My Vivienne Westwood experience

I was the first woman or girl to last more than two weeks in the Fleet Street darkroom where I started my photography apprenticeship.

Problem was photography, when it was manual, was very tricky, with a ton of technical things to memorise. One of my first jobs, given, I think, because I was a punk, was to go down to Sex, the shop in World’s End, Kings Road, and take pictures of Vivienne Westwood. She was then more known as Malcolm McClaren’s wife and for dressing the Sex Pistols.

She was tiny, very thin and nervy. I actually wondered if she’d had a stroke. She was not self-assured as she became later on. She blinked and stuttered and wasn’t terribly articulate.

I took pictures of her on my Nikon FM in black and brass, paid for out of my minimal wages of £25 a week. I was also nervous but I thought I’d got some good pix.

When I returned to the darkroom to develop the film I was dismayed to see the entire roll was blank. I felt crushed. I’d fucked up every job so far. I was never going to make it as a photographer.