nuffield, she had longed for a life that was more tranquil, away from the increasing demands of the 'nine-to-five'; one that allowed reflective practice and abstract ideas to emerge freely. There was no chance of any of that in her current circumstances. So what could she do? It was all so contradictory and ironic: she was now exactly where she had imagined, in 1967, that she would want to be by 1970! Perhaps it had all been brewing within her since her time at the radical educational establishment that was Ealing School of Art. Yes, those abstract ideas about "what type of work was the most creative" had been at work in her subconscious even then, but she had always rallied round and opted for the sensible route of 'Commercial Art'. Here Rosemary had been torn between two seemingly opposite worlds in

Baling School of Art

London was still swinging in 1970, and everyone Rosemary had met, between art schools and work, was forging a path towards some form of Radicalism. She was not the only one of her contemporaries questing, with an all-consuming passion, after an avant-garde 'lifestyle' somewhere between work and play; all and sundry were seeking a niche in their chosen spheres of Art, Design, or Music. The world of popular London culture had become a byword for extreme individuality: collectively it appeared that everything was up for grabs if you had the least bit of creative ambition. Life was a 'going for broke' gamble for all the London 'post art school' twenty-somethings she knew. In addition to being part of all of the above trends, Rosemary had also gained insights into Leftist politics, first gleaned from John Berger's 1960 work, Permanent Red. The book described the social forces at work that made specific periods in history more vibrant than others; it pointed out the rarity of authentic individual talent within the flood of social change; the struggle between the Romantic and the genuine Avant-Garde, and the forces at work within all emerging popular culture. Rosemary had spent two years with these polarising ideas in the background of her life, never sure whether to ignore them or embrace them! At the very least she needed to understand them and the best way to do that had seemed to be to experience, at first hand, the creativity of emerging artists, in any discipline. Rosemary had been fortunate enough to meet up with quite a few

which she swung like a pendulum, but it was not exclusively to do with the orientation of the Graphics Diploma. On reflection, everything would have been different in her life had she not embraced the Leftist 'ideological posturing' that caused her, and a great many others, to question everything, incessantly. So, ideology had ruled the day—and near ruinous consequences had followed. Or had they? The old stereotype of the 'artist starving in the garret' was still current, but that was the stuff of novels, and not mentioned at Ealing, for most students expected, like her, to work in the creative industries—film, advertising, publishing, theatre and, most importantly, music.

But there had been one student at Ealing School of Art during her time there who'd had very different ideas about life, art and creativity. That student had been Freddie Bulsara; the impact he'd made on her hadn't diminished: she wondered if it ever would. This day out in Kew Gardens was just the tiling to get Rosemary into a deeply reflective mood; she hoped, on that unrepeatable day, to untangle the complex web of events that had been set in train by this creative genius of a man.

But it was not until September 1968, two years after first reading Berger (during her Ails Foundation course at Hammersmith School of Art), that she had even begun to realise what true creativity involved: this was when she had first encountered an individual who was a real tour de force in his own right, an artist who seemed to break all the rules on the innovation front with an extraordinary intensity. This was the emerging musical talent, Freddie Bulsara.

Sitting alone in the peaceful atmosphere of the Orangery, Rosemary recalled how she had first become attracted to Freddie, during the autumn term of her second year at Baling School of Art. He was ashy, geeky Asian boy who was always singing to himself, and at first Rosemary had not thought herself to have much in common with him, as she was not part of his musical clique; bizarrely, they had been on the same course for a whole year before their paths had crossed! But finding herself in the same part of a studio with Freddie on several successive occasions that term, it hadn't been long before she'd got to know him quite well. She remembered how she had smiled after hearing him humming abstract tunes to himself, or bursting spontaneously into song in a far corner of that second-floor studio. She had gone over to his desk one day, to look at some poem sketches he was working on, and just smiled at him, saying nothing. Rosemary had been following a Pop Art inspired project for a would-be. display on Top of the Pops, having been in the show's audience some half a dozen times whilst a Foundation student at Hammersmith College of Art, opposite the BBC Lime Grove Studios. She had started up a conversation one day with Freddie, hoping to amuse him with stories about the show, recounting to him how she, and a fellow student called Kelita, sometimes went to a greasy-spoon joint in the nearby Goldhawk Road, to order liver and bacon sandwiches after dancing themselves silly on Top of the Pops]

At the time, Freddie had appeared quite uninterested, merely frowning at her, saying nothing. But one day, a whole a week later, he had suddenly asked her to accompany him to the college canteen, and they had begun chatting freely. With a hearty meal inside him followed by two mugs of tea, Freddie had become more relaxed than she had seen him before; he had even confided to her that it was his secret ambition to perform on that Pop show! Rosemary had not been surprised—lots of Baling students were more into music than visual culture. After some more chat about his clothes, or the lack of them, Rosemary had suggested that Freddie should acquire some fancy clothing 'props' for some gigs he had coming up that autumn.

