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LONDON — The National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne, Australia’s largest and oldest public art gallery, plans to take a look at two groundbreaking female designers, Vivienne Westwood and Rei Kawakubo, whose careers evolved in parallel, and who both had a taste for provocation.

The show, “Westwood | Kawakubo,” will run from Dec. 7 until April 19 and marks the first time the designers’ fashion has been shown side by side, despite all they had in common.

“They were born within a year of each other, on different sides of the world, and were both self-taught. Both had groundbreaking moments in 1981, with Westwood showing in London, and Kawakubo in Paris,” said Katie Somerville, senior curator, fashion and textiles at the NGV, in an interview.

The similarities don’t end there. Westwood’s 1981 show, which she did with her then-husband and collaborator Malcolm McLaren, was called Pirate, while Kawakubo’s outing for her fledgling label Comme des Garçons was titled Pirates.

Although the women’s aesthetics were different, their mindset was often similar. Both pushed the limits of convention, examined the complex relationship between clothes and the body, and brought historical dress into their work.

“Their work has never been about going quietly — or presenting what’s expected,” Somerville said.

The show will feature more than 140 designs, most of them from the museum’s own collection, with the rest from private collections and institutions including London’s Victoria & Albert Museum, Palais Galliera in Paris and the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

Somerville said that while they were organizing the show, the NGV received a “transformative” donation of more than 40 recent works from Comme des Garçons. They will also feature in the show.

The exhibition has been organized by theme, and looks at the designers’ embrace of provocation; menswear and tailoring; historical costume, and the female body. It also looks at both women’s ability to make statements about politics and the environment through their designs.  

Exhibition highlights include Westwood’s punk ensembles from the late 1970s, popularized by London bands such as The Sex Pistols and Siousie Sioux; a romantic tartan gown from Westwood’s Anglomania collection worn by Kate Moss on the runway in the early 1990s, and the original version of the corseted wedding dress worn by Sarah Jessica Parker in “Sex and The City: The Movie.”

Kawakubo’s works include a sculptural petal ensemble worn by Rihanna on the red carpet and dramatic abstract works that challenge the relationship between the body and clothing. They include gingham sculptural designs from the Body Meets Dress — Dress Meets Body collection from spring 1997.

While the museum has a strong tradition of showcasing fashion, this is the first time it has put two designers side by side.

“At the NGV, we’ve carved out an innovative model of presenting shows where we pair artists,” said Somerville, adding that recent — and successful — shows have looked at Andy Warhol alongside Ai Wei Wei, and Keith Haring in tandem with Jean-Michel Basquiat.  

“We’ve never done one focusing on fashion — or women — and we thought it was a brilliant way” to do both, she said.

“We’ve learned from doing those projects that if you pick two really significant, impactful [artists] and put them together, a whole other layer of things is revealed, other points of connection — and absolute divergence,” she added.

The NGV plans to mark the opening of the exhibition — its annual summer blockbuster show — with a gala on Dec. 6 at NGV International. 

“No, no, no!” exclaims an affronted Monica Venturi at the idea that anybody might attempt to pass off spaghetti bolognese as an authentically Italian dish.

Her face is stricken at the thought of adding ragù (meat sauce) to spaghetti and then misnaming it, when, as everybody in her hometown of Bologna knows instinctively, “spaghetti alla bolognese does not exist”.

Monica, as a decades-long veteran pasta-maker along with her sister Daniela Venturi, does not invite argument on her specialist subject.

In fact, the sisters explain, the real spaghetti alla bolognese is made with tuna, tomato and onion, topped off with fresh parsley. And although tuna is a fish, and Italians generally shy away from cheese on seafood, they like to add parmesan. This is because, says Monica, “for Bolognesi people, tuna is not a fish”.

The pasta-making duo are in Dublin as part of a partnership with Birra Moretti which will see them host a two-night pop-up Nonna’s Kitchen at the end of July. At home in Bologna, they run a classic pasta shop, Le Sfogline, where they handmake as much as 60kg of fresh pasta on their busiest week. In the pasta business for almost 30 years and both having nonna (grandmother) status, the sisters know everything about how it should be cooked, eaten and enjoyed.

For the record, the authentic version of the food Irish people like to call spaghetti bolognese is tagliatelle al ragù, ribbon-shaped pasta with slow-cooked meat sauce. The sisters warn that even if you know this, it’s dangerously easy to fall down with the ingredients by using too much of the base mix of celery, carrots and onions.

