Embroidered Drones Silk Satin RCA 2025 30 cm x 15 cm
Contemporary Art Practice is situated on the second floor of the RCA Studio Building, Battersea, South West London. This is where I’ve spent the last eight months… unpacking my thoughts and feelings, trying to make sense of a richly creative life, just at the very end… when most men are retiring, I wanted to squeeze the very last of myself from the tube.
At the RCA open day I was shown around the brand new Herzog and de Meuron Studio Building by Contemporary Art Practice (CAP) student Stuart Lee and Head of Programme Chantal Faust.
Chantal has a huge presence, she is elegant, enigmatic and has immense charm. I asked her directly how she thought an older person might fit in, would get on at the RCA? Chantal assured me I would be just fine. It was because of Chantal’s assurance I applied for a place. You see, Chantal Faust demands respect. Like so many students before me I was immediately and unexpectedly in awe of her… I would willingly be the best person I could be… for her.
I was accepted onto the course and arrived in September ’24 but almost immediately my beautiful dream was compromised. Chantal Faust had been appointed The Dean of the School of Arts & Humanities, she would leave CAP immediately for her new role leaving Jordan Baseman temporarily to rule the roost.
I’d learned many years ago an expectation was a resentment waiting to happen.
Jordan Baseman.
The first time I met Jordan it quickly became apparent he was nothing more than an argumentative contrarian… my worst nightmare. Formerly, this sour little man was head of sculpture at the RCA but I couldn’t find out why he left this prestigious role.
I should have withdrawn from the course as soon as I heard Chantal Faust was no longer at the helm but I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Forced to choose between Jordan Baseman’s CAP or… returning to caring for my Whitstable friend Georgina ravaged with Parkinson’s Disease.
Despite Baseman, I set aside my resentments and got on with the work. I arrived every morning at 9am and left at 10pm when the studio closed. I worked compulsively… blowing up this blog, ripping apart the language and locations of my queer life. Holding the past 60 years by the throat. Erasing and repairing. I took the AA 12 steps and vandalised them…
Out of the 100 or so on the course it quickly became apparent that only a few, maybe 20 students, were as committed as I imagined all students would be.
I learned how to cast bronze, machine embroider, scan images and blow them up, knit and weave Jacquard, paint on canvas… I explored AI and learned how to manipulate existing digital images. I felt unstoppable.
I settled into studio life and despite the disappointments my experience of making work was joyful. I loved the daily interactions with my cohort. I loved the conversation with those who could speak English or who bothered coming in, the exuberance, the love and inclusion. I was made to feel welcome and loved. I felt, through my work, a closer connection to God.
After a few weeks, buoyed by my enthusiasm, I foolishly went to see Jordan Baseman and tentatively asked if he was interested in the successful people I knew in the art world with a view to asking them to maybe give an informal talk. I mentioned a name. Baseman looked like I had thrown acid into his face.
“Why would we want to meet a dinosaur like that? We’re not interested in the commercial art world here.”
He just couldn’t help himself. I have rarely been so taken aback. I felt it very personally. Oh… so I’m a dinosaur.
When I shared with him during the same conversation I had a new appreciation of Francis Bacon he scoffed, he said he never wants to hear a student laud a dead artist like Francis Bacon.
I told him I found the process therapeutic. More scoffing. He wanted me to know, ‘we don’t do art therapy.’
Although he didn’t fuck with me during a crit, I heard from others he was vicious when he thought he could get away with it.
When it was time to be assigned my personal tutor… guess who I was lucky enough to get? Jordan fucking Baseman. Dr. Dutch Alex also had enough of Baseman so we both complained and were reassigned Dr Vivienne Griffin.
Jordan Baseman is also in his 60’s. In spite of his desire to cast a deep shadow over my experience I took the dinosaur insult and ran with it… for both of us.
I began introducing the image of the dinosaur into my work, firstly I designed and commissioned… a black… heavy duty… nylon… 9’ tall, inflatable dinosaur which, from behind, looks like a giant butt plug/dildo. Fuck you Dino. Dinosaurs showed up in my painting, my embroidery, my drawings.
Separately, I realised everything I’d considered important I needed to sweep away. The highly structured way movies needed to be written, the competitive collaboration with other writers in writers rooms. None of that seemed relevant to this new way of life.
