Hardly topical - but I think it counts, nonetheless. In the interests of full disclosure - I should reveal that this one's actually my own, although painted back in the day, by my home's previous occupant. Stupidly, it was only after capturing the first 'Bin Commandment' that I remembered I had one waiting in my very own back yard.
I should really have cleaned the text off years ago, but have always found it a quaint example of period resistance. I guess it's also testimony to the durability of modern paints - even if the Tax has long since disappeared, in every sense.
Sometimes, you're working away, but in a slightly haphazard manner, and without much serious impetus or intent; so you take the camera out for a walk, in glorious (almost worryingly unseasonable) sunlight, and without any particular agenda - and the world just gives you a gift...
I've been cataloguing refuse bins for a while now. In many respects, they seem to play a similar role to abandoned fridges, as sentinels of my local landscape. However, the focus is more on the textual content, than the carrier (or indeed, the actual contents). In a neighbourhood of tightly-packed, often multi-occupancy, terraced housing, the territoriality and etiquette of wheelie bin use is a matter of some importance - and potential trigger of social tension, on occasion. And, quite obviously, as a motif - the bins also stimulate a meditation on our disposable, consumer economy, and current attitudes to the provision of public services. As ever, though, the unofficial will always subvert the official; and observed reality will always short circuit any trite theory I might have formulated about the work I'm doing. I honestly wouldn't have it any other way.
I wonder if these will become another little blog series? We'll see...
All Images: 'Childish Things 5' (Work In Progress), Salvaged Trundle Toy & Spray Enamel
To be honest, I hadn't necessarily intended to make any more of these 'Childish Things', toy sculptures. On purely practical level, they're pretty bulky to store, and the house is already pretty congested with the existing four (amongst a lot of other stuff). In addition, whilst I've always felt generally positive about the 'Childish Things' pieces - they were, actually, the least commented upon element of my work, when exhibited, last year.
Nevertheless, when this little beauty was abandoned, practically on my doorstep - it just felt too much of a gift to ignore. Of course one thing leads to another, and what would be the point of collecting such stuff - if not to use it constructively? It's perhaps typical of my current, slightly unfocussed approach to my work, just now - that this one has reached its current state without excess urgency, and whilst working on other unrelated things. That in itself is quite pleasing - as the fettling and finishing of the toys themselves has always been the most labour intensive part of the 'Childish Things'. The trike, as I found it, was actually even more complete than you see it here - allowing plenty of scope for some creative surgery, prior to the normally tedious prepping, priming and inevitable addressing of drips in my ham-fisted spray-job.
Another hunch was that the initial Brexity vibe of the 'TSI' project might be limiting its currency by now. Would that were the case. Even whilst working on the first flush of associated pieces - my instinct was to expand the scope of the project into a more open-ended 'how we live now' kind of enterprise wherever possible. Two years ago, who could have honestly predicted that my fears of becoming tripped up by a narrow single issue might be so unfounded - or that the particular issue in question would consume the national debate in quite such a dispiriting manner.
If, as now seems inevitable, the ramifications of our current political crisis continue to ripple outwards for the foreseeable future - then adding to the existing 'TSI' work may not feel quite so irrelevant after all. There was always more that could have been done, and there is clearly still no shortage of raw material, or indeed national absurdity, to fuel it all. And, if there is going to be more, I guess I should be looking for further opportunities to exhibit it all again, in the not too distant - assuming anyone can still afford to keep a gallery space open after March, of course...
Whilst it grieves me to post two obituaries, back-to-back - it would be remiss not to mark the passing of the painter, Robert Ryman, a few days ago. He was 88, and had seemingly ploughed one of the most enduringly single-minded furrows in the whole of Modern Art.
Robert Ryman, 'Classico 5', Oil On Paper, 1968
Ryman was one of those go-to figures, to whom I've repeatedly turned as an exemplar of a particular attitude to painting over the years, despite having only ever seen one significant exhibition of his works (on paper - I think), at London's Shoulder Of Mutton Gallery, some years ago. All too often my acquaintanceship with them has only been in reproduction - making any direct encounter a cause of some excitement. And when I turned to the keyboard to write this, I realised I knew very little of the man himself, or his life - despite the fact his paintings have always loomed vividly in my imagination.
