Glyn Philpot: It’s Never Too Late to ‘Go Picasso’

‘Acrobats Waiting to Rehearse’ Glyn Philpot

Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton

I recently visited a fine exhibition of the work of artist Glyn Philpot. (‘Glyn Philpot: Flesh and Spirit' is at Pallant House Gallery, Chichester until 23 October.)

Philpot was a successful society portraitist who, at the age of 46, shook off convention to embrace modernism. He was a model of mid-life reinvention.

Born in Clapham in 1884, the son of a surveyor, Philpot grew up in Herne in Kent. Having studied at the Lambeth School of Art and the Académie Julian in Paris, he first exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1904. 

Philpot painted the elite of his day: aristocrats, ambassadors and actors. He had a talent for making his subjects look rather elegant and refined, beautifully dressed and coolly composed. His style was influenced by the Spanish and Italian Old Masters, whom he greatly admired. 

‘I am not one of those who think we should begin by striking out methods of our own. I feel that is a gift which only comes afterwards – if it comes at all.’

Mrs Henry Mond by Glyn Philpot (1884-1937)

In 1923 Philpot was elected the youngest Royal Academician of his generation. And by the end of the ‘20s his endeavours had earned him a grand London studio on fashionable Tite Street, a chauffeur-driven car and a country house in Sussex. 

Philpot could afford to travel to France, Italy, America and North Africa, and to explore other artistic avenues beyond professional portraiture. He painted classical and biblical images; scenes from the street, the theatre and the circus. And, exceptionally for an artist at that time, he painted sensitive studies of Black subjects, never characterising his sitters as either stereotypical or subservient. 

Perhaps, as he approached his mid-40s, Philpot felt he needed a change.

In 1930 he served on a panel judging an art competition in Pittsburgh that awarded the Gold Medal to Pablo Picasso for his ‘Portrait of Olga.’

On his return from America Philpot hired a studio in Montparnasse, Paris and furnished it with chrome Bauhaus furniture. He set aside the rich colours and traditional glazes that had characterised his work to-date. Employing a cool, dry colour palette, his brushwork became loose and light, sparse and spare. He was a convert to modernism.

‘I am evolving a new way of painting to meet the new things I want to do.’

Philpot gave up the lucrative society portraiture that had made his name. Instead he embraced a broader range of subjects and themes. 

Henry Thomas, Glyn Philpot (1884–1937). Pallant House Gallery

In a mood of mystical calm, two muses stand at the tomb of a poet. A doorman, dressed smartly in red coat and white top hat, ushers his customers into the nightclub with a sideways glance. A Jamaican man sits in profile, like a Florentine prince, against a batik backcloth. A group of women in Marrakech, wrapped in their big burnous cloaks, blend into the blue and pink background - almost abstract shapes. Two male acrobats waiting to rehearse, one with his arms folded, regard us in silence.

The critics of the time, confused by Philpot’s change of direction, thought it a serious mistake. The Guardian observed that: ‘a studio in Paris among the wild men of art is disturbing to an Old-masterish painter.’  A 1932 review of a Philpot exhibition in The Scotsman was headlined:

‘Glyn Philpot ‘goes Picasso’.’

Group of Women, Marrakech. Glyn Philpot (1884–1937). Jerwood Collection

Sadly Philpot’s modernist phase did not last long. He died from a stroke in 1937. He was just 53. 

As tastes evolved and his celebrated sitters receded into history, Philpot lapsed into obscurity. Only decades later did the art establishment reappraise his work and recognise him as a key figure in British modernism.

Philpot teaches us that, whatever age we are, wherever we are in our career - if we are open to stimulus and alert to inspiration - we can still adjust our style and transform our output. We can ‘go Picasso.’ 

It’s never too late to change.

'It's never too late
For rainbows to shine,
For whispering violins
And bubbles in the wine.
Let your heart stay young and strong.
Just one note can start a song.
So don't worry about how long
You've had to wait.
It's never too late.
It's never too late.’
Tony Bennett, ‘Never Too Late’ (R Evans / J Livingston / D Rose)

No. 385

The Odd Couple: What Warhol and Basquiat Teach Us About Collaboration

Andy: We’re very different…You’re all spontaneous and wild and so deep and mystical… and I’m still a commercial illustrator really, a photographer, obsessed with the surface of things.

I recently enjoyed ‘The Collaboration’, a play by Anthony McCarten that explores the period in the mid-1980s when artists Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat worked together.

We open in a New York gallery. Swiss art dealer Bruno Bischofberger is expressing to Warhol his concern that the output of the celebrated master of Pop Art is becoming rather familiar.

Bruno: I mean all the brand names, the icons, reinterpreting things we see or use everyday. Everything silkscreened. As great as they are, they’re expected from you now. Forgive me, but when was the last time you picked up a brush and actually painted?