I referred, instead, to my time making performance art in the 80’s. I wanted to make a connection with the artist I was then, Making The Host, Bad Baby, Copper’s Bottom, Pornography, a Spectacle etc. Perhaps I wanted to connect to a simpler time, a time of unencumbered, youthful enthusiasm… when nothing seemed impossible.
As I was merely lodging in London I brought my clothes into the studio and my space became, unwittingly, the focus of my work. The wardrobe, the closet, to be hidden in and revealed from. Garment bags morphed into Body Bags by way of the continuing Israeli mass murder in Gaza.
I erased Elizabeth Hurley from the film I made with her. Digitally… scene by scene.
If I expected any formal teaching… forget it.
As much as I tried I couldn’t shake the feeling all of this work was in vain. I couldn’t… with an open heart share my most personal work with Baseman, the thought made me nauseous, fearful and angry.
As for the other staff? I’m assuming with no clear course leadership they seemed lacklustre and uncertain. With the exception of Anne Duffau, George (?), a couple of visiting lecturers and the brilliant, inspiring artist in residence Aditya Pande (who had his own serious issues with the way he was treated). The rest of the staff were utterly parched. Intellectually desiccated.
Mel Brimfield for instance hated me because I called a work ‘Blood, Shit and Cum’ and when I insisted during a crit the mute Chinese people have an opinion… OMG, she didn’t like that one little bit.
Then there was harpist and John Cage derivative Vivienne ‘they/them’ Griffin who lectured me for 45 minutes (during my tutorial… one of four per annum) about taking up too much wall space and why white men and the patriarchy always do…
Vivienne seemed surprised I had cast the bronze elements in my work.
She sneered, “I thought you were the kind of person who would pay to have this made for you.”
Vivienne, who I recognised from AA, I had so much hope. Until she mocked my ‘dramatic’ greeting. It’s true, I threw my hands up with joy and called out her name when I saw her. She seemed to hate my gayness? I wasn’t ‘queer’ enough for Vivienne. I’m obviously an old, old fashioned gay. It felt sometimes like they were forcing me back into a closet. But the reality was/is they simply couldn’t understand this old gay man and made no effort.
When I hear the word dramatic used pejoratively to a gay man, I hear… faggot.
Most revealingly Vivienne noted I had achieved what most artists hoped to achieve. The awards, the plaudits and the exposure. She asked, why? Why are you here? What do you expect to achieve with me?
Some of them referred to me at a ‘mature student’.
“Nope…” I said, “Just a student.”
They were casually ageist without seeming to know it because somehow ageism slipped their mind in their cannon of woke protections… maybe slipped their inclusivity training or maybe they were just too busy they/theming to listen to the ageism bit on zoom… or nipped out for a £10 juice baby just before the old fart part.
Their ageism repulsed me. They hated the idea… old people had sex, talked about sex, enjoyed sex. The cult of daddy repelled these rich kids. Was I alone? Nope, It wasn’t just me, many of the older students across all departments were treated very badly by fellow students and staff alike.
I consoled myself Jordan Baseman was a wounded soul and generally vile to all… so I shouldn’t take it personally. He is a break them down and build them up kinda guy. He was cruel to Finn and Michael and the older dutch woman whose name escapes me (Alex?). Like… theatrically cruel. We listened at the door as he and Michael screamed at each other in the staff room.
A few weeks into the course Baseman was magically replaced and without explanation by Dr Harold Offeh as programme head. Two programme heads in as many months.
Harold, oh dear, is the kind of artist who simply doesn’t register as an artist. He should be running an infant school. Harold, tied up in they/them politics, takes endless pics of himself: thin, fat, clothed… wobbling about naked in videos. A mouth full of ping pong balls. Yeah…
The David Lammy of the RCA.
Obviously, Dr Harold is not someone could inspire me nor who I would want to bring the best of myself. He ruled with a floppy fist. Laughing at his own jokes. Someone described him as an ’empty well’. Harold dashed any hope I might have had the CAP circus would get better now he was the ring master.
His attempts to infantilise were astonishing. On more than one occasion I advised him to watch his tone. I sat in meetings with him thinking… do you know who I am you dumb prick? Yes! That’s what I thought. I’ve been consistently achieved, awarded and respected for my work and you are speaking to me like I’m a fucking child.
