writings
November 2011
I am a worrier.
Everyone seems worried. Our big society is suffering from a national anxiety. As I’m going backwards and forwards to where ever I’m going, I connect with images, which may be external or internal reactions to my going about.
At Goldsmiths I was taught to look and find meaning in everything: the materials I used, the themes I worked with and the essence of the finished item. That’s hard work. Of late, I’ve been teaching myself to let go of this worry about meaning; not dwelling or trying to pin down what something might be. I am learning to let go of this, busying myself with making. The motif of the house that is present in my work resonates with the building up and the dismantling of my inner and the external (urban) environment. I am drawn to the feel of the house shape, that is, the porosity of its external and inner surfaces and its susceptibility to be imbued with happenings, both physically and imaginatively. The house is often blank or even ‘speechless’ and may act as an emissary; an object that discloses information, communicating knowledge of itself or a place. I have been using materials, some of which are bought and some are found and ideas in a similar way. All of these can sometimes be in limited supply; I consume things very quickly. As a child I had lots of crazes: birdwatcher, builder, pigeon racer, gardener, explorer, actor, entrepreneur, rugby player, artist, chef, barman, teacher, stamp collector, writer, weight lifter…I am once again realising the potency of this approach; perhaps fads are a necessity for trying to figure out the world (both inner and external) and how to respond to it. Lately I have been drawn to make work about, what may perhaps be seen as, the process of dismantlement of our urban environment. Through my work I attempt to make sense of this urban and personal chaos. After watching the recent Japanese earthquake and tsunami unfold on my TV screen, I was drawn to make a series entitled ‘Fukushima’. Twenty or so pieces depict the fracture of a city. I approached the work with a conscious clumsiness; using my left hand rather than my natural right, reaching for materials that were close at hand from my scrap box that would have normally been burnt. The debris from my studio is balanced with and echoes the ruining of a once stable urban mass. The riots in the UK of last summer have also made an impacted on my work, especially the use of fire to destroy random, but previous mainstays of our cities - emporiums of consumerism. I have been challenged by the, seemingly, unplanned nature of the riots; indifferent wanderings, taking opportunities as they came, rather than setting out with a definite and fixed goal.
This is a direct link to my practise.
August 2011
I am a worrier
I was taught at Goldsmiths to look and find meaning in everything: the materials I used, the themes I worked with and the essence of the finished item.
That’s hard work.
Of late, I have been trying to teach myself not to worry about this meaning; not trying or even attempting to pin down what something might be or is. I am practising to let go of this. I am busy with making.
I am comfortable to say that I deal with real things. I chase elusive experience in an obsessive manner.
I work from memory, which can be very recent or from the past. I am sure that memory will, in some form, eventually come. It may be instant or it may come and go, bit by bit.
I have been using materials / found materials / ideas in a similar way.
These can all be of a limited supply; I have discovered materials that I have horded, which means that if I use them they will eventually run out / Found materials are difficult to find again / A certain idea or motif may not last for very long – I consume or use things up very quickly.
As a child I had lots of crazes: birdwatcher, pigeon racer, gardener, explorer, actor, entrepreneur, rugby player, artist, chef, barman, teacher, stamp collector, writer, weight lifter…I am once again realising the potency of this approach; fads are a necessity for trying to figure out the world (both inner and external) and how to respond to it.
Possibly the house motif that I have been using again is that of the house that I grew up in. It is more about the feel of that shape that I am interested in and that engages me. It is a motif that I have used before and it has reappeared again.
It is blank or silent and has the possibility to carry or hold; it is potent.
The motif is repeated over and over and over again, in drawings and in sculpture.
I draw constantly, it comes very easy to me, it always has done.
Everything comes from drawing; it is how I tether things.
Whatever, I draw it first - I hear something, I draw it; I read something, I draw it; I see something, I draw it; I think something, I draw it.
Lately I have been making work after the Japanese earthquake and tsunami in Fukushima. I have been collecting feathers and bits of rope and string.
I have been connecting the cloud that arose from the Fukushima power station with the feathers that I have found in the park and on a beach.
What I do know is that graveyards are good places for finding black feathers.
Phill Hopkins’ work deals with the process of discovery, that is, to try to find solutions to his concerns and then attempting to let them go into a physical form – drawing, sculpture, installation, performance...
It is the balance of simple every day motifs/objects/events with the concerns of the self and the creative spirit.
At times his work has dealt with issues of being pursued, isolation, loneliness and being on the edge of things. Recently the work has become less bulky and more self assured. It is playful and enjoys, even cries out, to be turned on its head.