The ageing Warhol has not been focusing on his work. Rather he has been hanging out at Studio 54, partying with aristocrats, models, actors and rock stars. Bischofberger proposes a collaboration with hot young talent, Basquiat.

Bruno: It might be good for you, Andy. You can learn a lot from the young.

In the next scene Bischofberger puts the idea of a collaboration to a sceptical Basquiat.

Bruno: This could be incredible for you, Jean. Your name linked, as equals, with the most famous living painter in the world.

Jean: Is he living?

At length Warhol and Basquiat are persuaded. They begin work together, hesitantly at first. 

Warhol is cool, cautious and considered. Basquiat is daring, instinctive, fluid. Warhol sets up his tracing projector machine and sketches the outline of the General Electric logo. Basquiat adds bold blocks of colour, enigmatic scrawls and a smiling figure with its arms in the air. 

As they apply themselves to the task, they discuss their differing views of art. 

Warhol explains his fascination with commerce.

Andy: One of the things I hope history will remember me for, if there’s any justice, is that I’ve broken down the walls between business and art. Business is art, it’s the best art. And art has always been business. It’s all commerce now.

Warhol also rebuts the criticism that his work lacks passion.

Andy: I am commentating. In a neutral way. No one ever gets this, but I’m trying to make art that forces you to ignore it…the same way we’re ignoring life.

Basquiat, by contrast, believes that the best art has mystical properties.

Jean: Paintings can have supernatural power if you imbue them with them. These symbols, these images. Wherever they come from, they have a power. They’re like… incantations.

He suggests that art should have meaning and purpose.

Jean: Art should disturb the comfortable…comfort the disturbed.

Inevitably, with such contrasting opinions on their craft, there are occasional flashpoints.

Andy: I make beautiful things. Carefully. Very carefully. I produce out of what I see.

Jean: ‘Produce’? You re-produce.

Nonetheless the Odd Couple work well together. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, they gain energy and inspiration from each other. They revel in the exchange of ideas and approaches. They enjoy the challenge. 

Eventually Warhol picks up his brush again and paints.

Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (General Electric II)
acrylic, oil pastel and silkscreen ink on canvas

Looking back on this collaboration that took place nearly 40 years ago, one can’t help but be struck by the chasm in age, career stage, style and perspective. Warhol was world famous, but stuck in a rut. Basquiat was in the ascendant, but with a lot to learn. Warhol was concerned with brands, media and fame; with surface and repetition. His work was aloof and distant. Basquiat’s art was populated by skeletons and skulls, masks and symbols. It was vibrant, dreamlike and magical.

Jean: Don’t you need a new challenge? You can’t just screenprint your life away.

Perhaps in the world of commercial creativity we should spend more time plotting irregular collaborations. Successful team alchemy is not just a matter of putting together like-minded soul mates. It is achieved by combining diverse skillsets, temperaments and outlooks; by creating the conditions for provocation and exchange, discovery and inspiration.

By the end of the play Warhol and Basquiat have produced enough paintings together to fill the Tony Shafrazi Gallery. Bischofberger is satisfied. It’s time to move on.

Andy: I think we’re done. Don’t you? Let’s just say we are. That’s the great thing about contemporary art – who can fucken tell?

'We came the long way,
And I thought you knew,
It was the long way.
My darling, I thought you knew.
We came the long way.
So don't break my heart. 

We been through the desert
Where no water flows.
We've walked streets and highways
Where kung fu is afraid to go.
It was the long way.’

Junior Byles, ‘It Was a Long Way’ (W Boswell / J Byles)

No. 363

‘Trying to Trap the Fact’: The Distorted Truth of Francis Bacon

Head VI

‘We are all animals if you care to think about it. It’s just that some people are more aware of the fact than others.’
Francis Bacon

I recently visited an excellent exhibition of the work of Francis Bacon. (‘Man and Beast’ is at the Royal Academy, London until 17 April.)

It was an unsettling experience.

Bacon painted crucified carcases, snarling Furies, beast-people caught in cuboid cages; dogs, chimpanzees and owls trapped and snared, howling and baying; bullfights, bestial heads and screaming Popes; writhing, twisting, tormented lovers; butchered meat, muscle and sinew, blood and bone. 

‘We are meat, we are potential carcases.’

Bacon’s work was all physical pain and mental anguish; violence and voyeurism. He wanted to convey to us that the veneer of civilisation is thin and fragile; that we are driven by carnal impulses; that we are essentially beasts. He revealed the animal within, caught between rage and fear, in tortured isolation. His aim, he said, was to ‘unlock the valves of feeling and return the onlooker to life more violently.’

Sometimes the horror in his paintings is brought home by the presence of the everyday: of flowers, umbrellas and hats; of chaises longues and tubular steel furniture. (Bacon spent a brief period in the late 1920s as an interior designer.) This is the banality of evil.

