The Secret Garden Party blurred the lines, between those there to work and those there to have fun; it felt like falling into a wonderland, where along with the White Rabbit and Mad Hatter, the Red Queen and chess board, Jeremy and I had sipped 'Drink me' at the entrance, to collude in a collective psychedelic fractal version of Summer Arcadian bliss, where the archetypal English fete falls in hopeless love with the archetypal English rave to produce shards of rainbow-hewn light where nothing looks quite as it seems, and all benefit from a veneer of pink, tulle, glitter, topped off with a straw hat and glass of Pimms.
We never quite made it to see Caribou play, but I did hear Leon dj in a pink yurt, while women more used to growing organic carrots squeezed into corsets and served champagne and love bombs; we didn't manage to catch the fashion show, which after 3 hours of waiting, was more fashionably late than any show I have sat and drummed time for in Paris, but I did enjoy Ben and Saskia's impromptu Spanish strip, fire and nail bed performance at Roscoe and Sarah's 'My Front Room' tent.
The divide between Babylon and Eden was blurred by fairyland and fantasy: both seemed like Albion on acid, it was simply magical: from the chinese lanterns at night floating stage right while poi dancers played with fire by the lake, to the dance-off camaraderie of dancing to time, but not, so falling over, will the MC egged you on – laughing at each other, laughing at yourself.
Everyone colluded in the secret; everyone was there to sparkle, to charm and share their stories.
Wendy ran away with Tinkerbell that weekend, coating a hazy Summer field with glitter and love dust.
Text: Tamara Cincik
Photos: Jeremy Fusco
