A cult of inspired amateurishness that seized the 60s

The Exploding Galaxy flashed brightly in the black-and-white world that was just coming to an end as I was growing up. When I first met them, my opinion of art was fixed firmly against what I thought of as amateur. I came from a theatrical family, dedicated to extreme professionalism and mockery of anything less. Whether it was holiday pantomimes, school plays or cabaret flamenco — anything short of Yehudi Menuhin and John Gielgud — we would be told how ludicrous they were, how comically inept. It seemed to be the only thing my parents agreed about, and so we went along with it. How we laughed! They would wrap themselves in contempt for less immaculate performers as a form of protection from the rawness of appearing in public.

Professionalism is a counterfeit art. It gets swept away from time to time. Brando did it in the 1950s, Gerald du Maurier in the 1920s, playing one scene with his hands in his pockets. My own allegiance to the dégagé light comedy and perfect timing way of life (which was supposed to be so difficult) was exactly the sort of thing the Sixties in general and The Exploding Galaxy in particular were trying to explode (‘which was rather late for me’).

I came to know them by a series of seemingly random chances. I’d known Guy Brett at school and when I came to London in 1964 I rented a room in his house off the Edgware Road. His brother was at the Architectural Association and one day we all went to a ball there. I had a double ticket but could not find anyone to go with. I asked Hermine to dance and two days later she moved into my room.