‘Most people live a kind of veiled life and tend to disguise what they are, what they want, what they really feel.’

Fragment of a Cucifixion

Bacon’s fascination with man’s animal nature and his dark vision of life were perhaps shaped by his upbringing in County Kildare, Ireland. Born in 1909, he was the son of a retired army officer who trained horses, had a violent temper and a taste for field sports. The young Bacon suffered from chronic asthma, a condition that was triggered and amplified by contact with animals. 

‘The whole horror of life, of one thing living off another.’

No doubt Bacon was also influenced by the slaughter of World War I; by the debauchery he saw in the clubs, bars and brothels of Berlin and Paris between the wars; by his time spent as an ARP warden during the Blitz, recovering bodies from London bomb sites; by consciousness of the Holocaust and the atom bomb; by his trips to the bush in southern Africa; by his adventures in the dark alleys of Soho.

‘I have looked at books of wild animals… because those images excite me and every so often one of them may come up to me and suggest some way to use the human body.’

Bacon was also inspired by his diverse interests. He was an enthusiast for art history, admiring Michelangelo, Velazquez, Rembrandt and Goya. He treasured Eadweard Muybridge’s pioneering studies of animal motion. He read anatomical texts and medical manuals, magazines of wildlife photography and books on big game hunting and bullfighting. He had a passion for Egyptology and classical literature.

‘Reading translations of Aeschylus opens up the valves of sensation for me.’

Study of a Dog 1952

Bacon channelled all this stimulus into his work. For example, his repeated representations of a primal scream were informed by Poussin’s ‘Massacre of the Innocents’ and the terror-stricken shriek of the nursemaid in Eisenstein’s ‘Battleship Potemkin.’

‘I did hope one day to make the best painting of the human cry.’

I was particularly struck by the lateral leaps Bacon took from inspiration to execution. A 17th century Velasquez painting of Pope Innocent X, in all his pomp and power, becomes an expression of existential pain and panic. A barn owl in flight becomes a crucified figure. A diving pelican becomes a Fury. Two wrestlers become two lovers. 

There is a lesson for us all here. We should not expect inspiration to be literal and logical. Rather it catches us off guard, from out of left field. It creeps up on us where and when we least expect it. We often talk about creative leaps. Strategists must leap too.

At first Bacon’s work seems all contorted, twisted and warped. But then we realise that with all this distortion he is seeking to capture a brutal truth about sensation. What he is saying is crystal clear.

‘I think the very great artists were not trying to express themselves. They were trying to trap the fact.’

'I never thought that this day would ever come
When your words and your touch just struck me numb.
Oh and it's plain to see that it's dead.
The thing swims in blood and it's cold stoney dead.
It's so hard not to feel ashamed
Of the loving, living games we play
Each day.
The hardest walk you could ever take
Is the walk you take from A to B to C.’

The Jesus and Mary Chain, 'The Hardest Walk’ (J & W Reid)

No. 360

Frans Hals and the 27 Shades of Black: Learning to Change Your Mind

Portrait of a Man. Frans Hals , early 1650s: Photograph: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

'If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.'
Laozi, ancient Chinese philosopher

I recently attended an exhibition of portraits by 17th century Dutch painter Frans Hals. (‘Frans Hals: The Male Portrait’ is at the Wallace Collection, London until 30 January 2022.)

I confess I have had only a moderate opinion of Hals. My impressions were formed many years ago from seeing cheap reproductions of his most celebrated work, The Laughing Cavalier. I didn’t take to this fellow’s arrogant sideways stare, his absurd upturned moustache, his supercilious grin. And over the years, in various galleries across Europe, I’ve occasionally bumped into other smirking Hals portraits. They’ve served to confirm my reservations about the artist. 

As we enter the exhibition The Laughing Cavalier regards us from the end of a long purple-walled room. The accompanying commentary points out that he is neither laughing, nor a cavalier. Rather he sports a knowing smile. And though we don’t know the sitter’s identity, his carefully groomed hair and fashionable attire suggest a wealthy young man, possibly a cloth merchant.

On closer inspection I found myself admiring the Cavalier’s dashing wide-brimmed hat and richly embroidered doublet - bees, arrows, flames and flowers painted in gold, red and yellow - slashed to reveal an immaculate white linen shirt. I liked the elegance of his soft, lace-trimmed ruff, tied with a black ribbon to match his substantial sash. I was even charmed by that glint in his eyes.

The Laughing Cavalier. Frans Hals (c.1581–1585–1666). The Wallace Collection

The gallery commentary tells us that such flamboyant outfits were de rigueur amongst the young bachelors of Haarlem, the town where Hals was based nearly his whole life. And there are a few other similarly confident, carefree, clean-shaven young men in the exhibition. But once married, the gentlemen of Haarlem would don more sombre apparel, in line with their Calvinist faith, and many of Hals’ sitters were Men in Black.

