Ever since arriving in swinging 60s London with a bag full of acid-coloured geometric prints and a signature style comprising zigzag eyebrows and pink hair, Zandra Rhodes has prided herself on taking the road less travelled. It is ironic, then, that she has chosen to tell the story of her life “in 50 objects”, a narrative tack that has become standard operating procedure over the last 15 years. Yet such a contradiction is unlikely to give Rhodes much pause for thought. Instead, at least on the evidence of this breathless, unreflective romp through a life that can apparently best be told through “Andy Warhol’s Wig” and the “Diana Ross Turban”, Rhodes presses on regardless.
At its weakest, this patchy approach creates baffling lacunae. How, for instance, did this self-described academic, conscientious little girl fail to sail through the 11-plus and grammar school? Wasn’t she disappointed? Such stumbles are waved airily away in the onwards and upwards narrative of the woman from Chatham, Kent, who tells us over and over that she refuses to concern herself with other people’s expectations.
