Ghost in the machine (2011)
The bejewelled hand is
followed by a colourful arm, upon which I admire and read the decorative, home
drawn tattoos. Behind me, the owner of the arm gruffly exclaims,
“Come on darlin’ lets do
that thing like the do on that film Ghost”,
Her actions are met with
raucous jeering and hooting from her audience and are, in part, caused by the
delivery of the joke, but mostly due to the look of terror in my eyes.
I had been asked to
demonstrate throwing to a group of young mothers at a local community centre. A
common request throughout the formative years of my career, and at practically
every venue that joke, the ghost joke, was played out by one or more of the
participants. Always received with the same rapturous welcome, with an equally
enthusiastic crowd.
Sitting at the wheel almost
twenty years later, the memories of their laughter return. And as I move the
hair that once existed to behind my ear, I begin to throw, content in the
knowledge that this piece of clay will be different to the others, this piece
will be ‘good’.
I love to throw, I have for
many years, it mesmerises me.
To throw is a skill, and as
with any skill, it is acquired through accumulation of experience over many
years. It is something that one must do in order to understand. Once, irritated
by the plethora of ‘step by step’ guides to throwing on sale at an event, I
returned the following year with a selection of T-shirts bearing my own ‘step
by step guide’. They were worn throughout the show by my assistants and hung
behind my stand for sale, until the organisers complained that they were not
ceramic. At which point they removed from sale, but remained on show.
Fashions come and go, I
entered the ceramic world as the 1970’s vogue for all things hand made was trailing
off. Economics led to disillusionment and ultimately reflection upon my
intention.
As the interest amongst my
students leans once more towards the rediscovery of past techniques, whilst
sprouting impressive beards. I wonder whether this generation has the
commitment and infrastructure that will enable them to succeed. Or whether the
welcome look towards ceramics will shift as fast as their collective, google
minded attention span.
I have often wondered why so
many potters have beards. They render dust masks ineffective. And rather than
act as a filtration device, as the health consultant who failed to recognise
the humour within my quip informed me, they make matters much worse.
I seem to remember that
Janet Leach also had a beard, at least in the photograph that I once became
fixated and strangely attracted towards. Poised at the wheel. Her full
physicality and strength contorted through the expression of her, as the potter
and work morphed into one.
I have had a vague memory of
a quote, apparently by Janet, stuck in my mind since my training in ceramics.
The implication of which is that you can only make a good pot when you have
reached forty.
I have waited until now,
waited for this moment when the piece of clay before me will be transformed
into my first ‘good’ pot. For the past few years I have steadily grown a beard
and today is my birthday. Today I am forty.
Slap
Squeeze
Push
Pull out
Lift
Touch up
Slide off
‘The step-by-step guide to throwing’ (1996)
‘The step-by-step guide to throwing’ (1996)
The 'Good' pot September 2011
Concrete
© Jonathan Roberts 2011
Andrew Logan – Harley
Gallery 2/4/09 – 14/06/09
It’s raining and the grim
grey day offers little but cold reflection upon memories of sunshine. An old
lady blocks my way, her umberella’d waddle drips along in front, impassibly
resisting my attempts to sidestep towards the door of the gallery.
A glimmer, a flash of mirror
and colour tease through a large window, offering winged horses. Pegasus stands
in triplicate, beckoning. As the old lady is drawn to the smell of coffee, I am
free to quicken my pace to enter another world,
the world of Andrew Logan. A
world where colour meets reflection with an ample supply of glitter; a world
that is not ashamed to show it’s decorative and sparkly smile; a world that
soon allows me to forget about the rain, the old lady and that revels in the
glimpse of hope that peered dimly through the window.
Logan, punk artist and
member of the early 1980’s ‘New Wave’, takes us on ‘An artistic adventure’ in
this, a touring exhibition from Ruthin Craft Centre. An adventure that takes us
through a familiar rendition of the neo pop glamour that is aggressive in its
beauty, yet playful and contemplative in its demeanor.
Logan assaults every sense
and the gallery is filled with a cacophony of gentle ambience emitting from the
‘Four Flowers of the Apocalypse’, this string arrangement resonates from the
large pink, green, purple and orange flowers. A collaborative sound arrangement
by Brian Eno that is punctuated only by cheering and the voice of Julian Clary
that accompanies the spectacular that is the Alternative Miss World contest
playing upon the small monitor nearby.
As I catch sight of myself
in Zandra Rhodes’ body I am drawn to the golden animals that exist in the world
of “Childhood”; a collection of toys removed from a cupboard after the death of
his parents, in which we are offered a ‘gilded memory of arcadia’. As Irene and
Bill Logan watch over their sons actions in their gilt and mirror portrait, an
image of how they were on their wedding day; a shrine to the initiators and creators
of this artist and his endeavour.
Sitting in the lotus
position atop a mirrored mountain that intermittently chimes to the sound of
yoga bells, is a female figure, Logan’s yoga teacher. Within the upper gallery
is a calmer assault upon the senses. More obvious here is the influence of
India and the contemplative reflective rhythm of inner yogic peace.
Here a mirrored portrait of
Gandhi rests above the shape of India upon which is assembled the results of twenty five years collecting discarded objects whilst in India. Logan’s already busy
repertoire is joined by flashing lights, wooden elephants and many more
discarded objects, one can almost hear sound of traffic and smell of exhaust
fumes.
I sit; a pause within the
hedonistic whirlwind that wants to tell me so much at once. Logan is relentless
in his upbeat glittery reflections of his world. The essence of Pop in all of
its Duchampian glory sticks two fingers up to the world pausing only to apply
more glitter and to be upstanding for a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen”. Here
in this strangely attractive babble of glamour and gold, uncompromising frivolity appears to reign supreme. At the heart of
such frivolity lies a utopian dream, a Zen like reflection in the morning after
the night before.
Miniature sightseers gaze
intently, exploring the monumental flip flop with mirrored straps. This is
Buddha’s flip-flop and it is attached to a half glitter ball igloo. Atop which
sits Buda, surveying his flip-flop with a contemplative air. I kneel and join
the sightseers in their surveillance of this large pebble, and too marvel at
its scale.
Logan creates work to be
enjoyed, to be smiled at and to be reflected upon. His artistic adventure
continues, and as I stand again to leave the gallery I pass the busts of a previous
Alternative Miss World Winner on stands and in cages; the mirrored hands of the
artist as Pollock and Newman; and Mickey Mouse gazing intently at his own
reflection.
Venus looks down upon me
from a tall pillar as I leave the gallery and return to the rain and the car
park. My mind still full of glitter and mirror, I round the corner and come
face to face with the old lady, who smiles at me with a knowing look in her
eye.
© Jonathan Roberts 2009
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