Seven Years with Banksy Page 4

  It was time for me to move on too, but I was pleased by this unexpected meeting. When I said, ‘Well, see ya,’ he said, ‘Yeah, come around to mine. Pay a visit.’ We exchanged glances as I replied, ‘Yeah, will do.’

  I was often in Stockholm for periods and then back to Bristol. I know my town really well and have walked the neighbourhood streets endlessly. There was nowhere I wouldn’t walk or cycle, day or night. I would notice any new graffiti as it was thrown up. I was always reading the writing on the wall. Some of the writers I knew personally – they varied from political sloganeers to Bronx idealists. They reflected the state of play on the pavement, never lightly and often acutely. (It bodes well to know whose gang territory you happen to be passing through.) Suddenly I began to notice some eclectic stencils appearing. They were all over town, from Easton to Clifton, and they were eye-catching, humorous and challenging. Their number increased, but there was no tag, just the image. When you see this kind of quality about it makes you realize there is intelligence out there and that’s reassuring. It also makes me proud of my town. It was just the kind of thing I loved to see on our walls as opposed to mindless, often sinister, corporate advertising on billboards.

  I finally got round to visiting Robin’s place which was between St Paul’s and Easton. It was dark and rainy, the light shone out of the dampness and puddles. I hadn’t bothered to call, I just showed up and knocked on the door. He answered and let me in, seemingly glad to see me. One or two people were hanging out, relaxing, so we had a cup of tea amid the mess that was strewn around and I sat on an old, battered couch that had seen better days. He introduced me and I recognized the nicknames from around town. We spoke about events and happenings and some other personal stuff that was going on. Robin was very genial and I sat back, soaking up the creative atmosphere that rang from the walls and the sundry articles that littered the room.

  I always felt good around people like him, someone who is doing their own thing with their own mind, and letting the world hang. The lights were low and I started to pick some things out, some canvasses, paints, loads of spray-cans and materials, like hardboard, metal and cardboard, with images or paint on. There was a big table pushed up against the window with the curtains closed (the street was right in front) and on it was a lot of stuff pushed into piles and bundles here and there, but on the space that was left was a cut-out stencil about a yard square, perhaps, and cut into this cardboard was one of the images I had seen on walls all over the city. ‘Fucking hell!’ I said in surprise. ‘This is you. I’ve been seeing this all over town!’ I laughed and looked at him.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been doing stencils, have a look at these,’ he said, and he produced three or four others, each of outstanding quality. He started to cut a new one and explained his technique and how the edges of the cutting had to be very clean so that when the paint was sprayed on the final image was finely lined. I was psyched out to realize that it was his work I had been noticing. I hadn’t twigged that it could have been him – but now it made perfect sense. It could only have been him and I took a thrill from discovering his latest progression.

  He explained his motives behind using the medium, its quickness, ease of transport and maximum effect. He bent my ear about it a little, like he was sharing his pleasure about developing this new approach and pleased to find someone excited about it too and then he fell back to his characteristic reticence as he carried on cutting this new image.

  I just watched him, sipping the tea. ‘Fucking right on,’ I thought. ‘I’m lucky enough to see this young man develop his ideas and talent’ – and his message was unique, hard and revolutionary. He was out there, in those quiet hours, applying his mind to the walls for all to see. It was burning in him, this art, and it was a cool thing to be around that single-mindedness, that energy. I just had to watch him, to keep tabs on him so as to see what he’d do next. The friendship was re-established. He had my ‘Summa cum laude’, that’s all I knew.

  I went to visit Robin on a semi-regular basis, when I was passing through his neck of the woods. We would talk a bit and I’d watch him do whatever he was up to with his art. One day he mentioned ‘Delge’ aka ‘3D’ from Massive Attack – the Bristol band that originated from the Wild Bunch crew – and how a classic piece of graffiti that 3D had done had been erased by Bristol council. Robin was offended by the incident and the ignorance of the law. He was right in that respect. I knew this piece from years ago and it was a well-executed New York-inspired wall work around Upper Byron Place. I was upset that it had gone too. ‘But hey, that’s the name of the game, that’s what makes graffiti so righteous that it can be there today and gone tomorrow. It’s illegal, it’s a threat and the dark forces don’t like threats,’ I said.

  In return for this statement I got one of those brow-beating looks and a silence, but it was almost like he hadn’t considered that viewpoint either, like his work had a god-given right to be up there. My statement may have sounded obvious, but his single-minded approach to his art and all street art – the time he put into it and the passion, meant that the very idea that some ignoramus could come and take it off the wall was absolute anathema. This isn’t a perfect world. That good art can be taken off a wall by a bloke on minimum wage should get anyone’s gall going but the forces of ignorance are strong. The irony is that now in Bristol when a Banksy appears the council doesn’t touch it out of deference to the city folk who have taken him into their hearts. They don’t really want another Bristol riot.

