Dear Me, Scott King

Man and Desk, 2010

The Table and Chair at Which I Will Write the First Year 10 Manifesto, 2010, ph. Mark Walker

MH: What do you like about manifestos?

SK: I like the the bravery of them. I love the idea that an individual or group can attempt to instigate a series of rules or outline a set of behavioural codes – then try and adhere to them. Most manifestos seem to end in abject failure, don’t they? I like that, I like the idea of idealism – and the seemingly inevitable failure of that idealism when it’s put into practice. Almost all the great 20th century art movements were built on manifestos – or manifestos were very quickly written in order to define them.

Historically the French avant-garde have created the best manifestos – I suppose they have the unashamed seriousness that a great manifesto requires:

A) Excerpts from the Lettriste Manifesto

http://www.thing.net/~grist/l&d/lettrist/isou-m.htm

B) The Situationist Manifesto

http://www.infopool.org.uk/6003.html

C) Yves Klein – The Chelsea Hotel Manifesto

http://www.yvesklein.de/manifesto.html

MH: What will your manifesto be about? Do you really think you’ll be the first artist writing a »Year 10 Manifesto«? I bet a lot of artists are sitting at their desks RIGHT NOW!

SK: I’m not going to write »The First Year 10 Manifesto« – I was going to write it this afternoon. Unfortunately I expelled myself from ›The Year 10 Group‹ earlier this morning. This is very common – not self-expulsion perhaps, but unexpected and unwarranted expulsion was commonplace in many of the 20th Century avant-garde movements (the Situationist Internationale particularly).

MH: Tell me about that Nabokov documentary you saw on TV recently. And what are your thoughts when you look at all those powerful men at their powerful desks (see above)?

SK: Well it was just a documentary on BBC4… a kind of populist arts TV channel in the UK. The documentary was called »How do you solve a problem like Lolita?« and, from what I could gather, was essentially about the paedophilic nature of »Lolita« – and more importantly – did »Lolita« suggest that the author had paedophillic tendencies? Anyway – the presenter of the documentary was a journalist called Stephen Smith; he went to the Montreux Palace Hotel where Nabokov lived in his later years. Smith went into Nabokov’s room and sat at his writing desk. Smith’s excitement was palpable as he caressed Nabokov’s desk while speaking to the camera… as I remember he was wondering if the desk had somehow been imbued with Nabokov’s literary talent. He seemed to think that if he sat there long enough, maybe The Great Author’s talent would somehow rub off on himself.

SO – this got me thinking – not new thoughts – it kind of reminded me of old thoughts. It reminded me of my own most precious possession.

I’ve hardly ever told anyone this, but I own a shelf from Martin Kippenberger’s studio. Years ago an old friend of mind visited Kippenberger in Cologne. Kippenberger was very welcoming and told him he could take anything he wanted from the studio – his exact words were: »Take anything from here that you consider to be great art… except the great art«. So my friend, probably showing off, pointed at the wall and said: »I’ll take that shelf, it’s the most beautiful thing in here«. About five years ago my friend was completely broke, so I bought the shelf from him. I never use it, of course, I keep it stored safely away in bubble wrap.

Here it is:

Martin Kippenberger’s Shelf, taken from Kippenberger’s studio in March 1984

So, in short, I’m very interested in seemingly inane and inanimate objects that may or may not have some kind of mystical power.

The greatest example of this I’ve ever seen is currently being safeguarded by another friend of mine. John Marchant, of Isis Gallery, has the original newspaper clipping of HRH Elizabeth II that Jamie Reid used for the »God Save The Queen« single sleeve. I’ve actually held it, it’s an amazing thing – as John said: »It’s perhaps the most simultaneously valuable and worthless artefact in late 20th century popular culture«.

I just got John to send me a picture of it, here it is:

MH: Did you paint the table and chair white? You used the word ›cleansing‹ when we spoke on the phone earlier on but you weren’t sure if it was the right word. Is maybe ›neutralising‹ more fitting?

SK: Yes, ›neutralising‹ is better – ›cleansing‹ has different connotations. I painted the chair and table white. I found them discarded near a skip in my street. They were tatty and filthy – deeply ›un-mythical‹ objects – so I took them home and repainted them white – if you like, I ›neutralised‹ them, I saved them – I wanted them to start again. I had every intention of not only neutralising them, but elevating them to semi-mythical status – if I’d have been allowed to write »The First Year 10 Manifesto« while sitting at them – they WOULD have attained semi-mythical status. But that was yesterday, and today I was expelled from ›The Year 10 Group‹.