He continues to be concerned with his childhood, family, memories and observations. Images are brought together in a topography where objects stand alongside each other, uniting ideas but also suggesting a struggle of hierarchy.
His work is concerned with narrative, a dialogue of his travelling through time/ageing and the anchors, or lack of them, of past and present. It is about the paradox of balance and toppling over.
'Behold' exhibition catalogue : Feva Festival, Knaresborough. July 2010.
I was speaking to Dave Tomlinson. He said, I’m writing a new book. I said what’s it about? He said it’s about how to be a bad Christian. I said that’s like Simon Barnes’ book. He said yeah. I said do you like bird watching? He said yeah. I said so do I.
I said do you know that a pyewipe is another name for a lapwing? He said oh! I said I’ve been making some sculptures like bird boxes. He said have you? I said I like the idea of them having lots of different sized holes. He said God forgives you, forgive yourself, forgive others. I said oh.
Pilgrimage to Hailes. Gloucestershire May 2010
14:22-33
I’ve made 8 stands.
It’s a weird account.
I think it’s a story of coming home to yourself.
It’s an invitation to make something that will fit snugly in your pocket.
It’s an invitation to answer some of my questions.
If you fancy you can ask some of your own questions.
I will draw you a picture to go with the story if you ask me nicely.
Carl Plackman – Sculpture, Drawing, Writing. 2007.
Whilst at Goldsmiths College Phill Hopkins was taught by Carl Plackman. He was invited to write a piece for the catalogue.
Remembering Carl Plackman by Phill Hopkins.
I’m in the main corridor in the basement of the Millard Building, part of Goldsmiths’ College in Camberwell, London. I’m studying Fine Art. I can see Carl Plackman and Richard Wentworth walking towards me. Two figures talking quietly. They are my tutors. Carl has his hands in his trouser pockets. His hair is messy. Richard has his cap on, it’s like mine. It’s morning. It’s cold. We enter the canteen and sit together. Richard and I eat finger rolls filled with mayonnaise and tea with one sugar; Carl just has coffee and rolls a cigarette, licks the paper with the tip of his tongue and lights it. He is wearing his blue-grey jacket, a red silky scarf tied around his neck. His legs are crossed and his foot sticks out from under the table. He’s wearing his ox blood doctor martin lace-up shoes. Carl talks gently about his son Sam and tells us about a new sculpture with a television. Richard tells us about a pile of buckets. We leave the canteen. Carl and I go off to my studio. We pass Paul the technician. Most of the sculpture studios and workshops are in the basement. We sit. He crosses his legs and I notice his shoes again. I show him a new sculpture that I’m working on. He looks at it carefully and thoughtfully. I think why doesn’t he say something. He turns it in his hands, looking and looking. Quietly he tells me about a sculpture he once made with the image of a pit head wheel. We talk about Bristol and the North. He rolls another cigarette. He looks at a drawing. We laugh. I think he likes it; he’s taking his time with it and giving it a good chance any way. We talk about a film and a poem.
I go to the library to find pictures of Carl’s work. I take down a book and open it. “273. Any Place You Hang Your Hat: Wedlock. 1977-8. Wood, plaster, slate, cloth, glass, striplight, 84 x 144 x 18 in. Bristol, Arnolfini Collection Trust”. They look quiet, not giving much away, if any thing at all. They are made with a simple work-man like hand. They are humble. Golly, they’re his twin. I turn the images around in my head. They speak with a gentle whisper, almost a hush. I think they look like they’ve been made, but they also look like they’ve been there all the time. I’m young and wonder is this what is meant by a visual language? I think I understand them but I don’t know why. I can see how each one is made and exactly what they are, but, I don’t know what they are. I wish they would speak up a little. They make me smile but they also seem sad. I am reminded of the time of first getting the idea of reading something in my head by mouthing the words. I think these sculptures need to be mouthed in the head. I wish they would speak up a little though. His ideas are gentle and his approach is full of thoughtfulness. Some of the sculptures are installations, but they are intimate, about relationships I think. The materials caress one another and hug or maybe even cling to the wall.
I’m in Leeds with my son Joshua. He is four years old. We are at the City Art Gallery looking at one of Carl’s drawings. We are talking about the little cart and the drips. We think it would be made of wood. He likes it. It talks quietly to us and we talk quietly to one another. I tell him that I knew Carl and that like the drawing he just wouldn’t shut up.
Ferris Newton, Carl Plackman, Richard Wentworth and Phill Hopkins. Goldsmiths College, London 1983
I am a worrier.
