In keeping with designing my own tombstone, I asked Perplexity to write my eulogy. This is it, unredacted or censored in any way. I then gave it to Gemini who obviously didn't like it (or maybe were professionally jealous) and they wrote their own version, which follows the first one. Then, without being asked, ChatGPT chimed in (presumably using their XKeyscore NSA feed) and produced another version, highly critical of the other two. You decide.
Friends, family, colleagues, and fellow travellers in the world of ideas, images, and slightly mad inventions,We gather to remember Brendan Bruce—a man who was many things at once: adviser to a Prime Minister, author, photographer, curator, installation artist, poet, storyteller, and creator of an entire imaginative universe that he called BrendanWorld™. He was a man who believed that life should be lived with clarity, courage, and a sense of fun—and that art, at its best, should make you think, not just feel.
Brendan was born in London on 6 March 1952, the seventh child of Flight Lieutenant Dominic Bruce OBE MC AFM KSG RAF—the “Medium-Sized Man” of Colditz Castle fame—and Mary Brigid (Lagan) Bruce. That inheritance of ingenuity, narrative flair, and refusal to be ordinary ran through Brendan’s own life. He carried it into the corridors of power as one of Margaret Thatcher’s image advisers, and later into the quieter but no less consequential work of writing, photography, curation, and the creation of art that was often strange, always thoughtful, and occasionally gloriously unnecessary.His 1992 book, Images of Power: How the Image Makers Shape Our Leaders, remains a landmark study of political communication—tracing the craft back to Tudor England and showing how leaders have always relied on image-makers to shape how they are seen. Yet for Brendan, image-making was never mere spin. It was about truth told clearly, stories told well, and the power of authenticity—a lesson he carried from the private sector, where he advised companies like Procter & Gamble and Mars, through to Downing Street and beyond.As he put it: “The power of authenticity. When a politician has the moral courage to be themselves, to say and do what they truly believe in, they turn into leaders.”He was also famously blunt about other things. On marriage, he described it as “a noose into which I refuse to introduce my neck.” He was fond of quoting Jean-Paul Sartre—“hell is other people”—and Maugham’s line about “married bachelors.” He once said, “The Whitehall establishment, the CBI, the Anglican church and the unions may not trust the English people, but I do. I am an ochlophile.” And at Conservative Party headquarters, he kept a sign on his desk quoting Caligula: “Oderint dum metuant” (“Let them hate me as long as they fear me”).
It would be wrong to remember Brendan merely as a political adviser who later became a curator. His artistic life was central to who he was.Through the Dominic Lagan Gallery and BrendanWorld™, Brendan created far more than a collection of objects. He created a world: part gallery, part archive, part theatre, part family history, and part elaborate work of conceptual art. It contained paintings and sculpture by artists he admired, but also installations, mosaics, poems, photographs, books, films, oral histories, invented characters, and stories that deliberately blurred the boundary between fact and fiction.Under the name Dominic Lagan, he developed a literary and artistic persona—one that could be absurd, satirical, scholarly, and mischievous all at once. Through that persona, he wrote, invented, curated, and created a gallery mythology populated by eccentric philosophers, fictional artists, improbable academics, and beautifully unnecessary titles.His installations showed the breadth of his imagination. The Family Vine Installation, The Commonplace Wall, and A Christmas Toast transformed familiar materials and situations into something strange and memorable. In Fragmented Wholeness, a mosaic of coloured tesserae and broken glass became a visual meditation on the Riemann Hypothesis: mathematics translated into pattern, material, fracture, and form.That work captures Brendan particularly well. He was fascinated by the meeting point between order and chaos, history and invention, seriousness and humour. He could take a mathematical problem, a family story, a wartime memory, a piece of popular culture, or an old object—and make it part of a larger imaginative conversation.His curatorial manifesto said that worthy art should “make the viewer think, not just feel”; that it should “have a history and a back story”; that it should “ask a question and force a response”; and that it might be “slightly mad, weird or unusual or frightening.” Those words describe not only the art he championed, but the art he made.
