I first became aware of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstow Tapestry, courtesy of a British television show, in autumn 2009. This brief glimpse of the work immediately made me remark on how similar it was, in scale and design, to Lonely Europe, a 10-metre pencil-and-silver-ink drawing I completed way back in 1995. Intrigued, I found more on the Paragon Press website, which showed the tapestry in its entirety. Initially, I was comparing the two works simply to find a ‘common interest’, so to speak; I knew that Perry had seen Lonely Europe in New York at The American Folk Art Museum’s Obsessive Drawing exhibition in 2005, and that he has strong links to the ‘Outsider Art’ scene in general — a scene which, however appropriately (or otherwise) in my eyes, has embraced my art. I have since, however, attempted to further analyse our links as social geographers, and I believe that I’ve come up with something rather intriguing.

What ARE obvious are the differences between the two works. The Walthamstow Tapestry is in high colour and, with its socio-cultural references, it is typical of Perry’s work. To me, it seems fairly easy to deconstruct, and Perry himself has done so on numerous occasions. By contrast, Lonely Europe is superficially black and white and somehow, along the way, I lost my originally-intended narrative. It is not a preference of mine, exactly, to leave the interpretation of my work to others, but it has nevertheless always been that way. I regard this as a result of my not having attended art school and thus learnt how to contextualise and present my output in the accepted, formal way. I do not keep records of my creative processes, either in my head or on paper, thus I did not log why I used such and such motifs and constructions.

Leaving aside these differences, however, there seemed to me obvious similarities in the overall structure of the two drawings. Though unintentional at the time, Lonely Europe offers a presentiment of Perry’s birth/death, standard left-to-right narrative in its two constructions at each end; at the ‘beginning’ is a thin, almost feminine birth structure and, at the ‘end’, a bloated, masculine moon. In The Walthamstow Tapestry, the structure of the narrative is based on a ‘blood river’; in Lonely Europe, ‘the river of blood’ is black and broken, but is clearly seen throughout the drawing. Both narratives are also supported by the use of a continuous motif: in Lonely Europe, it is a dark, ornate wall-like structure; in The Walthamstow Tapestry, it is a golden-yellow road. There is a religious central character (a Hindu-styled goddess and a ‘Madonna’ respectively) in both works too, looking down with head leaning to her right. Of course, any wall-hanging Bayeux-Tapestry-type format limits the artist in some way; this was probably why I floundered in connecting all the disparate designs during the difficult two-and-a-half year creation of Lonely Europe, resorting to a tried and tested blood river of my own, taken from earlier large works…

Then, on closer inspection, something else struck me: There is a large boat that floats on Perry’s ‘blood river’. Taking in the whole work, it became more and more apparent that this river was not just something that flowed, but that is was an actual river. And not only that; it was the River Thames. To expand, the mother on the left is the source of the Thames in Gloucestershire; fitting neatly with Perry’s observations of English culture, it represents the very centre of the Heart of England. At the end lies Old Father Thames, exhausted and/or dying in the London Estuary. Along the way are lakes or reservoirs. More importantly, it is the linear shape of the river that gives it away, being very reminiscent of aerial London; the classic Eastenders image of London, in fact.

My analysis was starting to make sense. The Walthamstow Tapestry is a monumental work, Perry’s largest to date. With all its references to big names, from Louis Vuitton via The Guardian to PG Tips, Walthamstow seemed far too provincial a setting for such an epic modern tale. And the river is certainly not the River Lea. The birth-and-death theme, the devil, the river of blood, the shape of this river, the numerous references to consumerism, the nod to Old Father Thames and to the quintessential Heart of England could only mean one thing: the work should be called The London Tapestry.

Additionally, when I looked at the work from the artist’s cultural perspective as I imagine it to be, a new dimension evolved. Perry, from Essex, or more pertinently from north of the Thames, had sketched a London seen from the north looking over the river to the southern horizon; I came to this conclusion because much of the ‘action’ seems to be on one side of the water. As a Londoner myself, I am acutely aware of the river as a dividing line, as it is in other European cities. In the case of London, it is more a frontier where the city ends. Looking over the river, leaving The City, The West End, the East End, leafy North London suburbs and Walthamstow behind, even the landmarks on the south side — the Tate Modern, the London Eye, the Globe Theatre, MI5 — seem to turn their backs on South London.