Robert Ryman, 'Director', Oil On GRP, 1983
I think this may be, in part, because a somewhat pristine sense of the hermetic seems to cling to his oeuvre - something possibly magnified by its appearing to have arrived almost fully-formed, back in the mid 1950s. The work seems to stand less for the man, than simply for itself. Indeed, its conceptual rootedness in the idea of how one might define or specify an artefact that might be labelled 'a painting', makes any sense of autobiography or personal expression pretty much irrelevant. Some might find that alienating - but I've always found it strangely thrilling.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, perhaps. Ryman was, of course, primarily known as 'that guy who just paints white paintings' (not technically true - his first significant piece was orange). That he should have compiled such an extensive and unfailingly elegant catalogue of monochrome ('no-chrome'?) abstract pieces, over more than sixty years - without ever exhausting the potential of such a seemingly simplistic formula, feels little short of miraculous. If art historical labels are required, I guess he belongs with the Minimalists. Rather delightfully - I now learn, he supplemented the early years of his career by working as a gallery attendant at MOMA, in New York, alongside those other noted exponents of the genre, Sol LeWitt, Dan Flavin and Al Held. But, whilst Ryman certainly shared a superficial aesthetic with such artists, there's perhaps also something a little too deliciously painterly about the work for it to fit into a strictly orthodox interpretation of Minimalism. There's often a residue of the earlier Abstract Expressionism that first caught his eye on his move north. In fact there are certain respects in which Ryman seems to bridge those two American art moments - perhaps just as Jasper Johns bridges Ab. Ex. and Pop with a similar visual elegance and philosophical detachment. Either way, It seems Ryman's real agenda was simply to investigate what constitutes a painting - by stripping it back to its simplest essential components, then trying to find out in how many different ways they might be deployed without repetition.
Robert Ryman, 'Wing', Date & Medium Unknown
For Ryman, that might involve brushing his paint smoothly and uniformly over a variety of substrates, from canvas - to aluminium - to plastic; or squeezing it directly from the tube - to form wiggling worm-casts of whiteness; or building puddled impastos and snowy crusts of pigment; or exploring the potential of white to veil, mask, or not-quite obliterate another underlying colour. Or, indeed - pretty much any other way you might be able to imagine deploying an endless variety of white pigments onto a flat plane. White, it seems to me, was the obvious choice, not just to encapsulate the fetish of blank/blanc nullity, or to signify anti-emotion - but also because (as Newton proved) it contains all other colours. It that sense, I suppose white paint might be said to represent all paint.
Robert Ryman, 'Untitled', Oil On Linen, 1965
Robert Ryman, 'Attendant', Medium Unknown, 1984
Robert Ryman, 'Untitled', Graphite & Pastel On Plexiglass & Steel, 1976
The by-product, is also that it allows painter and viewer alike, to luxuriate in the myriad ways in which a painted surface might absorb, reflect, modulate, energise, or otherwise interact with the ambient light it encounters, and in the most unencumbered way imaginable. The subtle incidents of shadow on one of Ryman's refined and highly nuanced surfaces, thus become some of the most paradoxically breathtaking events in painting of any age. Should all of that really be insufficient to hold your attention, he also went on to explore the physical construction of the painting/object too - either by leaving exposed portions of the raw substrate; deliberately drawing attention to the wall attachments; or simply asking whether a painting might not just as easily be presented horizontally, as flush to the wall. I mean, really - what's not to enjoy? Who really needs all that distracting extraneous meaning?
Robert Ryman, 'Checklist', Pastel, Conte Crayon & Charcoal On Paper, 1961
Robert Ryman, 'Record', Medium Unknown, 1983
Ultimately though, this is an obituary, and basic respect requires at least some fleshing out of the man himself - I suppose. Robert Ryman was born in Nashville, in 1930, and moved to New York in 1952 - after a short stint in the military during the Korean war. Interestingly, he initially set out to be a Jazz musician, and had studied under pianist Lennie Tristano, before committing himself to painting instead. He married the art critic, Lucy Lippard in 1961, and later - the artist, Merrill Wagner. Mostly, though, he was a painter - pure and simple. He also claimed that the real purpose of painting was to give pleasure. I can think of no better testament or ambition.