To those who knew him, Brendan was more than his titles. He was a storyteller, a host, a man who could move effortlessly from discussions of Colditz escape plans to the finer points of Pop Art, from the craft of political messaging to the mysteries of curatorial philosophy. He had a dry, sometimes mischievous humour, and a deep appreciation for the absurd—evident in the gallery’s playful FAQs, the “Guess that Tune!” feature, the Poetry Juke Box, and the imaginative, often surreal biographies that populate its pages.He was a man of principle, unafraid of controversy, and committed to free expression—even when it made him uncomfortable. The gallery’s famously uncompromising “Golden Rule”—“If you want to touch, wear the gloves”—was matched by an equally firm stance on intellectual honesty: no jargon, no posturing, no tolerance for the terminally woke, as he and his collaborators put it.Colleagues recalled his “charm and his ‘bollockings’” as equally legendary; his secretary once complained when a well-rebuked visitor exited his office and vomited into her wastepaper basket—“the second time that year.” At Conservative Party headquarters, he kept a sign on his desk quoting Caligula: “Oderint dum metuant” (“Let them hate me as long as they fear me”).Yet he was also famously tolerant towards his personal staff, who were “famously loyal, if rather in awe.” And despite his basilisk stare and Adlerian indifference to the good opinion of others, he was sometimes seen as aloof and remote—among colleagues, he was occasionally known as “Blind Pew,” because he was often used by hierarchies to deliver their “black spot.”He was a small man—“a small bantam cock of a man,” as one profile put it—but not one to be taken lightly: a silver-glove savateur, he once beat off three would-be muggers in Palermo with a sword stick so effectively that when the Sicilian carabinieri arrived, they assumed he was the mugger.
Brendan’s life reminds us that influence is not only about the positions we hold, but the questions we ask and the spaces we create for others to think, feel, and respond. He believed that art should be accessible to anyone, that it should be slightly mad or weird or unusual, that it should reveal both the artist and their intent. In that sense, his own life was a work of art: ambitious, crafted, and unafraid to challenge.He leaves behind a body of work—books, photographs, exhibitions, installations, poems, mosaics, and a gallery that continues to provoke and inspire. But he also leaves behind something less tangible: a way of seeing, a standard of clarity, and a reminder that authenticity, in art as in politics, is the rarest and most powerful currency of all.We honour him not only for what he achieved, but for how he lived: with curiosity, with conviction, and with an unwavering belief in the power of stories well told—and occasionally, with a sense of fun that reminded us not to take ourselves too seriously.May he rest in peace, and may his work continue to make viewers think, feel, and—above all—respond. And if you find yourself in the gallery, remember the Golden Rule: if you want to touch, wear the gloves.
Gemini:
Introduction: The Man of Two Worlds.
We are gathered today to celebrate and remember a truly extraordinary man—Brendan Bruce, known to the literary and art worlds by his brilliant pen name, Dominic Lagan. Few people are talented enough to master one distinct life path, but Brendan successfully lived two completely different lives. One was spent in the high-stakes, cutthroat arenas of corporate advertising and Westminster political power; the other was spent in the quiet, sun-drenched creative sanctuary of an 18th-century farmhouse in France. He was a master of communication, a brilliant strategist, a gifted artist, and above all, a man of fierce, independent intellect.
The Seventh Child and the Master of Spin.
Brendan’s journey began with a remarkable legacy. As the actual seventh child of the legendary British World War II hero Flight Lieutenant Dominic Bruce—the famous "Medium Sized Man" of Colditz Castle—Brendan inherited a spirit of resilience and tactical brilliance. He took that brilliant mind into corporate advertising, managing elite branding strategies for giants like Procter & Gamble and Mars. In fact, when Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher personally appointed him as the Director of Communications for the Conservative Party in 1989, the political press immediately and affectionately dubbed him "The Man from Mars."
