Accringtonia Archives - Page 7 of 8 - Museum of Photocopies

Post-Ides Reopening – 2018

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.

Accrington Red Brick Coalbunker Interzone #2

I have strong memories of mucking about in the grate of the new house we moved into in 1972. The grate – where water from the kitchen would collect – was a constant source of fascination. Staring at the ripples of water would induce a trance-like state. Airfix soldiers would drown, and my brightly coloured, too-light all-purpose play-ball would inevitably find its way there.

Recently, some kind of time-bubble opened up and I found myself repeatedly sketching the bricks of the kitchen wall by memory, or doodling from old photographs of myself in my favoured interzone, the patch between the coal bunker, the backdoor and the grate. How soothing Accrington’s red brick is, able to withstand the warm, benevolent Lancastrian gloaming, damp and accumulated industrial filth, able to stand out alongside the blackened, blasted sandstone.

Photograph, taken by the Curator in January 2018, of the wall adjoining the neighbours, where the original coal bunker once stood.

Photograph, taken by the Curator in January 2018, of the kitchen wall at the corner of the grate. the lighting gives a sense of the grate’s elemental power of attraction (even though just out of sight to the left) and the pellucid Lancastrian light after rain.

Photograph of photocopy of a drawing of a photograph of Richard the Photocopier and his brother playing in the interface. The photograph’s date is estimated at 1976. The detail is of the sturdy green-painted pipe that led to the grate (now replaced). Green paint seems to have been everywhere in East Lancashire in the early 1970s, covering doors, prefabs, bus pipes, railings and garage doors (another source of fascination for the Curator).

Blue #5

Memories can be cut out and rearranged. But that doesn’t make them better or any easier to grasp. Looking at these three new additions to the museum, the curator can’t help but wonder what binds them outside of his own random attempts at fusing or displaying memory. Maybe not even that. Maybe they should be pondered in silence, without recourse to thought.

Photograph of a letter from an ex-University friend, circa 1993. A lot of letters from that period were full of such declamations and anecdotes. And the actions of the writers always seemed full of adventure, wit and brio; totally at odds with the curator’s Accrington sojourn.

Photograph of a collage of a colour photocopy of a photograph of a mysterious duckboarded path on Ilkley Moor, West Yorks. The pen and ink graffito is a typical response from Richard the Photocopier when presented by such a visual prospect.

Photograph of two photocopies set side by side. One is a collage made out of newsprint, ink, pencil and tracing paper. The other a photocopy of a pencil drawing of the curator’s father in January 1970. The Photocopier’s father always wore stylish (if not trendy) clothes for the (aspirant) working/lower middle orders in the period.

Blue #3

There is a peculiar shade of blue that pervades certain parts of Accrington. Not always seen, it can nevertheless be sensed as a strong visual memory over long periods of time and sometimes in other places, far removed from this former manufacturing town in East Lancashire. The blue can be put to various uses. In modern parlance, it is a “positive” force. And the curator invoked it at various times during that strangest of decades, the 1990s.

A photograph of a colour print of a photograph of model aeroplanes found in a photo studios in Bury, Lancs, around 1996. One of the more peculiar images in the museum, the curator can’t think why he commissioned this photograph to be taken. It may point to the lack of interesting creative ideas running around in the UK during the mid 1990s. The print has spent the last 20 years in a portfolio.

Photograph of a print of 4 small drawings depicting the fruits of Richard the Photocopier’s imagination. Drawn around 1998 during a period of great tumult in his private life, the drawings also show the influence of too much Robert Graves. The original drawings were posted to the singer of Super Furry Animals.

A photograph of a damaged colour photocopy of a black and white drawing in dip pen and ink. Coloured ink added by the curator at a later date. The image was originally found in the prospectus of St Martin’s College, London, circa 1992. The curator valued it for its obvious satirical qualities. But, unwittingly, the image also replicated some unspoken desires. To escape Accrington, and to “be” an artist.

Blue #2

Sometimes you can see a peculiar kind of blue in Accrington. You can normally see it when the sun goes down behind the hill where the former NORI brickworks use to be. (It’s now a new housing estate.) The afterglow spreads over Accrington Stanley’s ground, and then casts a peculiar blue green light into the back room of my parents’ house.