Everyone seems worried. Our big society is suffering from a national anxiety. As I’m going backwards and forwards to where ever I’m going, I connect with images, which may be external or internal reactions to my going about.
At Goldsmiths I was taught to look and find meaning in everything: the materials I used, the themes I worked with and the essence of the finished item. That’s hard work. Of late, I’ve been teaching myself to let go of this worry about meaning; not dwelling or trying to pin down what something might be. I am learning to let go of this, busying myself with making. The motif of the house that is present in my work resonates with the building up and the dismantling of my inner and the external (urban) environment. I am drawn to the feel of the house shape, that is, the porosity of its external and inner surfaces and its susceptibility to be imbued with happenings, both physically and imaginatively. The house is often blank or even ‘speechless’ and may act as an emissary; an object that discloses information, communicating knowledge of itself or a place. I have been using materials, some of which are bought and some are found and ideas in a similar way. All of these can sometimes be in limited supply; I consume things very quickly. As a child I had lots of crazes: birdwatcher, builder, pigeon racer, gardener, explorer, actor, entrepreneur, rugby player, artist, chef, barman, teacher, stamp collector, writer, weight lifter…I am once again realising the potency of this approach; perhaps fads are a necessity for trying to figure out the world (both inner and external) and how to respond to it. Lately I have been drawn to make work about, what may perhaps be seen as, the process of dismantlement of our urban environment. Through my work I attempt to make sense of this urban and personal chaos. After watching the recent Japanese earthquake and tsunami unfold on my TV screen, I was drawn to make a series entitled ‘Fukushima’. Twenty or so pieces depict the fracture of a city. I approached the work with a conscious clumsiness; using my left hand rather than my natural right, reaching for materials that were close at hand from my scrap box that would have normally been burnt. The debris from my studio is balanced with and echoes the ruining of a once stable urban mass. The riots in the UK of last summer have also made an impacted on my work, especially the use of fire to destroy random, but previous mainstays of our cities - emporiums of consumerism. I have been challenged by the, seemingly, unplanned nature of the riots; indifferent wanderings, taking opportunities as they came, rather than setting out with a definite and fixed goal.
This is a direct link to my practise.
August 2011
I am a worrier
I was taught at Goldsmiths to look and find meaning in everything: the materials I used, the themes I worked with and the essence of the finished item.
That’s hard work.
Of late, I have been trying to teach myself not to worry about this meaning; not trying or even attempting to pin down what something might be or is. I am practising to let go of this. I am busy with making.
I am comfortable to say that I deal with real things. I chase elusive experience in an obsessive manner.
I work from memory, which can be very recent or from the past. I am sure that memory will, in some form, eventually come. It may be instant or it may come and go, bit by bit.
I have been using materials / found materials / ideas in a similar way.
These can all be of a limited supply; I have discovered materials that I have horded, which means that if I use them they will eventually run out / Found materials are difficult to find again / A certain idea or motif may not last for very long – I consume or use things up very quickly.
As a child I had lots of crazes: birdwatcher, pigeon racer, gardener, explorer, actor, entrepreneur, rugby player, artist, chef, barman, teacher, stamp collector, writer, weight lifter…I am once again realising the potency of this approach; fads are a necessity for trying to figure out the world (both inner and external) and how to respond to it.
Possibly the house motif that I have been using again is that of the house that I grew up in. It is more about the feel of that shape that I am interested in and that engages me. It is a motif that I have used before and it has reappeared again.
It is blank or silent and has the possibility to carry or hold; it is potent.
The motif is repeated over and over and over again, in drawings and in sculpture.
I draw constantly, it comes very easy to me, it always has done.
Everything comes from drawing; it is how I tether things.
Whatever, I draw it first - I hear something, I draw it; I read something, I draw it; I see something, I draw it; I think something, I draw it.
Lately I have been making work after the Japanese earthquake and tsunami in Fukushima. I have been collecting feathers and bits of rope and string.
I have been connecting the cloud that arose from the Fukushima power station with the feathers that I have found in the park and on a beach.
What I do know is that graveyards are good places for finding black feathers.
Phill Hopkins’ work deals with the process of discovery, that is, to try to find solutions to his concerns and then attempting to let them go into a physical form – drawing, sculpture, installation, performance...
It is the balance of simple every day motifs/objects/events with the concerns of the self and the creative spirit.
At times his work has dealt with issues of being pursued, isolation, loneliness and being on the edge of things. Recently the work has become less bulky and more self assured. It is playful and enjoys, even cries out, to be turned on its head.
