Day -1 to 1

I know it's a little odd to start my recounting on day -1 but the beginning of how I got this job is a little bit odd in itself. I guess i should start with what I am actually doing here well in currently sat at a antique 70's desk worth in the region of £5,000 awaiting the instruction of my fun loving boss John as he tries to organise me a list of login details for his many websites etc. This I think is the perfect time for be to start this little blogging venture of mine.

So day -1 was the first encounter I had with John and it's a long story but I'll try to cut it down for you. Basically I had to interview a  number of artists about their life experiences as creative people. John being such a person offered to take some time out to speak with me. So I grabbed a cab and shot over to his studio one city over from my own to carry out our interview. Having spoken to five other artists before him I wasn't holding out much hope he would be any more interesting than the last but I was plesantly surprised. This then turned into a 2,500 word story about my chat with John De Mearns and if you want to read it its my last post or should I say my first.

Anyway John was late which if you have read my rambling piece you will already know and you will also know that he expressed the need for an intern. Enter me. i offered my services and I'm now sat at this gorgeous desk waiting for my next instruction.

Day 0 was a studio open day where I came and had a chat with John about exactly what it is he wants me to do for him and much like my father he rambled a little going over the same point a couple of times before swiftly moving on to the next. Needless to say the tasks he wanted to set me were do able and fairly simple in the most part with a few curve balls thrown in for good measure. But I'll get to those a little later.

Now it's day 1 and I'm looking at a box of yogi green tea debating when to have my first cup. Now is a good a time as any I surpose.

Day -1

LATE

I hate lateness. And I hate people who think being late is okay. However, I have come to realise that being 10 minutes early annoys people just as much as when you’re 10 minutes late. As one of those early people, I can sympathise because I too hate being early. This was my dilemma when meeting John.

My morning consisted of waking up late, throwing on any outfit and running to the train station; not quite the glamorous start I had hoped for. I had planned on a relaxing morning, filled with cups of tea and breakfast television but, unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Finally, making it onto the train all sticky with sweat, I sat and planned my next move. Bus? Taxi? Or phone a friend? With it being midday and having £10 in my purse, a taxi was my only option. Everyone I knew in the city was at work and even in a crisis I hate putting people out and there was no time to devise a bus route. As my train pulled in to platform 13 I was poised at the doors ready and waiting. As soon as they parted I leapt out, rushed down the stairs, ran through the subway and out to the taxi rank that lined the station’s entrance. I jumped in, gave the driver the address and I was off. Admittedly, sitting in the cab I did feel a bit more glamorous. As I watched the meter tick over 20 pence every two seconds, I was praying we would get there soon– after all, it is only a two minute drive. £5.20 later we pulled up with 15 minutes to spare.

Faced with ‘Spike Island’ I felt a strange sense of unease. Its glass front was intimidatingly modern, unlike the character filled ‘Jamaica Street’ Studios I had visited before. As the automatic doors swung open, I walked into a marble floored lobby with a tiny reception desk, behind which was a plain looking man I now know as Jack. He raised his head and looked at me with a bewildering stare. I had received this look before and have come to discover that ‘arty’ people don’t like the unfamiliar — and in this situation the unfamiliar was me.

‘Hi, I was wondering if you could help me? I'm Emily House and I’m here to do an interview with an artist called John. John de Mearnes. Could you point me in the right direction?’

‘I’ll call him up. Just give me a minute.’

            Eagerly waiting, I smiled and Jack ran his finger down a long list of names and numbers and began to prod the stiff buttons on a phone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 70s sitcom.  After a long and sufficiently awkward minute of me looking at him, he clicked the receiver and looked up at me – completely straight faced. ‘What time were you meeting him?’

            ‘One-ish.’

He looked up at the large and conveniently placed clock on the wall opposite.

            ‘I know I'm a bit early’ I said hastily, hoping to avoid the unnecessary disapproval of my punctuality.

            ‘Mmm, yes. Take a seat over there and I’ll call him again in 10 minutes. I expect he’s out to lunch.’

So I sat. 10 minutes isn’t very long and the speckled grey sofa I had been directed to was opposite the studio’s on-site café. Bustling with arty types, children and passers by, it was entertaining enough, so I just sat and people watched.

            By minute eight I was getting fidgety. Every few seconds I glanced over at Jack to see if he had kept to his promise of calling John one more time. He caught one of my expectant glances, sighed, and picked up the receiver. I stood up in anticipation but my excitement was short-lived. ‘He said he’ll be half an hour.’

