Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Monday, 5 October 2015
Work Ethic, RIP
It's like back-to-school weather right now after the golden Autumn, but we are lucky not to be experiencing the South Carolina event - yes, stop moaning, Cro. At least the water rose slowly on the Somerset Levels.
We are off to see Frank Auerbach's retrospective at The Tate on Thursday. I hope H.I. doesn't make the same faux pas as she did last time - not as much as her though!:
Frank: "Jackie, how are you?"
H.I.: "I'm fine, how are you? I love your new drawings in the room next door".
Frank: "Thank you, but they are not mine". (At this point, a large hole fails to open up and swallow her whole).
Just to get his own back, Frank pretends that he doesn't know that H.I. has been divorced from her husband for many years now, and wonders who the hell I am. The invitation came addressed to her ex as well, so maybe I will just have to pretend to be him again, and ignore the Waddington's security as they get me in an arm-lock. Could be an ugly scene.
I was talking to some Bath gallery owners the other day, and they inevitably asked me if I was an artist like her. I said that I was a sculptor, but not a fine-artist. They asked what the difference was, so I explained. Basically, a traditional sculptor does not necessarily produce fine art, I said, and they asked what the difference was again.
When I elaborated by saying that none of the stuff I did ever found its way into a modern gallery, they asked why not - again.
"Because I would only have to deal with people like you, who have it all stitched-up as you have done for over 100 years". Only then did they know what I was talking about. Anyway, there are almost as many frustrated fine-artists as there are frustrated writers, and most of them are architects.
There is one aspect to modern art which I really like though, and that is the acceptability of delegation. It is a shame it is not universally accepted, though.
A friend of mine who is about my age and ought to know better, asked who it was, precisely, who made the bell which hangs on the front of the pub in yesterday's video. I said, 'me'.
He said that he understood that it was my glamorous, highly talented (but fucking unreliable) assistant, and I said that he played a major role in its construction, using my research into its final shape, the external moulds I made and the construction of the plaster skimmer to those moulds with which to make it.
"So you didn't actually make the resin thing, then?"
"No, I didn't. And neither did Rodin carve all those marble sculptures, either!" was my testy response.
Some people just cannot rid themselves of their youthful and time-consuming work-ethic. I want to be a consultant when I grow up.