Football has always kindled a creative spark for me. I remember very little about my first games from the 1970s but can vividly remember the atmosphere of pent up rage, hard-bitten humour and machismo. And the “Fauvist”, iridescent green of the pitch.
When young my love of football also found expression through my obsession with kits from the 1920s and 1930s. Why, I wondered, couldn’t the 1970s footballer wear the (to me) much more elegant styles of the inter-war years? During the same time (1977-1983), I was engaged in painting the “Lace War” armies of the C18th Austro-Hungarian Empire. This venture got out of hand very quickly. Somewhere in my parents’ loft marches every regiment that fought at Waterloo (Airfix HO/OO scale figures) and a fair number of figures depicting the terrible opening battles of the First War.
During 2011-12, I returned to examine this thematic link, discovering that there may be more in it than my pre-adolescent whims let on. These are sketches from a day long “draw-in” in Leiden’s then un-renovated Scheltema. The day also saw me down a crate of ale, with the aid of a cheese sandwich. The uniforms are those from all combatant armies of The Great War.
A slightly blurred photograph of a photocopy with drawing and inscription. Here, two North Western crews confront each other: the curator seems to remember that shows Bolton Wanderers fans versus some other bored youths. The text (in byro) is doggerel hot from the frontal lobes of the Photocopier, the soldier (in felt tip liner and a few pencil strokes) is an Italian Bersaglieri rifleman from the 6th regiment, 1915; taken from the excellent Blandford Colour Series title, “Army Uniforms of World War 1”. The Photocopier likes the fact this photo is slightly blurred; it seems to complement the hurried movement suggested in the hooligan photograph.
A photograph of a photocopy with drawing and inscription. Two police dogs are restrained by their handlers, whilst casual types look on.. The text (in byro) is doggerel but the Photocopier is quietly pleased that his conscience shone through the increasing fug of beer in writing it. The officer (in oil pencil and pencil) is a German pilot officer, Manfred von Richthofen no less, the famous “Red Baron”. The curator has no doubt that the Baron, known for his courtly manners, would have agreed with the sentiment about plastic in the world’s oceans.
A slightly blurred photograph of a photocopy with a quick sketch and inscription. Here, we see a crocodile of casuals walking through some North Western town. The text (in felt tip) is taken from Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange (1962) a book that somehow presaged the football violence of the late 1960s -late 1980s. The head is that of a wearing the famous “Czapka” (in pencil outlined in felt tip) is a Polish Lancer in the service of the Austro-Hungarian army, 1916. Taken from the excellent Blandford Colour Series title, “Army Uniforms of World War 1”. Again the hasty, off centre nature of the Photocopier’s photograph somehow adds to the essence of the image.
The 1970s and 1980s were the era where I began to watch football matches in Lancashire and the North East. Initially accompanied by an adult (a pal’s dad, my dad or my granda) during the mid-to-late 1970s, I attended my first games on my own around 1984, with my first serious away trip being spring 1987 to watch Newcastle United play Manchester City at Maine Road (0-0 if you must know). Football has always kindled a creative spark for me. I remember very little about the actual games from the 1970s but can vividly remember the atmosphere of pent up rage, hard-bitten humour and machismo. And the “Fauvist”, almost giddily bright splash of green of the pitch. This somehow opened up a feeling I could only express through drawing.
During the same time (1977-1983), I was engaged in painting the armies of the C18th Austro-Hungarian Empire in full; specifically that which had fought during the later Wars of the Spanish Succession (covering 1740s-1760s). Somehow that dovetailed with obsessively drawing footballers from the 1920s and 1930s. Football history was a subject that, back then, was often ridiculed by my increasingly “casually-clothed” peers.
During 2011-12, I returned to examine this thematic link, discovering that there may be more in it than my pre-adolescent whims let on. These are sketches from a day long “draw-in”(accompanied by a crate of ale, which was polished off day-tripper charabanc style, with the aid of a cheese sandwich). The uniforms are those from all combatant armies of The Great War.
A photograph of a photocopy of a photograph of two North West casual gangs (the curator can’t remember which crew, or team). The freehand drawing (in byro) is taken from the excellent Blandford title, “Army Uniforms of World War 1”. The acrylic paint was accidentally added during the making of a mural of British football hooliganism in Enschede, where the photocopy served as a visual note. With additional text from Anthony Burgess’s ‘A Clockwork Orange’ (1962). The soldier is Russian Lieutenant General (GS) Baron Frederick von den Brincken, Chief of Staff Guards and St Petersburg Military District, 1915.
A photograph of a photocopy of a photograph. Here, police monitor what looks like a crew from the very late 1980s. The freehand drawing (in felt liner tip) is taken from the excellent Blandford title, “Army Uniforms of World War 1”. With additional text from a tispy curator. The soldier is Russian Life Guardsman of the Ismailovski Regiment in walking-out dress, 1915.
A photograph of a photocopy of a photograph of what, without doubt, is an image from the mid 1980s, capturing the (bizarre) trend for deerstalker hats amongst North West casual gangs. The curator thinks this lot could be Tranmere FC. Deerstalkers were lampooned in Liverpool FC’s widely read fanzine The End, but – as usual with any message laced with any form of irony – taken seriously by those it sought to lampoon. The soldier images (in felt liner tip) are those of a Serbian soldier and staff officer, dating from 1916 possibly from the Salonika campaign. The third image (in pencil) is French; the helmet badge for the engineers, to be found on the front of the 1916 Adrian pattern helmet. The doggerel text from the curator has no provenance, though music fans of a certain age may recognise the title of a Smiths song, from the ‘Meat is Murder’ album (1985).
