Last weekend I went with B. to see the David Hockney show, ‘A Bigger Picture’, at the Royal Academy. It was everything it was billed to be except it was busier and brighter. Busier (with people) meant ludicrous in parts, with surround-sound coughs and idiocies, which can later be the stuff of comedy, or slaughter. Brighter (with paint), on the other hand, won out, and meant remembering anew with tummy-flips and pop-eyed swallowing that David Hockney is quite the grandest old bugger for sheer painty fun.
Growing up I knew I wanted to be an artist (‘to make art full time’, as I would say then, a similar sentiment made almost thirty years on at the other book-end of a long and winding phase), to the extent that no thought was given to anything other than going to art college when I left school. So much for the what and the where. The why was David Hockney.
I was around sixteen when I got my first really good dose of David Hockney, and was straightaway thrown into something of a quiver, not by the free willies and the freer California campery, but by the sudden and unexpected splash of this painter with a talent for paintings bouncing and leaping and passionate with play. Some of them – deep breaths – had words in them.
David Hockney painted words into pictures; the writing was part of his painting, which was new to me because up until then encountered words in pictures had either been of the collage-y kind, as in the Cubists’ newspapers, or Schwitter’s thing for advertising trouvées1; or else of Magritte and Duchamp’s instructive labels: oh, and the more obvious kinda-contemporaries then of Pop Art’s Warhol, Blake and Lichenstein, whose words were their faithful satires. With David Hockney, the phrases were painterly, urgent and alive, with poem-and-song-robbed phrases that bumped the edges, and edges of figures, like graffiti bunching up on toilet doors.2
David Hockney was the why I was ready to love that art college time; a year under the smoke-shined eyes of Patrick Oliver, a man so carbonated with stories and wit that his languid height and hair would suddenly buckle and jerk whenever a brush-stroke or door-wedge displaced a remembering bubble; and why in jittery awe of my so-funny year-mates – of Gaby, Wayne, David, Peter, Alan – I was able to find more of what I’d just found. Art that hums with under-jokes whose references I got. Art that is simply, only, fantastically, a more efficient, more beautiful, more bonkers articulation of what I already know or already feel, what I already recall or imagine; art that illuminates my stock within, not expands it or morphs it like badly-stretched paint, or, for that matter, with badly-stretched paint.3
When I moved on to a Fine Art degree, I quickly received some other thinking, that, funnily, the joke wasn’t art anymore: ‘There are subjects’, said the still-there professor, ‘not suited to serious painting’. 4 I took down my studies of obscene bears and spent four hammering years instead with the creeping trend of ‘installation art’, coming back to painting so much later, when, on a significant birthday, B. presented me with the means to do so.
In the crowded weekend galleries of the R.A., at ‘A Bigger Picture’, I felt connected again to the why of my art from long ago. Early in the show, at the rear of the second room, once you’re over the Grand Canyon, is a smaller large work, Nichols Canyon, from 1980. It looks like it’s more recent, like one of the iPad works, even, and I guess that’s its contextual point. In its centre is a solid circle of red (a Royal Academy in-joke on Turner’s trickster daub?), and next to it the legend on the snaking tarmac, ‘Nichols Cyn Rd’. He’s painted the road’s name onto the painting, directions for my unexpected memory of the day.
Nothing David Hockney creates will be to me, nor will need to be, a thing apart from David Hockney; more specifically, the David Hockney whose painterly words on canvas were as naughty and sense-making as are his thousand astonishing trees; as naughty and sense-making as the artist I wanted to be. I can’t see the wood for the Hockneys, and, boy, that’s a wonderful thing.
There are as many reviews as trees to be read of the show, but this isn’t one. This is just a memory of the past, present, future of my art.
1 Fabulously I came across one of Kurt’s collages including the clipped words ‘Stephen Mitchell’, who much later I understood was a big shot in Glasgow smoking and reading circles, and whose junk-shopped tins I now collect. Naturally I can’t track down the flaming assemblage when I need it.
2 We Two Boys Together Clinging, 1961. David Hockney tells a lovely related thing of his art-school crush on the (actually) youthful Cliff Richard, having a newspaper clipping in his studio, relating a coastal rescue, with the headline: ‘TWO BOYS CLING TO CLIFF ALL NIGHT’. (David Hockney by David Hockney, Thames and Hudson, 1976, p.68.)
3 The art college in Leeds then was, and may still be, though long-since relocated, a beauty. As Jacob Kramer Art College, it shared its walls with the Civic Theatre, so conjoined that it was possible via a mad and tilting set of corridors, punctuated by stout but unlocked doors, to slip from a studio store room right through to the theatre’s backstage. To this day I have occasional dreams about that passageway, a real and grand version of the extra-room dream. Patrick Oliver taught there; a striking and brilliant man, about whom more can be read here. On the subject of badly stretched paint, Patrick would often re-tell an assessment of Dali’s work, where the critique was simply ‘ooh, the poor paint!’
4 Tutoring too, degree-wise, was the also-still-there Marc Camille Chaimowicz, whose wallpaper of pearls and cherubs sees us every night to sleep, and who, though I haven’t spoken with him since January 1st 1991, makes me smile still because he always seemed to know what I was looking for.
© Copyright, Steve Mitchell and Fisher Lane, 2012
Header image, Apple and Fir (detail) SM 1984