CASEFILE NO. 5
Celebrity: Dame Judi Dench Artwork: Tracey Emin’s Shitted Bed
THE ONLY thing easier to fake than Modern Ar t is Installation Art; literally anything goes in this Emperor’s New Clothes world. A dead shark in a tank for a million quid? Ker-ching! A load of elephant shite rubbed on a canvas for another million? Kerching! A pile of bricks or old tyres? Ker-ching!
And one celeb who’s an absolute sod for this sor t of rubbish may well be actress JUDI DENCH. Dame Judi regularly thrills movie-goers with her portrayal of ‘M’ - James Bond’s boss and the head of British intelligence. But just as I suspect she will, she throws intelligence right out of the window when I offer to flog her an iconic piece of Installation Art - Tracey Emin’s Turner Prize-winning Shitted Bed - for just fifty quid.
Posing as international art dealer Charles Saatchi, I join the crowds waiting outside the stage door of the Garrick Theatre, where Dame Judi is currently wowing West End audiences with her portrayal of Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. When the autograph hunters finally leave, I step forward to introduce myself and make her an offer that’s literally too good to be true.
“How would you like to own a work of art that’s won the Turner Prize?” I ask, putting on a plummy accent like I’ve got a mouthful of Elgin marbles. “A nd the best part is, I just want fifty nicker for it.” Her eyes widen and I can tell I’ve piqued her interest. It’s time to reel her in and seal the deal. “It’s Tr acey Emin’s shitted bed,” I whisper, and she trembles with excitement. “I’ve just bought a load of brand new modern art, and I’m selling it off cheap because I need to free up some space in my gallery.” “Oh my God. Emin’s Shitted Bed is my favourite piece of Yo ung British Art,” she trills. “It’s such a brave and exciting piece; it’s so full of energy and beautifully shitted. I’ve always dreamed of owning it!”
She gets in my car and we drive to a dingy back lane behind Custom House DLR station. We walk across some waste ground to a dark railway arch, where I point out a half-burnt, soiled mattress leaning up against some binbags in the gloom. “There you go,” I say. Dench looks puzzled. “I thought it was a whole bed and a bedside table, not just the mattress,” she says. Thinking quickly, I explain: “Like Van Gogh with his many paintings of sunflowers, throughout her career Tracey has shitted numerous versions of her bed, variations on a theme, if you will. This par ticular impression is number six out of twelve.”
Dame Judi clasps her hands together with glee. “It’s simply wonderful, Mr Saatchi!” she gushes as she hands over my fifty pounds. She even star ts to cry a little as the ‘masterpiece’ moves her. She asks if I will give her a hand getting her purchase home, but I take the oppor tunity to make my excuses and leave, claiming that
I am already running late for a cheese and wine par ty at Simon Sebag-Montefiore’s house.
As I drive away, I take a last look in my wing mirrors as the 83-yearold grande-dame of British theatre sets off dragging the stinking, charred mattress the 6-miles back to her Greenwich Mews home. At least now I know what the ‘M’ in her Secret Service designation stands for … MUG.