A view from a comfortable chair

“…and a never-ending practice”

It started with a tattoo for a friend, as it often does lately, and then a commission from an old Rifles colleague, not the work as such, but the problem that had somehow been on the edge of my mind for the last few years now, the problem that was getting worse not better. No, not the normal oft-repeated creative’s problem of procrastination, something altogether worse I’m afraid, worsening eyesight. The work was getting bigger and bigger, A3 giving way to A2, then A1, the pencil and ink lines seemingly all to faint when captured via the camera for moving into Adobe Photoshop, the paper now all too physical a changeling for scanners, then hours in Photoshop trying to restructure those lines, to bolden here and there, leading to a lack of impulsiveness in the work.

The answer came via the classroom as it often does, illustration colleagues at their wits end at the sudden growth of Procreate amongst our illustration students, the iPad and the Apple Pen. Yes, I could see the problems with image size and quality, but this was no different than the early users of Photoshop not understanding the settings needed for DPI and print outputs, no, what really interested me was the way in which a swipe of fingers and you could zoom in on your work, and yet importantly the line weight remained constant, and it was a doddle to export directly into Photoshop. A used Apple Pencil from eBay and a ‘Like-Paper’ screen protector later and I was away, tattoo and commission done in a weekend; so pleased was I with the feel of the pen that a Huion tablet for the iMac soon followed.

‘A view from a comfortable chair’ – well that’s down to the old trusty green buttoned leather swivel chair picked up via a solicitors revamp some 25 years ago, God help me when it finally gives up the ghost, oh sorry, and a never-ending practice? – that’s because you never stop learning.

The work, well this is all rather autoethnographic in nature, it started with images setting off memories, or rather shards of fractured memories. Overtime these became a triptych of 3 essays all liked to judo and my childhood, or rather a 3 to 4 year period starting as I became a teenager, ‘Italian Bars’, ‘The Ambler Gambler’ and ‘Tokyo Nights’, which as in turn led to a triptych of 3 new works for each essay, new work created on the iPad, moved into Photoshop and then, the plan that is, screen printed on to a coarse stock to be finished by hand as A1 works. For each piece the process starts with the deconstruction via iteration of found images in order to explore why said images set off the memoires that they do.

What you see here are the first 3 essays and the work as they are so far, still in Photoshop, still in their raw state as I play with compositions and rendering options before I hit print to make the first screens, so work very much in progress.

The Amber Gambler

Three brothers living under the same roof, Balkan born, parents dead, the oldest now the head of the family, he married with a young family of his own, the youngest brother, Daniel, not yet 15, all sharing a tall old house in Brixton, a nest of bedsits and one-time former squat, a coin fed meter in every room. The middle brother, the biker, shoulder length dark hair, army surplus jacket, hoody, jeans, and Dr Martins, Marlboroughs and a full ashtray at his elbow; all confidence, good looks and quick of temper, raised voices and the clash of expectations often run through this house.

“That’s him that is, that’s his handle, ear him?” Daniel and I slouched on the floor, a pile of girly mags strewn around the CB radio, “he’s looking for a race he is, their going to meet at the cruise first then sort out where”, “what’s the cruise, and why not say where now?” says I “Don’t want the pigs sticking in their snouts, dose they, hey, let’s swing by after the comp?” And so, judo bags across shoulders, and jumping the barriers on the underground across town we head from the palace to Chelsea bridge. Darting in and out of the crowds we find a spot mid-bridge, the smells from the burger van making me wish I’d not fed the Space Invaders machine so much earlier, the atmosphere heightened by the sounds and smells of the custom cars. “Ear, they come, look, look!” I strain to look, climbing the rail to get a better view, and then I see them, motorbikes weaving at speed between the parade. “They throws bleach down to make more smoke” offers Daniel; the first bike locks his front wheel, the rear now spinning at impossible speeds, and with smoke bellowing he begins to pirouette on the spot balancing on outspread legs, before tearing off, wheelie popped, and a perfect doughnut his parting gift. A second follows, a third, the crowds loving it the police and custom drivers not so much, I fear. “Come on or we’ll miss the fun” he shouts over his shoulder, bag already slung across the other as he darts bent low through the crowd, and so bag grasped to my chest I follow. 2 cold hours follow loitering around the city’s ring roads, no bikes and just the slow drive by’s of polices cars by the way of company before that last tube back to Brixton.

I didn’t really see much more of Daniel again after that summer, but a few years later I heard that the middle brother was doing quite a stretch thanks to an attempted armed robbery at a petrol station, I don’t recall his name, just his handle, the ‘Amber Gambler’.

