"You guys have a gallery in London don't you?.." The woman was confident she had seen a Mooch art in London. It occurred to me to say yes but telling lies to me is like throwing a ball with my left hand. I'm just so bad at it that even if I wanted to I'd end up looking like a fool.
I'm sure at some point mooch will open a gallery in London but its great to know that when we do, there will be one woman who will think it has been there ages.
I didn't make a big deal of it but on the 26th June, Mooch art was 1 year old. It's hard to fathom the distance that a small gallery can come in that time. Art galleries along with other luxury goods have taken a hammering since the crunch hit. Rumours are circulating about the latest casualty so surviving and even prospering in the worst economic crisis in 70 years is something to celebrate.
Oldham street is still the Mooch epicentre and that is the way it is going to stay. Things are turning and there is a change in the tide of confidence. Sales have been fantastic in the past 2 months and at the time of writing the FTSE has seen it tenth consecutive session of gains. Is this is a sign that things are on the up?
What is certain is that mooch shows artwork that people want. The starting of a gallery is a risky thing and more that a few people had doubts about it. One of my friends took me to task when I had just signed on the lease for the gallery. He has a lot of experience in business and strongly believed I was chasing a fanciful dream. I wouldn't be able to make enough to live and that it wasn't a viable business. It gave my confidence a serious knock but after some soul searching I went ahead and did it anyway.
Around that time I remember a talk by Trevor Baylis, the inventor of the clockwork radio. He came across massive resistance to his ideas. Like me, (although to a lesser extent) people thought he was just a dreamer with a crazy idea. Trevor sent his idea to the National association of watch and clock collectors who took enormous pleasure in ripping his ideas to shreds. The letter he received back was highly detailed in its criticism. He has kept this as a sign that most people find it easier to knock an idea that to create one. It is easier to be sceptical that to believe in a positive change. Trevor can say it much better than me, "The key to success is to risk thinking unconventional thoughts. Convention is the enemy of progress."
Mooch is still growing and is likely to make some bigger moves very soon. The only difference now from last year is that when I say I'm going to do something, people take me a bit more seriously.
Saturday 25 July 2009
Friday 10 July 2009
Artist focus - Mike Smith on Mike Smith
Mike pokes his head round the door briefly and says for me to come in. He is smoking a roll up and doesn't want to stink out the flat so disappears onto the balcony leading off the kitchen. The second floor flat on a crumbling street in Hulme could be a set on shameless. Abandoned cars lie in drives and four floors of post war architecture make it clear this is a rough part of town. Mike Smith is an artist, but he also an alcoholic. The two are incompatible.
This is something very difficult for me to write about because it is story of extraordinary waste. Someone who approached me 2 months ago with some paintings which impressed me has since fallen off the wagon. Not knowing his problems I was compelled to show his work, how can I possibly refuse my namesake?
My 1st visit was to his girlfriends house in Chorlton. It was here I realised he was more than just a very talented painter, he was, and still is, a creative genius. I don't use these words lightly and haven't used them before but am certain of their use at this point.
Mike has shown with some great galleries and has sold a lot of work to a lot of people. Never have I met someone who painting is as easy as taking a walk. He can knock out a painting in a day that many other artists would strain for a week over. Its effortless, and it leaves him with excess room in his brain to fill with strange and dark thoughts.
In the flat he offers me a drink, I accept a cup of tea. He makes it and then says he has no milk and that I don't have to drink it. He apologises and curses himself for being an idiot and a loser. He does that a lot.
It was in his little kitchen with him still smoking when I asked how things were going. I knew something was up because in the two months since we met he hadn't produced any more artwork despite being in a new exhibition next week. He told me that fairly soon after our conversations "Emmesse" slipped back into his old ways.
On the 26th June, mooch art was 1 year old and I invited all the artists out for a few drinks. Mike wanted to be involved in a normal social drink but he told me that he stood outside watching us laughing and drinking through the pub window but tragically couldn't bring himself to step inside and sit there with a coke.
Emmesse (Mike Smith) is a caricature of the tortured artist. At first I wasn't sure whether to believe his story, but it has been confirmed by others close to him. He revels in the poetic destruction of his life. When he is drunk he says he thinks he can be like David Bowie, an artist, a madman a creative force to be reckoned with. In truth he is everything but.
Mike knows this of course. His rational side knows damn well just what impact he is having on himself and those around him. He is incredibly open, honest and articulate about his situation and I can't help but like the guy. I expect others have fallen for his childlike qualities mixed with lucid intelligence. But everyone, it seems, finds that the alter ego is too much to deal with. His girlfriend threw him out of her house a week ago and the flat we are in is his own but he now shares it with his former tenant.
Artists have always had an alternate view on reality and some have had a very tentative grip upon it. I have always loved the work of Caravaggio. A renaissance painter who was as unstable and dangerous as he was talented. The dramatic and dark paintings still have massive power and resulted from this incredible mind. Modern day Caravaggios are being born today.
He talks me through some of his paintings, many of which were done to articulate his remorse at being a drunk and many to tackle his overwhelming fear of death. The work is brilliant, but it is stacked like pieces of rubbish in his bedroom. He says he should just chuck them all in the skip, he has done this before. Many pieces are typical landscapes, very skilfully painted without a trace of his personality. Others are malevolent, dark and foreboding pieces with meaning in every brush stroke. The curtains are closed despite it being a bright sunny day. I ask whether he enjoys painting. He pauses and thinks about it. He says he doesn't enjoy it in the conventional sense but he feels it is necessary.
