Conceptualism was the only theory available at my art school in 1973. Found objects, post modern irony and an ability to not stick around too long with an idea were highly marked. A desire to paint like Turner was met with a shrug. The immaculate concept mattered, with scant regard for the brain that produced it. These days I ignore the Turner Prize, a celebration of great concepts ruined by bad art, perpetuated by a lot of talking art bollocks. The only people who really weigh art in the balance are art dealers, the rest of us just blissfully perpetuate the mystery. For me conceptualism is a cul de sac. I prefer my dad’s mid twentieth century ideology about design and a human connection – without the politics
“What I am aiming at in our showroom is the underlying principle of that illustration: that if you show people how contemporary design WORKS and how it all works TOGETHER then not only do you sell more pottery but you sell for others, more furniture, more paintings, more good wallpaper, more good glass. And provided one is quite content to make a reasonable living in work happily, it doesn’t matter a Ruskin fuck if you are not making money out of ALL of it“
Peter Draper to Nibs (Hubert) Dalwood) circa 1950-1
Poems about my dad and me are included in Nick’s Gift –
Sean Stroud
Jordains.