Such conformity may have represented a challenge for an ordinary portrait painter. But Hals managed to render this single colour in an infinite variety of tones, tints and textures. As Van Gogh later observed:

‘Frans Hals must have had twenty-seven shades of black.’

As we wander round the room we encounter a procession of Haarlem’s military men, councillors, drapers and brewers. The sitters look self-assured, poised, relaxed. Often they place an arm on one hip. Sometimes they regard us over the top of a chair. And despite their formal attire, their individuality shines through.

Tieleman Rossterman has flushed cheeks, a pointed beard and an upturned moustache. With his extravagant lace collar, cambric cuff and gold-trimmed leather glove, he exudes an aura of hard-earned status and authority. Pieter van den Broecke, a Dutch admiral with tousled hair and a weathered visage, sports a long gold chain over his shoulder and rests his gnarled hand on a baton of office. Further along there’s a dignified middle-aged man, whose tightly buttoned black jacket implies restraint. But coloured silks peer out from below and, together with his elegant white cuffs, suggest swagger beneath the surface.

As Hals aged, his brushwork became looser and more fluid, his colour palette more restrained. Critics at the time complained that his paintings looked unfinished. And some subsequently inferred that he had led a dissolute life. These same qualities later appealed to the Impressionists, and he was much admired by Manet and Van Gogh.

Pieter van den Broecke (1585–1640). Frans Hals (c.1581–1585–1666).Photo Credit: English Heritage, Kenwood

I walked away from the exhibition full of respect for Hals. He had ushered in a more natural style of portraiture. He had distilled real characters in oils, conveyed true personalities with vigour and vitality. His work was animated and immediate.

I reflected with some sadness that it’s not often that I change my mind. And rarer still that I admit it. As we age, our views calcify. We repeat the same familiar lines, recite the same righteous wisdoms - with tedious regularity and without giving them fresh thought. We become prisoners of our own opinions.

And yet when we change our minds we demonstrate that we are alert to new information and different circumstances; that we are learning and progressing; that we are alive. Perhaps I should do it more often.

'Progress is impossible without change; and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.'
George Bernard Shaw

'Sure I understand.
Of course, I'll be fine.
You had to change your plans.
Oh well, I'll just change mine.
But if it turns out bad,
And if your nights get long,
And if she makes you sad,
No need to be strong.
And if you ever change your mind,
And find you miss those feelings that you left behind,
We can give it one more try,
Some magic place in time,
If you ever change your mind.’

Crystal Gayle, ‘If You Ever Change Your Mind’ (P McGee, B Gundry)

No. 350

Laura Knight: Before the Curtain Rises

The Ballet Girl and the Dressmaker

‘I am just a hard-working woman who longs to pierce the mystery of form and colour.’
Laura Knight

I recently attended an excellent exhibition of the work of English artist Laura Knight. (‘Laura Knight: A Panoramic View’ is at the MK Gallery, Milton Keynes until 20 February 2022.)

'As in the fourteen lines of a sonnet, a few strokes of the pencil can hold immensity.’

Having grown up in modest circumstances, Knight became a much admired and much loved figure in the art establishment. She painted women at work and play; performers on stage and off; troops on duty, machinists on the job and Gypsies on the racecourse. Eschewing modernism, she employed a realistic style of simple lines and vivid colours, revelling in the effects of sunlight; the glow of the footlights; the shimmer of silk and satin.

'One of the greatest moments of Mother's life came when she found that I, a mere baby, was never so content as with pencil and paper; even before I could speak or walk, I drew. There was no question of my purpose in life.'

Laura Johnson was born in Long Eaton, Derbyshire in 1877. Her mother, a single parent of limited means, raised three children and taught part-time at the Nottingham School of Art. She enrolled her youngest daughter to study there when she was just 13.

‘I became aware of my latent power. Daring grew, I would work only in my own way.’

At art school Laura had to deal with rules that restricted her access to life models, and tutors who thought she should develop her ‘feminine side.’ But she also met fellow student Harold Knight. They became friends and married in 1903. 

A Dark Pool

The couple stayed for a time in Staithes, a village on the Yorkshire coast. Knight painted fishing and farming folk going about their working day; women plucking, polishing, peeling and waiting. 

‘Each day she will bid her husband goodbye, not knowing whether she will ever see him again.’

Next Laura and Harold moved to Cornwall, joining the Newlyn artists’ colony. Here Laura painted families enjoying a day on the beach; young women in fashionable bobs walking along the cliff edge, staring out to sea; nude bathers revelling in the summer sun. 

‘How holy is the human body when bare of other than the sun.’

Knight seemed to enjoy capturing women at ease, in reflection, away from the constraints and drudge of daily life.

‘An ebullient vitality made me want to paint the whole world and say how glorious it was to be young and strong.’

