city to remove them also raised questions: ‘Who put this here?’ ‘What are we going to do with it?’ ‘Move it?’ ‘Where to?’ ‘How can
someone just set down a huge sculpture and inflict on us their humour?’
I was wondering about where he was getting money to carry out these guerrilla operations in such an audacious fashion. He didn’t seem to be holding down a job. I
didn’t ask; but one afternoon as we werewalking up Wardour Street he went into a record shop and said he just had to pick up something. The guys behind the counter knew
him and chatted and handed over to him some money while I noticed his work on T-Shirts which they were obviously selling. And then, later, we were hanging out down Westbourne Grove. When we were
just about to part company. ‘So what’re you gonna be doing then?’ I enquired.
‘Ah, I got some work on – for a record label. I’m gonna do Blur’s record cover for their next release.’
‘All right’ I say and nod. If he was in there he was in all over I figured and besides the earnings he was getting connected to another world well outside of Bristol. He wasn’t
going to stop moving up. London had him now, beyond the parochial confines of the West’s capital. I felt a little sadness at this realization but could only wish him on, usher him forward
(not like he needed it) but as our friendship went through its pacesI felt for the first time that he was on an upward spiral of his own making that would make him
international, that Bristol would be robbed of him. It is hardly a betrayal and he’s never forgotten the City – far from it.
After we parted that day I headed down to see some architect friends who had an office in a large communal warehouse space near the Westway. As I walked in the main area, which was the size of a
tennis court, I casually looked up and bang! On the main wall was a large canvas displaying a rioter, arms outstretched, preparing to throw flowers. The iconic image I had seen at the studio in
Easton. This was one and the same. Sold. ‘Shit! He’s London’s now,’ I muttered as I headed for the stairs and regarded this familiar piece from the balcony.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIDSUMMER
I was just doing my own thing – running here and there, helping to run clubs and what-have-you; running about in various guises; spending time in
Europe when funds would allow and getting onwards and upwards as much as the world at large would let me. I came to realize that I had encountered and befriended one exceptional person in Banksy.
We kept in touch and I always liked to see him but I could feel this other force pulling him in a certain direction. He was headed somewhere I wouldn’t be going.
There was an independent bookshop called Greenleaf on a street called Park Row in Bristol, that is sadly now defunct, and was run by some rather nice ladies. They kept an excellent stock of
books and periodicals and I was often in there, looking at something, purchasing something. I was cycling past one day and saw that a few prints had been displayed in the window and they were for
sale. They were some of Robin’s stencil works, in colour no less, but they werepieces you could see just yards away in any direction on the walls. It was the first time
I had seen any prints of his for sale and they were signed and numbered. They looked good but did not have the impact that they had out on the street. Still, there was one of my favourites –
‘Bombing Middle England’ – a stencil of proper English ladies practising the refined sport of bowls. All clad in white as befits the civilized game, only the bowls were bombs. The
prints were not expensive, maybe twenty or thirty pounds, so I snapped one up even though my cash flow had become severely limited of late. I stuck the print up in my hall with a few
thumbtacks.
I told my family and friends that this guy’s prints were on sale and that they should go and get one before they all flew out the
someone just set down a huge sculpture and inflict on us their humour?’
I was wondering about where he was getting money to carry out these guerrilla operations in such an audacious fashion. He didn’t seem to be holding down a job. I
didn’t ask; but one afternoon as we werewalking up Wardour Street he went into a record shop and said he just had to pick up something. The guys behind the counter knew
him and chatted and handed over to him some money while I noticed his work on T-Shirts which they were obviously selling. And then, later, we were hanging out down Westbourne Grove. When we were
just about to part company. ‘So what’re you gonna be doing then?’ I enquired.
‘Ah, I got some work on – for a record label. I’m gonna do Blur’s record cover for their next release.’
‘All right’ I say and nod. If he was in there he was in all over I figured and besides the earnings he was getting connected to another world well outside of Bristol. He wasn’t
going to stop moving up. London had him now, beyond the parochial confines of the West’s capital. I felt a little sadness at this realization but could only wish him on, usher him forward
(not like he needed it) but as our friendship went through its pacesI felt for the first time that he was on an upward spiral of his own making that would make him
international, that Bristol would be robbed of him. It is hardly a betrayal and he’s never forgotten the City – far from it.
After we parted that day I headed down to see some architect friends who had an office in a large communal warehouse space near the Westway. As I walked in the main area, which was the size of a
tennis court, I casually looked up and bang! On the main wall was a large canvas displaying a rioter, arms outstretched, preparing to throw flowers. The iconic image I had seen at the studio in
Easton. This was one and the same. Sold. ‘Shit! He’s London’s now,’ I muttered as I headed for the stairs and regarded this familiar piece from the balcony.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIDSUMMER
I was just doing my own thing – running here and there, helping to run clubs and what-have-you; running about in various guises; spending time in
Europe when funds would allow and getting onwards and upwards as much as the world at large would let me. I came to realize that I had encountered and befriended one exceptional person in Banksy.
We kept in touch and I always liked to see him but I could feel this other force pulling him in a certain direction. He was headed somewhere I wouldn’t be going.
There was an independent bookshop called Greenleaf on a street called Park Row in Bristol, that is sadly now defunct, and was run by some rather nice ladies. They kept an excellent stock of
books and periodicals and I was often in there, looking at something, purchasing something. I was cycling past one day and saw that a few prints had been displayed in the window and they were for
sale. They were some of Robin’s stencil works, in colour no less, but they werepieces you could see just yards away in any direction on the walls. It was the first time
I had seen any prints of his for sale and they were signed and numbered. They looked good but did not have the impact that they had out on the street. Still, there was one of my favourites –
‘Bombing Middle England’ – a stencil of proper English ladies practising the refined sport of bowls. All clad in white as befits the civilized game, only the bowls were bombs. The
prints were not expensive, maybe twenty or thirty pounds, so I snapped one up even though my cash flow had become severely limited of late. I stuck the print up in my hall with a few
thumbtacks.
I told my family and friends that this guy’s prints were on sale and that they should go and get one before they all flew out the
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