“You must be aware of this because if you put in too much, it becomes very heavy. And you only taste the three vegetables. This is a mistake I’ve noticed,” says Monica.

Warming to the theme of non-expert pasta gaffes, Monica says the other area where we often tip ourselves into absolute failure is overcooking pasta.

Obeying the “al dente” (literally, to the tooth) rule, where pasta is cooked just to the point of firmness before veering into sogginess, is crucial, the sisters agree. This is especially true for their fresh pasta with eggs, says Daniela. “It cooks very fast.”

And then we get to lasagne, or lasagna – the lasagna is a single layer of sheet pasta, while lasagne is the plural. There is disapproval on the sisters’ faces when they acknowledge that people in France sometimes eat the dish with a mixed salad, but sheer disbelief when they’re told it is generally served with chips in Ireland. News of garlic bread often being heaped on the side as well prompts such uncomfortable laughter that it seems wise to avoid talk of coleslaw.

Daily lasagne-maker Daniela, who says she still can’t resist sampling her wares after all these years, isn’t giving up on us though. She has a key tip on how to handle béchamel, the white sauce used between lasagna layers.

“You don’t see béchamel when lasagne is ready to eat,” she says, with Monica adding that the sauce is there “for keeping lasagne just a little bit softer”. In other words, a little white sauce goes a long way.

The bread and butter of their business though is tortellini, the small ring-shaped pasta filled with meat that was historically served by Bolognesi at Christmas but is now sold and eaten all year round. The main rule here is to avoid smothering the golden circles of deliciousness in heavy sauces. In fact, you should probably avoid the sauce altogether, and serve it simply “in brodo”, or broth.

This makes sense when you hear of the richness that goes into making the sisters’ top-end tortellini: “Pork loin cooked in butter, mortadella, Parma ham, Parmigiano 36 months old, eggs – it’s that rich that you cannot hide with a sauce,” says Monica.

However, she does admit to occasionally succumbing to a light sauce involving some grated parmesan, two or three spoons of the traditional broth that accompanies the tortellini and fresh cream, but says “just a little” is plenty. “Personally, I don’t like to cover something with sauce even if it’s good.”

She also likes to mop up sauces with bread, believing politeness has no place in such matters.

Despite being Bologna’s queens of home-made pasta, the Venturi sisters do not scoff at dried pasta, especially with fish, which they say does not combine well with the eggs in fresh pasta. Unsurprisingly though, not every dried pasta passes muster. Both recommend Pasta di Gragnano, which is made by mixing durum wheat grown at the Monti Lattari in southern Italy with the local waters. Where this isn’t available, a good rule of thumb, according to Monica, is to go with dried pasta with longer cooking times.

In general, she says she is fairly “straight” when it comes to Italian recipes, believing there’s no reason to mess around with them when they are already proven. She shudders at “terrible” innovations such as adding pineapple to pizza, while Daniela is ashen at the idea of “pizza with chips”.

So, after all these years of making pasta for the people of their native city, do the sisters still eat it every day?

“Oh, yeah,” they reply instantly, with the small qualification that they limit portion sizes to about 200g and avoid “a huge amount” of sauce. They like to try other foods when travelling however, singling out Ireland’s “wonderful meat” for praise but expressing dismay at paying €4 or more for a coffee in Dublin, when a good cup can still be found for … wait for it … €1.30 in Bologna.

Birra Moretti’s Nonna’s Kitchen will take place at Fumbally Stables, Dublin 8, on July 23rd and 24th. Tickets at €30 will be sold on Eventbrite from July 3rd

What sparked the ideal of peace, love and understanding of the 1960s? In The Last Great Dream, Dennis McNally, the longtime publicist of the Grateful Dead, explores the roots of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury hippies. It’s the “fourth and last instalment” of McNally’s work documenting the history of the counterculture, following books about Jack Kerouac and the Beats; the Grateful Dead; and the relationship between Black music and white culture.

McNally traces the precursors of hippie culture to 1942, and the first meeting between Bay area poets Robert Duncan and Kenneth Rexroth, who would “become the nucleus of a remarkably powerful gathering of poets over the next decade”. Artists began to question societal values during the war, prompted by the internment of Japanese Americans, the threat of atomic annihilation and the McCarthyism that followed. While the GI Bill’s provision of financial and educational benefits for veterans bolstered the pursuit of the American dream, the Beats espoused what McNally calls the “bohemian code”: that “a life of art and spirituality was preferable to money and the pursuit of power”.

