Barry Humphries

Christmas Notebook

I felt immeasurably old this morning in Sydney when a youth on a bicycle yelled at me in the street ‘I love your body of work!’ I returned the flattering salutation with the modest smile I keep for such occasions, but my fan had already pedalled into the traffic.

I felt immeasurably old this morning in Sydney when a youth on a bicycle yelled at me in the street ‘I love your body of work!’ I returned the flattering salutation with the modest smile I keep for such occasions, but my fan had already pedalled into the traffic.

I felt immeasurably old this morning in Sydney when a youth on a bicycle yelled at me in the street ‘I love your body of work!’ I returned the flattering salutation with the modest smile I keep for such occasions, but my fan had already pedalled into the traffic. But it was the first time that my not inconsiderable achievements as a music-hall artiste had been publicly described as ‘a body of work’. Perhaps the sapient cyclist had intended to compliment me on my oeuvre, but had decided that the French word might not have been audible above all those cars and trucks and filthy white vans. Certainly ‘I love your work’ has been in popular currency for some time, usually rather sweetly bestowed by someone who thinks they recognise you from the telly. Having achieved a body of work, I suppose I can at last retire, not that I’ve ever thought of what I do as work. I am fundamentally slothful and my theatrical antics are just my way of filling in an idle hour or two on stage in Buffalo, New York, Melbourne, Florida or Bournemouth.

Painters now get told by their admirers ‘I love your practice’. A concupiscent girl in an art gallery recently accosted me with those words. Did she mistake me for a dentist, I wondered? It emerged later that evening that she had seen an exhibition of my exuberant landscapes and I learnt that what painters, sculptors and the creators of ‘installations’ do is now called their ‘practice’, usually where practice never makes perfect.

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