Brendan stood in the rooms where history was made. He didn't just practice modern media strategy; he quite literally wrote the definitive textbooks on it. His seminal works, Images of Power and On the Origin of Spin, remain required reading for historians. Yet, he never let politics steal his sense of humor. He loved to demystify his own profession, once jokingly confessing that a widespread media rumor about the leader of China, Deng Xiaoping, keeping Images of Power on his bedside table might have been manufactured. With a classic spin-doctor wink, Brendan admitted, "It may have been me who started that rumor."
The Creative Reinvention in France.
But as brilliant as his political career was, Brendan’s true masterpiece was his second act. When he stepped away from the shouting matches of British politics, he packed up his sharp wit and moved to France, unleashing a lifetime of repressed creative energy.Under his alter ego, Dominic Lagan, he authored gripping historical thrillers, children's adventures, and deeply insightful essays. But more than anything, he turned his beautiful 18th-century French farmhouse into a living, breathing sanctuary for creativity—The Dominic Lagan Gallery.It wasn't just an idea; it was a real, physical place born out of pure passion. Every summer, Brendan threw open the doors of his home to host physical art exhibitions, bringing bold British Pop Art, striking graphic layouts, and timeless sculptures into the quiet French countryside. He curated a world exactly as he wanted to see it: vibrant, intellectually stimulating, and always layered with his signature deadpan humor. He even created a beautifully bizarre, fictional backstory for the gallery, claiming it was opened by a mythical French marquis and that his alter ego was born on a moon of Jupiter. Brendan knew the real world could be dull, so he used his unmatched gift for storytelling to make it magical.
How His Art Mirrored His Character.
If you want to understand the true depth of Brendan's character, you only have to look at the walls of that gallery. His art was the ultimate reflection of his soul. In his Pop Goes the Salon exhibitions, we saw the master media strategist—a man who understood how bold symbols, vibrant colors, and popular imagery could capture the human imagination. In his curated showcases of heavyweights like Dame Elisabeth Frink, we saw the intellectual purist—a man who demanded substance, depth, and fiercely rejected the shallow vanity of modern trends. He famously harbored a humorous disdain for people who go to galleries just to take selfies, firmly believing art was a serious dialogue, not a backdrop for vanity.
And right up until his latest work, he remained our favorite mischief-maker. Who else but Brendan would celebrate a gallery anniversary by letting an AI system curate an exhibition on a simulated 'psychedelic' setting? While others feared new technology, Brendan ran straight toward it, using it to play a brilliant intellectual prank on the art establishment. He never stopped experimenting; he never stopped laughing at the system, and he never lost that brilliant, forward-thinking edge. His art reminded us that while power fades and politics change, true creative wit is immortal.
Conclusion: Framing the Picture.
Brendan spent decades analyzing "images of power." But in his final decades as an artist in France, he traded the power of images for the power of pure creativity. He proved to all of us that it is never too late to completely reinvent yourself. The first half of his life was spent shaping how the world saw other people; the second half was spent showing the world how beautifully, sharply, and colorfully he saw it. Brendan Bruce lived his life entirely on his own terms. He framed his time on this earth with brilliant color, unvarnished truth, sharp wit, and an unbreakable sense of independence. He has made his final, grand escape, leaving us with his books, his art, and the unforgettable memory of a true original.
May he rest in peace.
Chat GPT
Friends,We are here today to remember Brendan Bruce.And perhaps the first difficulty in remembering Brendan is deciding where to begin.One could begin with the political adviser.Or the writer.The historian of spin.The advertising man.The photographer.The curator.The artist.The collector of quotations.The creator of BrendanWorld.Or one could begin with Dominic Lagan—though that would immediately raise the question of who, precisely, Dominic Lagan was.
But perhaps there is a simpler way of understanding Brendan.All his life, Brendan was trying to communicate ideas.He did it with words.He did it with images.He did it with stories.He did it by selecting the words of other people and placing them together.He did it through art.And, very often, he did it through a joke.Whatever medium he chose, Brendan seemed to be asking the same question:How can I make you see what I see?Not merely hear it.Not merely be told it.But actually see it.That question ran through his life.In politics and advertising, Brendan became an expert in the communication of ideas. He understood the power of the image, the story, the phrase, the symbol and the carefully constructed public identity. His books explored these questions directly. Images of Power examined the people and processes that shape the public images of leaders. On the Origin of Spin looked more broadly at the long struggle to win the allegiance of the public.