The Three Clowns

Knight became intrigued by the tension between outward appearance and inner self. She befriended groups of Gypsies at Epsom and Ascot racecourses, creating portraits from her makeshift studio in the back of an antique Rolls-Royce. Though their clothes were brightly coloured and exotic, their expressions were serious and knowing. 

‘The beauty and remoteness from the world outside gripped me.’

Knight took a particular interest in performers: ballet dancers, circus acts and thespians. She liked to catch them in rehearsal and backstage; before the show and behind the scenes; in stolen moments of rest and recuperation. 

‘Who among the audience could imagine their matchless ballerina hanging on to a curtain in the wings, panting, almost too tired to stand, with a stream of sweat pouring down her neck?’

A ballerina ties her shoes, adjusts her hair and inspects herself in the mirror. A dancer applies her lipstick while her colleague regards us with weary disinterest. A red-costumed acrobat chats with a yellow-hatted bareback rider, as they await the signal for the show to begin. Three clowns in comical outfits are immersed in serious conversation, one cradling his cigar under a ‘No Smoking’ sign. An actor runs a tap in a crowded dressing room, lost in thought. 

‘Tension was tremendous during those last moments before the curtain rose. Then all was private behind; in a second, that thin wall of protection of cloth has disappeared, disclosing a cavern containing what seemed the whole of the rest of the human race.’

Knight was clearly fascinated with the transformation that takes place when a performer steps into the spotlight; when she or he changes from quiet and withdrawn to outgoing and expressive. Here – away from view, before the curtain rises - we see the real person, the true self.

Corporal Elspeth Henderson and Sergeant Helen Turner

Perhaps we are all performers - on occasion and in our own way. We all dial up the energy, turn on the charm, smile and project. Even more so in the social media age. But it would be wrong to think of life and work as a performance. Knight reminds us that genuine reflection, true experiences and real relationships are formed off stage and out of view. We need to protect and preserve the quiet times, the private moments.

Knight was hugely popular in her day. In 1929 she was made a Dame, and in 1936 she became the first woman since 1769 elected to full membership of the Royal Academy. Her work as an official artist during the Second World War sealed her place in the hearts of the nation. 

‘No praise be too high for their staunchness, be they in crowded districts, or in lonely places miles from home.'

Although figurative art fell out of fashion, Knight carried on working into her eighties. She died in 1970, aged 92. 

‘There was beauty in very simple things if one had eyes to see it.’

Knight’s painting was not radical or revolutionary. But it consistently communicated a quiet dignity and understanding. She celebrated hard work and true talent, individuality and difference. She presented us with our better selves.

'Don't you know the skin that you're given was made to be lived in?
You've got a life,
You've got a life worth living.’
Joy Crookes, ‘Skin'

No. 347

‘I Like You’: The Challenges of Expressing Affection

Henri Fantin-Latour, La Lecture

'Liking one person is an extra reason for liking another.’
E M Forster

Like many people I came out of lockdown with a new-found fondness for my neighbours and local storekeepers; with a commitment to embark on a fresh chapter of cordiality and kindness. 

I found, however, that writing that fresh chapter would be rather challenging.

Lying in bed one morning, reflecting on my pandemic experiences, I determined that, broadly speaking, the mass of the population is warm-hearted and well-intentioned. People are amiable. I like people.

Perhaps I could put a figure on human affability.

‘That’s it!’ I decided to myself. ‘I like 95% of people.’

This is not to say that I think 95% of the public are paradigms of good behaviour, charismatic characters and potential pals. Just that it’s completely possible to have a pleasant conversation with the vast majority of them – about the variable weather, the participants on Gogglebox, the return of ABBA or plans for supper this evening.

When I revealed my new positive perspective at a dinner party, it was greeted with disbelief. 

‘You’re naïve, Jim. Humanity is really not that nice.’

Being somewhat timid in my convictions, I promptly adjusted the figure down to 80%. Nonetheless I still felt the theme worth pursuing. 

Next I decided that if people are so amiable, I ought to evolve my own engagement with the world.

I suspect I have a tendency to sceptical glances, sharp remarks and ironic gestures. My conversation is littered with parentheses and I communicate my feelings in cautious, caveated ways. I find it difficult to express affection. 

I resolved that I should emerge from the pandemic a more direct, open and honest individual. I would do away with artifice and affectation, cynicism and sarcasm. I would smile at strangers and be genial towards pets. I would be attentive when people spoke about minor ailments, travel routes, parking and bins. I would tell friends and acquaintances how much I liked them.

'I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.’
Audrey Hepburn

I decided I would test out my new bonhomie at Michelle’s drinks party, an event that was attended by a good many former colleagues and associates.

Across a crowded room I spotted Toby.

Although Toby had worked for another agency, through many encounters at client meetings and industry events I had established that he was charming, intelligent, quick witted and funny. I liked Toby.