Ludwig Wittgenstein (on Certainty), 2008, courtesy of Bortolami, New York

My Grandma died last night – last night being Friday, the 11th of December. I was at Nicky Verber’s flat when Dave called to tell me. Dave said: »I’m sorry ’coz I know you’re out… but you’d be mad at me if I didn’t tell you straight way… Nana’s just died«.

He’s very kind, my Dad.

And I know why he rang me straight away.

There used to be an old farmer who lived near us called Tom Barker… ›Uncle Tom‹ to us. He was this magnificent character: He always wore his old army beret and his gigantic chicken shit stained trousers were held up with orange twine… and his false teeth were never fully in his mouth. He was a local legend. A brilliantly funny man. When we were kids we used to go to his farm, he didn’t really want us to, but we loved hanging about there. He used to take us down the River Aire on his boat – the River Aire (when it gets to Goole) is a hideous fast flowing brown torrent – and Tom’s boat was always one leak short of being at the bottom of the river. When we went on Tom’s boat he’d give all us kids a pan or a bucket each and strategically position us near the leaks. We never got far, he’d usually do a couple of circles in the torrent then deliver us back to the safety of the muddy bank – declaring the voyage to be a triumph.

ANYWAY

When Uncle Tom died I was at college, I was away from home. Dave didn’t tell me about Tom’s death… I only found out two weeks after he’d been buried that he’d died (there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t figure it out at the moment). I was mad at Dave for not telling me.

I think Dave remembered how upset I was that he hadn’t told me about Uncle Tom’s death, so he rang me straight away about Nana… knowing full well that I was at the Herald St Christmas Get Together.

Still, Dave did the right thing.

My Grandma was a television addict – I mean REALLY – she knew everything about television. She should have been the controller of the BBC. She would put the telly on as soon as she got up and she would sit all day watching every single programme until she went to bed. Once, when her telly was slightly on the blink, stuttering in and out of a fully clear channel, she got a second telly and sat it on top of the first. This meant she could watch them both together – PERFECT – she could watch two channels at once, even though one would flash up black static most of the time… she wasn’t bothered… it was bliss.

Nana didn’t just watch daytime junk – she, by accident rather than design, was a film buff of the highest order. If I went to see her and I said: »What you watching Nana?« ­ without hesitation or taking her eyes off the screen, she’d reply: »The Black Windmill… Michael Caine… 1974… directed by Don Siegel, I think… right load of rubbish«.

Just before she died, in the hospice, she had a bit of a revival – she had a bit of clarity. She woke up and said to my mum: »Put telly on, will you«. My mum turned on the TV and it was »Teletubbies«. My mum said to Nana: »You don’t want this on, do you?« Nana said: »Not really… but at least it’s a good picture… they can’t get ITV here«.

She was alright, Nana.

This is wrong of me and I hope my cousin doesn’t read this – but – my cousin Joanne has always had a bit of a weight problem, she’s always been pretty big. Just before Nana died our Joanne went round to see her. Nana mentioned Joanne’s weight.

It went something like this:

Nana: »Bloody hell! Have you put more weight on?«

Joanne: »Yeah… I can’t help it… it’s in my genes.«

Nana: »It’s not in your jeans, love… it’s hanging over top of ’em.«

Goodbye Eileen.

I grew up in a town called Goole – it’s a brilliant shit hole of a place – rough, nasty, poor… all the clichés of The North. But that’s not its defining characteristic – it’s really defined by the fantastic lunatics that live there. They make Goole what it is, they make it great. I left there when I was 19, but a part of me will be forever Goole (though I’d have preferred a part of me to be forever Manhattan or Biarritz).

Here are two examples that spring to mind:

FIRST EXAMPLE: E. FIRTH, WESTER RD, GOOLE

There’s an age eighty-something gentleman called Ernie Firth, who for the last fifty years has been writing a letter every week to the local paper (The Goole Times). His ability to mix world politics with the unfolding drama outside his living room window is quite remarkable – below are three examples of Mr Firth’s letters:

A. DISTURBING HEADLINES

Published on 28th December 2007

Sir - A rather disturbing headline: one fire crew for Goole! My late wife was rescued twice by fire crews, so I know how essential they are to the people of Goole. I wonder who thinks of these decisions. Who knows, probably fewer police next.

