Goldsworthy

“I still say it’s bullshit,” said Blight, starting another roll-up as soon as the previous one was done.

“You’ve said that all day,” said Harry.

“He’s right though.” Now, Colin joined in. “I can’t believe the guy gets paid for this.”

“Yeah.” Blight again. “What’s he done, just made us put a load of chalk on top of a chalk hill? And we get paid less than him for doing the hard work.”

Blight, Harry and Colin were on a ridge, a few miles outside Cocking village. Nearby was a large chalk boulder. Colin was staring at the view while he messed around on his phone. Harry took photographs to record the finished job.

They’d started the day in Duncton Quarry, where the huge boulder had been prepared according the artist’s specifications. It was the work of several hours to get it on the truck, drive into the countryside, and set the stone in place.

Harry tried his best to ignore the other two. He’d been up for hours the night before, looking at some of this artist’s other work. Sculptures made from leaves, mud, ice. He hadn’t realised that this could be art.

It made Harry think about his childhood. As a kid, his Mum had picked up art books from charity shops. It was the modern art he’d liked most and that he imitated. He’d scribble his versions of Kandinsky, Miro, Picasso. And maybe other kids were drawing mummy and daddy, doing their best to produce the house they lived in, but he’d enjoyed playing. And he remembered the sneering art teachers, telling him you had to learn the basics before you were ‘allowed’ to do that. One had shown him Picasso’s traditional work, told him he needed to draw like that before he could ‘try being clever’.

“What I don’t like,” said Blight, “is that taxpayers’ money is being used on these bloody stones when there’s people going hungry.”

“Come on, now,” said Harry, the words slipping out.

“What do you mean?” asked Blight.

“Well, I’ve heard what you say about people who can’t afford food. You’ve never been too sympathetic to them before.”

“Fuck off. I can’t believe you’re defending this rubbish.”

“Well, I’ve taken the photos, we can head back now.”

They all clambered into the van. Tomorrow they would be back to raking leaves and weeding at the college. It was Colin’s turn to drive, and he had the radio loud enough to drown out conversation.

All the way back, Harry felt the piece of chalk in his pocket. He’d cleaved it from the main block when the other two weren’t looking. As he took it, he made himself a promise.

Harry had been up until three in the morning, clicking around the web, learning about art. There was so much more than he’d imagined. In 1971 an artist had a friend shoot him in the arm, and that was art. There were two artists who’d spent a year tied together. Another guy had walked back and forth on some grass, then photographed the line. Someone like Blight, they could only hate things like this. What Harry saw was an opportunity. He’d had no idea that this sort of thing was a job. He knew, more than he’d known anything in his life, that he wanted this for himself. Far more than he wanted to be raking up leaves.

Harry would never have dared admit it, but he’d felt something when he’d placed his hand against the boulder. It seemed to thrum with energy.

As they drew up to the main road, Blight asked if they should pop to the pub for a quick one. Harry knew it was a peace offering, but he had things to get on with. “Not for me, thanks,” said Harry. “I need to be getting home.”

Updates

• The performance night with Louise Halvardsson was great fun. Lou’s piece was amazing, and lots of lovely people turned up, most of whom joined us in the pub afterwards. It was also lovely to finally meet poet Thomas Sharp. More details here.

• The current exhibition at In A Land is by Rachel Poulton. Her photos of Sussex made me feel homesick. It’s on till March 28th and highly recommended. Details here.

• I’ve not had chance to write about it but the second In a Land zine is out, and includes a new story by me. I’ll write more about that soon.

• Another thing I’ve not had chance to write about is my appearance on an episode of echologorrhea, Thomas Friedman's 1,000 Hours of Staring.

• The Mycelium Parish News for 2025 has finally gone to print, and copies will be available soon. Message me if you want one.

• And, speaking of land art, last week I found a sculpture in the woods.

Background

I love land art. There’s an excellent Richard Long display at the Tate Modern currently, which includes A Line Made By Walking, which Harry talks about here.

In a workshop session a few weeks back, someone felt that Harry’s approach to art undervalued the training and experience needed to be a fine artist. I have a few more stories to write about Harry, so I will explore how being an artist works out for him.

(There’s a whole new collection of stories that he will link into, called No Stone Circles in Sussex, but that’s unlikely to be completed any time soon)