At an opportune moment I strode up to him and announced: ‘Toby, I just wanted to say: I like you.’ 

He was somewhat taken aback. 

‘I like you too, Jim’, he said, with a look of unease, as he turned to fetch himself another lager. 

He didn’t come back.

Later that same evening I told Natasha that I liked her too. That didn’t go down particularly well either. 

My experiment had failed. It’s really not that easy to express fondness in a frank and forthright fashion. Sincerity provokes suspicion. It comes across as dubious and strange.

I would have to return to circumlocution; to euphemism, intimation and assumption; to subtle gestures and coded compliments.

'Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?'
Leo Tolstoy, ‘Anna Karenina’

I realise now that the challenges of conveying affection also extend to the workplace. 

I’m not sure I was ever very good at telling the teams that worked for me that I was impressed; that they’d done a good job; that they’d exceeded my expectations. I was worried perhaps that it would all seem rather awkward, superfluous and empty. 

And then the moment passed.

And yet I know that if I had been better at expressing gratitude and appreciation, it would have led to more confident, motivated, loyal employees. It would have created more effective teams.

I wish I’d found the time.

Perhaps we should all commit to articulating our admiration and approval with greater frequency, alacrity and clarity. 

Though I would not now recommend the candid, unfiltered approach. Probably better to start with a little small talk - about the weather, Gogglebox, ABBA and plans for supper this evening.

'When you cycled by
Here began all my dreams,
The saddest thing I've ever seen.
And you never knew
How much I really liked you.
Because I never even told you.
Oh, and I meant to.’

The Smiths, ‘Back to the Old House’ (S Morrissey / J Marr)

No. 340

Alice Neel: ‘Always in the Process of Becoming’

Alice Neel, A Spanish Boy 1955

‘I paint to try to reveal the struggle, tragedy and joy of life.’
Alice Neel

I recently watched a fascinating documentary about the American painter Alice Neel, written and directed by her grandson Andrew Neel (‘Alice Neel,’ 2007).

Neel believed passionately that people are worthy of our attention; that every individual merits scrutiny. She created raw, intimate images of diverse characters, revealing their suffering and frailty, their strength and dignity. In pursuing her craft, she made huge personal sacrifices. She persisted with portrait painting when the art establishment determined it was an obsolete artform. She persevered when the world went wild for Abstract Expressionism. And finally she received the credit she had always deserved.

In the documentary there’s a brief clip of Neel at work with a sitter in her apartment. She reflects on how a portrait is shaping up.

‘It’s going somewhere, but it hasn’t arrived there. It’s always in the process of becoming.’

Let us consider what we can learn from this compelling artist.

1. ‘Search for a Road. Search for Freedom’

Alice Neel was born in 1900 and grew up in rural Pennsylvania, in a middle-class family that was often short of money. After graduating from high school, she took a clerical job to help support her parents. She studied art at evening classes, and in 1921 she enrolled at the Philadelphia School of Design for Women.

‘My conscience bothered me, that I should be just fooling about with art when really everybody needed money.’

In 1925 Neel married Carlos Enríquez, an aristocratic Cuban painter, and they moved to Havana to live with his family. There she embraced the thriving avant-garde creative scene and developed a lifelong political consciousness. 

Neel had already travelled a long way from her conventional Pennsylvania upbringing.

'Art is two things: a search for a road and a search for freedom.’

Alice Neel with her paintings at her Spanish Harlem apartment in 1944. Courtesy of Sam Brody, via SeeThink Films

2. ‘All Experience Is Great, Providing You Live Through It’

In 1927 the couple moved to New York where Neel's first-born daughter died of diphtheria. A few years later Enríquez left her, taking their second daughter with him. Neel suffered a nervous breakdown, was hospitalized and attempted suicide. 

‘In a way it was my own fault. I pushed my brain back. And then after it got back there, I was much worse off. I forgot all the Spanish I knew. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t do anything.’

When Neel was released from the sanatorium, she took to painting themes of motherhood, loss and doubt. 

She continued to be unlucky in love. She had an affair with a heroin-addicted sailor, who, in a jealous rage, set fire to 350 of her paintings and drawings. She had a son by a nightclub singer and another by a documentary film-maker. The latter supported her work, but was abusive to her older boy.

‘I look happy. But that’s just a fake. I’m serving a sentence. Instead of jumping out the window, I’m putting in the time.’

Neel sold very few paintings and she participated in only one exhibition in this period. Between 1933 and 1943 she received funding from the Public Works of America Project, one of the Roosevelt's New Deal initiatives. But once that income dried up, she relied on welfare to make ends meet.

‘I had acquired the idea that for art’s sake you had to give up everything. If I had some money, I wouldn’t buy a dress or anything. I’d buy canvas and paint materials.’

Somehow Neel managed to survive.