About three weeks later, back in the studio, they arranged to meet up on a Saturday afternoon to see what old materials or costumes they could find in the Portobello Road. Rosemary ran a Saturday Retro clothing stall in the market there; Kelita, her friend since Hammersmith Foundation days, had said she'd be there too, that particular market being central to everyone's personal dressing up box.

By the end of six weeks in the same studio, although working on different college projects, Freddie and Rosemary had become almost inseparable, at least in the daytime, since they each had extensive social lives of their own outside of college. No one ever spoke of the twenty-four-hour culture in London, but the art students she knew at the time were already living and breathing it; it was the norm for those in her circle to have a number of different scenes on the go, simultaneously. Rosemary had often wondered at all she managed to cram into days that started at six in the morning and went on until gone midnight; and that was without the wild partying even¹ weekend. She'd always got up early to catch up on the clothes-serving for the market stall: she needed that extra cash to pay her Mini-Van expenses. How else would she have been able to travel around London at a crazy pace, fitting in all the diverse plays, concerts and exhibitions, social life and. of course, college? Several months after that 'Lime Grove' inspired project, she would often drive to spend evenings with Freddie in an Earl's Court restaurant, sometimes with one of his mates in tow, before heading back to her Westbourne Grove pad, and fitting in a couple of hours more work at the drawing board on whatever college project needed attention, well into the small hours of the morning. Back in the here and now of the Orangery Restaurant. Rosemary was ashamed to recall how, once (in her haste to rush from one scenario to the next) she had been involved in a near-fatal accident when driving in Fulham. She had been giving a lift to Freddie and one of the band members, when she had been confronted by a lorry heading towards them on the wrong side of the road! Due to her presence of mind they had all escaped unscathed, so the moment was quickly forgotten at the time: by a stroke of luck there were no casualties and only a scratched bumper on her van. But the event indicated to her just how much the pace of everything in her life had speeded up at that time, when she had been drawn inextricably towards Freddie's contradictory personality. Spending increasing amounts of time together, going to concerts, exhibitions, plays, films and parties, they had become more and more intimate with each other, causing a lot of college gossip about their relationship. These memories all left a bittersweet taste in her mouth as she recalled, wistfully, what now seemed almost like distant events. In the physical warmth of the Kew Gardens restaurant, Rosemary recalled how she and Freddie had then started to share more about their backgrounds. Sadly, she had found that apart from their fifties boarding school experiences and travelling quite a bit when they were younger, they really had little in the way of shared goals or even interests. Rosemary had expected that they'd drift apart as soon as the college year finished in June 1969; but despite all the difficulties that had repeatedly occurred in their intimate situations, they had still been seeing each other a whole year later, up until July 1970! Rosemary shuddered to think of the horrible events that had separated them (just six weeks beforehand), as she got up and left the Orangery Restaurant, and walked, in a different direction from the one she had planned, somewhat in a daze. She had begun to reflect deeply on how, despite being fairly good at drawing and graphics, Freddie was at heart a single-minded man with a commanding voice which was the core of his creative drive: he was the individual who would stand out from the crowd in no uncertain terms, whilst she was just the opposite! What was she anyway? Just a young woman trying to pull together simultaneously half a dozen disparate strands of art and ideology! And of course someone just trying to understand how this complex jigsaw all fitted together.

On reflection, Rosemary supposed their mutual enjoyment of each other at that time, had rested on their individual insistence on gambling with everything and always going for broke, to see how the dice might fall. But that wasn't why they had had to split up, only weeks before her reflective walk in the soft tranquility that was Kew Gardens. She remembered with some sorrow, almost tearfully, that she'd only gone a couple of times with Freddie to Smile gigs and rehearsals; but she had created some of his stage outfits on her sewing machine at home in her spare time, pretending to Albert Muller, her other supposed boyfriend, that it was all in the name of mere 'friendship'. What a coward she had been then; but she had never known with any certainty where she really stood in the lives of other people, and this had all led to a bizarre type of insecurity. Looking back with a sense of delight and sadness to those early days of knowing Freddie, Rosemary accepted that she'd always known that the allure they felt for each other could not hold for long; too much had been pulling them in opposite directions... she had always known, deep down, that Freddie could never become the love of her life or even her long-term companion.

After July 1969, and the end of their time at Baling, Rosemary saw Freddie only once or twice a week; she had started her first 'nine-to-five' Graphics job at The Nuffield Foundation. After work she engaged socially and politically in a large network of different groups. Somehow, she had always felt safer with the different facets to her life in separate compartments, and Freddie was always involved with his music anyway, which of course had to be his first priority. So they had remained close, but not in the same daily way they had been at college.

