THE DATE POSTED IS JANUARY 22nd, NOT DECEMBER 15th!
I always felt I was an artist. At school I certainly was – I was the one that was good at drawing, but after leaving school I developed some kind of fear of not being the best, and so despite my instincts I avoided art for a decade. Then, on starting my degree in Fine Art at the age of 32, I wrote a mini-manifesto. The main point being that art should not be judged for its exchange value. I felt that since Warhol, but more so in the era of rampant capitalism ushered in by the Reagan and Thatcher years, the intelligence of art, the inquiry, the creativeness of thought that it encouraged in both its creators and its viewers, had been undermined by the market. Particularly in the UK by Charles Saatchi.
I still feel this way.
This led me to creating a body of work that has no monetary value; that could be owned by all, starting with short text pieces that became the property of anyone that had read them. Such work is as easy to share as it is to own – its physical nature was inconsequential to its meaning, so the work could be spoken and not lose any of its potency.
This ideology continued last year when I created Cards, a series of business-card sized works that were given away to anyone that would take them. The work held no practical business information whatsoever – I didn’t even sign them, I just wanted people to have them.
The text on Cards was created using letterpress, and it set me thinking about the medium through which I delivered my work. I realised that I could manipulate the format to influence the reading of the piece. For example – if I just write ‘exquisite tenderness’ on a blackboard, or on a wall in vinyl lettering, you might draw any number of conclusions about the phrase, it’s origin, and its meaning. If I take an A3 piece of good quality hand-made paper and emboss the phrase into it, I create a piece that might demonstrate the phrase in physical form. If I take a small business card sized piece of that thick, grainy paper, and hand-print the phrase onto it in crimson lettering then an altogether different reading appears – one of luxury or indulgence.
A consequence of using letterpress and paper that comes in enormous sheets is that I can work on editions – I can create a short print run of physical works each minutely (or markedly) different to the rest. I now find myself having work that is for sale, and having a bunch of people who seem to be pleased at pointing to my manifesto from four years ago, and my subsequent turn around, telling me that it represents a dropping of ideals; a lowering of standards; a changing of principles to suit my needs.
To such cynics I hastily point out that I was never against art that could be bought – how else does an artist earn a living, after all? – no, I was and remain against art that is elevated above other art because of how much money has changed hands in exchange for the work. That Damien Hirst can sell a collection at auction, without ever having exhibited it, for £111m is fine by me (although I’m not exactly shouting ‘Go Hirsty’ from the rooftops), but this and other publicity-seeking ventures do not a good artist make.
I will continue to make work that is free to all, because there is nothing better than sharing ideas, and that happens best when money is not involved. However, I also now have editioned work up for sale on Artolo – a new artist network, encouraging users to judge art on its artistic merits, and then buy it.
Don’t worry, it’s mostly cheaper than £111m.
