When Catherine Slessor met Anthony Royal

Laing smirks and departs, an undeniably erect specimen in his grey suit, clutching, for some reason, a tin of grey paint. I apologise for my lateness which has contrived to disrupt Royal’s busy schedule. ‘Some of the lifts don’t seem to be working’, I say. ‘So I had to walk up the last 15 storeys. And there seemed to be a disturbance in the swimming pool on the 35th floor’. Royal waves his hand lightly, like a ghostly Caesar despatching a quibbling senator. ‘It’s just the building settling down’, he asserts firmly. ‘In an ambitious project such as this, accommodating 2000 people from all walks of life, from air hostesses to company directors in a 40 storey tower, stratified by class, a microcosm of English society with all its petty resentments, jealousies and hang-ups, marooned in a still terra-forming landscape miles from civilisation…well there’s bound to few teething troubles. But nothing that can’t be sorted out given time, as our pioneering little community finds its…level’. ‘And besides’, he adds, ‘this is only the first tower in a larger complex’. He gestures to his drawing board and unrolls a huge site plan. ‘You see, there will be five in all, like fingers on a hand, radiating into the landscape’. I study the intricate cacophony of swirls and scrawls. ‘It looks like some kind of neurological disturbance’, I say. He looks up, his eyes shining. ‘Exactly. A fit of architectural imagination’.

But, I enquire tentatively, is it not true that a man recently fell to his death? A jeweller who lived on the 40th floor. Photogenically plummeting into the car park that surrounds the building. Royal’s face darkens momentarily. Again a dismissive imperial wave. ‘Probably a suicidal personality. You should meet his wife.’The quip falls flat. He mentally regroups. ‘Of course, I didn’t personally witness his Icarus-like descent, but afterwards everyone came out to see what the commotion was. For one wonderful moment the building looked like a monumental opera house, with people staring down from their balconies at the pulverised corpse. I couldn’t have choreographed it better. Extremely…cinematic’. He seems rhapsodic at the thought.

‘Japanese Metabolists’, I say, trying to steer the conversation back to architecture. ‘Your towers have an overwhelming sense of relentlessly experimental futurism at vast scale’. ‘To some extent’, he retorts. ‘But ultimately, form is just form, to be categorised by theorists. I prefer to see each building as an organism, or incubator, with the power to shape the lives of its inhabitants. A social condenser, if you will’. Outside the atelier there is the sound of shouting and scuffling. Royal tenses distractedly. ‘Will you excuse me’. There is more shouting, but muffled this time. In his absence I idly survey my surroundings, noting the phallic models and the numerous samples of concrete, hammered and texturised, like pieces of moon rock. I glance at Royal’s bookshelves. As well as what looks like a first edition of Le Corbusier’s Oeuvres Complètes there seems to be rather a lot of Nietzsche in the original German. And a copy of ‘Clockwork Orange’.

Royal returns, smoothing his white hair. There are flecks of blood on his white safari suit and on his white cane. He seems to feel the need to explain ‘One of the residents on the lower floors. Fellow called Wilder. Nasty, feral piece of work. Looks like an advert for aftershave; denims, moustache, generally hirsute. Complaining about access to the swimming pool. There are rules, but his sort don’t seem to like following them’. He calms down. ‘Where were we?’But he doesn’t seem anxious to prolong the interview. I sense his unease and fire off some final lightweight questions:

Your idea of a perfect weekend: ‘Working, of course, followed by an intimate costume party themed around the court of Versailles at the time of Louis XVI. Incredible wigs and entertainingly entrenches historic notions of social division.’

Mies or Corb: Corb. ‘I have a first edition of his Oeuvres Complètes. Mies is all about skeletal lightness and clever corners. Corb is mass and muscle, meat and sinew. Much more corporeal’.

Abba or Portishead: ‘Both’.

Nic Roeg or Ben Wheatley: ‘Roeg is the indisputable master. Though I’ve heard Wheatley shows promise’.

Cats or dogs: ‘Dogs. Obviously’.