He continues to be concerned with his childhood, family, memories and observations. Images are brought together in a topography where objects stand alongside each other, uniting ideas but also suggesting a struggle of hierarchy.
His work is concerned with narrative, a dialogue of his travelling through time/ageing and the anchors, or lack of them, of past and present. It is about the paradox of balance and toppling over.
'Behold' exhibition catalogue : Feva Festival, Knaresborough. July 2010.
I was speaking to Dave Tomlinson. He said, I’m writing a new book. I said what’s it about? He said it’s about how to be a bad Christian. I said that’s like Simon Barnes’ book. He said yeah. I said do you like bird watching? He said yeah. I said so do I.
I said do you know that a pyewipe is another name for a lapwing? He said oh! I said I’ve been making some sculptures like bird boxes. He said have you? I said I like the idea of them having lots of different sized holes. He said God forgives you, forgive yourself, forgive others. I said oh.
Pilgrimage to Hailes. Gloucestershire May 2010
14:22-33
I’ve made 8 stands.
It’s a weird account.
I think it’s a story of coming home to yourself.
It’s an invitation to make something that will fit snugly in your pocket.
It’s an invitation to answer some of my questions.
If you fancy you can ask some of your own questions.
I will draw you a picture to go with the story if you ask me nicely.
Carl Plackman – Sculpture, Drawing, Writing. 2007.
Whilst at Goldsmiths College Phill Hopkins was taught by Carl Plackman. He was invited to write a piece for the catalogue.
Remembering Carl Plackman by Phill Hopkins.
I’m in the main corridor in the basement of the Millard Building, part of Goldsmiths’ College in Camberwell, London. I’m studying Fine Art. I can see Carl Plackman and Richard Wentworth walking towards me. Two figures talking quietly. They are my tutors. Carl has his hands in his trouser pockets. His hair is messy. Richard has his cap on, it’s like mine. It’s morning. It’s cold. We enter the canteen and sit together. Richard and I eat finger rolls filled with mayonnaise and tea with one sugar; Carl just has coffee and rolls a cigarette, licks the paper with the tip of his tongue and lights it. He is wearing his blue-grey jacket, a red silky scarf tied around his neck. His legs are crossed and his foot sticks out from under the table. He’s wearing his ox blood doctor martin lace-up shoes. Carl talks gently about his son Sam and tells us about a new sculpture with a television. Richard tells us about a pile of buckets. We leave the canteen. Carl and I go off to my studio. We pass Paul the technician. Most of the sculpture studios and workshops are in the basement. We sit. He crosses his legs and I notice his shoes again. I show him a new sculpture that I’m working on. He looks at it carefully and thoughtfully. I think why doesn’t he say something. He turns it in his hands, looking and looking. Quietly he tells me about a sculpture he once made with the image of a pit head wheel. We talk about Bristol and the North. He rolls another cigarette. He looks at a drawing. We laugh. I think he likes it; he’s taking his time with it and giving it a good chance any way. We talk about a film and a poem.
I go to the library to find pictures of Carl’s work. I take down a book and open it. “273. Any Place You Hang Your Hat: Wedlock. 1977-8. Wood, plaster, slate, cloth, glass, striplight, 84 x 144 x 18 in. Bristol, Arnolfini Collection Trust”. They look quiet, not giving much away, if any thing at all. They are made with a simple work-man like hand. They are humble. Golly, they’re his twin. I turn the images around in my head. They speak with a gentle whisper, almost a hush. I think they look like they’ve been made, but they also look like they’ve been there all the time. I’m young and wonder is this what is meant by a visual language? I think I understand them but I don’t know why. I can see how each one is made and exactly what they are, but, I don’t know what they are. I wish they would speak up a little. They make me smile but they also seem sad. I am reminded of the time of first getting the idea of reading something in my head by mouthing the words. I think these sculptures need to be mouthed in the head. I wish they would speak up a little though. His ideas are gentle and his approach is full of thoughtfulness. Some of the sculptures are installations, but they are intimate, about relationships I think. The materials caress one another and hug or maybe even cling to the wall.
I’m in Leeds with my son Joshua. He is four years old. We are at the City Art Gallery looking at one of Carl’s drawings. We are talking about the little cart and the drips. We think it would be made of wood. He likes it. It talks quietly to us and we talk quietly to one another. I tell him that I knew Carl and that like the drawing he just wouldn’t shut up.
Ferris Newton, Carl Plackman, Richard Wentworth and Phill Hopkins. Goldsmiths College, London 1983