Dorian Grey and the lingering identity

Dorian Grey: Famous for remaining outwardly the same whilst his fateful portrait grew old and twisted, reflecting on canvas that which the flesh did not: The passage of years lived through cruelty and deceit. It is a potent story and its moral point was hammered not-too-subtly home by Matthew Bourne’s latest production of ‘Dorian Grey’ based, very loosely, on Wilde’s novel. In Bourne’s adaptation Dorian is a want-to-be model lured into the fashion world by his narcissistic fascination by his own image as it appears staring at him in reflections and through the lens of a camera. Basil (all long hair and leather trousers) is the photographer who creates the photos with which Dorian becomes so fixated. Between Basil and Lady H, the devastatingly elegant, crushingly disdainful fashion agent, Dorian is seduced by visions of his own beauty and the darker sides of his mind is tantalized and flattered. The result? The Inevitable and we watch him spin out of control and finally come to his pitiless demise.

A billboard poster for the perfume he becomes the face of called; - you’ve guessed it – Immortal, falls apart, as if left in bad weather, the black ink running from his eyes creating an affect like he is crying blood, but this is not his portrait. In Bourne’s production he is haunted by another man with terrifying likeness to himself. You see this man appear to Dorian through the seething mass of bodies, writhing around high as kites faces in a club – baring striking resemblance to the gay daylight-hours clubs in Vauxhall (so I’ve heard) – or in the 'new boy' brought in to replace Dorian at the agency when he goes off the boil due to excessive drug binges.

Eventually Dorian ends up going loony and smashing Basil's head in with his own camera. Lewd scenes follow with bodies strewn and bleeding, suggesting a massacre. The final image is of Lady H stalking up to Dorian’s presumably O-D’d body and straightening his still-beautiful face before stepping back to allow the tidal wave of photographers to stream in and immortalise his demise and final destruction.

A few days later, a routine trip to the post office to get my passport photo taken and send off for a new passport oddly enough turned my mind back to Dorian Grey and the identity of a representation which becomes more lifelike than the orginal. As I trotted down Farringdon Road on my way back to the office after handing in my application form, complete with payment and regulation characterless mug shot, I began to ponder.
That photo, taken that day, with my hair scraped off my face in a little photo booth in Farringdon Post Office was to be scanned onto my new passport and be a symbol of my identity for a whole decade. It will represent me to countless officials and become a more reliable proof of identity than I am myself. Without it people will remain unconvinced. So that photo will remain me even if I change. 10 years from now I’ll be 36. No longer in my mid twenties but not far off 40! Believe me, from where I’m sitting that seems inconceivable. At 36 customs officials shall peer doubtfully at the photograph that young girl and back at the woman in front of them and I will remember that sunny day in August 2008 when I actually looked like that.

But 36 is still pretty damn young in the grand scheme of things so I won’t dwell on that but I do find the idea fascinating. What adventures have I a had since the last photo was taken! That little 16 year old girl stuck in my passport has taken me to so many places although little did she know it at the time. I wonder where the 26 year old will lead.