It seems millions of pounds are being spent on the inquest on the death of Princess Diana. Can’t they let her rest in peace?

E. Firth, Western Road, Goole

B. WELCOME BACK

Published on 8th January 2009

Sir – I’m glad to be back still, under difficulties, but I thought it was time to write a letter wishing you, your staff, readers and writers a happy and prosperous new year – hoping for better things to come.

Being out of touch for a bit, I was very surprised America had elected a black president.

E. Firth, Western Road, Goole

C. TIME TO BEAT THE TALIBAN

Published on 18th July 2009

I see two shops in Pasture Road seem to be re-opening.

Is that a good sign of the times?

But now to a more serious problem. More British soldiers have been killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan who now seem to be a big problem.

Where are the Taliban getting all their armaments from?

We beat the might of Germany twice, surely we can beat the Taliban.

E. Firth, Western Road, Goole

SECOND EXAMPLE: CUE GARY

In Goole there’s a well known lad called Cue Gary – it’s hard to describe Cue Gary without sounding insulting – so I won’t – I’ll just repeat a text message I received from my mate Simon the other day:

»AM STANDING OUTSIDE GOOLE TRAIN STATION – CUE GARY JUST WENT PAST ON A BICYCLE WITH NO CHAIN.«

P.S.: If you’re wondering why Cue Gary is called Cue Gary (and not just Gary) – it’s because for the last 25 years he’s carried a snooker cue around with him everyday. If I did a survey in Goole, I can can guarantee you that I would not be able to find anyone who as ever seen him without his snooker cue. On the other hand – neither I, nor anyone else I know has ever seen him playing snooker.

I am 40 years old today. Happy Birthday To Me!

So what does it mean? Nothing perhaps, but I’ll tell you this, I’ll tell you who are not yet 40 years old this: Being 39 is awful. I’ve not had a bad year or anything really. What’s been really shit is the waiting to be 40 – when you’re 39 nobody can see or ›hear‹ that – they ONLY know that you’re ›Nearly 40‹. If someone asked my age and I’d said 39, their immediate response would be: »Oooh, nearly 40« or »Oooh, nearly there then…!« or some other inane shit.

The point is: 39 does not exist, not for the victim nor the spectator – there is only ›Nearly 40‹ – so, in a way, in a Godforsaken Lemming Like Way – thank God I am now 40. Thank God that it’s over with. I’m not yet experienced enough as a ›Forties‹ to tell you what it’s like, I have no words of wisdom on officially being closer to death than to birth – but – I have to say, I’m quite happy with it, I’m quite pleased. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die, it’s just that being closer to death than to birth has made me feel quite ALIVE. All last week I was in this strangely euphoric mood – usually I’m as miserable as fuck, sometimes I hate waking up and wish I could stay in bed all day – but not last week. Last week I couldn’t wait to get up and bounce around the house - happily ringing my accountant, joyously collating every discarded CD and archaic QuarkXpress file for my new book (you heard it right, a new book is out next year, a monograph no less: An Illustration of The Illustrious King Career-ette)… I’ve been so happy! But it’s nothing to do with the book or ringing my accountant.

Now – you have to understand, I’m not stupid. I know what it’s like when someone dies – the organisation of the funeral becomes an obsessively focussed and even enjoyable act for the remaining family members – I’m no div – all my early morning activity, all my sorting out loose ends and digging through Guinness stained CDs of old artwork is me organising my own funeral – I know that. But I’m glad – I’m glad to get the first half of my life out of the way – it was often anxiety and stress filled – I was preoccupied by trying to become SOMEONE – I tried too hard and eventually it began to backfire, eventually I lost sight of ENJOYMENT… and I still never became what I wanted to be. But now everything is alright – now I don’t give a flying fuck. Maybe I can even become The Artist I Always Wanted To Be.

Now, I AM FREE*

*As I said, I’m not a Dimothy – I know that this FREEDOM is just biological, I know it’s just my body and brain slowly readjusting themselves to the reality of death. Still, if this is what getting OLD is like – DEATH must be brilliant!