This personal revelation was very interesting as it reminded me of the initial ideas I had when I started an earlier large work, London. My intention was to draw a Greater London landscape based on the Thames, as a central theme, with some level of accuracy. There is an estuary of sorts — the river was based on the aerial view — and some landmarks (Trafalgar Square, Houses of Parliament, etc.) are correctly located. However, it is clear that I soon gave up on the idea of including any real, prominent features for South London; the extent to which disinterest, ignorance or lack of planning played a part, I don’t recall. Whatever the reasons, I was aware that I wanted to create a narrative of some kind of my love of London and The Thames.

In London, the ‘beginning’ is depicted as a lake full of people in the top left corner, intended to represent Perivale Sewage Works, close to the hospital where I was born; my West London roots. The ‘end’ is Canary Wharf in the far distance, at the time the only prominent Docklands building whose flashing light could always be seen on the approach during regular travels to London from our Kentish village. In the centre is the mess of the big city, made from my memories and inspirations, albeit badly executed in the end. I can’t help wondering whether a similar, if basic, personal narrative also runs through the The Walthamstow Tapestry. The birthing as quintessential England, in Gloucestershire, where I believe Grayson Perry now lives; a representation of his life in the main centre; the devil/death scene as Walthamstow and his studio in London. He seems to have constructed his London from his current geographical ‘upside-down’ viewpoint, just as I constructed my London from my former Kentish, south-of-the-river perspective.

Acquired by the Outsider Archive in the 1997, London has since been exhibited at IMMA, Tate Britain, Whitechapel Gallery and CAIXA, Madrid.

Of course, I have little idea whether these similarities were intentional or coincidence on the part of Perry. However, a very exciting offshoot from my ponderings and – perhaps over-imaginative – examinations has helped me to solve a more practical dilemma that I have had for a good few years.

My drawings are detailed, take a long time and are shown and sold as originals. Alpha works full-time with ‘Hipkiss’, so we’re keeping a whole household running on my art alone. We have yet to profit from limited editions, books, etc., and there is always a shortfall of available work. Not being fully accepted as a contemporary artist without the ‘O’ label attached, we still struggle to achieve pricing which enables us to survive financially. My desire to produce gargantuan works has consequently been frustrated for many years; Lonely Europe was my last large drawing and I long to work on the same scale again. I abandoned a work to rival it a few years ago because of time constraints, but also — it has to be said — due to the same old difficulties of creating a coherent and sophisticated narrative on such a vast canvas, especially when the work on it must be fitted in around the making of pieces for sale; progress was too slow.

Knowing the processes Grayson Perry used has led me to a workable solution: The Walthamstow Tapestry began life as a 4m long (i.e. relatively small), monochrome drawing which was then manipulated using Photoshop®; the resulting colour image was used to create a 3x15m, machine-made tapestry, designed specifically to hang on one wall at Victoria Miro Gallery, London. For the last four years I have been working on identically-dimensioned, mostly portrait-oriented landscapes; I have now realized that they could all appear to be part of a larger picture. I plan to use the images from seven, new and similar-sized drawings — each complete compositions in their own right — to create a single panorama of about 2×8 metres. This could then be printed, from large-format EKTAs, on one piece of paper and reworked to create a new original, thus solving both the demand for saleable works and my desire to produce significant and meaningful large canvases at last. And for that, I have Grayson Perry to thank!

Watch this space…

Chris Hipkiss

Inside Out: Etiquette and artistic inspiration.

In 2000, a New York Times reviewer wrote, of Chris Hipkiss:

“… a certain illustrational quality could suggest the hand of a trained artist mimicking the look of visionary Outsider Art.”

It was an observation that took us completely by surprise; the notion of mainstream artists wandering purposely into such territory had never occurred to us. Since, of course — as so often happens after revelations — we can’t help but notice the not-inconsiderable number of people who have done just that.

