A more worrying similarity is the connection the play makes between sado- masochistic

A more worrying similarity is the connection the play makes between sado- masochistic sexual violence in a private relationship and the brutalities inflicted in a totalitarian state – the one type of fascism a reflection of the other.If such an equivalence exists, this play does not persuade me of it. My colleague Michael Billington’s wonderfully well-informed and absorbing book The Life and Work of Harold Pinter reveals that one of the influences on the play is Gitta Sereny’s brilliant biography of Albert Speer, Hitler’s Minister for Armaments and Munitions from 1942. The image in that book of the Nazi slave-labour factories, which had only primitive privies overflowing with shit, made a strong impression on the dramatist and it finds its way into Ashes to Ashes, we learn, in Rebecca’s memory of being unable to find a bathroom during her visit.The play does not specify where the factory was. Gradually, though, as we hear of such atrocities as babies being torn from the arms of screaming mothers on railway platforms, the Holocaust seems to be more explicitly invoked. Take the picture of Lisa Lyon, a torso shot in which the subject is slathered in mud and sports an absurdly lush pubic wig At least, I think it’s a wig Maybe the six-inch-long hair is real. “What,” asked a woman with a German accent, “is that supposed to be, in the mud?” Her companion walked over to the label at the end of the row, misread it and came back “It’s a flower,” he said “Ah,” the woman nodded.

“Of course.”Nearby, a case containing the notorious X Portfolio pictures attracted slightly aghast attention. Private views are usually loud, brightly coloured affairs: the art world loves to talk, and generally likes to do it loudly. Not so beneath these looming images: the sight of so many enormous penises in various states of tumescence didn’t actually rob the onlookers of words, but seemed to make them wish to voice their reactions more quietly. There was a certain amount of the old meet-and-greet in evidence, but it was done without the usual accompaniment of flamboyant kisses and cries of delight.

The perverse effect of all this sex on the walls was to make the people present unwilling to touch one another.This effect became more pronounced around the more disturbing images. Two men engaged in heated debate as they scaled the Hayward ramp beneath a line of the artist’s portraits. “It’s May-pul-thorpe.” “If it’s May-pul-thorpe, how come it’s got two Ps?” They passed a shiny purple suit holding court with three younger shiny grey suits. “I always prefer,” he was saying, “to look at them at home, with my feet up and a nice glass of wine.”What was strange about this particular shindig was how muted the noise levels were.