P.S.: Before I go, I must tell you – I just re-bought »Quadrophenia«, both the film soundtrack and the original 1973 LP. I didn’t really know why I was doing it as I clicked away at those late night eBay buttons. But this morning, when Tony the Postman handed them to me at the front door – then I opened the padded envelopes – I knew exactly why. This was the soundtrack of my 10-15 year old self – this was as near as I ever got to a religion. I completely believed in Jimmy, I wanted to be him – the romantic, doomed, Lambretta riding hero/tragedy … well, that was my first thought, that was my obvious thought.

THEN

I started to look at the cover of the soundtrack LP – and I was struck by a thunderbolt – a tragic, hideous graphic design thunderbolt. Because, Germans, I thought I’d bought the soundtrack LP for the above reasons (a slightly more subliminal reason was because I wanted to see the cover – I wanted to see Jimmy’s angst ridden face stood in the Brighton alley that represented his Heroic Yesterday).

BUT

Once I had it my hands – once I was holding the LP cover, I realised that all the above was nothing – it was just fantasy – What I’d really wanted to see again was the white border on the front of the LP cover, the white border that frames the picture of Jimmy in the Brighton alley – the white border that has the word »QUADROPHENIA« in very small, delicate type sitting squarely in the middle at the top of the sleeve.

I

Do not know why, but when I was young that white border meant so much to me – I remember now how unusual, and perhaps tasteful, I thought it was. So, sadly, I must have been born with some kind of Graphic Design Gene.

ALL

Of which reminds me – when I was 15, I went to a party and got completely drunk – horribly drunk, I was being sick in the back garden of a house in Pasture Road, Goole. Audra Constable, thinking she was helping, rang my dad (DAVE) and told him he’d better come and get me. I was lying face down in the garden when my dad’s car skidded to a halt – I was dressed in my ›Jimmy from Quadrophenia‹ gear. DAVE grabbed the hood of my parka and dragged me face down across the garden – I remember the lawn – then he threw me in the back of his car. He drove home at 80mph, then he dragged me, still face down, by my hood upstairs to my bedroom – I remember the stairs carpet burning my nose – my mum was waiting there and was trying not to laugh. DAVE wasn’t laughing.

As they undressed my collapsed (then skinny) body, one of my mum’s eyeliner pencils fell out of my parka pocket. I vaguely remember DAVE saying: »AND! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS…?« I tried to explain to him that ›Jimmy from Quadrophenia‹ wore make-up on the 5.15 train to Brighton. DAVE wasn’t buying it, convinced he’d fathered an alcoholic transvestite, he stormed back downstairs in disgust. My mum burst into fits of laughter and kindly put me to bed. Superb.

A Homemade Cenotaph

November 11 is Remembrance Day or Poppy Day. So there are lots of people selling poppies, lots of marching bands and a huge memorial ceremony in London – all organised to show a mark of respect for those who have died in various conflicts across the ages. It started after World War 1, and the poppy was chosen as an emblem because of a poem called »In Flanders Fields« – the poem makes specific reference to the red poppies that bloomed across some of the worst battlefields in Flanders, and consequently the poppy became a symbol of remembrance.

Anyway, I was in Whitstable on the Kent coast when I spotted this improvised war memorial outside a church – people could buy a ›cross of remembrance‹ from a local shop and plant it on the memorial… unfortunately, the nearest shop was a butcher’s, so with no intended irony, someone from the church had made this sign:

A Homemade Cenotaph, 2009

MH: It all does look like a piece of art, doesn’t it? It somehow reminds me of photos I saw in Jeremy Deller’s »Folk Archive« book.

SK: Yes, as soon as I saw it, it reminded me of Jeremy Deller and Alan Kane’s »Folk Archive« – but there’s lots and lots of this stuff in Britain (as I’m sure there is in Germany), especially in towns like Whitstable. For example, I was in Faversham near Whitstable in September. Faversham is famous for it’s brewery and has been for hundreds of years. Every September they have the Hop Festival… so consequently you see things like this:

Faversham International Hop Festival, 2009

Anyway, enough of all that - Deller and Kane have cornered the market in Folk Art Re-Presenting… it’s not something I’m that fascinated by – I just liked the sad poetry of the homemade cenotaph.

