you felt like you were looking at pictures of relatives when you flicked through her images.
Paula was on the ascendancy. London was alive with beauty, talent, movement. And she was young and had a vision. She moved up in the world. Didn’t have to give anyone a feel of her tits. Didn’t have to pretend she was thick to appear unthreatening. She allowed herself to be herself, and people were charmed and impressed. And Paula Shogovitch had a job and her job was her calling and her calling was her love and her love was her job and she could pay her rent on time.
Paula’s favourite subject was Marco Abbadelli. Arguably the best photograph she ever took was her iconic shot of Marco, naked at his cello. People have since tried to stage similar photos, but the reason her photo worked so well was that it was real. They had been together, and in the final moments of their passion Marco had seemed to be singing. As they pulled themselves apart and lay there, resting, Marco had carried on with the melody, softly, on the out breath. Paula had reached for her camera. She was fascinated by photographs of men taken in the moments after lovemaking. She had been playing with apertures when Marco, in a state of intent calm, got up and walked across the bare floorboards for his cello. He opened the case, and began to play, no time for a chair, half standing, half crouching. Framed perfectly by the window that hung slightly open and the curtains billowing ferociously around him. She took the photo. It made her a star.
In the winter of 1985, Marco Abbadelli came to the end of a long European tour that culminated in his biggest ever London show at the Royal Festival Hall. To celebrate he hosted a late dinner at El Gran Toro
,
his favourite restaurant
,
not far from the concert hall, and was joined by his manager and a few of his closest London friends. They were seated at a long table in a private room in the exclusive basement of the restaurant. The back wall was lined with wine casks and barrels of fine Spanish sherry. The waiters made a big show of dipping their heads and bringing tastes from each caskover to Marco, who beckoned them close and spoke to them softly and allowed them to touch his hands when they gave him the glasses.
Among Marco’s friends that evening was the notable rock ’n’ roll political writer, John Darke, and the famous young photographer, Paula Shogovitch.
The moment Paula saw John she felt her throat constrict; the blood flowed thicker through her veins. He felt it in his hair follicles and in the beds of his fingernails. Something about her hurt him all over. The air was heavy between them. They ate at separate ends of the table and avoided each other’s eyes.
After the food had been eaten and the diners were drinking their coffee, Paula got up and moved her chair to the corner of the table, set it beside John’s and sat down. They said nothing, made no eye contact. They sat side by side, almost touching, completely ignoring one another.
The coffees and cognacs were finished. The guests were sitting back in their chairs, slapping their thighs at Marco’s anecdotes. Paula got up and, without even thinking, John followed her out of the dining room and into the Ladies. The air was thick with silence, which gave them both the feeling that the world had stopped for them. Bone white flowers dripped from red glass vases on plinths by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Paintings of women in flamenco dresses fighting raging bulls hung by the hand dryers. John and Paula saw all of it and none of it. They undressed each other silently behind the locked door of a black cubicle and had their first sex in the toilets of El Gran Toro.
Paula and John were in love. They found each other’s work inspiring, enjoyed each other’s strangeness. They lived in a yellow-brick housing association block a few streets behind Lewisham Way. Their proud block was five storeys high, and looked out at three other identical blocks across a
Paula was on the ascendancy. London was alive with beauty, talent, movement. And she was young and had a vision. She moved up in the world. Didn’t have to give anyone a feel of her tits. Didn’t have to pretend she was thick to appear unthreatening. She allowed herself to be herself, and people were charmed and impressed. And Paula Shogovitch had a job and her job was her calling and her calling was her love and her love was her job and she could pay her rent on time.
Paula’s favourite subject was Marco Abbadelli. Arguably the best photograph she ever took was her iconic shot of Marco, naked at his cello. People have since tried to stage similar photos, but the reason her photo worked so well was that it was real. They had been together, and in the final moments of their passion Marco had seemed to be singing. As they pulled themselves apart and lay there, resting, Marco had carried on with the melody, softly, on the out breath. Paula had reached for her camera. She was fascinated by photographs of men taken in the moments after lovemaking. She had been playing with apertures when Marco, in a state of intent calm, got up and walked across the bare floorboards for his cello. He opened the case, and began to play, no time for a chair, half standing, half crouching. Framed perfectly by the window that hung slightly open and the curtains billowing ferociously around him. She took the photo. It made her a star.
In the winter of 1985, Marco Abbadelli came to the end of a long European tour that culminated in his biggest ever London show at the Royal Festival Hall. To celebrate he hosted a late dinner at El Gran Toro
,
his favourite restaurant
,
not far from the concert hall, and was joined by his manager and a few of his closest London friends. They were seated at a long table in a private room in the exclusive basement of the restaurant. The back wall was lined with wine casks and barrels of fine Spanish sherry. The waiters made a big show of dipping their heads and bringing tastes from each caskover to Marco, who beckoned them close and spoke to them softly and allowed them to touch his hands when they gave him the glasses.
Among Marco’s friends that evening was the notable rock ’n’ roll political writer, John Darke, and the famous young photographer, Paula Shogovitch.
The moment Paula saw John she felt her throat constrict; the blood flowed thicker through her veins. He felt it in his hair follicles and in the beds of his fingernails. Something about her hurt him all over. The air was heavy between them. They ate at separate ends of the table and avoided each other’s eyes.
After the food had been eaten and the diners were drinking their coffee, Paula got up and moved her chair to the corner of the table, set it beside John’s and sat down. They said nothing, made no eye contact. They sat side by side, almost touching, completely ignoring one another.
The coffees and cognacs were finished. The guests were sitting back in their chairs, slapping their thighs at Marco’s anecdotes. Paula got up and, without even thinking, John followed her out of the dining room and into the Ladies. The air was thick with silence, which gave them both the feeling that the world had stopped for them. Bone white flowers dripped from red glass vases on plinths by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Paintings of women in flamenco dresses fighting raging bulls hung by the hand dryers. John and Paula saw all of it and none of it. They undressed each other silently behind the locked door of a black cubicle and had their first sex in the toilets of El Gran Toro.
Paula and John were in love. They found each other’s work inspiring, enjoyed each other’s strangeness. They lived in a yellow-brick housing association block a few streets behind Lewisham Way. Their proud block was five storeys high, and looked out at three other identical blocks across a
Similar Books