Although she had been living under the same roof with Albert, in a shared flat, since her time at Hammersmith, the relationship had been unstable and rocky from early on; the pair of them had drifted apart emotionally over the subsequent three years, which included Rosemary's first year at Baling, before she had got to know Freddie. Rosemary's increasing interest in Left with politics had further alienated her from Albert, who couldn't understand where all that ideology fitted in with her Diploma in Graphic Design and her quest for a good job at die end of it; there had been harsh arguments. But because of their basic acceptance of each other's differences, and their mutual friend Dr Patrick Woodcock, who had become something of a father figure to them both, Rosemary and Albert had ended up weathering a number of storms and somehow kept their friendship going; that's why they had continued to live together until July 1070. It was only at that point that Rosemary had decided that a final parting from him, too, was unavoidable.

Now, in September 1970 in Kew Gardens, Rosemary felt quite aghast at how much she had had to delete from her life, to date, just to be able to see a clear path ahead for her own future. 'But surely there has never been a better moment in time to be a young woman of twenty three, with the whole world at her feet, in Central London?' she mused to herself. But, by midday, strolling nonchalantly along the Broad Walk, she still hadn't begun to get to grips with what had really caused her to make such radical changes in her life of late; just musing as she had been over fragments of the recent past was an indulgence she was going to have to get beyond. There were still some difficult issues to be resolved about the future and what life without either Freddie or Albert would reallv mean for her.

In and Out of College Life

Walking towards the Tree House Towers, Rosemary felt sad when she. remembered the happy days that she and Freddie had shared. She recalled one particular Portobello Road Saturday, after she had finished on her clothes stall, when she and Freddie had met up outside the Duke of Wellington pub to hunt for theatrical costumes. Arm in arm, mooching around the last strands of the stalls before they were packed away; strains of Captain Beefheart's Safe as Milk had been wafting out from one of the shops. It had been a warm autumn afternoon in 1968 just after Freddie's birthday and he had been in a wistful mood. 'Do you love me?' he had asked Rosemary, seizing her hand. 'You know I do' she had replied automatically, more out of habit than real conviction. 'But I want to be ndo7'edbyyou!' Freddie had insisted. 'Oh, she who must be obeyed.' You sound like my mother!' she had teased him, then kissed him softly on the lips. Back in the here and now of Kew Gardens, Rosemary started reminiscing on the deeper conversations they had had later on in their relationship, about life and death and the fact that Freddie saw himself to be only on the edges of everything, when what he really wanted was to be at the centre. Rosemary had really empathized with him on the inner conflict that seemed to possess him at that time; it was something they just kept secret between them and would only ever mention outside of college. He knew anyway that she admired him for the unconventional views that lay beneath his more extrovert antics; they had moved quickly from being just close friends to lovers, and felt rather self-conscious about this fact in public.

Freddie and Rosemary had upset at least one of their mutual friends, Vijay, a fellow student, by their frequent whispering and smooching together in corridors and cuddling in studios. Rosemary had admired Vijay's determination to do well in the world of work, his ambition to become a sign-writer in the American psychedelic style; in return he had often shown interest in Rosemary's work, but also, a less welcome interest in her! "You really like Freddie, don't you,' he would rebuke her when there was no one else around. 'I wish he didn't have to be in the limelight with you all the time.' Vijay obviously envied the curly haired, athletic Freddie, with his boasts that he would one day be world famous! Tin afraid / do, Vijay,' Rosemary would answer. "It's because Freddie and I cover so much ground together ...as well as always having a good laugh about everything...he brightens up the day like ;io one else.' She knew that Vijay was jealous of that special friendship, but almost everyone in college except Freddie, even her old friend Kelita, had become increasingly invisible to her, and whatever they thought about the relationship was irrelevant.

In any case, there was also something of a divide between the students of that particular year: those who desperately needed to do well enough on the course to get them a job, of whom Rosemary was one, and those who had a more creative agenda up their sleeves and used the college day for jamming sessions in the Main Hall around lunchtime, of whom Freddie was definitely one and didn't mince matters over it. Then there were those flaneurs who loved to drift in and out between extra­curricular poetry UTiting sessions: John Martison was one of those—a Cockney with ST Coleridge aspirations and an Italian Renaissance face, who hung out only with the tutors, since the rest of the students had showed no interest in his stories of walking round the English countryside, which he did all year round, to create a few lines of exotic poetry from his observations. There were also the film-makers and Ad-Men who'd lined themselves up interviews at JW Thompson, swanning around in smart suits with an air of disdain for the 'bohemians'. As for Rosemary, despite trying to keep her options open in terms of getting a commercial portfolio together, she was more drawn to working out her designs by drawing isometric projections of the tasks in hand, than mimicking the neo-Art Nouveau style that seemed to be everywhere at that time.

The best student of all in that year had been Alan Lee, who was always at a desk drawing away and commanding huge interest from everyone for his Post-Gothic productions for which he would become world famous. Sitting near Rosemary in the studio one day he said sardonically: 'You could look like Brigitte Bardot', in a hushed voice, then added: 'if you put on more eye make-up and pouted your lips!' 'No, she couldn't,' Freddie had retorted loudly from the other side of the studio; he never missed anything, although he was sitting several yards away at the time. 'She's my little pussy-cat and she's alright as she is'.' he intervened. Alan had smiled, and carried on with his drawing. In those bright Baling studios a lot of work got done, Rosemary recalled, despite all the usual distractions of college social life; but she had complained vehemently to the staff that there were no cultural studies on the timetable; no film study lectures, and not even Life Drawing!

