New York Times 1978 and 2003

Artist's narrative which accompanied the two New York Times works (see album called New York Times) at an exhibition in the UK in November and December 2010.

I've retained a kind of affinity for the United States, and especially New York City, since an early age. I first travelled to the US, to a place called Bakersfield, California, in 1977. Things in Bakersfield didn't turn out as I thought they might and I ended up spending most of the next two years roaming around America, on very limited funds, a fact which I would say enhanced the experience. Always at my side, I had with me a book called "The USA on No Dollars A Day", which was very useful. For example, one trick the book recommended to get free food was to hang around the cafeteria at Greyhound Bus stations, waiting for people to be caught unawares when their departure was called, perhaps earlier than expected. This happened more frequently than one might think and the prospective traveller would often leave any meal they happened to be eating, or most of it, on the table. I would wait for these opportunities, then devour the remains with gusto. I did that on several occasions (and never got sick). I once explained this technique to a work colleague who commented: "So you were a tramp, then?". I never thought of it that way.

Over a lengthy period, I drifted through about 40 states and I worked casually, for cash in hand. If I was asked for a social security number, I gave my parents phone number and added two digits, knowing that any descrepancies wouldn't emerge for a couple of weeks, by which time I would have moved on. I worked on building sites and in bars and I once sang blues in an impromptu band in Atlanta, Georgia. I was also a Basketball coach for a time, which was interesting, as I knew next to nothing about coaching, or Basketball. After a while I suspect some of the players may have figured this out. I mixed with a lot of low life, but I met a lot of good people too. People tend to be good. Strangers looked after me, gave me shelter and fed me and asked for nothing in return. They sometimes carried me, literally as well as metaphorically. I stayed in a few grand places but a good number of hovels. I slept on beaches, in hotels and motels, at the Y, on the street, in bus stations and in the desert under the stars. I froze and I baked. I met people who wanted to really live and people who wanted to run away. I let some people down, although I saved at least one person's life (or, perhaps, it might be said, I postponed their demise). I fell in love and I fell out of love. I had brushes with the law and survived some scrapes which might have gone very differently. Once, after a brief encounter with professional mugger, he wound up giving me money.

Along the way, I collected all sorts of detritus. There were bits of paper, letters, photo's, tickets, news papers, all general junk which was of no intrinsic value. But I liked it. In the end, my travel bag contained only books, a pin striped, double breasted suit (that's another story) and my collection of weird stuff.

Upon my return to England, I looked around and said "That was a great chapter, but it's over" and I rejoined the mainstream and became, of all things, an accountant. However, I'm happy to concede that my membership of mainstream society was really just an act of convenience, an accommodation. Looking back, I think I still retained a sense of being an outsider, and in fact, I was not uncomfortable with that notion (although I sensed that some of the "insiders" instinctively knew I wasn't one of them). Occasionally, I would look at my collection of American rubbish, which I'd hauled around with me wherever I'd lived, and I'd think "one day, I've got to deal with that". Over time, I returned many times to the USA on short trips, and during these visits, I accumulated more stuff.

Then, sometime towards the end of my accounting career, I got some hardboard and stuck on it some bits from my "collection" and then I painted some women on top. What bits needed to go where, seemed to come naturally, although I only actually used a fraction of what I had accumulated. The three women do represent something, but at this point, I don't think elaboration will help at all. One woman in particular may one day read this, and she may well recognise who she is. As a clue, the very last words she ever said to me were "You're welcome" and I will never forget that final act of incongrous politeness delivered with a chilling remoteness. All the other bits, the maps, the letters, every single item has some significance or, for me, some inherently attractive aspect.

The 1978 collage was created from the early collection, "The Hobo Years" as you might call them. The 2003 collage is from the latter years; perhaps we can designate them "The Hotel Years". Both are dated 5 March, so they are separated by exactly 25 years and there are only vague reasons for this. One aspect of the latter collage worth explaining is the dark sandy material stuck on, towards the middle. This is debris from 9/11 - I was in NYC shortly after that tragedy and found myself picking up the dirt from the great piles of it which had accumulated around "Ground Zero".

All these bits of garbage had a previous life, when they had another meaning, another use. They came together because I determined that they would. But equally, they found me. Together, they then make something else, but what that is, is open to interpretation - it's up to the viewer. There's both randomness and purpose present in these works and in that sense I have tried to provide a way of elevating the mundane into a new incarnation, although I'm definitely not claiming it is worthy of anything - on the contrary, its lack of intrinsic value is an important element of its character.

However, thank you for looking at these works and reading this explanation. Whether you like it or not, the very act of observing this assemblage of ostensibly mundane items and even reading this piece, means that you are now inextricably involved with these works. They are now slightly different because you have viewed them, so you are now part of them and their provenance, forever.