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It began as a blob: a 12kg lump of clay the size of a watermelon. Three hours later, it had become Judi Dench’s head, 50% larger than usual, twinkle-eyed even in terracotta.
At Claridge’s hotel in London on Monday evening, Frances Segelman hosted her latest ticking-clock sculpt: paying guests watch as she kneads a celebrity bust on stage, the subject sitting quietly beside her. In the past, Segelman has done Simon Rattle, Joan Collins, Joanna Lumley, Boris Johnson, Mr Motivator and major-league royals, almost always for charity.
This was a fundraiser for lymphoedema research. Ticket sales raised over £20,000 and it’s hoped that, when it’s cast in bronze, the finished piece will fetch double that (St George’s hospital Charity in Tooting, London, has begun accepting bids).
The pair began a little before the audience arrived, sitting on a platform in the hotel’s mirrored, slightly chilly art deco ballroom. Segelman, 76, glamorous in black lace gown despite mucky hands; Dench, 90, immaculate in cream coat with grey shawl and sausage-shaped water bottle. Another throw appeared courtesy of her daughter, Finty Williams. “Oooh hello!” said Dench. “I’m swathed in blankets, that’s wonderful, thank you.” Beside her were a cappuccino, bouquet and numbered helium balloons in honour of last December’s landmark birthday - in fact, she’ll soon be nearer 91.
The lump became flesh. Nostrils were poked out, Covid swab-style. Segelman measured Dench’s skull using wooden tongs and metal callipers – half tailor, half surgeon. “It’s weird,” said Williams. “At first, it didn’t look like her. Then after 10 minutes I was like: ‘Oh yes, that is Ma.’” It wasn’t unnerving? “I’m quite used to seeing her bigger than she normally is.”
Then the binbags of sludge were removed and guests entered: around 200 supporters of the lymphoedema charity, which has been working with Dench’s friend, photographer Gemma Levine. They first met in 1989, when Levine was dispatched to snap Dench at the National Theatre, who was playing Gertrude opposite Daniel Day-Lewis’s Hamlet. “We kept in touch,” says Levine. “And once I had lymphoedema I kept asking Judi to do events and she never said no.”
Levine studied under Henry Moore. His “hard” art would have been a bad fit for her friend, she thinks. “Judi’s a great subject. She’s a true professional and someone with great depth and sensibility and humour. I don’t know anyone else like that – and I know a lot of film and theatre people.”
An address about lymphoedema began the evening proper: its causes, symptoms, incidence and cost to the NHS of late diagnosis. It is, said Dr Peter Mortimer of St George’s, a “hidden epidemic” with “little recognition”. He talked the audience through elephantiasis and how “a big arm, following lymph gland removal after breast cancer surgery” can be fatal should the swelling spread to the central organs. Waiters offered fizz and nibbles.
Segelman then spoke, asking the audience to mingle while she worked. (“Talk makes me quicker.”) They duly milled, and debated in spitting distance of the artist how she was doing. “It’s like focus,” said one accountant. “It goes in and out. It’s out at the moment, but it’ll go back in.”
His favourite Dench role was M in Skyfall; informal canvassing of the crowd for her key performances saw a big win for the James Bond films, but also strong results for the sitcoms As Time Goes By and A Fine Romance, as well as the Iris Murdoch biopic (there were a lot of doctors in the room). One GP reported he’d seen almost all her Shakespeare productions and been in love with her for four decades, while the composer Karl Jenkins – whose music soundtracked some of the evening – remembered seeing Dench in Twelfth Night when he was a schoolboy.
There was quiet as Simon Callow recited Christina Rossetti’s A Birthday. Were Maggie Smith present, he said, “she’d say how wonderful it’s been today to watch Judi turn into a monument”. Williams read a self-penned poem to her mother, To the Moon and Back, which brought both women – and a few others – to tears. A soprano sang Happy Birthday. Cake came.
As the evening wore on, Dench swapped her coffee for champagne. She did not speak publicly but, during a brief break, told the Guardian she was enjoying the experience, despite her macular degeneration now being so advanced she would be unable to assess the results.
“I can’t see a thing,” she said. “I can’t really see your face and you’re right in front of me.” She gestured round. “I’m just in the play. I sit on the stage. It’s very nice and Frances is brilliant, as is the charity. I just hear this sea of friendly people.”
Her sense of her own features hasn’t changed with age. “I don’t have a relationship with my face,” she said. “Never have!” If she couldn’t appreciate the finished bust visually, would she have a feel? An impish grin. “If they let me.”
And as Segelman fiddled with the chin and entered the final furlong, Dench did toy with a spare ball of terracotta. “When she got hold of that clay,” said Segelman later, “she was loving it. She could do something with it.”
It’s not just a passing interest, reports Williams. Her mother attends a weekly art class that includes pottery. Like Segelman, Dench prefers figurative work – just last week, says Williams, she shaped a little Bottom from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Finally the head was complete. Segelman would make some small tweaks in her studio the next day, she said, as an assistant spritzed it. “But I’m not worried. It went well. I didn’t meet Judi before I sculpted her. That’s hard. But she was so sweet and kind and she never moved.” Segelman was surprised by her youthfulness. “She has a cuteness. Pixie-like.”
Williams concurred. “I think Ma’s got like quite an elvish little face and I think a lot of people want her to take up more space than she does. To give her a bigger, cookie cutter outline.” Her verdict was complimentary, especially the jawline.
And what does she think her mother would make of it? “She’s a Quaker so she’s not a big fan of looking at herself. And she wouldn’t really be able to see it any more. But I think she’ll love touching it.”
As everyone headed out of the ballroom, two footmen edged gently by, bearing a huge metal box containing Dench’s still-wet supersized head. Guests gulped and shrank back. The possibility of a slip was a sobering thought on the way to the exit.