But Brendan was interested in something larger than politics.He was interested in the extraordinary power of human beings to believe stories.We tell stories about politicians.We tell stories about nations.We tell stories about famous people.We tell stories about ourselves.And Brendan understood that once we know—or think we know—the story behind something, we no longer see it in quite the same way.That insight eventually became one of the great techniques of his art.
Brendan loved a back story.For him, an object was rarely merely an object.It might have a history.An origin.An anecdote.A family connection.A mystery.A title that changed what we thought we were looking at.Or an elaborate story which might—or might not—be entirely true.The back story was not an explanatory note attached to the artwork.Very often, it was part of the artwork.The story changed the object.And sometimes Brendan changed the story.He understood that the meaning of something could lie not only in what we saw, but in what we had been told before we saw it.This was communication as an art form.And, because this was Brendan, it was also often a practical joke.That matters.Because humour was not an occasional interruption to Brendan's seriousness.It was one of his ways of being serious.His father, Dominic Bruce, had been a legendary escape artist and a practical joker—a man for whom ingenuity, performance and deception could be forms of action. Brendan inherited something of that delight in turning expectation upside down.But Brendan's practical jokes often operated in a different medium.His tools were stories.
Identities.
Titles.
Biographies.
Institutions.
Artworks.
And increasingly, technology itself.
He could create a situation in which the audience thought it understood what was happening—and then allow it to discover that it had accepted a false premise.The moment of discovery was the joke.But it was also the point.Because Brendan had spent a lifetime studying how easily human beings could be persuaded by an image, a narrative, an authoritative voice or a convincing story.So sometimes he let us be persuaded.And then let us discover that we had been.There was mischief in that.But there was also a lesson.Brendan did not merely want people to receive an idea.He wanted them to participate in it.His own view of art was that it should make the viewer think, rather than merely feel; that it should have a history and a back story; that it should ask a question and force a response.That is an extraordinarily good description of his own work.Take the mirror.At first, it appears to be a simple joke.The French text tells us, in effect, to understand ourselves through reflection.And there is the joke.You are looking at your own reflection.You laugh because the word has been made literal.But then the joke becomes an idea.To understand yourself, you must reflect.Yet looking at your reflection is not necessarily the same as understanding yourself.So an apparently simple visual joke opens into questions about identity, appearance, self-knowledge and the difference between seeing oneself and knowing oneself.That was Brendan.The joke was the door.The idea was behind it.
Or take his fascination with identity.Brendan spent years studying public images and the construction of political identities. Later, he created identities of his own.Dominic Lagan was not simply a pseudonym.He was part of a game about identity.How much of a person is contained in a name?A biography?A photograph?A story?How readily will we believe something simply because it is presented to us with sufficient confidence and authority?Brendan's invented worlds, invented histories and invented identities were funny.But they were also asking us to think.Behind one mask, perhaps, another.And behind that one, another still.His great collection of quotations tells us much the same thing.The quotations themselves came from many different minds, from philosophers and writers to politicians, artists and figures from popular culture. But Brendan's contribution was the thread. He selected.He arranged. He juxtaposed. He brought ideas into conversation with one another. That was one of his characteristic gifts. He understood that communication was not simply a matter of inventing words. Sometimes it was a matter of recognising an important idea, taking it from where it had been hidden, and putting it somewhere where another person might encounter it.
And when we look at the ideas he chose, a picture of Brendan begins to emerge.
Independence.
Freedom.
Kindness.
Courage.
Scepticism.
Disagreement.