There is, amongst others no doubt, one stand-out difference between untrained artists and their contemporary, conceptual-art peers; the former are not expected to invent a whole new idea for every project, whereas, for the latter, this constant pressure is a major part of their profession. This factor alone may explain why, in recent times, so many have latched on to the suddenly-highly-publicised idea of ‘Outsider’ art; after all, it offers an opportunity to get ‘back to basics’ in terms of style and skill; a lot of it looks fun — carefree and childlike in a way in which most conceptual artists don’t have the chance to express themselves. Without the ‘mental health issues’ and ‘marginalisation’ commonly associated with ‘Outsider’ artists, these modern professionals can, arguably, enjoy something of a sabbatical in taking the concepts forward. No wonder it’s an attractive proposition.

However, to revisit the perennial theme of this blog, the ‘Outsider’ word as employed here encompasses a rather broad church of untrained artists. There is a tendency — through no fault of their own, given the overriding discourse surrounding the categorisation — for these borrowers of ideas to credit only the genre in general, or subsets of it, with the exception of certain dead, very famous examples such as Henry Darger (and, even then, it’s not always done). What’s the problem? If the artist is dead, it’s a reference — an honour which finally embraces them within the chronology of art history — and evidently so to any aficionado of the scene; if they’re living, surely the original artist — or artists — were they to register the appropriation at all would feel flattered; after all, they don’t create for anyone but themselves, don’t have any professional aspirations, do they? Such is the rather condescending, accepted view of ‘true’ Outsiders. How those ‘true’ Outsiders’ might actually feel, were they furnished with the details, is a subject for discussion in itself.

But what about living artists erroneously caught up in the categorization?

Coming back to a detail of the review of my first paragraph, it’s worth pointing out that Hipkiss is far more akin to an old-fashioned landscape painter, albeit with no sense of colour (in the old-fashioned sense) and a post- or alter-modern twist, than he is any kind of ‘visionary’; his scenes are almost all based on real-life places, buildings and countryside, with his trademark androgynous ‘fairies’ featuring as the only other-worldly element. However, when his art first started to gain recognition, it was frequently referred to as ‘illustration’, despite the obvious inappropriateness of that label (inappropriate labels have been something of a theme of Hipkiss’ career). It was down to shows of his outsize panoramas of the early 90s — made years before similarly-formatted works by contemporary peers — that that description was gradually rendered just too inappropriate. As such, he was inadvertently amongst the original instigators of the recent Drawing-as-Proper-Art movement.

The point is, Chris is a living, professional artist, but his craft is not the creation of a series of concepts; his work is a gradually-evolving, life project. One all-important concept. Casual appropriation of that concept — of his compositions, style and formats — whilst offering a diversion to a much-more-well-known borrower, means that, should Hipkiss produce a new, large panorama, or even have one of the old ones shown in a major institution, it would be as likely to provoke yawns as wonder this time around: “Oh, he’s copied XXX contemporary artist.” It is not a level playing field; Hipkiss has a fraction of the publicity of his art-school-trained peers. Again, this is not said to point fingers at the conceptual artist(s) concerned, but rather at the journalists, curators and academics who write off any untrained artist as an Outsider and, thus, not professional — credits not required.

And even if such appropriation is not intentional, should the mainstream artist — as well as those journalists, curators and academics — not be aware that the onus to research possible predecessors is on them…? Apparently, once again, the Outsider label offers a ‘free pass’ in this respect. As such, a contemporary artist like Dominic McGill may or may not have seen the work of Jean-Pierre Nadau, another untrained artist corralled into the Outsider fold, before embarking on his recent projects, but that isn’t the point; Nadau’s work is not unknown, by any means, and one would expect that McGill’s training would require him to have sought out such a historical reference. And if he failed to do so, one would think the critics, etc., would step in. McGill is represented in major contemporary collections; Nadau must still resort — many years after creating his concept and his first long scroll, of which McGill’s are so reminiscent — to donating, or as-good-as, to ill-fitting Outsider museums. As such, this is more a matter of justice than mere etiquette — and, more mundanely, that little issue of making a living.

All that aside, Saatchi has an upcoming show entitled The Power of Paper — the latest of a plethora of major shows devoted to drawing… and, for us, above all, it’s just great to see Hipkiss’ chosen medium get the recognition it deserves.