While I’m talking memorials and re-presenting, here’s the bar chart I did called »The Dead« re-presented as a war memorial – I’ve called it »Proposal for a Transparent Monument«, it could go anywhere in Britain, any town. The chart only documents the deaths of British soldiers killed in Afghanistan up to 23rd September 2009, so it’d be out of date before it even got past the planning stages. Even if it was constantly redesigned to include the most recent deaths, it’d always and instantly be out of date until British troops left Afghanistan.

Proposal for a Transparent Monument, 2009 (Illustration by Matthieu Cortat)

I don’t know why I keep going on about war all the time. Let’s talk about something else.

Justin Yesterday

I bumped into an old friend yesterday – I said: »Fancy a quick pint?« He did, so we went to the pub five yards away. Now, I have to confess, I’d already had quite a few but I wasn’t drunk, I don’t think. Anyway, I bought us both a pint and we sat in the corner – as usual I asked him what he was up to: he’s a musician and was once in a funk-type band that did quite well. Then I asked him about our mutual friends, more his than mine, which is why I had to ask how they were.

Then I started talking, strange because I don’t know what I said, something utterly unmemorable probably. As I was talking I noticed that his eyes started to look skywards, and that he started guzzling his beer, eager to finish it.

Then something happened, he said: »Why do you always have to do this?«

I said: »What?«

He said: »Talk about the past, talk about yesterday«.

I said: »I don’t know«.

Actually, I did know, I only see him once a year, so the past seemed like a perfectly appropriate subject – in that I mean, we have no mutual tomorrow.

Then he said: »I can’t stand it, sorry, I’ve got to go«.

I said: »What you on about?«

He said: »You always call me a failed pop star and that«.

The thing is, I’d never mentioned him being a failed pop star – or perhaps I had, perhaps I’d said that last year when I bumped into him. Either way, I certainly didn’t say it yesterday.

He carried on swigging at his pint until the glass was almost empty – half standing up as he gulped it.

He said: »I can’t handle this« and looked towards the door.

I said: »Well, I’ll tell you what, I’ll never speak to you again… if you prefer?«

He didn’t say anything, but slammed down his glass and walked straight out.

Then I thought: »Am I going mad… ? Do I say things without knowing it?«

I sat and finished my pint and tried to run through what had just happened, what I might have said to offend him. I talked about Percy, I talked about Tim, I said how much I liked Dave and how it’d be great to see him again. I said: »He’s an accountant now isn’t he… , Dave?« He probably said »Yes« – because Dave is an accountant, but he’s not an accountant ›now‹, he’s been an accountant for the last twelve years. Is this what upset him? Did I snarl or spit the word ›accountant‹ like it was comparable to being a War Criminal Child Molester?

Dave was an artist, part of the fabled Goldsmith’s generation. Did Justin presume that I thought myself an artist-super-hero simply because I am not an accountant?

I shall probably never know because it looks like the failed pop star will never speak to me again.

MH: »Fancy a quick pint?« is a phrase you often hear in Britian. Why the »quick«?

SK: Well, believe it or not, Martin, that’s an interesting question – »Fancy a quick pint?« is a phrase I would have used a lot in years gone by. If I bumped into someone I knew in Soho, Islington or wherever, I would inevitably ask them if they wanted to have a quick drink. Not anymore though, because nobody ever does. It’s fair to say that if I bump into an artist I know it’s about 60/40 that they won’t want to go for a pint – you know? – they might do, they might be persuaded, depends on who it is – some of them of course will leap at the chance, but most won’t. If I bump into a graphic designer I know it’s about 90/10 that they won’t want to go for a pint – they really really really don’t want to. Of course, it could just be that they don’t want to go for a pint with me, but I suspect it’s not that. The reason they don’t want to go for a casual drink is because it’s unprofessional. And there, Martin, is why I never wanted to be a graphic designer. Who wants to be professional? If I’d wanted to be a professional person I would have become a fucking radiotherapist.

So, »Fancy a quick pint« is a phrase that once had currency, but is now pretty pointless, at least in my world – the only people who ever usually fancy a quick pint are either broke (and know that I’ll buy them a drink) or they’ve got nothing better to do… or most likely, both.

MH: I think it’s inevitable to talk about the past when you meet old friends. I wasn’t present when you met Justin but I’m pretty sure that you didn’t say anything about him being a failed pop star.