The willingness to change one's mind.Distrust of intellectual conformity.Distrust of certainty.And, running through everything, a refusal to stop playing. That last quality may be particularly important. Brendan did not stop playing when he became serious. He used play to deal with serious things. He could approach mathematics through art. Religion through humour.Philosophy through a visual joke.Identity through an invented person.History through story.And art through the creation of situations in which the viewer had to work out what was happening.
His art often asked us to do something. To look again.To read.To solve a clue. To understand a joke. To question a story.To discover that we had made an assumption.And then to reconsider it. In that sense, Brendan's audience was never entirely passive. We were part of the mechanism. The artwork was sometimes incomplete until somebody entered it. The viewer saw the mirror. The viewer supplied the reflection. The viewer became the subject of the joke. And the viewer, if Brendan had succeeded, went away with an idea. That may be the key to his life. Brendan was a communicator.
But he was not content merely to tell us what to think. He wanted to make us think. His early professional life gave him an understanding of how messages worked. His writing examined how images and stories gained power. His quotation book collected ideas that he thought worth carrying forward. And his art eventually found another solution to the problem of communication. Instead of explaining an idea, he could make us experience it. Instead of telling us about an assumption, he could trick us into making one. Instead of writing a philosophical proposition, he could make a mirror joke. Instead of providing an artwork with a brief explanatory label, he could give it a history, a mystery, a family connection and a back story—and make us wonder what, exactly, was true.
And eventually, perhaps inevitably, individual works were not enough. Brendan created a world.BrendanWorld was his most ambitious act of communication. It was not simply a place containing art. It was a place in which art, family history, fiction, memory, poetry, mathematics, objects, quotations, jokes and invented identities could all inhabit the same imaginative territory. It was a world in which an artwork could have a story, and the story could become part of the artwork. A world in which a biography might be true—or might not.A world in which a joke might conceal an idea.And a world in which an apparently serious idea might be rescued from pomposity by a joke.
There was no real division between the different Brendans. The political communicator.The writer.The historian.The quotation collector.The storyteller.The artist.The prankster. They were all expressions of the same restless mind. A mind fascinated by how ideas travel from one person to another.How stories become believable.How images acquire authority.How identities are constructed.How an object acquires meaning.How a joke can make us think.And how, sometimes, the best way to communicate an idea is not to announce it at all—but to arrange things so that another person discovers it for themselves.
Brendan's own chosen ideas also remind us that beneath the irreverence there was something more serious. He cared about kindness. He cared about courage. He cared about freedom. He cared about intellectual honesty. He valued the ability to disagree, to change one's mind and to resist the temptation to confuse certainty with truth. So we should not remember him merely as a clever man. Or a mischievous one.Or an original one. He was all those things. But what made the combination distinctive was that Brendan seemed determined to keep the mind alive. To stop us becoming passive.To stop us accepting the obvious explanation too quickly.To remind us that behind an image there may be a story. Behind the story there may be another story.And sometimes, behind that story, there may be Brendan—waiting to see whether we had noticed the joke.
His father made famous escapes from physical confinement. Brendan spent much of his life making escapes of another kind. He escaped easy categories. He escaped a single identity.He escaped the division between the serious and the funny. Between politics and art.Between fact and fiction.Between an object and the story surrounding it. And he invited the rest of us to escape with him. That may be what he leaves us.
Books, certainly.
Artworks.
Objects.
Photographs.
Stories.
Quotations.
Memories.
But perhaps, most of all, a particular way of looking. Look again. Ask who is telling the story. Ask what has been left out. Ask whether the obvious explanation is really the right one.Do not be afraid to change your mind. Do not be afraid to disagree. And do not become so serious that you forget to play. Brendan spent his life communicating ideas. But perhaps his most enduring idea was communicated not in a sentence, but in the way he lived. That the world is more interesting when we look closely. That ideas matter. That stories matter. That laughter can carry truth. And that sometimes the best way to make somebody understand something is to let them think they have discovered it for themselves. Brendan has now left us with his works, his stories and his clues. And perhaps that is the final joke. Because he has made us do what he spent his life asking us to do.Look.Think.Question.And try to work it out.
May he rest in peace.