            ‘Half an hour?’ It’s fair to say you could hear the ‘you have to be kidding me’ tone of my voice. I was not impressed. Begrudgingly I sat back down. As each minute passed I became more agitated. You have to be joking. Who is 30 minutes late for their own interview? If he calls back and says he’s ‘so sorry but something has come up and he won’t make it today’ I’ll scream. Over and over I considered each possible reason why someone could be that late when suddenly the phone rang. Thinking nothing of it I kept going over my ‘Hello, nice to meet you’ in my head in ways that would hide my irritation. 

‘He said he’ll be 10 minutes.’ Jack raised his head above the computer.

‘Perfect! Thanks!’ He must have heard the joy in my voice because he smiled back at me before disappearing yet again behind the black monitor. I was pleased but my main thought was: This guy had better be worth it.

John

I stared impatiently through the glass; expecting him to walk through the front doors I inspected every passer by to calculate the likelihood of John-ness about them. No joy. I heard footsteps from the stairs above my head and turned to see if this could be the man in question. But I wasn’t holding out much hope.

‘Are you Emily?’

‘Yes. And you’re John?’

            He nodded. ‘Hiya. Sorry I'm late. I completely forgot about this. Trust me not to write it down, what I really need is a PA.’ He laughed and said with a smile, ‘Come this way, my studio is just up here.’

            My irritation lessened the more he spoke. I don’t know if it was his delightful manner or his comical hat that made me smile, but both were working wonders on my mood. John is one of those men who possesses the coveted talent of charm; fun loving, intelligent and witty. If I was 20 years older I would have wanted to snap him up (minus the orange woven cowboy hat of course).

We walked to the top of the stairway to more glass panelled doors with ‘Studio Artists Only – Private’ printed on them. These types of doors always make me feel important. It’s fairly childish really; the whole ‘Ha Ha I'm allowed in and you’re not’ attitude. But it will forever be something I enjoy.

‘Can you buzz me in please?’ John said over the banister down to Jack who was still huffing and puffing at reception. The door clicked and we were in. Holding the doors open all the way, like a gentleman, John led me through the back corridors, around corners and downstairs to his cramped studio space. On the way we passed a table of artists who shot me a slightly unwelcoming glance; but this is something I never got from John.

I have noticed through all of my visits to various studios that the insides are never as glamorous as you expect. They usually consist of unfinished concrete walls and floors and the occasional wooden door; nothing like the splendour you might expect from an artistic community. John’s space wasn’t much different; not a reflection of his character, but a high ceilinged, concrete room with ‘untouchable windows’ as John liked to put it. I walked through a maze of furniture to an old futon covered in colourful and eclectic blankets. This was much more what I had expected to find in John’s studio. After speaking to him for only 5 minutes I could tell he was warm, friendly and charismatic; the type of guy you can easily and almost instantly forgive for being 15 or 20 minutes late.

            He took the seat in front of me on an ear piercingly squeaky green office chair that would have fallen apart if it wasn’t for the rust holding it together. A lot of the things in John’s studio were like that chair. The glass cabinet just behind him was dusty and cracked. The green velvet curtain, concealing anything from the Wizard of Oz to his next masterpiece, was covered in ink and oil paint and hung limply from the ceiling. And John was a little shabby chic too; he was sporting a blue and white checked shirt that had an unusual three button fastening on the collar as well as a worn-out orange body warmer made from a shiny fabric. It was scruffy; covered in grey-brown smudges with a large hole in one pocket where the beige stuffing poked through. His ‘designer stubble,’ if you can call it that, also gave a carefree air to his character. As he spoke, he stroked his short chin bristles as though this was what calmed his nerves or helped his concentration. His thin-rimmed glasses framed his inquisitive eyes which revealed deep wrinkles when he smiled. And although John liked to point out that he felt totally disconnected from his space, in the end I think it reflected him perfectly.

Observations made, it was time to get down to the nity gritty; what we were really there for – a story. Pulling out my dictaphone, John looked comfortable and made a space for it on his desk. No one else I have met has looked so calm when asked to be recorded. They normally cower at the thought but press on regardless; continually glancing down at the device ticking away in front of them, but not John. I pressed record. ‘Hello, you are now in Russia’ he said in a convincing soviet accent. His humour was refreshing and after a laugh of appreciation we were off.

Worth the Wait

‘Bath was, after a while, slightly nauseating. At the start I was living on Pultney Street and it was great. I was night-clubbing and washing up, but after a year I wanted to move on and see something new. I had had just about enough of my face full of tourists and I had done enough washing up so I began to look for something elsewhere.