The Last Great Dream is an encyclopedic survey, with music acting as the glue between various art forms. McNally does a good job of showing the web of connections between artists from different disciplines. Unfortunately, completism can come at the expense of readability. Although he conducted some 60 interviews for the project, the book reads more like a compendium of Wikipedia entries than first-person accounts of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.

While bohemian scenes blossomed in tandem in New York, LA and London, “San Franciscans went further and deeper”, McNally argues. By 1967, a new vision of freedom and sexuality was in place but the “catalyst” of the counterculture, McNally writes, was LSD. At the Human Be-In, a gathering of 30,000 hippies in Golden Gate Park that year, Timothy Leary, the Harvard psychologist turned acid evangelist, led the crowd in chanting his mantra: “Turn on, tune in, drop out.”

Ample ink has been spilled on the megalomaniacal Leary but the story of his fourth wife and fellow fugitive Rosemary Woodruff tails off after their split. Susannah Cahalan, a journalist with an interest in altered states since being diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis (the subject of her bestselling 2012 memoir, Brain on Fire), wrote The Acid Queen to prevent Woodruff from fading into a footnote in Leary’s legacy.

A high-school dropout, Woodruff arrived in New York from the Midwest in 1953. Twice divorced by 21, once from a jazz accordionist, she worked as a model and stewardess (an industry “harder to get into than Harvard”, writes Cahalan), until she aged out of the skies at 30. Fleeing an abusive relationship, she met Leary, 15 years her senior, at his psychedelic commune upstate in 1965.

Cahalan makes a case for Woodruff’s contribution to the psychedelic movement during her seven-year relationship with Leary. She spoke to the press, fundraised, edited his books and wrote his speeches, including for a failed gubernatorial run in California against Ronald Reagan. She also cared for his two children, who had lost their mother, Marianne Busch, to suicide. The well-worn phrase “if you can remember the 1960s, then you weren’t really there” luckily doesn’t apply to Woodruff, who at least took good notes. Her archives include diary entries, letters, trip reports and a posthumously published memoir, which Cahalan rounds out with interviews with those who knew her.

It’s a colourful story, involving love triangles, drug busts and the dramatic jailbreak of Leary, who was serving a 20-year sentence for marijuana possession. The couple fled to Algeria, became wards of the Black Panthers and were then sheltered by an arms dealer in Switzerland. Woodruff’s life underground — once Leary was caught in Afghanistan and returned to the US in 1973 — had her hiding in Italy, Colombia and the Caribbean before living under an assumed name in Cape Cod, unable to afford the “mouthful of fillings” she had needed since their escape.

Well researched, The Acid Queen paints an unflattering portrait of Leary. While Cahalan gives him credit for his contribution to the early days of psychedelic research, his lack of political engagement became increasingly dangerous as “dropping out” left young men susceptible to the draft. He was a neglectful father and didn’t visit Woodruff in jail when she served time for refusing to testify against him in a grand jury. His values were not particularly progressive: he treated women as free domestic labour and never accepted the bisexuality of his former colleague Richard Alpert (aka Ram Dass).

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Leary was disavowed by the psychedelic community for co-operating with the Feds to reduce his sentence, after which he lived a life of debauched semi-celebrity until his death, aged 75, in 1996, with his ashes blasted into space. Woodruff, meanwhile, remained undercover for more than 20 years, until a judge threw out the charges against her in 1994. Despite Leary trying to entice her out of hiding to save himself, they reconciled: she was the executor of his estate. Woodruff died in 2002, at 66, of congestive heart failure.

Taken together, The Last Great Dream and The Acid Queen raise the question of the legacy of the 1960s. Despite the consciousness-raising potential of psychedelics, Cahalan warns that today’s renewed interest carries the same risks of “evangelism and hubris”. While hippies may not have succeeded in changing politics, they have had a lasting impact on the culture, McNally holds, including organic food, yoga, LGBTQ rights and computing. “The dream died,” he concludes, “but the dreaming continues.”

The Last Great Dream: How Bohemians Became Hippies and Created the Sixties by Dennis McNally Hachette £28, 461 pages

The Acid Queen: The Psychedelic Life of Rosemary Woodruff Leary by Susannah Cahalan Canongate £22, 384 pages

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