Speedwriting: Delivering a 500 word review in 24 hours
I arrived at the Hayward entrance just before 10. I was not sure whether to expect a queue. Thankfully there was none, so obviously Mr Ruscha is not the big blockbuster some of his contemporaries are. Which is, of course, no reflection on his work, merely the strange phenomenon of celebrity status in art.
I walked in and announced at the desk that I believed a press ticket and catalogue had been left for me. These were handed over readily and I was asked to sign the book; only someone from Elle magazine had arrived before me. I went into the gallery. Empty except for gallery staff getting into position. Bliss. I hate going round crowded galleries, other people get in the way, often listening on headphones and standing immobile slap bang in front of something you’ve especially come to see. So, thankfully, none of that, just a big space with white walls and the Hayward’s signature shuttered concrete stairwells. It seemed a fitting environment for the paintings. I worked my way around the show, making notes, stopping occasionally for some moments, then racing on. I felt the need to consume the whole show quickly: if I had little time to write, I also had little time to see. I must focus, let things impact on me, absorb stuff. I can respond later. I moved upstairs: more big works generously set within the space. Captions short, clear and well written. Somebody knew what they were doing, which reassured me as I’ve been a little suspicious of the Hayward’s shows of late. Popularity more than judgment. Before long, my pen ran out of ink. I had a quick re-cap of each room and headed for the exit, and the shop. Not too much Ruscha ephemera, thank God. Noted that Blueprint was the only design mag on their shelves, the others all fine art publications.
I returned to the foyer and made for the coffee shop. A nicely made capuccino, served with a smile. Read a bit, made a note or two, came out into the sunshine and made my way past Waterloo towards college.
Returned to Waterloo to catch the 18.53 home. Crowded train. Struggled to look at the catalogue, a somewhat unwieldy publication in that environment, but nice to handle. The published interview with Ruscha seemed to concur with my own impressions, even some of the same words were used as my notes. (Can’t copy, must be original. Where was my authorial voice when I needed it? Who’s the audience? What’s my ‘hook?’). Too many questions. Slight feeling adrenalin changing to panic. Stop there! Start writing: a list of points, observations. Memories pile in: my times in LA, working on gas station forecourts for Esso, Saul’s old offices on Sunset Boulevard. Big mock-ups, loads of drawings. Driving out to Mojave desert to visit industrial units, paint factories in the middle of nowhere, but with addresses like 1500 Union Street. Don’t get distracted.
I arrive home, eat, make my apologies and go to work, collecting books off the shelves (Warhol, Graphic Design in America, SITE: Architecture as Art, New York Painting) and retreating to my desk. It was now 21.00. Three and half hours later I had a draft. I had decided to look at Ruscha’s work from my perspective as a designer, after all that’s what I’d been doing with my life for almost as long as my subject had been painting. We had something in common, a shared experience of graphics from the 60s.
I checked the word count, did a few revisions, read it through again and went to bed. 1.00.
Morning. Open up the laptop, realising I’d been turning over phrases, words and ideas in my head while semi-conscious. Note bad structure, clumsy phrasing, spelling errors. Re-edit. Re-edit. Re-edit. Print out. Re-read. Take a break. Go for a walk. Return to the piece again. One last change. Word count now 498. Stop.
E mail. Attach. Send.
1 hour later. 13.30. Message received: “Thanks Jim, it’s great.”
Phew!
Next?