Italian Bars

That last year when judo was still a game, a distraction, a small hand prises the Tupperware lid, left over school meal desert the intended prize. “a school cruise, the Greek isles from Venice, well do you want to go? Frank where are you?” she calls out then disappears into the lounge screwed up paper in hand, also I might add, before I can answer, a slap on small puggy hands the parting shot, “no more till tea, you’ll spoil your appetite, Frank, SS Uganda?” I don’t actually recall saying yes, but the following day back to school I trudge, with slip filled out and deposit cheque in hand, strict instructions from Nan not to lose either.

SS Uganda, a relic from the 50’s, all tired and threadbare, patchy white paint trying desperately to supress the rust, but with little or no success, carpets worn and woodwork dull, hundreds of children crammed into dormitories, row after row of bunks, 3 high, once assigned bunks on tiptoe atop lockers we crane to peer through the portholes, bright sunlight and the pungent smells and sounds of the docks to the fore, the city laid out behind. Engine trouble delays our departure so two full days to take in the city, in groups with teachers to the fore we venture in search of culture, though more appealing to us the tat behind shop windows, row after row of flick knifes, gaudy papier-mâché masks, keyrings and gondolas of all sizes, groups break up into smaller ones, chaperones lost, soon I’m alone wondering the city, gazing at buildings all impossibly jumbled, a hundred jigsaws thrown together in the dark; standing atop tiny bridges, squeezed to the edge by the bustle of scooters I watch a myriad of craft plying their way through the city’s waterways, from floating dust carts to mobile market stalls. I take to the edge of the great square, pushed by pigeons and tourists off down side alleys until I am stopped by the water’s edge, by what seems to be the very edge of the city. Row after row of beautiful speedboats line the quay, all varnish and sleek lines, rising and falling on the tide, I duck to one side as another comes in at speed, throttle cut she drops back into the water, before gently nudging the quay; off they step, impossibly elegant, undeniably stylish, the doorman nods as he opens the bar door, into the noisy and gesturing crowd the couple disappear, a wink and smile from the doorman to I as he ushers another couple into the fog of the inner bar, I smile before turning to retrace my steps to the ship. Back on board I note more than a few hands thrust newly acquired knifes through portholes, the fear of Italian customs getting the better of most, I can’t help but wonder just how many must lay under the water evidence to so many changed young minds.

A wife’s significant birthday many years later brings me back to a cosy Airbnb apartment off the Grand Canal, feasting on paper cones overflowing with fried sea food, Cornetto di Frittura Dipesce, bought at bar windows during the day, crostini and simple wines our evening fair. Then back to that bar, Harry’s Bar, Bellini’s and aranchini at elbow, the following day we take a speedboat back to the airport, newly purchased fedora firmly pulled down as I turn to take in the city from the water one last time, the finest of views.

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Above is the first finised art in the series, ready to be screen printed, and below is early work of the second, this is the line work exported from Procreate on the iPad into Adobe Photoshop where using a Huion tablet I'll shortly move onto the next phase.

Tokyo Nights

From the mat I crane my neck to see his arm reaching up, the referee confirming what I can feel, ippon, and the final 10 points, 16 years old and a black belt, “where am I going to buy one before the flight on Wednesday?” uttered as I step from the LJC into the London sun, a tug on the arm as a belt is thrust into my hand, “good luck” the only words to accompany the gift.

With doors locked at 9 every evening down the scaffolding we climb, cat like across the police roof into the metro, and a short hop to the endless bustle and neon glow of early 1980s Shinjuku, streets packed with the young and not so young of Tokyo, a clash of impossible to miss fashion on every sidewalk. By now use to the stares, giggles and hushed ‘Gaijin’ cat calls we push into a tiny bar open to the street, noodles and beer ordered, the not-so-subtle spoon in a glass insult pushed to one side, chopsticks now comfortable. A wail of sirens and cacophony of bike exhausts turn heads as bosozoku gangs weave at speed through the gridlocked road, baseball bats and old imperial flags slung across shoulders, police noisy but impotent as they seek a way though the wall of traffic. We walk the streets taking in the sights, careful to not catch the eyes of the Yakuza doormen as we soak up the atmosphere before the climb back up the scaffolding to the dorm, stretching out on the tatami to sleep atop the bed rolls, now use to the humid August nights and city noise seeping through the open windows, the South African boys following on, everything is “lekker” after a night of cheap bottled beer and fried chicken. Practice 3 times a day, every day, except for Thursday afternoons as we clean mats before soaking tired limbs at the public baths, young judokas from across the world here at the Kodokan all seeking the same question answered.

10 years pass before I see Paul again, he visiting the Budokwai to stay close to the judo, I still not accepting that at 26 my question has long been answered. We chat at the matt edge about that summer, the beers, food and impossibly different culture, whilst I refuse to see the sticks, he now leans on at 28, proof if any was needed that he would never step on the mat again.