"Nick, you're a legend!"
Sep. 26th, 2009 12:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imomusDid you ever dream that you died, but were somehow able to hover on somewhere overhead, eavesdropping on all the heart-rendingly appreciative things people were saying, things that summed up all your good points and glossed over the bad? That's how I'm beginning to feel now, what with the big Guardian article about me last week (which felt weirdly like an ideal obituary, or a lifetime achievement award address) and now this full-page review of The Book of Scotlands in the October edition of Art Review magazine:
Now, I've flown under the radar so long that I've started taking it for granted that nobody in Britain will ever listen to me -- not the way they listen to other people -- or take me seriously. And yet suddenly it seems as if it might be starting to happen. Not with records, but with books. Not in the music world, but in the art world, or rather the place where the art world crosses over with the world of publishing. It does feel like a vindication of sorts after a long time in the wilderness, and I'm glad it's happening later rather than sooner. But not too late; I'm glad to be alive while it happens rather than rotting in my coffin, for sure.
This is where unfamiliar new anxieties begin; not that I'm underrated, but that I might well start to be overrated. That I'll be invited to sit on panels with people who really know what they're talking about (rather than wild cards good at injecting interesting lies) and be found sorely wanting. That I'll be over-exposed and start to annoy or bore. That I'll be thrust in front of passive aggressive people who've been told that my ideas are "good for them", and sit there grinding their teeth. That my provocations will somehow become new orthodoxies. That I'll burn out or get swell-headed (all right, more swell-headed!) or be treated with so much belated respect that I'll die of boredom, and the late me will get cremated on a heap of hagiographies, with Festschriften fluttering around the charring, flaming remains of my body, soon to be recreated in bronze and hauled into position on a plinth in the town of my birth.
Do you want to know something funny? The man who wrote this review -- John Quin -- is the same man you hear at the beginning of the Ping Pong album shouting "Nick, you're a legend!" He really is. I only learned this a year or so ago, when I met him by chance on Gipstrasse in Berlin. Back in 1997 it seemed like a deeply ironic remark. Now, with all this surprising, incredibly nice stuff being said, not so much.
Then again, what is a legend except something a bit dubious that's hung around for a very long time?
Now, I've flown under the radar so long that I've started taking it for granted that nobody in Britain will ever listen to me -- not the way they listen to other people -- or take me seriously. And yet suddenly it seems as if it might be starting to happen. Not with records, but with books. Not in the music world, but in the art world, or rather the place where the art world crosses over with the world of publishing. It does feel like a vindication of sorts after a long time in the wilderness, and I'm glad it's happening later rather than sooner. But not too late; I'm glad to be alive while it happens rather than rotting in my coffin, for sure.
This is where unfamiliar new anxieties begin; not that I'm underrated, but that I might well start to be overrated. That I'll be invited to sit on panels with people who really know what they're talking about (rather than wild cards good at injecting interesting lies) and be found sorely wanting. That I'll be over-exposed and start to annoy or bore. That I'll be thrust in front of passive aggressive people who've been told that my ideas are "good for them", and sit there grinding their teeth. That my provocations will somehow become new orthodoxies. That I'll burn out or get swell-headed (all right, more swell-headed!) or be treated with so much belated respect that I'll die of boredom, and the late me will get cremated on a heap of hagiographies, with Festschriften fluttering around the charring, flaming remains of my body, soon to be recreated in bronze and hauled into position on a plinth in the town of my birth.
Do you want to know something funny? The man who wrote this review -- John Quin -- is the same man you hear at the beginning of the Ping Pong album shouting "Nick, you're a legend!" He really is. I only learned this a year or so ago, when I met him by chance on Gipstrasse in Berlin. Back in 1997 it seemed like a deeply ironic remark. Now, with all this surprising, incredibly nice stuff being said, not so much.
Then again, what is a legend except something a bit dubious that's hung around for a very long time?
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-25 09:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-25 09:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-25 10:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-25 11:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 01:59 am (UTC)So THAT'S who you are.
I only knew of you thru this blog and never researched you. Good luck with the books.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 05:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 06:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 05:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 08:58 am (UTC)Wil you now be able to write, make music, or comment in public without worrying about the 'legend'?
I think you're worrying unnecessarily though. I see you more as a footnote that will provide hours of entertainment for future scholars (of indie, design, scottish studies) that discover you, rahter than a 'legend'.
flying kites on a rainy day
Date: 2009-09-26 10:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 12:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 01:23 pm (UTC)You'll just have to think of it as a stimulating and creative challenge. There's a story by Kafu (from Furansu Monogatari) where an artist character begins to get public support, a grant of some kind and so on, and suddenly he loses interest in art and life, because 'the struggle is over'. It's a good story, but with regard to the character, I couldn't help thinking, "That's a bit premature, isn't it? Why not actually make the most of your opportunities. I'm sure that life can be that easy anyway, even with prizes and fame."
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 03:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-26 10:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-27 10:47 am (UTC)A côté de la plaque...
Date: 2009-09-26 09:11 pm (UTC)Humussement vôtre.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-27 05:47 pm (UTC)Ben
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-28 05:28 am (UTC)I'm not an expert on him... or his whereabouts although I've been a fan of his output, and inspired but him as well.
You're quite the challenging artist. This has been your trump card as well as the delay in your success perhaps. I do think your day is coming.
Its fun to see your list of negative possiblities that may arise... but its just a game isnt it... all part of the big charades... part of the dance... the jest... touching all the bases.
in 2 years... I see it coming, just around the bend:
coke fueled 'private' 'work' parties... japanese trannies, a few fay groupies, a sedated 13 year old thai boy/girl... falling asleep / you: feverishly blocking out you immediate surroundings dictating random notes to a muscular spanish woman,,,,
so glad you finally made it
Date: 2009-09-28 11:46 am (UTC)Re: so glad you finally made it
Date: 2009-09-28 11:57 am (UTC)anyway, at least it was overwhelmingly positive.
it could have been a bit depressing if your life was judged fair to middling and given 3 stars out of 5
Hard Times
Date: 2009-09-28 12:30 pm (UTC)Re: Hard Times
Date: 2009-09-28 02:25 pm (UTC)