Little boy blue
AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS
For some, the very thought of erotic art, writes our Saleroom Correspondent, Trilby Twythe, still smacks of the ivory tower, the alarmingly reactionary attitudes of the aris- tocratic de Sade, the snobbish and patrician positions adopted by Beardsley: many afic- ionados have felt, understandably I think, that they were eavesdropping on the activi- ties of a tiny, over-privileged and self- obsessed elite, honestly concerned perhaps with keeping up their own lofty standards, but sparing scarcely a thought for the but- cher, the baker or the candlestick maker, except on those rare occasions when it was felt that such a person's homespun clumsi- ness might add spice to those scenes of delicate delirium the erotic artist was at such exquisite pains to describe. Today, inevit- ably, the thoughts of the erotic artist are turning more and more to the man on the factory floor. It was this central truth above all else, perhaps, that was brought home at the Institute of Contemporary Pornography this week in a new exhibition sponsored jointly by the Arts Council- and the Daily Telegraph, entitled 'Rude Drawings' and opened by a radiant Jennie Lee in the gracious presence of gay and vivacious Lord Goodman.
`Rude Drawings' brings together the work of a number of young contemporary porno- graphers, and perhaps predictably trans- cends the merely graphic representation of erotica suggested by its title, though Sam Grobbie's Photo of a Wall in the Cents at Waterloo should more than satisfy those who relish witty and vigorous drawing coupled with a playful sense of the absurd. Most exciting, perhaps, in its uncompromis- ing simplicity and uncluttered approach to the problem in hand is J. Arthur Bimsley's Think Tank. This takes the form of a tiny cubicle, complete with locking door and padded seat, with soothing Victor Sylvester- style Muzak piped in through the roof. This `pop' motif is carried on in the decor, which consists of 'forties pin-ups featuring for the most part big-breasted lovelies in revealing costumes, some of which have been wittily embellished by the artist and others—a biro moustache here, a pencilled obscenity there —with additional cartoons and jokes cut out of the newspapers and stuck on top to create a powerfully and nostalgically evoca- tive collage of life in any army camp or barracks. Torn and dog-eared copies of Lilliput and Men Only are scattered about the floor, and audience response is encour- aged—almost demanded—by urgent incite- ments to self-abuse chalked in crudely made capitals on the back of the door.
Knocking Shop, a delicious environment conceived and executed by Enrico Mafioso, offers as its centrepiece a wonderfully seedy screen on which is projected a series of mar- vellously camp `shorts'—Ravished by Rover. The Butler's Revenge, Lady Vera and the Burglar, and Fanny's Conviction. In the darkness in front of the screen tables are set out and audience participation is encour- aged by flimsily house-coated art-students who offer the audience drinks (a shade on the expensive side, if I may put in a word of criticism) and engage them in provocative conversation and even suggest—though 1 assUrne solely in the context of the en- vironment—that the audience might care to 'have a nice time', 'come upstairs' or `be a naughty boy'. Signor Mafioso himself is ex- tremely pleased with the exhibit; which he told me `works perfectly on several levels'. Unlike many pornographers he finds the patronage of the Arts Council exhilarating rather than inhibiting and expresses the warmest enthusiasm for Miss Lee and her enlightened administration.
In a more traditional style, Ibrahim Mustapha ben Khasi's Filthy Pictures demonstrate, not for the first time, the hot erotic wizardry that can be worked with flashbulb and Brownie box-camera. His raw surface of flesh, stunningly dead-pan faces and wooden poses. carefully simulated developer stains and over-exposures, all evoke the fragile bliss experienced by so many English travellers in the 'thirties, that heavy-lidded but all-too-brief contemplation so soon to be cut short as the thought of more critical perusal by the customs officers necessitated their destruction. Ibrahim's very personal style of presentation at the ice, too, breathes a hint of forgotten pleasures as he hisses urgently from behind his beringed hand to the passing art-lore and then snatches open his mohair jacket—also, he told me, subsidised by the Arts Council of Great Britain—to reveal his grey and white trousers.
One young pornographer who is specially grateful to the Arts Council for their gener- osity is balding, diseased Walter Soong, whose novel Mr Loocjoy's Pastime has bought him fame and fortune on both sides of the Atlantic after twenty years of obscur- ity writing about Dante. 'I have this enorm- ous thing,' he told me in his quiet mid- Atlantic drawl. wearily brushing aside his drooping Prince Albert moustache, `about four-letter words. They have a quality that I personally, and, it would appear, several million of my readers, find literally irresist- ible. What I am trying to do here is to iso- late this curiously profitable element in a manner more—to use a crudely commercial term—saleable, and at the same time less cluttered with the trivia of intellectual rationalisation'. Walter Spong's Swear Words are cut in poly-vinyl, each separate letter glued to a laminated Formica base and displayed under a spotlight Walter sug- gests that they should be affixed to gate- posts and front doors as `cool greetings'. One such word, with the additional touch of a concealed loudspeaker which repeats it in a booming Alvar Lidell voice as the de- vice is approached, has already been pres- ented to Lord Goodman.
The ice's glamorous Spanish-born cus- todian-cum-eito, articulate and bespectacled Jesus Costow-Monunga, is ecstatic about
the show. 'The marvellous thing' he told me, running one hand dreamily through his Jimmy Hendrix-style Golly Look and strok- ing his solar plexus with the other beneath a subtly understated mauve T-shirt, 'is that this is all happening. A thousand years ago, an artist like Sid' (Sidney Pilf, whose attrac- tive `pop' propelling pencils, showing a lady whose clothes appear to fall off as the pencil is held upright, have taken the art world by storm) 'would be having to compete in the market place on the lowest commercial level. like Bach or Leonardo. Someone like Slasher' (a reference to Ignatius Throat, whose dramatic use of walls and advertisement hoardings in the Underground has won him widespread recognition) 'would be in the nick. Today it's all happening, here, right under Jennie Lee's auspices, and paid for with taxpayers' bread. It's crazy, beauti- ful and crazy baby, but that's art'. Jesus, who was created a life peer in the Birthday Honours List, and has chosen the title of Lord Pedlar of Muck, then climbed into his Rolls Royce 'tactile laboratory' and purred smugly away from the kerb. Delicious!
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