It was purely technical development that was sought there; the diverse studio equipment was second to none and Rosemary tried every printing technique possible; in addition, there were 3D facilities; and riveting and welding skills for model making, in the technical departments of the college. For Freddie the main attraction had been access to a public auditorium in the form of the college Main Hall stage, with other musicians like his friend, Smile band leader, Tim Staffel. But Baling School of Ail offered something far more valuable to a musician than any academic or vocational subject matter: it had a permanent student audience on tap.

Sandra Searle had also been Rosemary's friend at Baling as well as a good friend of Freddie; she considered herself the most gifted female at drawing and model making in that year, and so she was. Sandra had been a very unusual woman in a class of her own; self-assured and self-determining. A devotee of style and fashion, and way ahead of her time in a Zandra Rhodes kind of way, dressed in purple velvet and lace, with dancing shoes from Anello & Dawide in Drury Lane. Sandra had delighted in Freddie's exuberant personality and always drew out his most extrovert side and always made Rosemary laugh with her acerbic ivit. The three of them had hung out often at college and at gigs—besides all the fun, Sandra being the one who always knew what any of them were supposed to be doing for the Graphic Design projects, at which she excelled. She was a talented woodworker too, who could work all night to finish a model, having spent an entire week partying beforehand. But she'd be sitting at her desk in tears more often than not, complaining that men at college were dire because they were not her type; Rosemary always thought she could have been a huge success as an actress, and envied her ability to express her own emotions so vehemently in public. Rosemary would sometimes talk to her about her relationship with Freddie, saying that even though Freddie was her boyfriend, she was not entirely content with her lot! 'Freddie is only really happy in the company of men', she had said in confidence once. 'It's alright for you—you've always got several blokes on the go!' Sandra had mocked her, whilst refreshing her lipstick. What Sandra didn't know was that Freddie was at least bisexual and probably gay. Such things were discussed only in certain discreet circles, as Rosemary had begun to discover—but certainly not at college.

Despite the creative output at Ealing there was no pressure to attend college, and more often than not, Rosemary, Freddie and Sandra were elsewhere. Sometimes they would drop into the studios as little as twice a week, if they liked—as long as the work was ready for tutorials (when, that is, the tutors finally emerged from the lunch-time pub sessions with their favourite female students). Everyone had their own sub-scene on the go. On some level Rosemary had been deeply envious of a beautiful Russian student, Pamela Barsinsky, who was a brilliant photographer and scene painter. She was obsessed with the mime actor Marcel Marceau, and had produced stunning black and white images inspired by him. She was having a scene with the photography tutor, Adrian Pash, from Newcastle-upon-Tyne; they were known to spend whole days in the Dark Room; with complete self-confidence Pamela managed to appear in all her own photographs, looking serene and other-worldly and, of course, nude! Rosemary's jealousy lay in the fact that Pamela just lived in the moment and enjoyed everything she did, whereas Rosemary always somehow felt herself to be compromising in whatever it was she was doing. For the puritanical side of Rosemary a big EITHER-OR ruled her sense of progress and much of her emotional energy was spent questioning the moral rights and wrongs of almost everything. She never understood why this or that should be so; on a subconscious level it pushed her into constant experiment, so she took chances with everything. Sometimes this abstract approach worked—but sometimes it just didn't!

'But there were some heart-warming compensations for those difficulties'; she mused to herself as she reflected on her time as an art student.

Rosemary, when she was actually in college, would be Typically walking down a corridor in the Department when Freddie would come sidling up to her obliquely like a cat, slipping his arm around her waist, whispering with a gorgeous smile and very Idssy-kissy: 'good morning, my darling...' Need it be said that this was a hugely unconventional way of saying 'hello' in those boho days of nonchalant panache— especially before much! Hadn't Freddie realised that it was not in the interest of cool to be so nice to a woman? Was he unaware that all the gorgeous, velvet-jeaned and floral-shirted males who spent their days posing around Baling School of Art could pull a woman rath the mere raising of an eyebrow? Looking back, Rosemary doubted he ever gave it a thought. Freddie always just went for what he wanted, always unaware of any competition. For Rosemary, it wasn't just a nice change to be so demonstrably wanted, it was a real life-saver; especially since the day-to-day reality of sharing a flat with Albert Muller had left a lot to be desired, and she had so often felt emotionally alone.

It had quickly become evident to Rosemary that she was not the love of Albert's life, and he'd insisted early on that they establish an open relationship. For Rosemary this had been a premonition that they'd each find different partners in life. But at the height of the post-ig68 sexual revolution, how could Rosemary behave like a reactionary and complain about Albert's wish to explore his narcissistic desires; she never knew who might be at the flat when she returned from college or, later, from work; who might be hiding in the bedroom? At heart, she had remained fundamentally insecure.

