David Bowie

In the bedroom you ask Jürgen to carry the cheval glass to the middle of the room; you have him place it opposite the sea-view window. While he’s in the bathroom you set up the Dansette. You then run your hand across the buttoned-back silk damask of the boudoir chair, sit down on it and take off your boots. When Jürgen’s done in the bathroom you take your turn, then head for the wardrobe while he waits on the bed. Minutes later, you emerge from behind the screen.

The emerald spandex of your swimsuit gleaming, you step forward, a sleek machine of toned muscle. Your hair, slicked back and pinned into a bun, sports a glittery clasp; under your arm you’re carrying a roll of blue. There’s both candour and calculation in your smile as you unroll your roll of blue—an exercise mat—in front of the mirror.

̶  This is a swimming pool. I’m a synchronized swimmer. My partner (you indicate the glass) is Psyche.

You turn on the record player and drop the needle into the groove. As piano chords sound against a sax hush, you do your poolside deckwork, striking a different pose for each chord struck. At the entrance of drums and bass, you cartwheel into a handstand, diving into the pool. Still don’t know what I was waiting for: In perfect synchronization with Psyche, over the next three and a half minutes you perform a water ballet to the shifting rhythms of David Bowie’s ‘Changes’.