When people spend fortunes on a Rolex or a Piaget or a Cartier watch it means very little to me. Because they are buying into a brand name which is, after all, someone else’s character, personality, history and provenance. And the question I always ask (quietly, inside) is, “don’t they have any of their own?”
I suppose my vague resentment comes from a conversation about City men and how they spend fortunes on watches and suits and shoes and briefcases. I remember the most beautiful briefcase I ever saw was one carried by a Creative Director I used to work with. It was leather, battered, bent, curled at the corners, handle darkened by the sweat of his palm on steamy days, and it matched his shorts and scraggly beard and the pillow he always carried for Power Naps, perfectly.
In Africa they speak of seriti or isitunzi – those symbolic shadows we cast; a reflection of our greatness as a remembrance of the way we have lived our lives, and the richness we have offered to the community. Although our mark is sometimes measured in the number of cattle and the tangible wealth we’ve brought to the clan, more often it’s measured in the potency of action, the bravery and courage we’ve enacted and inspired. The izibongo – those epic poems sung about each individual recalling the anecdotes of a life lived well – accumulate from the person to the people and become a history spoken of for ages after. What will be the izibongo of the City men of London; the Viking raiders in a new age of rape and pillage?
In another sense we talk of context and of how it frames our paintings, our lives, our interests, perspective and focal points. So for instance, while people may ridicule the art of Damien Hirst, he serves as such a perfect foil for our time. He uses gold and diamonds as paint on his canvas. But he uses butterfly wings too. It’s all filthy lucre and fragility; gold spun fine as a spider’s web, ephemeral crap much in the same vein as Andy Warhol in his own time. Damien’s art is framed by the context of the London Cityboy - all Style and no Substance, more Wealthy than Wise. I sense it in other people too – that vacuous and empty search for the ultimate party, all glitter, UV, chemicals, alcohol, music and bright lights. Sometimes it just looks and feels so sad.
In a hundred years time, what will your provenance be?
And mine? For it’s all very well being a bard who sings the epic poem of my time, but out here in the “blag”osphere who will ever hear me over the babblings of all the other troubadours, blogging about turnip farming, turgid sex and expat life?
After all, the shadows we cast are only the momentary reflection of shapes passing through sunlight ...
I suppose my vague resentment comes from a conversation about City men and how they spend fortunes on watches and suits and shoes and briefcases. I remember the most beautiful briefcase I ever saw was one carried by a Creative Director I used to work with. It was leather, battered, bent, curled at the corners, handle darkened by the sweat of his palm on steamy days, and it matched his shorts and scraggly beard and the pillow he always carried for Power Naps, perfectly.
In Africa they speak of seriti or isitunzi – those symbolic shadows we cast; a reflection of our greatness as a remembrance of the way we have lived our lives, and the richness we have offered to the community. Although our mark is sometimes measured in the number of cattle and the tangible wealth we’ve brought to the clan, more often it’s measured in the potency of action, the bravery and courage we’ve enacted and inspired. The izibongo – those epic poems sung about each individual recalling the anecdotes of a life lived well – accumulate from the person to the people and become a history spoken of for ages after. What will be the izibongo of the City men of London; the Viking raiders in a new age of rape and pillage?
In another sense we talk of context and of how it frames our paintings, our lives, our interests, perspective and focal points. So for instance, while people may ridicule the art of Damien Hirst, he serves as such a perfect foil for our time. He uses gold and diamonds as paint on his canvas. But he uses butterfly wings too. It’s all filthy lucre and fragility; gold spun fine as a spider’s web, ephemeral crap much in the same vein as Andy Warhol in his own time. Damien’s art is framed by the context of the London Cityboy - all Style and no Substance, more Wealthy than Wise. I sense it in other people too – that vacuous and empty search for the ultimate party, all glitter, UV, chemicals, alcohol, music and bright lights. Sometimes it just looks and feels so sad.
In a hundred years time, what will your provenance be?
And mine? For it’s all very well being a bard who sings the epic poem of my time, but out here in the “blag”osphere who will ever hear me over the babblings of all the other troubadours, blogging about turnip farming, turgid sex and expat life?
After all, the shadows we cast are only the momentary reflection of shapes passing through sunlight ...
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