So Rosemary had focused increasingly on her Asian lover, Saturday late afternoons being their most relaxed times together: Freddie and Rosemary were often to be found walking about in London in easy silence, or hanging out in various cafes talking about politics, art and, increasingly, music. 'But isn't Hendrix like Jackson Pollock?' mused Freddie once, starting to sing to himself: 'All along the watchtower, the thief he gently spoke...' [after Hendrix]. 'All, the scientist of sound, no less! ...As for you.

my darling, you are all fur coat and no knickers! Your so-called love for me is just a bloody sham! You won't even let me visit you in your flat!' Freddie had suddenly been furious. 'Your boyfriend who doesn't care about you— you're just there to keep his bed warm!' But then he pressed himself against her with an irresistible smile: 'God, I'm so horny for you—let's make love NOW!' That rapid-fire change of mood and subject, punctuated by fragments of songs and suggestions of music was typical of him, as was a lasciviousness that always lay just beneath the surface. 'For God's sake.' Rosemary urged, 'we're in the middle of the park—calm down,' and she moved on without him, feeling somewhat exhausted by these challenges. She knew she was leading a sort of double existence (not so unlike her own parents' tangled relationships); it had become a way of life for them as Freddie had still been living at home in his early days at Ealing.

Rosemary had always covertly desired an exclusive love, something of her own that was not to be shared with others, but monogamy was not part of the sixties ethos, and she hadn't had the nerve to complain. 'Come on—there's time to get to that Fox's Tlieatre Costumes shop in Soho, if we hurry,' Rosemary had called out, but Freddie was already back with the music of Hendrix, humming away to himself, again in a world of his own. Suddenly, without a pause Freddie dropped the introspective tone and was back in teasing mode again: 'God! What I really want is this fur jacket, 'he had enthused. 'A shaggy coat next to your hairy chest... I don't think so...you'd look like a flashy Greek!' Rosemary had retorted, getting no response but at least Freddie was back in the ft ere and now. 'ltd be great with this scarf...and no, I won't be. wearing a medallion....' he had laughed.

'Look at this...a long satin coat might be just the thing on stage,' Rosemary called out as she pulled out something long and purple from a huge pile of costumes. 'Hike the sleeves...or, that silk top could be good.'

They were getting really enthusiastic about the "performance possibilities" of those antique costumes; Freddie tried on the red bolero over his T-Shirt, but pulled it off again in disgust and became instantly morose, muttering that he still had nothing to wear at his next gig. Rosemary suggested some silver jeans. "That'd really knock "em dead...I'd even sew you into them!' she enthused, in an effort to keep up the good mood. 'You're such a sweetie - when you're not being really horrid to me! Oh god, I must stop flogging myself to death.' Moments later, as though none of this had happened, he was singing again: 'Are you experienced...' 'Hendrix, you're the ultimate rock god! Electric Lcidylcmd sounds like a three hundred piece guitar orchestra...just hearing it in my head makes me feel like a pagoda gyrating in the sky!' And in an instant he was off down the street moving like a whirling Dervish. Mien Freddie had finally stopped 'dancing', after several minutes, Rosemary saw the energy leave him as quickly as it had entered. She watched him slow down, as a mother might watch a child—smiling, and thinking selfishly: 'it's so much more fun when he's happy}' No one took the slightest notice of them, in those halcyon days of 'doing your own thing', whatever that turned out to be!

Half an hour later and starting to get tired, they stumbled into a Caribbean cafe, off Ladbroke Grove. It must have been the first time they'd sat douii for hours; Freddie was now once more in a quiet and reflective mood. 'I just want to be m love and in lust at the same time!' he announced blandly, his unrequited libido set in motion again. 'Thanks a lot,' Rosemary had retorted; 'and you wonder why we arc just 'part-time' lovers?' She had been really annoyed. 'You're the only one who really knows me,' he remonstrated, 'and anyway, you're gorgeous, and I do love you, but....' hesitating, he added, 'what the hell do I want?' followed by an even longer pause: 'I...want to...be...Hendrix'. Freddie gazed into the middle distance, and almost inaudibly started to sing again "...'sense me, while I kiss this guy' [after Hendrix] he repeated again and again, with a smile emerging as his gaze returned to Rosemary's. 'Isn't it "kiss the sky"?' she had interrupted, grinning at him. 'It's what I want it to be: KISS THIS GUY...he's such a genius! Oh god, I'm seeing him again tonight in Cam den Town... are you coming?'

Rosemary was already thinking about what she might wear that night, but had yet to say she'd be spending the evening separately from him, as she was going to Patrick Woodcock's with Albert Muller. 'No I can't...I'm supposed to be going out with Albert.' 'God, I'll bet you're going to meet all those bloody queens again?' Freddie had retorted. 'Well, actually, they're really interesting they're Artists, not Graphic Designers like us' she returned. That stopped him short; Freddie had looked aggrieved, but Rosemary had to have her say and finish what she had started.