In bullshit times like these, we really can't afford to be losing such comforting voices of sanity as the comedian, Jeremy Hardy's. Tragically, that's exactly what was recently announced - with his passing, at the age of 57, as the result of cancer. That age is a bit of a wake up call for those of us of a similar vintage - I'll confess. Far more poignant is the loss of a sharp wit, keen intelligence, and above all - compassionate voice, in an era when knuckle-dragging idiocy, routine brutality, and political cynicism are so much in vogue. As Hardy's fellow comedians (and others) have paid tribute to him, words like, 'humility', 'generosity', self-effacement, and 'commitment' (both to his craft - and to the causes he espoused), have abounded. Most importantly (and doubly so - for a performer so easily pigeon-holed as a 'Left Wing Comedian'), Hardy was properly funny. There were numerous occasions, especially in recent years - when I'd splutter with spontaneous glee, as he went off on yet another off-the-cuff, but erudite, exposition of social injustice or human folly.
Hardy himself, claimed to be less a political extremist, and more a Left-leaning liberal in an era when everyone else had moved so alarmingly to the Right. In such a context any engaged but essentially wooly, middle-class 'luvvie' (as he would knowingly characterise himself), might resemble a raving Trot. It was of course, a delicious irony that he ultimately found his most faithful audience as a stalwart of that bastion of hard-line Marxist orthodoxy - BBC Radio 4. Perhaps that's really why his death feels so much like losing one of 'our' own. For, cosy, complacent, and even stuffy, as that channel can often seem - it also remains an intellectual refuge for anyone who values humanitarianism, literacy, informed discussion, reasoned debate, unashamed specialist expertise, and a well-honed sentence or two. I struggle to think of anyone with income and living conditions as modest as my own, as any kind of 'elite'. Nevertheless, if a taste for any of the values detailed above must label me as part of some despised metropolitan, liberal, self-interest group - bring it on. Either way, Jeremy Hardy seemed to fit right into that kind of milieu, from the start.
In his case, that facility with language, both written and spoken, came from Stand-Up - a form of comedy to which he remained dedicated throughout his career. I witnessed him in action, some time back in the late 90s, and also within the last couple of years - when it was gratifying to witness that his powers appeared undimmed over the intervening years. He was still the same amiable, if bemused cove, in whose ramblings were buried the keenest political barbs and (perhaps more importantly) empathetic reflections on the human condition. Even as I write this, I realise that a similarly rambling, laconic and tangential manner of speech, and an habitual apology for being older than I really am - are both traits I share with Jeremy. Of course, I haven't been clever enough to parley that all into a long and successful comedy career, or indeed, to also walk the walk in some troubled region, like Palestine - as he also did.
We'll always have cherished memories of Jeremy Hardy on venerable Radio 4 panel shows, gloriously massacring 'One Song To The Tune Of Another' or confounding fellow performers and audience members alike - with yet another increasingly bonkers political 'analysis'. But it's tragic to think there'll be no more of that inspired lunacy - and he'll be greatly missed.
Addendum:
On the day Jeremy Hardy's death was announced, I also scraped a copy of the pernicious pro-Brexshit propaganda rag, 'Wetherspoonnews' off my doormat. The fact that thrusting such a misleading and cynically manipulative abomination through an innocent citizen's letterbox is now deemed acceptable, is perhaps indicative of what Jeremy Hardy meant about everyone else moving so depressingly to the Right. It is, of course, the populist impulse to present ever-hardening political extremism as 'The Voice Of The People', which has got us to the point where we now teeter - and may indeed soon deliver us to an even worse place.
Lessons from history and self-fulfilling prophesies are habitually ignored, but what feels alarmingly new - is the conflation of commercial advertising with a more political variety of misinformation. What form of cynical hubris, makes the owner of some resolutely lowest-common-denominator piss-hole chain, feel suitably qualified to herd the sheep in this manner?. You'd think poisoning livers and clogging arteries would be profitable enough, without messing with our minds too. Bar room philosophy is one thing, but 'Spoons-fed prejudice and bigotry feel like something else, altogether. Actually, I'm tempted to wonder if this might not be life exacting some bizarre revenge, by imitating the pub-based Art of another thoughtful comedian, Al Murray. 'This S(c)eptic Isle', indeed.
My initial reaction was of course to lob the offending article into the recycling - where it belongs (I no longer have cat-litter trays to line, sadly). However, as ever - Art stayed my hand. Such material naturally contains the seeds of its own satire, and the creative activity it may stimulate is ultimately more satisfying than despair or blank annoyance. Famously, 'they' hate being laughed at - and so, it goes on the ever-growing pile of stuff ripe for re-writing or detournment.