In the very early 1990s, on the dole and living back at my parents’ in Accrington, I began to draw and write in earnest, and in secret. I thought of applying to St Martins’, but couldn’t be arsed. The post ERM crash suited me. No jobs worth having in East Lancashire. Still: I needed a counterpoint to my friends’ exciting lives in dreamlike places like Bedford, Lutterworth or Chalfont St Peter. And, around 1993, London, where my more urbane mates ended up. I started to draw what it would be like to, you know, go there.

Then I would go to the corner shop and buy 4 cans of Trent Mild, and mixed salt and vinegar peanuts and salted crisps, and read the Acccrington Observer letters page and listen to BBC Radio 4.

The past is my playground.

Blue #2 — Photograph of a handmade, typically artsy postcard received from a Lancashire friend then residing in Bedford who had a job and was about to marry and buy a house. Note the postmark smear, meaning at least one enlightened Royal Mail employee working in the South East.

Blue #1

I still find it a remarkable light, something I haven’t seen anywhere else. I always found its appearance a very hopeful sign and – like the two Haitian angel/devil tin cats hanging on my wall – still draw on its presence.

In the very early 1990s, when I left Felling, I spent some time living back at my parents. Sometimes letters from friends, (whose lives seemed to be far more exciting, or at least much more dramatically, entertainingly, boring than mine) would summon up this blue light. Places like Bedford, Lutterworth or Chesterfield, Aberystwyth or Chalfont St Peter loomed large in the imagination. And, around 1993, London. A place seen only three times previously. And then in passing. I began to draw what London would be like, if I ever went.

The 1990s, where letters would stop and start amidships, beached by thoughts or sudden displays of emotion. A time when the World of Word Processor leaned like a sinister uncle over your shoulder.

The past is my playground.

Blue #1 — Photograph of a letter the curator received from a university friend, describing work in Chesterfield around 1991. Note the postmodern socio-cultural reference – once the preserve of wits in the immediate post-Thatcherite landscape – that became (overbearingly) ubiquitous later in the decade.

I Never Tell Anybody Anything #4

A reminder that life can be flippant. O, cleanse my flippant soul. By the powers that be, o, stop me from thinking everything can be a joke.

A papier-mâché badger. In Clover. — A photograph of a negative of a photograph taken by the curator of a friend, in a pub car park on the Whalley Road. At his feet, a papier-mâché badger. The curator had made the badger as a wedding present for another friend. Taken shortly before a journey to Bedford to present the badger. And shortly after eviction from the pub.

Photograph of a photocopy of a pen and ink sketch by the curator of two Soviet Cadets. Drawn around 2005. From the book, ‘Russia from the Inside’, by Robert Kaiser and Hannah Jopling Kaiser.

I Never Tell Anyone Anything #2

A mini-series of posts dedicated to our Patron Saint, (somewhat slipped), Eddie B. Why should we tell each other anything anyway? Our emotions are being turned into clean code. Very soon we will be shared to death.

Members of the CPSU, pen and ink drawing, photocopied, then extra colour applied with coloured pencils. From the book, Russia from the Inside by Robert Kaiser and Hannah Jopling Kaiser, 1980 (Withdrawn from Lancashire Library 1991.)

Pen and ink sketch of a photograph of Uncle Lawrence on a day trip, late 1940s. Flanked by two bowler hatted men drawn from the curator’s imagination. Colour pencil added to photocopy.

I Never Tell Anyone Anything #1

A mini-series of posts dedicated to our Patron Saint, (somewhat slipped), Eddie B. Why should we tell each other anything anyway?

I Never Tell Anybody Anything #1 — Members of the CPSU, pen and ink drawing, photocopied. From the book, Russia from the Inside by Robert Kaiser and Hannah Jopling Kaiser, 1980 (Withdrawn from Lancashire Library 1991.)

Accrington Red Brick Coalbunker Interzone

Coal, brick (whether sooty or bright red), clay, soil, stone. These are my elements. I adore the smell of coal cinders. Like the dun green colour of the painted prefabs and shelters then still to be seen at the top of Moss Hall Road, the dank, tangy smell of cinders constitutes a very early memory.

Every week the coal man (a jolly, noisy chap I recall) would drop off a few bags in our concrete coal bunker in our new house on Whalley Road. I would then clamber onto the structure, and try to look into next door’s garden, for their cat Milly (was it Milly?), an irascible tortoiseshell. Or peer over the road to the NORI brick stacks. I would bang my drum (a 2nd, or 3rd birthday present) and wear my dad’s Heworth Colliery Band hat.

My past is my playground.