Back in the here and now of Kew Gardens, Rosemary remembered how any talk about her gay friends, with Freddie, had always ended in friction and discord. She realised sadly that this had been the great stumbling block between them almost from the start. But it was how it had all panned out that still held her emotions in a permanent sense of bewilderment. There was a great deal more to get to grips with on the nature of her intimacy with Freddie. She needed to fully understand it all so she could move on and not be forever regretting their final split.

Meet the Artists?

Approaching a newly laid out part of Kew Gardens that was being given a facelift by a number of diligent male gardeners, Rosemary recalled the moment when she had chosen to give Freddie the low down on her other group of significant friends and acquaintances, part of her life since December 1968. She had started by telling him about the paintings of Derek Jarman, Patrick Procter, David Hockney and Keith Vaughan, all of whom she had met at Dr Patrick Woodcock's house. 'Aren't they queer?' he had sneered when she first mentioned them, and then added sharply: 'So why do like them all so much then?' obviously getting agitated, before returning to his seat in the cafe at the Serpentine, where they had stopped for coffee and something to eat. 'They are all brilliant painters, for a start! I like listening to the way they talk so openly together; it's somehow seductive...deliberately provoking each other...with them all wanting to be 'top dog'.... get the best deals from their galleries and boast about their conquests...it's all so open and honest...' Freddie had turned away, sulking, and finished his sandwich, ignoring her, and she'd dropped the subject.

But of course Freddie had in fact been listening very closely indeed, and was both fascinated by, and jealous of, these gay artist friends of hers. Over the weeks and months that followed Rosemary's disclosure about the artists, they reprised this conversation many times. 'I think Derek's abstract painting is fabulous, no it's got "genius" written all over it, in fact, but I'm not sure what it's about yet ...David Hockney has asked me to pose for a portrait dratving...but I wouldn't go to his studio...' she rambled on one day, knowing that he was half attracted and half repelled by all that stuff. 'I have to admit, though that I just couldn't pose for him any more than I could have done so for Bill Brandt!' Rosemary had suddenly concluded, realising that Freddie had had enough. 'That's because you are so meanl' he had goaded her. 'And why can't you pose?' he pouted, leaning close toher across the table and peering into her eyes.' Well...they all go on about opera too much...I hate opera, it's so hysterical...yet.... when they talk about all the camp set designs and the costumes it reminds me of you!' They'd had that part of the conversation, word for word, many times now: it was something they went over at least once a week, and Rosemary knew where it was going, and where it had always led which was that he wanted to meet gay men. She was supposed to make the introductions!

'But you could ask David to draw me instead...you could tell him I'm shy and inexperienced ...I bet Hackney would much rather draw me!' proclaimed Freddie, who never looked as hopeful as he sounded, whenever that subject came up, although Rosemary had long known he'd done some modelling before, and it had been rumoured that he'd even considered doing it professionally, once. This banter wasn't new either, simply the routine tit-for-tat way they teased each other whenever any 'camp-scene' matters arose. The radical Leftist ideology Rosemary held in the highest esteem had enabled her to be liberal minded about his specific 'wishes' on the gay front; although she also knew instinctively she could never take Freddie to any of Patrick's arty dinners. Part of her thought he'd hate them anyway—because of the serious RCA academic conversations they'd hold about established London artists, and the debates about the new policies of the Tate Gallery and the changed ICA, for example—all of which would have bored Freddie to death. With acute embarrassment Rosemary recalled how Keith Vaughn had once asked her what she thought of the new ICA. Flustered, she had quizzically answered that it was "better than the old one", (thinking there and then she'd better visit the place the next day to find out everything about it for herself)—but she hadn't dared admit that she didn't know what he was talking about! The truth was that Rosemary was quite out of her depth at Patrick's dinner parties, with the endless dialogue about theatre designs for Mozart productions; oblique references to Bernard Shaw's John Bull's Other Island, or the latest work by Andy Warhol. And ironically, although Rosemary had attended several major London art exhibitions every month, come what may, these successful artists that she'd met at Patrick's had yet to mention anything she had either seen or had an opinion about: these were shows such as V\lien Attitudes Become Form; Cybernetics Serendipity, or even Prunella dough's new paintings.