I thought I better look at his art. Oh dear. His awful mediocre ‘art’ and I knew…
Meanwhile, after a few weeks of painting and drawing huge dinosaurs Baseman had a big fat target on my back. It was not a comfortable place to be but if I could get to the degree show in July I knew I would be ok. Communication broke down steadily between me and Harold Offeh as he attempted to refute Baseman calling my friends dinosaurs, defended Griffin’s appalling waste of my tutorial and made me explain (inexplicably) why I had decided to paint a 9′ x 9′ painting.
As a result of these interactions I covertly recorded every conversation I had with all of them.
I occasionally bumped into Chantal. After her poorly attended lecture I made some of the best work I’d make at the RCA. There is something about her delivery, her compassion and intelligence that inspired me out of my hum drum thinking… and into action.
As the final show drew closer the atmosphere in the studio became very tense. I had to share a gallery space with Ming… of course I did. And of course Offeh made me change the work we had agreed for the final show. Apparently the Gaza body bags were ‘offensive’. By the time of the degree show rolled around… I really didn’t care. I’d refused to pay my fees and knew it was only a matter of time before I would leave.
I scarcely bothered with the show. I’d reserved the best of me. Held myself back from Jordan, Harold, Mel etc. I didn’t show the inflatable dinosaur. I didn’t buy the mechanised carousel. I knew I would have other opportunities.
As for the show? Let’s put it this way… nobody came. Compared with the Painting Department which was rammed with celebrities and collectors, we got the dregs and by dregs I mean other students.
We were promised collectors from the Tate, what we actually got was a bunch of white rich housewives giggling and confused. We were promised curators but they didn’t show up. I’m sure if Chantal had been there to greet them it would have been a different story.
To fairly share the Painting Department’s heat, it would have made better sense to curate from all departments for the degree show (Print, Jewellery, Painting, Ceramics, CAP, Sculpture etc.) across The Dyson and The Studio Building… like an art fair.
I suggested this to one of the senior staff who told me they’d tried this idea a few years ago. Apparently the public loved it but the staff didn’t. The staff didn’t like the chaos and the fuss. Are you kidding me? The staff couldn’t be bothered? There’s a frigging curatorial studies department who could have curated the whole event rather than commissioning a bunch of mediocre external artists for the best and most spacious gallery in the building.
2.
I’m sitting on the 5th floor of the RCA in Kensington overlooking the campest public sculpture in London: The Albert Memorial. All gilded florishes and flowing robes and whiskers. A great love token from his grieving wife Queen Victoria. Our very own Taj Mahal. The golden prince was painted black during the second world war to safeguard the memorial and the nearby Albert Hall from German air raids.
As a young man, maybe when I was at Medway College of Art finishing up my foundation, I would pass the RCA in Kensington and look up at the many floors knowing how lucky the students were to be making and creating and painting…. that only the best and brightest came to the Royal College and were offered a golden ticket to life. As golden as Prince Albert sheltered under his memorial canopy.
I knew I would never get there… not then. Not because I wasn’t good enough… I believed then, as I do now, I could do anything if I set my mind to it. Yet, sadly the moment had passed and I was on a journey which could never make room for such an indulgence.
My friends who visited the RCA commented on the huge number of Chinese students at the College. It was cynically noted by a member of staff the Chinese students at the RCA are treated as cash cows.
Someone, he said, had to pay for the brand new building by Herzog and de Meuron. The money had to come from somewhere… right? Many of the Chinese students could not speak English and one wonders how they managed to pass the English language exam to get on the course?
During our mandatory ‘Across RCA’ module we were teamed with students from across the three RCA campuses: Battersea, White City and Kensington. The majority of the students were from China. Very few of them could speak english at a level required to complete many of the tasks. Under the heading ‘Social Justice’ Nanci and I chose Propaganda and Censorship as our theme. None of the Chinese student joined our group. One of the Chinese students took me aside and said in broken English he couldn’t join our group because he wanted to return to China. He was scared of being reported to the Chinese authorities by a fellow Chinese student.
