Of Pimms And Pollen: 75 second read by Farriz Mashudi 27/06/2020
“What’s your medium, Artist?”
Was this Young Charles being friendly?
Stereotype confirmed, I should run. Yet, here I am still standing, even if barely, in Merton Gardens. — Merton BLOOMING Gardens. Short of banter, fighting back a pollen sneeze… How did this lot make Pimms look so easy?
“Bottle caps,” I blurted.
Good job Pato lent me the chinos. Clay-dusted dungarees would have gone down a treat. I could be watching moulds dry in the studio right now. As the plaster sets, you’d know where a piece was going… Like how I was about to be outed by a handful of stuck-up pinkies. (The one from Hong Kong proclaims himself ‘English’).
How was Pato, an Old Etonian, my neighbour? A fan of modern minimalism, he chose to come to Catz — or St. Catherine’s, if you must. No one here calls it that. Arne Jacobson’s sorry apology for an Oxford College looks like the slammer to most, but like for old Arne, makes Pato’s heart sing. And according to Pato, we don’t need a spire. It’s all right for him; he’s had his fair share, and more. Christ Church and Brasenose offered Fine Art, too, but would I have gotten in, having never been to Italy? Or if I had, three years sticking it out as the token working-class scholar might’ve produced an unbearable sore thumb.
“El Anatsui? Did a Gap Year with him in Nigeria; cleaned the detritus.”
“That’s mad.” The ‘King of Bottle Caps’? That would make Young Charles the real thing.
“My sister’s final piece was all HIM, Anatsui, that is. History of Art, Newcastle. Great parties. Bagged a Russian. Collects now.”
Young Charles wasn’t so bad, after all.
Maybe, Pato was right.
I can do this . . . AND work in metal . . . Not done that before either.