Alpha Mason


Ever since childhood, until my work was first exhibited nearly twenty years ago, I made many (bad) colour drawings, in what I suppose was an attempt to follow what I thought I should do. Perhaps this came from the art lessons I had at school, mostly spent, in the former years, trying to paint in watercolours for uninspiring projects, and, in the latter, copying motorcycle brand designs, painting CND and designing anti-Thatcher posters to bluetack all over the school. When the famous moose head was found with one of said posters stuck on his nose, our headmaster — tipped off by the art teacher, of course — summoned me to his room.

He was, surprisingly, so intrigued by this act, performed as it was by someone who had up until that point only existed to him as a one of the ‘unproblematic’ names on the school register, that he enthusiastically suggested that I should join The Debating Society — after removing any remaining ‘work’, naturally. For some reason — perhaps stemming from the blossoming teenage realisation of the futility of life, etc. — I said, “No thanks, I’m an anarchist, I don’t believe in talking,” before swanning out, leaving a sullen, rejected, broken man (or so I imagined). For this I am truly sorry, because he was a good headmaster, an all round nice chap…

The point of this is that, years before, in primary school, I drew exclusively in black on white, be it pencil or biro — and some of the stuff I did was not bad. With my friend, Nicolas Killalea, I designed ‘ant colonies’ on A4 paper; always starting with a black prison in the corner, we would mark — in meticulous detail — tennis courts, dining rooms, airports, etc.. A favourite theme that I drew repeatedly was of a plane crashing into a pond; it sounds prosaic, but the outcome was esoteric. In a moment of uncharacteristic clairvoyance, I also depicted 9/11, twenty-five years before it happened, with another repeated motif: Madagascar/Manhattan, a three dimensional aerial view of a skyscraper built on a forest island being attacked by planes… And then there were the battles between the Penguin Army and Killer Flies, etc., etc.. I could go on.

In 2001, my work was featured in a show at Galerie Halle St. Pierre, Paris, entitled Noir sur Blanc. Don’t get me wrong, I was honoured to be there, but by then I had long started seeing my work as made in colour, like that of most other visual art. Indian ink on white canvas is black and white; but in the shades of grey produced from varying pressure put on soft pencil, or in the areas I have worn away during production — even more so in the shaded silver ink that subtly changes according to natural and artificial light — there is undoubtedly colour.

Not everyone seems to get it. A few months ago I had a lengthy and quite heated argument (in French; I was pleased with my proficiency) with a photographer, of all people, who steadfastly refused to accept that the EKTAs of my work with which I’d supplied him were in colour, not monochrome — despite the colour-code bar and cream wallpaper of the studio they were shot in, and not to mention the colour-transparency processing number on the film itself.

However, initially, in the 1990s, we had a problem even convincing the world that my work was not ‘mere’ illustration. The art of drawing in general — even just simple pencil on paper — is now being rediscovered by contemporary artists, and I think that part of the reason for this is a collective mind-change to view black, white and shades of grey as the colours they truly are. This seems to have happened so gradually that we have barely noticed until lately.

A good example of how effective this understanding can be within a curated exhibition setting was the recent Acquisitions show at FRAC Picardie in Amiens, France, a state museum specialising in drawing. Returning home after a long trip to Cologne, we made a detour and managed to catch the exhibition before the place closed. Having been shown around the space emptied of, I could almost say, the ‘clutter’ of people, it took a little while to fully express the shock and delight we both felt at what we had just experienced. Not exactly frequent gallery visitors, we tend to gravitate to just one thing if any at all — or, if my work is being shown, furtively hang around eavesdropping on conversations, appreciating neither art nor dialogue.

In contrast, here, the mix of contemporary artwork — from video installation to sketches — that included, amongst many others, some sublime works by Gabriel Orozco, was so well planned that we saw the whole as one, taking time to actually look at each work, knowing somewhere in the vastness of all this talent hung a large Hipkiss called Three. Next to a fine circle drawing by fellow self-taught artist, Hiroyuki Doi, we could finally see my work in the context we have long felt it belongs, without worrying whether it is seen as outsider, self taught, black and white, illustration, visionary, whatever. I don’t think I can even remember whether black and white was predominant. It just didn’t matter, and it was like coming home.

