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Part of me thought it was daft work and part of me really liked it. He came from a classical tradition, the old N.D.D. in the 50s. When you suspend your expectations and look at the form and colour, yeh, why not? His work is very different now, but has the same disquiet, a menace completely understated. So, Ivor stories. We're at an opening, me dressed in white, denim jacket and trousers, Ivor said I looked like a Bakers assistant, Hockney comes up and says hello to Ivor, who turns and introduces me as his assistant, 'Really', says Hockers,'I thought he was my birthday present'. We're in the Elm an old aquaintance comes up and Ivor says 'Are you working, or are you still teaching?'. That might be Norman Stevens, it could have been either.
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I had to flock that fucker, then make litle flaps of rubber covered in flock to pin to it, about a thousand. When I worked at Chris Betambeau's, flocking a print edition, Chris would make a polythene box and put me in it to stop the flock contaminating other work. What a waste of time. Most prints from the 70's have got Ivors flock in them, as well as a cock and balls placed somewhere in the image by the lads. Ivor introduces me to Eric, the pornographer, a seedy soul who has made his living since the 50's writing porno letters as a woman to gentlemen all over Britain. The occassional pair of used knickers would, perhaps, pay for Christmas. Alas, an art that has gone. Next |