So why had Rosemary kept on going to Patrick's when it was difficult on so many levels? 'It's a glimpse into an elite world,' she had mused to herself; and she reckoned the artists themselves were perhaps entertained by her and her trendy looks; her red hair and her pink dresses. But in reality these artists presented the land of Romantic extravagance through their work and their personalities that focused her mind on the world of art and painting; Rosemary had aspired to know everything about the 'art world' and perhaps one day even become part of it. That world of revered contemporary artists was not to be surpassed in her mind, although she was never able to square it with her Leftist political ideas; she simply put it down to her lack of maturity, being just twenty two when she'd first met them. But in Patrick Woodcock's Pimlico house were the impressive signed Mintons and Frys and the new artworks that appeared monthly as 'gifts', along with those bought from major London galleries and auctions. So it was a contemporary 'scene' not to be missed at that moment in time, not to mention the brilliant food Patrick cooked and the vintage wines offered. There was also the frisson she experienced at the frequent

mention of Patrick's absent friends—famous actors and directors, including Mai Zetterling and Noel Coward (who were said to have often spent the night at that Pimlico house). Reflecting on all this as she strolled round Kew's Azalea Garden almost put her into a trance: the visits there, she recollected, had sometimes been like finding herself by accident on a Hollywood film set.

In fact, Rosemary had been secretly honoured to have been so often one of the entourage in Patrick's fabulous Bauhaus-styled 'White Room', in his house where the spotlights were as much on the guests as on the artworks. Her live-in boyfriend, Albert Muller, had personally designed all of Patrick's interiors, which somehow gave her a sense of being part of it, and the white gloss sitting room became Patrick's most enduring and influential asset: the design was replicated all over London, and years later the major contemporary galleries would adopt a "white-cube" type of space, as the norm. As time had gone on, Rosemary began to be invited to go there on her oral without Albert Muller; Patrick loved inviting any number of swinging London 'young people' to decorate his white, cotton-covered sofas whenever he was 'at home', and besides, he had by then also become something of a father figure to her too.

Most of all, Rosemary had loved talking to the artist Derek Jarman, who often stayed on at Patrick's after the others had gone, so there would be just the three of them. That was always the best part: after several hours of wining and dining Rosemary would loosen up and be less anxious about being a "mere design student" or a "mere graphic designer", and they'd talk to her about themselves, and ask about her. and her background. Patrick was particularly fascinated to hear about her mother, Cynthia Freemantle, with her penchant for dressing up like Marlene Dietrich; being anti-Semitic, yet retiring to live in Golders Green after a 'hotel life" in Chelsea! Derek had been even more amused to learn that Rosemary's father had been involved in shady deals, involving the Bank of England, dodgy business with members of the aristocracy in the fifties, and spending his 'private income' from illegal gambling sessions at the then notorious Pheasantry Club, in the King's Road. Only in this setting, late at night, could Rosemary talk freely about the disreputable side of the bohemian London that she'd glimpsed during holidays from boarding school. Once she had quite shocked them with the tale of how she and her parents had lived for a time in the early fifties at the fabulous Connaught Hotel, escaping the bill by an artful moonlight flit. Rosemary had also made them laugh out loud about the way she had been taught by her mother to look down on Harrods because it was a mere 'department store' and not a bespoke Mayfair or Chelsea establishment! These late night sessions had actually been very therapeutic for Rosemary, since in most company she had had to keep her parents' latter-day lifestyle heavily under wraps.

A moment later, still wandering round Kew Gardens as if in a dream, Rosemary recalled for the hundredth time that she had a more pressing 'problem' to go over: and this brought her thoughts back to Freddie and that conversation they'd had about his wanting to model for a homosexual artist. Rosemary had burst out with: 'Score you, more like...' a rejoinder that had them both reeling with laughter a moment later. It was probably mean of her, but Rosemary just couldn't resist teasing Freddie, it was a core part of their friendship and no real malice was ever intended by it. Anyway, these silly conversations had really been used as lands of avoidance tactics, playing for time, since she remained uncertain as to the real significance of the physical relationship between them.

Rosemary still had to break the ice about her not going with Freddie to see Hendrix play in Camden Town that evening, so she goaded him further about other kinds of undercurrent that went on at Patrick's house.

"They live in a milieu of "...if it moves-fuck it"...that's how those gays mediate the world they inhabit,' Rosemary had whispered to Freddie, not wishing to attract the attention of the whole cafe. 'Yeah, but when am I going to get to mediated with?' Freddie had retorted, becoming more earnest. 'I just want to meet Derek and Patrick.' He hesitated, and then, raising his eyebrows with a quirky smile, added coquettishly: 'Why not tell them I'm an Asian sex-god who practises the Kama-Sutra daily! They'll love that!' 'No, no, no, no, no', Rosemary had answered decisively! You're not going to meet them—they'll have your arse for dinner, and where will that leave me? You're just going to have to remain chaste'.' In a flash they were both laughing again, and Rosemary was relieved they'd got 'that bit' over with for a while.

But Freddie always wanted to have the last word: 'Ha, Ha, Ha,' he grimaced: 'But I'm just MAJESTIC and I WANT WHAT I WANT!' As always, she had been won over by his absurd outrageousness; they had both laughed out loud again and continued to gaze into each other's eyes, letting the rest of the world slip away, for a moment, at least. There had been so much real affection between them at that time, despite all the arguments. Reaching under the table they held hands and played footsie and just giggled. Until Rosemary remembered that the following weekend she'd been invited to a Sunday lunch party given by one of Patrick's other friends, Ella Winter, so yet again she would miss one of Freddie's gigs: something else to own up about. Why was it all so difficult?

