“Don’t let me hear you say life’s taking you nowhere…”
David Bowie is playing on Greatest Hits Radio (the Ken Bruce show) as I do up my top button and think about a jacket for the weather, which has suddenly turned dismal. Soon, I’m heading to Brondesbury Park station to take the eastbound Mildmay line to the David Bowie Centre at the V&A East Storehouse for press day.
The Tube strike explains why I’m going by Overground – which, ironically, makes me start humming Bowie’s Underground – so I’m expecting the train to be busy. It is, in fact, quiet, with plenty of empty seats. Only the big corrugated rubber-joiny bits of the train squeak and stretch as we whirr along to Hackney Wick. A woman a few seats away smiles as she breastfeeds her baby.
With the rain pelting outside, it’s cosy in the carriage, and I can see why people like travelling on the big trains. I hit “play” on Moonage Daydream, looking forward to feeding my five senses with the great musical inventor and all the little wonders of a new collection from his personal estate.
The V&A has been gifted Bowie’s personal archive, which contains over 90,000 items: costumes, handwritten notes, lyrics, instruments, props and a vast number of photos. The collection will be permanent, but with so many objects only 200 can be displayed at any one time, to be refreshed every six months. For something specific, visitors can book an “order an object” session and view it in a smaller room under close supervision.
As I head into the Storehouse at Here East on the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, I’m surprised to see no signage or posters in the window, not even a single Aladdin Sane lightning bolt. I’m not the only one checking if this is the right door. I hear others asking, “Am I in the right place for the Bowie Cent…?”
“Yes, you are! Right this way,” the two door staff reply, as if they’ve been saying it all morning.
Brollies down and wet things in a locker, I get my wristband and we’re led upstairs along a corridor into the exhibition room. Bowie videos roll on a big screen. I desperately want to hear his music, any of it, but it’s turned down very low on a not-great sound system. My ears sink. Where is he now? I need his voice to heat the air and dry my trousers. Alas, it’s held at a careful volume.
Then it’s turned off completely as the curator gives a talk about the items in this vault from Bowie’s career: his favourite Little Richard photo, the rejection letter from Apple Records, the glass ball from the movie Labyrinth, the iconic Yamamoto designs, right up to the notes he made on a musical set in 18th Century London called The Spectator, whoich was writing just before his death.
It’s an intimate space, and I hear others asking, “Is it just these two rooms?”. In the smaller one, some “order an object” items are on display: Ziggy’s guitar, one of Bowie’s kimonos, the palm tree heels. I imagine, despite the limits, there’s excitement in the constant rotation, so repeat visitors won’t be seeing the same pair of Pelican platforms twice.
Back in the main room, I look up to notice some of his costumes are hanging from the ceiling in white suit bags with a small viewing section and some writing and order numbers on each one, but it’s not big enough to see what’s inside. I wonder what delights are hidden, and why they couldn’t have made the bags entirely transparent or, better, displayed the clothes from the ceiling in a more creative or experimental way – something more befitting the artist’s vibrancy.
Box upon box of grey archive files are stacked neatly along one wall, labelled. A few duplicates are open on a table to provide a taste of contents. I open one and read about Labyrinth, a classic movie in our house. There are stories and handwritten lyrics to Magic Dance from the movie tucked inside plastic covers, hole-punched and indexed. It feels very much like a library: quiet, hushed, low mumbling in the background. A staff member puts the music back on, even lower. I imagine Bowie walking in and saying “Shh!”, like in China Girl.
I move over to the glass cases holding handwritten lyrics for Win and Heroes. There’s a section for Gail Ann Dorsey, his bassist and friend for over 18 years, and notes on his drum-and-bass work with Goldie. The Nile Rodgers and Last Dinner Party guest curations showcase their chosen objects: photos and lyric notes. There are many costumes, including the Let’s Dance suit and Ziggy/Yamamoto outfits, displayed on headless mannequins…which feels a bit faceless and department store.
The “Bowieness” of this whole thing is missing. He is not here, literally or metaphorically. His things are, yes, but there’s no flavour of him in how they’re displayed, no sense of his unique sparkle, very little of his face. I suppose you could ask, what was I expecting? This is a museum with a huge vault of his stuff. It’s a challenge to choose and display. True. But if the boxes have to be stacked, must they be grey? If the costumes have to hang in suit bags, can’t we see them? This is the most inventive artist in history, so where’s the flamboyance? Perhaps I wasn’t expecting to see, but to feel. And I didn’t.
I did love discovering that Bowie treasured all his fan art, sent from around the world. Only three small items are on display, but knowing he kept and catalogued every piece gave me the closest glimpse of David Jones himself. That alone could make a powerful exhibition.
The stretch of Bowie’s musical influence is well covered, from Charli XCX to The Last Dinner Party, Chappell Roan and many others, all citing Bowie as their pathway to individuality. This feels more suited to a music magazine or talking-head documentary. That wall might have been better used to showcase his beautiful paintings, or a commissioned painting of his face.
Afterwards in the foyer, I hear other press visitors marvelling at how wonderful it all is, to see Bowie’s personal life and legend in one place. No doubt the reviews will be five stars across the board. And maybe they’re right, and I’m a brat. This is his collection, after all, gifted with his blessing. But for me, it’s a stack of stuff, much of it paper, pictures, and notes, all filed away, with only glimpses on display. It’s hidden bits of Bowie in boxes. It didn’t fill my heart, so I run for the shadows.
Follow Julie Hamill on Instagram. Centre photo from V&A East Instagram.
OnLondon.co.uk provides unique coverage of the capital’s politics, development and culture with no paywall and no ads. Nearly all its income comes from individual supporters. For £5 a month or £50 a year they receive in-depth newsletters and London event offers. Pay via any Support link on the website or by becoming a paying subscriber to publisher and editor Dave Hill’s Substack.