That’s when I found a course in Wolverhampton. It was a contrast to Bath. It was like stepping off a wedding cake. It was a relief, you know that cultural relentlessness that is Bath and all that. Anyway, I moved and got involved in filming crack riots and organising warehouse parties and…’

He paused briefly. I think he could tell by the look of bewilderment on my face that I had no idea what he was talking about. Without me having to breathe a word he started again

‘It just sort of happened around us. The crack riots were a brilliantly organised police event. They basically nailed all the locals. They weren’t even agitators, they were just local black people. At the time I lived in a massive black settlement called Whitmore Reans. They were shipping in thousands of policeman from Birmingham who had no idea what was going on and they just ended up kicking people in to the point where they beat up my 70-year-old neighbour. I mean he was a black guy with a walking stick, not exactly a threat.’

His comic tone had swiftly flipped and I moved from amusement to shock. Whitmore Reans is an area that sits north–west of the city centre and to this day has a diverse ethnic community. Up until the 20^th century Reans was a genteel neighbourhood overlooking the beautiful West Park but slipped into decline. John went on ‘It was horrendous you know? But living in that area it was brilliant as well. Being a student you knew what was going on and if you were there long enough you were trusted rather than being seen as just your average privileged white git.’

I had yet to notice it before, but John’s accent did lend itself to a more middle class tone. His words were perfectly pronounced and his vocabulary was a mix of everyday and the elaborate. All in all the way he spoke was a complete surprise, hidden behind his comedic persona.

‘We knew where all the blues parties were and more importantly to us what you could and couldn’t get there. So when you’re concerned with getting something as exotic as crack, it was just a joke. I mean it was both ridiculous and fantastic to live there. There were huge empty industrial yards filled with old rotting equipment and they were ever so quiet in the day. We used to ignore it all and arrange big parties in the warehouses. Or I did anyway. What I should have done was record all of it. It was what I did and it was what needed to happen in the 80s. There was zero energy in all these places and all I was doing at the time was creating energy. And then?’ He paused and thought for a brief moment. ‘I left the country. I think Margaret Thatcher had just got in again and it was sickening.’

He snuck in a cheeky smile and continued more light heartedly. ‘So, I moved to Paris and spent five years going fishing at weekends, hanging out, had a French girlfriend, got a car and did freelance drawing for advertisers. I loved French cultural life. The three hour lunches, the beer, all day coffee and of course smoking like a trouper. Yeah it was great and really good fun.’ His childlike grin got bigger and bigger with every new memory that he recalled. I soon realised I was watching someone relive some of the most enjoyable times of their life and I needed to hear more.

He sat back in his chair as he reminisced. ‘It was again a beautiful contrast. When I was in Wolverhampton I managed to go on an exchange to Rouen, which is called ‘the city of a hundred spires’. It’s just filled with these beautiful churches. All beautifully carved stone in these physically breath-taking designs. It’s exquisite and after being there for two months, I was in love. The college was a refreshing contrast too. Everyone there was very painterly and the whole place smelled of dryers, turps and oil paint. It was balmy and sunny and the college itself was exquisite, ridiculously old with a courtyard enclosed in four walls of two-storey studios. It was a lovely approach to existence.’

His expression was ever changing and you could see by the look in his eyes the love he had for France. ‘I've always been a Francophile and so was my father and grandfather. They both spoke incredible French and I love it all, the language the culture and I quite like the women.’

That cheeky smirk showed itself again followed by a heart-warming sigh: ‘and I fell in love.’ I was sure I saw his eyes glaze over but he had soon moved on. ‘As soon as I could I had to move back there – the contrast was all I wanted. Our country was so obsessed and there was something else for me there. When I moved over we lived in a basement of what is called a hôtel particulier. They are these magnificent buildings scattered all over Paris, where previously there would have been a concierge and you would have had a room or apartment off a central stairwell. Some of them are unspeakably beautiful. We lived in the basement and even that was beautiful. We cleaned and scrubbed it out and threw down some concrete flooring. It was just ground when we got there because it was where they kept the wine. It was a tad dark but romantic and still lovely.’

‘We loved it and for a while we lived with the whole family in that building. My girlfriend’s mother was a teacher and so was, Thierry, her father. He  was incredibly intelligent. He also wrote for philosophers and worked for Assemblée nationale, writing the arguments for parliament. He had a gloriously able mind and is like an archive of rock and roll music. You have to meet him to believe it. Their younger daughter was three at the time and is now a concert violinist. When she was young she used to correct all my tenses and gender. She would tell me off all the time.’ He broke into a squeaky French accent ‘La port, la port Johnny.’

After another round of laughter John looked expectantly at me for a reaction. I was looking at him with amazement and intrigue. All I could blurt out was ‘wow’ as my mouth broke into a huge grin. As it turned out John was definitely worth the wait.