SK: Talking about the past – well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s boring to most people, but I probably talk about the past more than the future. I know if I meet my very old friends, then we’ll always talk about the past, it’s enjoyable isn’t it? Even the most humiliating and depressing incidents become funny after enough time has passed – and good friends love to remind you of humiliating incidents – well, mine do anyway. With Justin Yesterday, I suppose I could have offended him in the past, fuck knows – it might just have been his incredibly elaborate way of not having to buy me a pint back.

MH: Do you think that Justin envies you? This would be funny because you yourself don’t really think that you’re a famous, successful artist, don’t you? Maybe it would help Justin to read our blog?

SK: No, I don’t think he envies me at all, there is nothing to envy – I think he just thinks I’m an arsehole – a reminiscing arsehole at that. He can read it if he wants – I don’t care really – not in a callous way, I just don’t care for people being that sensitive, I can’t be bothered with all that, it’s too modern and pathetic.

MH: To finish this: the »fabled Goldsmith’s generation« - who were they, were you part of them and is there a new generation of young British artists now who you find interesting?

SK: Well the ›Fabled Goldsmith’s Generation‹ are the YBAs… the artists who came to prominence in the early 1990s: Damien Hirst, Sarah Lucas, Angus Fairhurst, Angela Bulloch, Gary Hume – there’s lots of them.

Good God, Man! No, I wasn’t one of them; I’m not even fabled in my own home. Also, I’d like to point out that they’re all a lot older then me. I’m not forty yet! They’re nearer fifty – so obviously, the YBA moniker needs to be reconsidered (and has needed to be for the last decade).

As far as younger British artists go who I find interesting, I don’t know really. Mathew Sawyer is a very interesting artist and quite crackers, I’d recommend people look him up and listen to his band Mathew Sawyer and the Ghosts – but mostly, I tend to prefer people who died some time ago, they’re easier to admire.

Before I go – I saw this the other day:

Two young people dressed in matching tops and in love, they had their arms wrapped around one another, they seem to have argued and then made up, they were surrounded by shopping bags from Tesco. When they began to walk home - I followed them… this was the ultimate in Convenience Stalking… it turned out they live on my street.

Young Vomit Inducing Love, 2009

I am going to be 40 in November – I am scared – not so much at being 40, but because I am still smoking cigarettes.

In Britain they now put ›visual warnings‹ on cigarette packets – to say SMOKING KILLS is no longer enough. Now they make us look at pictures of the dead and dying. In a way, I’m all for this – like most smokers, I’d like to give it up; the problem is the photographs that they’ve chosen to put on the cigarette packets – they’ll never work.

When I see this, what am I meant to read into it? If I carry on smoking I’ll grow a gigantic wispy 1970’s paedophile moustache? Who chose that picture? I’m scared of dying for sure, I’m scared of getting throat cancer, I’m especially scared of getting throat cancer that turns into a gigantic deformed strawberry just below my chin – BUT – I’m more scared of getting a nicotine induced tragi-tache.

— »MUM! IS THIS WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I CARRY ON SMOKING?«
— »Yes son, you’ll grow a gigantic moustache and everyone will think you’re a hermaphrodite from 1973.«

The Dead, 2009

MH: This chart makes me sad although it looks very beautiful. Please tell me what we see.

SK: It’s a bar chart constructed from the names of British soldiers killed in Afghanistan between 9 April 2002 and 23 September 2009. I grouped the soldiers by their first names, which is very ›unmilitaristic‹. So, the longest bars show that there were nine soldiers called Daniel and nine soldiers called James killed in this period. The shortest bars illustrate that there was only one Wayne, Ralph or Nigel (amongst many others) killed in this period.

MH: Where did you get the names from?

SK: There are ›memorial‹ websites, by Channel 4 or the BBC for example, that list all the soldiers killed.

MH: Why did you choose these colours? Is there a meaning behind each and every colour? I mean: You could have chosen a brown instead of a black…

SK: These colours are the standard colours on the InDesign programme… they’re prescribed colours if you like. I chose them because they were already there.

MH: You mentioned that the names are »essentially working class names«, is that right? Daniel and James are the names of soldiers that were killed the most, if my English is correct here. Please tell us a little bit about the names the »working class« gives its children. Do the names differ in each generation of working class sons? I know you come from a working class background – so is Scott a typical working class name of people who were born in the late 60s, early 70s? On your chart there is only one Scott.