They were both equally free and independent, weren't they? Freddie had long moved in and out of groups of musicians, depending on what came up; so why did Rosemary feel she was letting him down by remaining so much on the. edge of what was really central to his life? Should she change her plans to visit that remarkable Hampstead house of Ella Winter's, that was like a museum of modern art? She'd been there before for afternoon drinks to mark the acquisition of several new Takis minimalist sculptures, displayed in the garden. At that elite gathering she'd overheard a conversation about how the owner had always to sell 'a Picasso a year' to pay for the insurance on the rest of the collection! So the interesting prospect of a second visit to that treasure trove was very thrilling. The whole event last time, Rosemary recalled, had been something of a sublime experience for her, and had contributed to her determination, one day, to become an Artist herself...but first, of course, there was the coining to terms with 'getting a job' as a designer, just to be able to eat and pay the rent...

After all, Rosemary reflected, strolling freely on the grass, back in the here and now of Kew Gardens, it was these kinds of experiences that had fuelled her idealism and the longing for the kind of life she wanted for her future. So she daydreamed, as she had done so often, about what would happen to her once she abandoned her trendy London life and started out afresh. It always ran the same way: she'd take up a radical stance on the political front, whatever that might involve—and it would be that commifjiient which would give her a proper grasp on reality: she would then be ready to make art that had 'something to say'! That was her secret ambition; but it was worlds away from both Patrick's 'salon' art and Freddie's unique music and all that London life had to offer her in 1970.

Firstly, she needed to 1mow what was going on in the real world away from privileged London circles; of course, Rosemary realised that all the artists whose work she had seen first-hand during the past year, must also have had to find ways of paying the rent; develop a political perspective of some sort; and, of course, get to grips with art history and theory. She was clear on that front. How else would these artists have found either the means to make work or the confidence in what they were doing? Or were they just luck;' to have been 'discovered' at the right moment, like Freddie

wanted to be? No, it was all just hard work; Freddie had set the best example of all, but ironically had recently claimed to be the only singer in London "without a band"! This passing anomaly was of no consequence to Freddie though; he was never really despondent about it. (There seemed to be no getting away from Freddie and his influence!) Rosemary was still, at twenty three, waiting to find out why 'Art' was as important in 1970 as it had been in the Renaissance. The only outstanding question was to do with who were the real current Avant-Garde artists and who were just the Romantic ones! (Freddie needed no such intellectual semantics to discover his genius or himself in his chosen world of music, which was beckoning to him to excel at every turn.)

But there was one thing she had been sure of, despite the daydreaming: it was that she wasn't handing Freddie over to a group of sophisticated artists; sharing Freddie with them would have been like offering a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter! She'd got used to sharing Albert Muller with what seemed like half of London, but in Freddie's case it was different. Rosemary knew that if he became involved with a man, it would be but a short prelude to the end of their own intimacy, and what had been, for her, a uniquely cherished relationship, would be lost forever! Coming to terms with the outcomes and broader implications of these opposing personal problems might take the rest of her life, she reluctantly realised, 'but how do you let go of ideas that have started to become almost obsessional?' That was something she had yet to learn. So, there were still two circles to be 'squared' before she could complete her Kew Garden tour, still a lot to sort out.

An Out of Town Gig

Continuing on her walk, Rosemary reached a special part of the beautiful Kew Gardens near the lake and the Sackler Crossing; there she noticed a young couple kissing passionately on the grass verge. It immediately reminded her of a time when she and Freddie had been thus attracted to each other: 'God, I'm so horny about you...snogging you again...um ...umiii...' moaned Freddie, wrapping himself round Rosemary in the back of a Transit Van. She recalled that they were on the way up to a gig outside of London; looking back, Rosemary concluded that this trip had been a real high point of their time together. She had altered the costume that Freddie was going to wear on stage. They had already experimented with sewing him into his trousers so that they fitted him more tightly; he had the perfect athletic body for it. His hair had grown longer and he was good at applying make-up; the glamour thing had been second nature to him. 'Bet you'd rather be with a bloke?' she whispered into his ear. Freddie, in mock defence shot back You always say that! At least a man wouldn't go on about my dry skin!' 'No,' she jibbed back, 'but I bet they'd hate your buck teeth biting into them!' Then, mock-biting her hand Freddie retaliated with 'Bitch! Actually, that's the bit I'll bet they'd really like'. 'Bloody old queen'.' Rosemary burst out, laughing and sticking her tongue out at him; 'Bitch!'he rounded on her again, amid huge giggling and groping. You're just an old queen! Good job I still fancy you, you bastard!' she got in before he could bite her on the ear again. What was really hard sometimes about Freddie was that he was so 'uncontainable', especially in public and even on the way to a gig or rehearsal.