  He also started to talk about Massive Attack and how he was hanging out with them when they were recording their classic album ‘Mezzanine’. I had this idea about him that he was such a loner, such a masked man that he didn’t really have too many established connections in Bristol, but I was wrong. It was clear that he was more deeply into the scene than me. I got the feeling he could take it or leave it but also that he felt it was only right that he should refer to and acknowledge those who had come before him and pioneered the trail. Also, it was becoming obvious that his talents hadn’t gone unrecognized: he was becoming known and increasingly well regarded. He had a certain individuality about him, a feeling of aloneness that surrounded him. It was always there. An outsider. A Camus. He would have been doing what he was doing regardless of whether people liked it or not. He was his own posse. One-man army. All that.

  One day we were just meandering around a dog end of Easton, Barton Hill, taking in the neighbourhood, when he said, ‘We’re nearby the studio – do you want to come in?’ He hadn’t mentioned the studio before so I was intrigued and agreed. The place was so removed and unnoticeable it could have been in one of the industrial back streets of Brooklyn. You just wouldn’t have known it was there if you were passing. It was a big place, splendidly industrial, beautifully light, and strongly built. It was the kind of building I loved and the kind the council would knock down and place a high-rise on, or maybe an IKEA if the backhander was big enough. Imagine Brunel and his railway siding workshops.

  We made our way in – through gates, yards, stairs and doors. No one else was there. I had thought that he was only using his living room for his creative space but this place was vast. A lot of his work was in one corner and other artists had stuff scattered around too. I was surprised to see quite large canvasses that were obviously his. There was a large table with stencils on it and a multitude of spray-cans, often foreign as the quality was superior to the British aerosol. The large canvasses held images of his I had not yet seen, of tanks with loudspeakers atop, of a rioter throwing a bunch of flowers, of helicopters with kissing lips and pink bows on top. He had been buying older classic works of art in frames to which he had added his own images, thereby morphing them into a commentary on or antithesis of the original intention.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ I asked pointing at an old countryside scene with yellow crime tape stretched around the trees (his addition, of course). ‘That’s about the way the television series Crimestoppers have made us all scared to even
be in the countryside.’ I didn’t want to ask too much; he was tetchy around his art, as per usual. I looked at the helicopters with bows and lipstick on. ‘I like that,’ I said, pointing. ‘Do you? I fucking hate that one,’ he snapped.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LONDON CALLING

  Bristol is an eclectic and creative town. It’s an ancient place, built on and rebuilt again after battles and bombs. The Knights Templar were big there during the Crusades. Cabot crossed the Atlantic around the same time as Columbus, funded by the Merchant Venturers of the city. Some of Bristol’s history isn’t pretty but some of its best-loved sons were poets, artists and musicians.

  There’s something in the Bristol water that loves the maverick, the independent thinker – the more advanced the better. The city’s hills resemble Rome or San Francisco and any son that has walked stoned immaculate through its many streets on a frost-bitten night with the moon on high will tell you it is the most bohemian of places.

  Now, back in the late ’60s and early ’70s Bristol was down on its luck and you could buy beautiful Georgian and Victorian properties for a song – and members of the counter-culture from those days did just that. The hippies flocked into the city and in some people’s eyes it became England’s answer to San Francisco. This open-minded generation had children, the sons and daughters of bohemia, and they spread their parents’ ideals through punk and other counter-culture movements. I spent four years in San Francisco but I never met any hippies that matched the bizarre, exceptional freaks that Bristol housed. And learned with it. There were legendary parties that went on for days, and mixed up in this was a sizeable Rastafarian population in the ’70s, that led to cross-pollination of culture bearing fruit the like of which had never been seen before. Don’t take my word for it, look into it yourself. True Bristolians know it, like I said, there’s something in the water.

  The reason I mention all this background is because this is where Robin comes from. It’s not nowhere-land. The city has its distinct neighbourhoods. We can’t go into them all here but if you find yourself down in St Werburgh’s crossing to St Paul’s and over to Easton you’ll get a flavour of what I am trying to impart. The energy is stone-buzzed and taut. The walls bear witness to the artists’ efforts of many years. The labyrinthine streets are easy to become lost in; if you know the turf you’ll always be safe, always be able to evade the officers.

  Robin lived down that way, practised his art down there and knew the people that associated there. Easton, perhaps above all, is home to an enviable ragtag collection of nutters, bohemians, dropouts and rogues. This was his milieu in those days, not that he didn’t travel, but this is where it was going on.

  One night I was invited to an evening of eccentric persuasion round at Robin’s studio. He had invited me for supper. Candles and colours lit up the place like a scene from a Peter Greenaway film and surrounding the tables, on an odd assortment of old skip-found chairs, couches and armchairs, sitting and standing, laughing and conversing, was a collection of the unorthodox free citizens of the local environs. The vibe was at fever pitch as people were just about to eat. Some of the people I knew and some I recognized but most were strangers to me. I had squatted over in Easton when I was a teenager and knew the locals back then but most of them had since died, been locked up or got the hell out. I was back in it tonight, I could tell; it was like I had never left. I had ridden over on the Harley and I had been telling Robin about it, so I collected him from the party as soon as I had walked in so I could show it off. I didn’t think he would be impressed at all – in fact, I thought he may well not pay it any attention, but I was proud of it and the fact that I had got it together to ship it back from New York, so I wanted him to see it. It was a mean beast, customized in a classic, timeless fashion.