SK: Well, I did tell you that, but I’m not sure it’s essentially true – or at least it’s not true in the way I’d first imagined - in my naivety I expected to find a lot of Darrens, Garys and Steves… and there were a lot of soldiers killed with these ›classically‹ working class names… but there were also a lot of James’ and Jonathans: names that you wouldn’t necessarily think of as ›working class‹.

I was watching the news in early September and I saw that Corporal John Harrison had been killled – I thought: »Fucking hell, I bet loads of John Harrisons have been killed« – by that I mean, it struck me that if I did a survery of the names of the dead soldiers, then the same or similar names would appear again and again… and they do of course, but not as literally or in such an obvious ›everyman‹ working class way as I thought they would. I was angered by all these young men called Dan, Steve or Gary being killed – it struck me as a parallel to WW1, where the British Army would recruit whole villages into the same ›pals regiment‹. Then the whole regiment would be wiped out in a single morning… so consequently there’d be no men between the ages of 17 and 30 in certain villages.

Yes, names do differ from generation to generation, of course – if you look at the dates of birth of the British soldiers killed in Afghanistan, you can see that the ones called Gary or Steve tend to be older than the ones called Jonathan or Daniel.

Scott was quite a common name at my school (in Yorkshire), though it seems almost (dare I say) exotic in London… but really it’s a bit of a common name up north… it sounds a bit Country ’n’ Western, doesn’’ it? It’s a bit naff and American sounding.

MH: The term ›working class‹ today seems as an essential English term. English people of my age (34) whom I know really do use this term today. Is there still a working class and if there is one, how would you describe it?

SK: Well, there certainly is – but if you were to believe everything you read in the British media, the ›authentic‹ working class has now been swallowed in its lower reaches by the underclass, and in its higher reaches by the middle class. It’s very hard for me to say – but when I think about the people I grew up with it seems to have split four ways.

You get the ones who went to college or became insurance salesman or something: they became some kind of neo-middle class. Then you get the Thatcher’s Children who stayed at home and became self employed builders, plumbers and all that – they became the new and pretty wealthy ›upper working class‹. Then there’s the ones who have unskilled factory jobs, who I suppose remained some kind of ›text book‹ working class… then there’s the unemployed and unemployable who make up the underclass. THERE, I’VE DONE IT!… There is nothing else you need to know about Post-Industrial-Northern-Britain! No … really, I don’t know, it’s all very complicated and people can believe themselves to be in whatever class they like, or none at all if they prefer.

There is an obsession with class in Britain, and nowadays, it largely seems to revolve around home ownership. I’ll leave it at that.

MH: Is the British military force a professional force? When I grew up in Germany in the mid-90s military service was compulsory but you could also choose to help the elderly or work with disabled persons. For that you had to write a letter of justification. What’s it like in the UK these days? Was it different when you grew up?

SK: Yes, it certainly is a largely professional force, but in Afghanistan for example, there are also a lot of Territorials (part time soldiers who join the Territorial Army for reasons best known to themselves).

MH: Why do countries go to war?

SK: I don’t know, Martin.

MH: Is the British public concerned about their country being at war in Afghanistan?

SK: There does seem to be increasing upset and disgust about the amount of Union Jack enveloped coffins arriving back in Scunthorpe, Leicester, Aberdeen and Wolverhampton – but that’s just my opinion, and I live a liberal middle class life in one of the posher parts of London.

MH: Was there something else you wanted to say?

SK: In relation to the dead soldiers – it’s important for me to stress that all the soldiers CANNOT POSSIBLY BE WORKING CLASS… which may or may not explain why my preconceptions about their names did not come to fruition in the way I’d imagined.

Bridgend, 2009

MH: Please tell me about the so-called ›suicide epidemic‹ in Bridgend, Wales.

SK: Between the beginning of January 2007 and the end of December 2008 over twenty young people hung themselves in Bridgend, Wales. There are quite a few facets to this – for example, Bridgend is not just the name of a town, it is also the name of a County Borough (a whole region) – so although the town of Bridgend only has a population of about 40,000 there are obviously a whole lot more people in the region. This borough/town issue has caused debate in relation to whether the deaths should be seen as a ›suicide epidemic‹ or not. Of course the mass media clearly wanted to report on an ›epidemic‹, it sells more papers. But some behavioural and statistical experts have contested the term ›epidemic‹ by arguing that the amount of suicides when spread across a whole region (and across two years) does not constitute a suicide epidemic.

