...
wwwwwas made on Monday evening in the insensitively well-lit Crypt of
Saint-Martin's-in-the-Field – Saint-Martin-in-the-Field's –
Saint's-Martin's-in-the's-Fields's–whatever it is. Time was, I remember,
you could pop down there for a coffee and barely see who you were
talking to, but now it's lit like a prison. Or Ikea. Perhaps nobody had
told that to the people at Bloomsbury when they chose it as the location
for the launch of Neil Gaiman's Graveyard Book, hiring a couple of
actors to drift eerily past, disguised as Victorian ghouls. Still, it was
packed. A bit too packed, as my opposite undead number Alice (who actually did look great in her sulky cowl despite the absence of candle
light) pointed out. You couldn't really "drift" anywhere, you had to
more kind of "barge" eerily. So mainly we stood still, and I decided to
look a bit lost and pensive and hanger-onnish (I'd been generously
invited that day to the Evening Standard Theatre Awards by Ella who'd
just been nominated best newcomer – YAY – and guessed I'd be adopting
much the same attitude) and I attempted to hold my hands in the manner
of a Chris Riddell illustration.
And below is a lovely little film by one of the greatest illustrators
ever to work in comics, Dave McKean, who was also at the launch, which
made me very excited. And above is a little image from The Tempest film I
made eleven willion years ago, which I realize now shows his influence
puh-retty clearly. In the flesh
Dave McKean looks like some extraordinary household spirit, or the
patriarch and sole beard-owner of an arboreal race visible only to the
drinkers of neat willow hooch. Also a lot like a trimmed Arvo Part.
His son and I had a staring contest. And I got him and Neil Gaiman to
sign the inside of my battered dungeon topper. I'm getting paid in
books. Not a bad gig really.
(I think that last caption reads "God finds an important use for the third, and previously spare dimension".)
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