My father and my uncles requisitioned Felling Labour Party branch’s Minute notebooks (on which my granda was Chair) in the late 1940s and early 1950s, in order to keep a record of their Subbuteo leagues. In the current climate of mistrust and self-righteousness, I find this an oddly comforting thought. How much fun football seemed back then, channeling the same nerdy impulses into something creative and throwaway, not phone ins or blogs ranting on about stats.
What is encouraging – and something we should remember about the human condition – was the gradual move towards the imagination; the League teams not as interesting in the long run as a set of fantasy teams with their own stars and villains. You can see that in the main image in this post.
One interesting fact is that the Labour party’s rosette from the late 1940s was dark olive green with a white centre (replete with the words “Vote Labour”) with green and white ribbons.
Here a detail of a pencil and crayon drawing of one of the earlier books, showing one of the brothers’ clubs, Newcastle United (the other was Gateshead FC, then playing in the Football League). My father really should have kept up his talent as a draftsman.
Here – in a glorious juxtaposition of note-taking and illustration, we see a clash of ideals: Labour’s New Jerusalem meets a slide in at the far post.
One of the great things about paper is that it can be commandeered as a trusty helpmate in carrying out a wide range of tasks. My father and uncles did such when they requisitioned my granda’s Felling Labour Party Minute notebooks to make a thorough, near-decade long record of their (very early) Subbuteo league.
It’s worth noting too that the early Subbuteo players were made of card.
Copying and recycling paper to a new purpose; part of our own personal Bhavacakra.
The artists practise what the priests and politicians think is forgotten…
A late image (this is when the brothers had invented their own fantasy leagues). Note, too the byro, which replaced the pencil and crayon of the earlier league records.
Incredibly, sometime in the late 1940s, Barrow won the league.
These are photographs that I wanted to make into photocopies, but didn’t. Not because of their suitability or otherwise as I’m not sure whether the concept of suitability, as such, plays any part in this particular reproductive process. I still think that the grey furze of the photocopied image does to some extent replicate the film between your sight and inner sight. In that respect anything photocopied (in effect performing the act of taking one step away) brings us one step closer to understanding something.
But sometimes the time between the photograph, or drawing, or the discovery of the objet trouvé, takes time to determine. In this series of posts I also wanted to show you what East Lancashire looks like in winter from the top of a bus. I have one complaint about these buses and that is they are too warm. The heating is always on ridiculously high.
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale (here note the typically East Lancastrian forthrightness in the shop sign). The Photocopier takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale (though this is Baxenden, Hollands Pies to be precise). The Photocopier takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that Doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale (here failing to focus on the C19th mills that are in the valley behind the road). The Photocopier takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
These are photographs that I wanted to make into photocopies, but didn’t. Not because of their suitability or otherwise as I’m not sure whether the concept of suitability, as such, plays any part in this particular reproductive process. I still think that the grey furze of the photocopied image does to some extent replicate the film between your sight and inner sight. In that respect anything photocopied (in effect performing the act of taking one step away) brings us one step closer to understanding something.
But sometimes the time between the photograph, or drawing, or the discovery of the objet trouvé, takes time to determine. In this series of posts I also wanted to show you what East Lancashire looks like in winter from the top of a bus. I’ve had many an adventure on the bus to Manchester, and heard lots of stories, like “what would die first in a desert, a rat, or a camel?”
Who can tell?
Time doing nothing is not time wasted. (Georges Remi).
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale. The Photocopier remembers going to a party on a Sunday afternoon round this area in 1987. The Photographer takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale. The Photocopier takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
Photo of a bus journey through Rossendale (though this is Baxenden, Hollands Pies to be precise). The Photocopier takes lots of bad, “instant” photos on his phone – usually without any subject in mind – in the expectation that one day he will get round to photocopying them and “doing something with them.” Normally that doesn’t happen. Still the idea of reproducing the act of documenting nothing in particular appeals to the Photocopier. What is worthless, the thought, the process, or the end result?
The Museum is now open as the end of winter reckoning has taken place and whatever debts we thought we had have been paid to no-one. How tiresome the world is at present. Maybe we should all indulge in a private, personal version of Pharmakon. In silence. The Museum is here for you, as a place to escape, a digital milk bar, worshiping the healing power, and bounty, of paper.
A photograph of a section of an oil painting on paper depicting a once-regular bus journey the Photocopier undertook with his mother in the early 1970s, from St James’ Infants in Clayton le Moors (now demolished), to Whalley Road Accrington. The Photocopier is depicted wearing his Easter bonnet.
A photograph of a section of an oil painting on paper depicting a once-regular bus journey the Photocopier undertook with his mother in the early 1970s, from St James’ Infants in Clayton le Moors (now demolished), to Whalley Road Accrington. The Photocopier is depicted wearing his Easter bonnet.
A photograph of a section of an oil painting on paper depicting a once-regular bus journey the Photocopier undertook with his mother in the early 1970s, from St James’ Infants in Clayton le Moors (now demolished), to Whalley Road Accrington. The Photocopier has painted the often formidable women on the bus.
