Yesterday I donned my overcoat, hat and dark glasses and ventured, perhaps unseen, into the Kylie Minogue exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. My observations are as follows:
1. Judging by the many costumes on display, Kylie is tiny. Like, actual little kid tiny. I had always assumed she would be larger than life.
2. The real Kylie Minogue may not exist. The overwhelming impression given by this exhibition is that “Kylie” is a cipher, a blank slate upon which photographers, music producers, video directors and magazine editors can project any kind of fantasy they can imagine. You want Liza Minelli? Kylie’s yer man. Marilyn? No problem. Motor mechanic? Too easy. (This may be why her career has been able to run and run. She has never had an image; she is an image.)
3. I have now seen, close up, an actual Gold Logie. You know what? It is a genuinely nice piece of (presumably late-60s?) design; if you won one, you would be happy to have it on your shelf.