  On this moody night the chrome gleamed through the fog. To me, it was like a living creature, ready to pounce, its personality was that strong. ‘Fucking hell, yeah, I see what you mean. She’s a beauty,’ he enthused. He had a closer look and the clockwork in his brain took it all in. He looked up, he seemed to be smiling inside. ‘Come on, let’s go up,’ he said and we got drawn back into the party.

  His response to the motorcycle was like his take on Johanna – he liked it, and that gave it a deeper value for me. Maybe it was a weakness on my part but I wasn’t seeking approval. It was affirmation that my judgement was right.

  People had begun to eat; the wine, the beer and the spliff were in full sway and a more gregarious gathering of people you could not find. The conversation was ribald; the jokes explosive; the food good. I ate and sat and chatted and watched and observed some more. I had become endlessly observant on account of my travelling, and although I loved parties I could also freeze myself out somewhat. So after sussing out the scene and the characters present, I took to looking at the art, especially now my head was expanded on account of the marijuana.

  Robin’s stuff was just so good, so simple and straight up in its execution its cadence just sung to me, like so many others would appreciate. I picked up a chunky piece of white laminated hardwood on which he had done a stencil – a picture of a bloodhound gang on the chase of a scent. I thought it was cool-as-fuck. It had been propped up by the window and I placed it back there. Just at that moment Robin came over on his own and just hung there.

  ‘That’s a cool piece,’ I said. ‘You want to sell it?’

  ‘Mmmmmm – no, you can have it, it’s nothing,’ he said almost sheepishly.

  ‘No, go on, I’ll give you a tenner,’ I insisted.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said.

  So I fished out ten quid, which to me seemed like a fair amount of money.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it towards the food.’ He paused and then said: ‘That’s the first painting I’ve ever sold.’

  The words rang in my head as he moved off, but someone had seen the money change hands and a little coterie suddenly rounded on me. A self-appointed Scouse Nazarene was at the front. I had actually shared a house with him for a spell in the past.

  ‘Rob, what are you... How could ya?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I said.

  ‘You bought that off him didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I had crossed some line with them, some unspeakable, invisible code had been broken. There weren’t any more words said. They just looked at the Judas. ‘Fuck them,’ I thought, and left soon after, belting down some moody, neon-lit backstreets on the motorcycle just for the hell of it.

  Robin was going up to London a fair amount so every now and again he was gone from Bristol and would then reappear. Gradually his stays away were becoming more frequent so we arranged to hook up while I was visiting friends up there. I used to live in the smoke in the early ’80s and had kept some friends with whom I used to catch up from time to time.

  It was 1999 and there was that apprehensive ‘end of millennium’ buzz in the air. It was always a laugh to be in London, and I used a lot of my time up there to explore its hidden corners. I’d always enjoyed getting down to the old industrial remains of Wapping and its warehouses, Rotherhithe, Millwall, the Isle of Dogs, and splendid Greenwich, so I was intrigued to see the changes since I had been away. I was pretty horrified by the Docklands renaissance, the decay of the past had been hastened away along with its romance and it had become a gentrified stink of a place.

  The Docklands Light Railway took you on a tour of the new capitalist palaces and towers, the old quays lined with generic dwelling places of corporate minions. How crap it was, how soullessly boring in contrast with the old dockers’ culture and haunts. Nevertheless, I was curious to have a look at the construction of the much-hyped Millennium Dome, and there was Norman Foster’s state-of-the-art tube station to check out too. Robin wanted to see what was going on down there so I arranged to meet him and a couple of my London mates as they hadn’t yet been to see the mess.

  One was called Kes, the other, Jesse, both of whom I used
to work with. I had been looking around the tube station with Kes for a while, which was refreshingly awesome – and we were to meet Jesse and Robin outside on the plaza at a certain time. Robin hadn’t met these two friends of mine before. Kes was now a fireman and looked pretty hard with close-cropped hair (as was his taste). Jesse looked relatively harmless by comparison. So we were just hanging out there waiting for Robin to show, which he didn’t do; at the appointed hour we waited and talked a little and waited some more. Then we were getting hungry. My friends were starting to get bored and I had to coax them to stay, explaining that this bloke Robin was actually a pretty interesting character and that they should meet him. I started to despair a little and began clock-watching, feeling like a mug, when suddenly I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. The place was quite wide open and I had been expecting him to emerge from the bowels of the underground but I was scanning 360 degrees anyway. And then from the same corner I saw movement again. ‘That was him, I’m sure,’ I thought, picking out a glimpse of his features.

  He was about a hundred yards away but he disappeared again. ‘What the fuck is he playing at?’ I said out loud. ‘What?’ they both chimed in. He was sizing up my two mates in case it was a big set up – or something.