I still have bandwidth problems, and bt are proving to be a bit elusive when it comes to customer support. So this post will be a struggle.
When I was at Croydon Art College, in 1972, Apart from being physically assaulted by a drunken John Bellany, I became aquainted with a delightful blonde girl in my tutor group. We seemed to go here and there, but nothing ever came of it, except my first trip, at her behest, to an early Ann Summers shop. We sat on a water bed and talked about the apparatus in the glass cases. (In those days they were a darn sight seedier than they are now.) However, she was a slave to art and had bought a large,bound, limited edition book of signed etchings by David Hockney. As I recall, it had cost her £150. Hockney had recently emerged as a significant artist and those in the know were buying his work. My uncle, whose Chelsea flat was adorned with such delights as a Colour Television and the Dieter Rams Braun record player, also had a signed Hockney Silk Screen print. The artist was certainly being talked about.
The painting, Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy was one to go and see at the Tate. (from memory) The subjects floated ethereally, languidly, on a deep, fluffy, carpet, as if they were actually on a cloud. Posed in what seemed to me a patrician arrogance born out of wealth and surety of their place in the world, in this case the hypocentre of the Swinging Sixties, it did more than nod back to art heritage; it has been likened to The Arnolfini portrait by Jan Van Eyck, and any number of aristocratic paintings depicting the lord of the manor with his goods and chattels.
The picture is redolent of the age, in symbolic relation to the creative, and ultimately decadent Sixties. Sublime as it is, the subject matter is too irritating to have on my wall. I believe I would come to resent the smug scorn which lurks beneath the calmness and studied chic.
And what of those iconic, beautiful people? Celia Birtwell (Mrs Clark) is alive and well and in the last decade has designed ranges for Hoover, the hoover people, and Millets the camping people. Ossie Clark was was stabbed to death by a former male lover. The cat is no more. It was only a dream, after all.
nb. I cannot at present upload picture content to Blogger. I feel pissed off about this. All that is left is to leave you for the week end in the capable arms of the Cup Size Choir
Be patient, let it load, and enjoy.