'All experience is great providing you live through it. If it kills you, you've gone too far.’

Alice Neel, Pat Whalen, 1935

3. ‘People Come First’

In Greenwich Village Neel painted critics, artists, activists and intellectuals. In Spanish Harlem she painted her neighbours, women and children, family, friends and strangers. In West Harlem she painted pregnant nudes and nursing mothers. She painted people from diverse racial, cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. She painted what she called ‘the human comedy’: real people, real bodies, real lives.

'For me, people come first. I have tried to assert the dignity and eternal importance of the human being.’

Neel had developed a direct style of portraiture. Employing bold loose outlines and fresh vibrant colours, stripping away unnecessary detail, focusing with unflinching intensity on posture, personality and nuance; on idiosyncrasies that indicated the sitter’s true character -  a subtle gesture of the hand and a gentle tilt of the head; a clenched fist, folded arms and a furrowed brow; a bored stare, tired eyes and a nervous sideways glance. 

4. Be a ‘Collector of Souls’

'Like Chekhov, I am a collector of souls… If I hadn’t been an artist, I could have been a psychiatrist.'

Neel was aiming to go beyond surface detail to establish psychological truth. This required her to be empathetic; to develop a strong sense of the feelings of the sitter; to be sensitive to the life within.

‘I go so out of myself and into them that after they leave I sometimes feel horrible. I feel like an untenanted house.’

 5. Resist Prevailing Fashion and Dogma

Throughout her life Neel had to steel herself against prevailing cultural fashion and dogma.

There was a view that advances in photography had effectively removed the need for portrait painting. Neel demonstrated that, whereas a photo freezes a sitter in a particular moment and attitude, a painting can animate its subject through time; can penetrate beyond masks and facades; can express an authentic individual identity.

‘I would have to apologise for being psychological because that was considered a weakness.’

In the 1950s and 1960s Abstract Expressionism drowned out all other artforms. As the painter Chuck Close observed, it was as if Neel was ‘broadcasting and no one’s picking up the signal.’ But she remained stubbornly committed to representational work. 

‘I am against abstract and non-objective art because such art shows a hatred of human beings. It is an attempt to eliminate people from art, and as such it is bound to fail.’

Alice Neel, Marxist Girl (Irene Peslikis), 1972

6. ‘Express the Zeitgeist’

Neel was conscious that every individual is imprinted with the values and struggles of their era. And so her portraiture evolved with time. 

‘I like it not only to look like the person, but to have their inner character as well. And then I like it to express the zeitgeist. You see, I don’t want something in the’60s to look like something in the ‘70s.’

As Neel painted sitters of every ethnicity, sexuality, age, gender and economic group, so she recorded the progress of American history: from the Depression, through the Civil Rights era and on to a modern world of material wealth and spiritual poverty.

‘I like to paint people who are in the rat race, suffering all the tension and damage that’s involved in that – under pressure really of city life and of the awful struggle that goes on in the city.’

7. Be Tenacious. Be Interested

Toward the end of the 1960s, the Women's Rights movement celebrated Neel as an unfairly ignored talent, and she became something of a feminist icon. And yet she refused to be categorised simply as ‘a woman painter.’

'When I was in my studio I didn’t give a damn what sex I was… I thought art is art.'

Neel toured the States delivering lectures and participating in panel discussions at museums, art schools and universities. In the documentary an academic relates how, at one such event, Neel grabbed the microphone, set up a slide carousel of her work, and took over the discussion. She was hungry for attention.

At last, in 1974, Neel was given a major retrospective at the Whitney in New York. 

‘I always felt in a sense that I didn’t have the right to paint, because I had two sons and I had so many things I should be doing. And here I was painting. But that show convinced me that I had a perfect right to paint. I shouldn’t ever have felt that, but I did feel it. And after that show I never felt it any more.’

It had been a long, hard struggle for recognition. But Neel was equal to the challenge.

‘If you’re sufficiently tenacious and interested, you can accomplish what you want to accomplish in this world.’

In 1984 Neel died from cancer in her New York apartment.

Detail of Alice Neel, Richard in the Era of the Corporation (1978-79). Photo by Ben Davis.

Alice Neel was a woman of conviction. She adhered to her artistic and political beliefs, despite desperate poverty, untrustworthy lovers, a fickle art establishment and systemic sexism. She left us with a portrait of America in the 20th century, a tapestry of individual lives; of struggle, passion and endurance. 

There’s a telling scene in the film where this seemingly sweet little old lady upbraids an interviewer.

‘You must take what I give you. Don’t be so demanding. Just sit there.’
 She smiles gently.
‘Now. What was I talking about?...’

(You can see a retrospective of Neel's work at the Met Fifth Avenue, New York until 1 August 2021: ‘Alice Neel: People Come First.’)