He asks whether I still believe in him. I say I do but its really up to him not me. I'm no shrink, no counsellor. I wonder whether I said too much, or didn't say enough. Whether listening is enough or whether firm guidance is needed. I don't know, and from what I have heard, many people close to him don't either.
So why should I write this about him you ask? Well maybe If people know about this he can be helped. Treating your body to a course of 14 pints of special brew isn't a recipe for a long life. Mike knows this and thinks he will be dead within a year. Whether this is dramatic I can't be sure but It still leaves me with a lot to think about.
This is something very difficult for me to write about because it is story of extraordinary waste. Someone who approached me 2 months ago with some paintings which impressed me has since fallen off the wagon. Not knowing his problems I was compelled to show his work, how can I possibly refuse my namesake?
My 1st visit was to his girlfriends house in Chorlton. It was here I realised he was more than just a very talented painter, he was, and still is, a creative genius. I don't use these words lightly and haven't used them before but am certain of their use at this point.
Mike has shown with some great galleries and has sold a lot of work to a lot of people. Never have I met someone who painting is as easy as taking a walk. He can knock out a painting in a day that many other artists would strain for a week over. Its effortless, and it leaves him with excess room in his brain to fill with strange and dark thoughts.
In the flat he offers me a drink, I accept a cup of tea. He makes it and then says he has no milk and that I don't have to drink it. He apologises and curses himself for being an idiot and a loser. He does that a lot.
It was in his little kitchen with him still smoking when I asked how things were going. I knew something was up because in the two months since we met he hadn't produced any more artwork despite being in a new exhibition next week. He told me that fairly soon after our conversations "Emmesse" slipped back into his old ways.
On the 26th June, mooch art was 1 year old and I invited all the artists out for a few drinks. Mike wanted to be involved in a normal social drink but he told me that he stood outside watching us laughing and drinking through the pub window but tragically couldn't bring himself to step inside and sit there with a coke.
Emmesse (Mike Smith) is a caricature of the tortured artist. At first I wasn't sure whether to believe his story, but it has been confirmed by others close to him. He revels in the poetic destruction of his life. When he is drunk he says he thinks he can be like David Bowie, an artist, a madman a creative force to be reckoned with. In truth he is everything but.
Mike knows this of course. His rational side knows damn well just what impact he is having on himself and those around him. He is incredibly open, honest and articulate about his situation and I can't help but like the guy. I expect others have fallen for his childlike qualities mixed with lucid intelligence. But everyone, it seems, finds that the alter ego is too much to deal with. His girlfriend threw him out of her house a week ago and the flat we are in is his own but he now shares it with his former tenant.
Artists have always had an alternate view on reality and some have had a very tentative grip upon it. I have always loved the work of Caravaggio. A renaissance painter who was as unstable and dangerous as he was talented. The dramatic and dark paintings still have massive power and resulted from this incredible mind. Modern day Caravaggios are being born today.
He talks me through some of his paintings, many of which were done to articulate his remorse at being a drunk and many to tackle his overwhelming fear of death. The work is brilliant, but it is stacked like pieces of rubbish in his bedroom. He says he should just chuck them all in the skip, he has done this before. Many pieces are typical landscapes, very skilfully painted without a trace of his personality. Others are malevolent, dark and foreboding pieces with meaning in every brush stroke. The curtains are closed despite it being a bright sunny day. I ask whether he enjoys painting. He pauses and thinks about it. He says he doesn't enjoy it in the conventional sense but he feels it is necessary.
He asks whether I still believe in him. I say I do but its really up to him not me. I'm no shrink, no counsellor. I wonder whether I said too much, or didn't say enough. Whether listening is enough or whether firm guidance is needed. I don't know, and from what I have heard, many people close to him don't either.
So why should I write this about him you ask? Well maybe If people know about this he can be helped. Treating your body to a course of 14 pints of special brew isn't a recipe for a long life. Mike knows this and thinks he will be dead within a year. Whether this is dramatic I can't be sure but It still leaves me with a lot to think about.
Thursday 2 July 2009
Hot Hot Hot
Are we going to have one of the best summers ever? I can feel it in my bones. The papers have fascinating nuggets of information saying Today Oldham was hotter than Jamaica. For sweating bodies in Oldham it is hardly a great victory. I had 2 ozzies in the gallery today up for the weekend. I mentioned the weather and immediately berated myself for being a typical englishman.
Cycling into the gallery this morning there was a buzz in the air. The women are solar powered and everyone is looking beautiful. Everything felt right and the world sorted. On the train (with my bike) a spontaneous conversation broke out between the myself and the other guys sitting next to me. On a cold dark February morning with the windows steamed up, barely a word would have been said but the feel good day was too much to contain to ourselves. I could tell we all had to spout mindless stuff to reaffirm the fact that it really was a good day INDEED.
Views can change within the same day. Our love/hate relationship with heatwaves remind me of my Gran (bless her soul) where no day is ever the right bloody temperature. "Oooh isn't it hot, you just can't do anything" "Oooh is just too close isn't it" "It needs to rain, it does, but I don't like it when its raining."
The galleries are baking too. Have sympathy for Sophia in the triangle where the lovely light and bright space means she has to wear shades indoors and have a fan constantly blowing on her. Oldham st is cool though, a natural spot that makes winter electricity bills skyrocket also means without air conditioning its actually very pleasant now.
What has this got to do with art? Absolutely nothing. I just like talking about the weather. Damn it.
Painting above is called Sunflowers by Victoria Tsekidou and is currently on display at the triangle gallery.
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