I think the truth lies somewhere in between – for example three of the young men who killed themselves lived in the same street (Heol Glannant in Bettws, Bridgend) – imagine if three people (who knew each other) on your street killed themselves within a matter of weeks? You’d definitely think that something was going on, wouldn’t you?

Also, all the vicitms hung themselves, which stikes me as unusual, because it certainly can’t be the easiest or least painful way to kill yourself.

MH: Where did you get the statistics from?

SK: I got the statistics from doing weeks of research – it’s all on the internet somewhere, even most of the exact locations where the people hung themselves – it was something of a dilemma for me, actually. I’m not entirely comfortable with listing the names and addresses of these people – but I felt compelled to do it, and I am only ›re-presenting‹ public information. My real concern is that I’m ›re-presenting‹ this information as ›art‹ – I’m using it to make this work that is a mutation between ›abstraction‹ and ›information‹… works I’ve started to think of as ›Infractions‹ – ›Infraction‹ being a word that can be constructed by merging elements from the words ›abstraction‹ and ›information‹… and also a word that in US law means ›petty violation‹… which is how it feels making these kind of works.

MH: Have you been to Bridgend, what’s it like? Could you tell me how you would pronounce the Welsh name for Bridgend, »Pen-y-bont ar Ogwr«?

SK: No, I haven’t been and no: I can’t pronounce that! See below – maybe we can go the whole hog and put this in, too?

One Rupert, 2009

MH: Why is this ›infraction‹ called »One Rupert«?

SK: There has only been one British soldier called Rupert killed in Afghanistan so far. His name was Rupert Thorneloe, a Lieutenant-Colonel who was the commanding officer of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards. He is the highest ranking British soldier to be killed there.

In a way »One Rupert« is a simple illustration – there have been a lot of Steves and Garys killed, but only one Rupert. It’s a horrible irony (within the context of the point I was trying to make) that traditional army slang for any officer is ›Rupert‹ – sometimes it’s a derogatory term, sometimes it’s just what the ordinary soldiers call any officer. I don’t know if the term is still in use or when it first appeared.

MH: Why »Rupert«?

SK: It’s just a class thing I would imagine – Rupert is an unspeakably posh name. Would it be Ruprecht in Germany? I like to think so, that’s a great name.

MH: »One Rupert« shows where and when a soldier was born and where and when he died. Isn’t this the saddest thing? To die in a war? In a foreign country?

SK: Yes, it’s terribly sad – doesn’t matter where you’re from or why you’re fighting, on a personal level it seems horrible to die in ›some corner of a foreign field‹, especially if you don’t really know why you’re there in the first place. You see that a lot on war documentaries that have first-hand accounts, don’t you? Old Bob or Old Helmut or Old Shinya with a tear in his eye recounting how his best friend died crying or whispering the word ›mother‹…

MH: Most of the soldiers are quite young. Is the British Army a young army or do maybe all armies seek young personnel?

SK: I don’t know, Martin – I’m not a military expert, but it seems pretty clear that all armies like to recruit young personnel.

MH: Are you concerned about buyers maybe just buying these war-based ›infractions‹ simply because they look good? On the other hand: is that, something looking good, maybe already enougn of a reason to buy a piece of art? What are your thoughts on this?

SK: Well, this is the contradiction I’m purposefully trying to create. This is the point of attempting to merge the two seemingly opposing languages of ›abstraction‹ and ›information design‹ – I want them to be both factual and beautiful… well, maybe beautiful is the wrong word, I want them to have an aesthetic quality that is clearly aligned with what we understand abstraction to be in a Fine Art context, yet I simultaneously want them to be built on cold facts. There’s a great tradition of this within Conceptual Art of course, in fact Conceptual Art (at its inception as a term and recognised practice in the 1960s) was ENTIRELY built on this premise: the devising of a set of rules that attempted to remove the need for the artist to make aesthetic or subjective decisions – like Sol LeWitt said: »The idea becomes the machine that makes the art«. I’m trying to take some of those types of rules and apply them to situations within society – as I said, it’s an attempt to create a hybrid, something that is neither purely Art nor purely Information.