At the Offer Holders Event in Kensington… I met Mingzhang Sun. With elbow length hair and robes by Issy Miyake, Ming cuts quite a dash. His work however… meh. Torn canvas and rope over painted stretchers…
Because Ming had lived in the UK for a decade or so, he thought he knew about the vagaries of the English language. So when I used a colloquial term Mingzhang wasn’t familiar, he mocked me suggesting I’d made it up. I asked the English people close to us to confirm ‘a bird in the hand’ was indeed an english expression. Ming advised me not to use ‘old english’ if I expected to be understood. I laughed in his face… that didn’t go down well with silly, scowling Ming.
Is he a they? I can’t remember.
At the final show a dear friend of mine told Ming to stop being so rude to me. Like an impoverished drag queen he made a theatrical apology.
I’m loving these responses from angry, queer Chinese people. Hmmm… They don’t speak English ‘differently’ they don’t speak English at all… which makes the group activities like crits and group discussion very frustrating for those of us who do. The Chinese students sit silently, unable to join in. They stick to themselves and do not ‘grow’. Can they spontaneously articulate thoughts and feelings coherently without using the translator app?
You’ll notice in the critique below he/she refers to me ‘leaking’ private conversations. That is sooo…. Chinese.
By the way, I would love to be ‘dragged’ if you know what I mean.
I want to honor the RCA technicians from whom I learned so much. The real stars of the RCA.
I want to thank the absurdly handsome Ian Stoney who taught me how to cast bronze. Tuning me into the last ten thousand years of lost wax casting. Ian and his glamorous studio colleague Kirsty Wood were always eager and helpful and meticulously taught me and others how to make the best of our ideas and ourselves.
I want to thank Simon Ward in photography who made himself available to every single member of the cohort at all times and printed beautifully with the equipment available to him. He is the most polite and kindest men. It is always a delight to hear him across a crowded room call your name and make you feel welcome.
I want to thank Claudia Espart Hernandez in the printing department who UV printed my black body bags… even though she was obviously repelled by them. Good job Claudia.
Thank you to Thom Costello and Debby Stack and Sophie Manners in the textile department who changed my life with their embroidery and Jaquard machines. Textiles became the place I wanted to be. It was gentle and calm.
3.
Toward the end of the second term the playful kids on the course who at first amused me began to shatter my nerves. It was my friend Douce who pulled me to one side and asked why, whenever she saw me was I helping others achieve their goals and not mine? Spending hours having my hands scanned for Ramone (brilliant but troubled Christian) or helping a young photographer… or getting another artist a huge commission… which he resented doing? I laughed at Douce’s suggestion I should be more selfish… then Anditya had the same observation.
I felt like I was being sucked dry.
The old dinosaur ruthlessly cut them off. When I did so… I began to hear nasty gossip. Ross was saying unpleasant things about me. The vampiric Ross with his irritating ‘competitive curiosity’, the golden boy with his golden locks and weird obsession with snails… nope.
Gone.
Alex Pillen, the Imperial professor complained I owed her money and started quizzing others about me. This gossip blew up in her face. Thankfully, Ramone kept me abreast of the tittle tattle.
It wasn’t always thus. Alex was very helpful after I got my horrible and shocking skin diagnosis. When I met her I thought she was a delightful woman who showed me beautiful pictures of her gorgeous Italian country holiday house. Her fibre art is superb and because of her I discovered Japanese yarns.
The ‘they/them’ Mary. Silver feathers? Fuck. Never a good or competant artist, regardless she was also a good friend until she manufactured a drama. Or ‘on the spectrum’, red haired, gluten free, country kid Hannah who called me a fraud…. this talentless moron is scarcely worth writing about.
Oh yeah, and then there is the spotty, spotty, spotty and agist Viola B who hates white men but came dressed as one for her final show… who attempted to have me expelled for talking about sex… what a cunt.
After meeting the guy I was seeing Viola told me she thought older men dating younger men was disgusting. She complained I took pictures at public events. What a cunt. This kid lectured me about graphic designers not being real artists… never becoming artists, when I corrected her… suggesting Warhol for instance, she became vicious and called me a cunt.
Viola = Karen
Much more about HER next time.
With no clear direction, no effective or charismatic leadership at the end of the second term the cohort began to implode.
Whilst Lord of the Flies was unfolding on the second floor of the Studio Building I hid in the painting department with people who took themselves and their work more seriously.
Self portrait RCA 2024/25