Chris Hipkiss

This blog is the result of months (nay, years) of discussions between us. We’re not sure where it’s going to go, or what subjects it will eventually encompass, but where it’s come from is something we’d like to record here for posterity.

From the outset of his artistic career back in 1992, Chris Hipkiss has been almost consistently referred to as an ‘Outsider’ artist. This came about mainly due to our first encounters in the art world — or, rather, on the peripheries of it; the nature of our contacts was inevitably shaped by our lack of the kind of training which generally grounds artists as much in how to get on in the mainstream milieu as it does in any kind of technical or creative sense. In this respect, we were outsiders — small ‘o’; we’d never heard of the capitalised version of the word. I think there are many people in the same boat.

In the years since that time, we’ve assimilated a great deal about the politics of the arena in which we found ourselves. For my own part, working as an agent for an artist was never on my list of potential careers; and whilst Chris dreamt of being a professional throughout his childhood, he wasn’t prepared for the reality. We’ve both learnt on our feet. It’s been a path filled with much enjoyment, rich encounters and — finally, in recent years — fulfillment at seeing the work, which means so much to us, reach a larger audience. Chris is one of the few living ‘Outsiders’ to feature prominently in artfacts.net rankings, for example — and current Hipkiss collectors, apparently, think less about some perceived biography than the complexities of the work itself, and how great it looks on their wall. Apart from our own graft, we have been very fortunate to have fallen in with certain galleries who have helped us a great deal.

This level of achievement has not come easily, however, and there remain barriers to overcome. Meanwhile, we see others, of our age, in the same obscurity as Hipkiss was almost twenty years ago, despite their having continually produced unique and exciting creations. We are all-too-aware of how difficult it is to gain respect — and a living — as an artist who hasn’t jumped through the right ‘hoops’ to get to this stage, no matter how acclaimed the work, or how often mainstream artists draw from the wealth of ideas and styles created outside the constraints of their education.

There needs, perhaps, to be a descriptor for this kind of art in order to help shape a credible profile for it in the wider world; what we refute, adamantly and loudly, is that that descriptor should relate to the artist’s personal life in any way more than its mainstream equivalents do. There are, of course, as many differences between the artists who fit this ‘genre’ as there are artists — and, certainly, many exhibitions that are curated purely on that basis tend to have the air of a bazaar, so different are the styles to be found. As such, we’re not campaigning for anything more than an adjective — one without negative implications — as a starting point, and to satisfy the human desire to pigeonhole. We can’t disagree that Chris’ work, for example, is the way that it is almost entirely because he avoided formal teaching beyond the age of sixteen — even rejecting the possibility of an art college place — though that is where the similarity between he and other self-taught artists ends. There are academics, journalists and dealers who are genuine lovers of the art — those who see great value in the very fact of not having been shaped by formal teaching — and their goals are often the same as ours.

Unfortunately, however, many of the players in the ‘Outsider’ realm have different agendas. We know the score all too well: Chris himself was encouraged, by certain parties, to guard his fictional ‘Outsider’ credentials carefully — not to seek to expose his own work or have it printed/published, not to ‘evolve’ too much, not to have his own website; it was once even suggested that he should seek ‘drudge’ employment for the sake of his ‘reputation’. Written biographies are frequently cherry-picked (often plain fabricated) ‘facts’, made up, without our input, to paint a picture of The Crazy, The Simpleton or The Obsessive, and published without our approval.

Attempts we’ve made to change his categorization to ‘self-taught’ have been stymied by commentators from the mainstream art world, once again, using the label as a euphemism for ‘Outsider’ – i.e. to portray the artists as socially — if not mentally — ‘deficient’, primitive… We are weary of the absence of meaningful press out there, featuring insightful interviews with the many, varied individuals as opposed to the same tired clichés about the genre as a whole. These affronts go unchallenged by much of the ‘Outsider’ fraternity, even as they enjoy their relationships with the artists as perfectly normal, well-adjusted human beings. It is, frankly, duplicitous.

In short, living artists without an art college background are still expected to put up and shut up — be grateful for any crumbs that happen to fall.

We’ve decided it’s high time that (our) alternative voices are heard.

Alpha Mason

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