Which ten would I pick for my dinner party? Diana Rigg and George Harrison for beauty, wit and talent. Frank Zappa and Kenny Everett, to see what on earth would go on between the two of them and to see whether they could crack a smile from Terence Stamp. Una Stubbs seems like she’d be awfully good fun, and Marjorie Proops could probably help dear Marianne Faithfull quite a bit. Anne Nightingale could ensure the music selection was perfect, and finally I’d have Engelbert Humperdink there – purely for washing-up and general dogsbody purposes.
If you have already looked through the pictures in this feature, picked out your idol, or dwelt lovingly on the reckonable men there, THEN . . . it‘s very likely you‘re immature.
Thats the psychiatrists opinion, anyway. They state the facts, saying that most girls outgrow their attachments to film or pop stars when they become mature, and that these attachments are safety-valves for pent-up emotions.
This is stating facts without criticising. But it‘s worth taking a closer, critical look at just what these attachments can do to one’s life. Basically, we feel, it‘s fun to sigh or scream over a pop star, and harmless to take a fancy to a film star. But a lot of girls don’t leave it at that.
Very soon, the pinning-up and pining becomes an obsession with them. They find it increasingly hard to construct real life doings, because they’re in a glorious never-never world of mental communication with an unattainable, transcendental man. This doesn‘t call for any effort on their part, whereas carving out a real life, and real relationships, does. So they take the soft option. Though, if they stopped to think about it, they’d see which turns up the thumping great bonuses in terms of personality-enrichment, and which keeps one simmering away in a state of negative-thinking infantilism.
So, beware. lf you spend any more than the occasional minute thinking about lover-boy, not only may you be tending dangerously towards obsession, but also you‘re wasting a lot of time, which you might spend making life interesting in reality, instead of only in imagination. ln just one half-hour of idle dreaming, you could be doing, learning, enjoying things, even if they‘re as un-strenuous as Capable-Kating a dress, or experimenting with Meringues Chantilly.
This doesn’t mean we suggest you all take vows never to go near a discothéque or cinema again. Just that you get the pin-up scene in proportion. Pop records and films are meant as an adjunct to life. If you start thinking of them as life itself, then you are, in effect, drugging yourself, distorting reality.
But if you can realise all this and say: okay, but my thinking David Warner is fabulous only adds another interest to an already interest-packed life, then that’s fine. Go ahead. Ahead to our Pick of the Pin-Ups.
Honey Magazine, July 1967
I’m sorry, what were you saying unnamed Honey staff writer? I was too distracted by Terence Stamp’s eyes and Oliver Reed’s exquisitely sexy scars to pay much attention to you…
No, not the irritating, Diet Coke-advertising, singer. I mean Brian Duffy, swinging Sixties photographer and film producer (Only When I Laugh and Oh! What a Lovely War) who attempted to burn all his negatives in his back garden in 1979 when he had decided to quit the industry (David Bailey once quipped that, had he known Duffy was attempting this, he would have come along and helped him). I managed to see the exhibition at the Chris Beetles gallery just before it closed, and now I spy a documentary on BBC4 about the man himself. Wednesday at 9pm, for those lucky Brits who can view it. I’m sure, like most things, it will end up on Youtube or somesuch eventually for our international friends.