‘Me.
Can you focus on me?
Baby, can you focus on me?
Babe.
Hands in the soap,
Have the faucets running,
And I keep looking at you.
Stuck on your phone,
And you're stuck in your zone,
You don't have a clue.
But I don't want to give up.
Baby, I just want you to get up.
Lately I've been a little fed up.
Wish you would just focus on
Me.’
HER, ‘Focus’ (D Camper / G Wilson / J Love)

No. 323

‘Seeing More Deeply’: Hilma af Klint, the Abstract Pioneer

Staggering’: The Ten Largest, Youth, 1907. Photograph: Albin Dahlström/Courtesy of Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk

‘Every time I succeed in finishing one of my sketches, my understanding of humanity, animals, plants, minerals, or the entire creation, becomes clearer. I feel freed and raised up above my limited consciousness.’
Hilma af Klint

I recently watched a fine documentary by Halina Dyrschka about the Swedish artist Hilma af Klint (‘Beyond the Visible’, 2019). 

Af Klint produced a prodigious amount of thrilling work in the early 20th century. She pioneered abstract art – painting her first abstract piece in 1906, five years before Kandinsky. She experimented with new creative techniques twenty years before the Surrealists. And, as the film demonstrates, her work foreshadowed that of Mondrian, Klee, Warhol, Twombly and Albers.

However, af Klint was intensely private and not inclined to self-promotion. She rarely exhibited her paintings, and she requested that, after her death, her work should be hidden away for twenty years. Art historians, until recently, chose to ignore her, because she was inspired by her spiritualist beliefs - and because she was a woman.

Artist Hilma af Klint in her studio at Hamngatan, Stockholm, circa 1895. Photograph: Courtesy of Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk

Let us consider what we can learn from this remarkable painter.

1. ‘Explore the Infinite Possibilities of Development’

Hilma af Klint was born in 1862, in Solna, Sweden. Her father was a naval officer and mathematician, and most of her childhood was spent in the cadet school at Karlberg castle. In the summers the family adjourned to an island in Lake Malaren, and it was here that she developed a fascination with nature.

In 1882 af Klint enrolled at the Royal Academy of Arts in Stockholm and, after graduating with honours, she was awarded a studio in the city’s artist quarter. Dressed in black, with neat hair and cool blue eyes, she quietly worked away at her landscapes, botanical drawings and portraits, gaining recognition and financial independence. She was a shy, gentle person. But she had a fierce yearning to explore.

‘In this moment, I’m aware, living as I do in the world, that I am an atom in the universe, possessing infinite possibilities of development. And I want to explore these possibilities.’

2. Take Inspiration Wherever You Find It

Af Klint became interested in spiritualism and the occult, and her curiosity was enhanced when in 1880 her ten-year-old sister died.

‘What I needed was courage, and it was granted to me through the spiritual world, which bestowed rare and wonderful instruction.’

Af Klint’s fascination with the paranormal was not unusual at the time. Many intellectuals sought to reconcile a growing awareness of the plurality of religions with an acknowledgement of scientific progress.  

‘Accept, accept, Hilma… Hilma, you were brought here to do this.’

In 1896, with four female artist friends, af Klint established The Five. The group held séances every week and recorded mystical thoughts and messages from spirits called The High Masters. They also experimented with free-flowing writing and drawing; with intuitive and spontaneous ways of creating art, opening themselves up to their unconscious selves. 

Af Klint believed that a force was guiding her hand in the act of creation. 

'The pictures were painted directly through me, without any preliminary drawings, and with great force. I had no idea what the paintings were supposed to depict; nevertheless I worked swiftly and surely, without changing a single brush stroke.’

Hilma af Klint Group X, No. 1, Altarpiece (Grupp X, nr 1, Altarbild), from Altarpieces (Altarbilder), 1915. Guggenheim Museum

3. ‘See Beyond Form’

As scientific interest at the time focused on the world beyond the visible – sub-atomic particles, x-rays, gamma rays and radio waves - so too af Klint wanted to see beyond her already acute understanding of physical form.

‘Those granted the gift of seeing more deeply can see beyond form, and concentrate on the wondrous aspect hiding behind every form, which is called life.’

In 1906, at the age of 44, af Klint painted her first series of abstract paintings and, in a torrent of creativity, she went on to produce 193 pieces, some of which were extremely large - measuring over 2 metres by 3 metres. 

Af Klint painted biomorphic and geometric forms; segmented circles and bisected spirals; shapes suggesting shells, butterfly wings, flowers and fans; cellular structures; beams and hoops, cones and curves; all rippling and pulsing, overlapping and intersecting. She used bold, soft colours: feminine blue and masculine yellow; pink and red for physical and spiritual love; golden orbs. There were symbols, letters and words; swans and doves; dualities expressing heaven and earth, good and evil. 

Af Klint imagined installing the collected work, themed around the different phases of life from early childhood to old age, in a grand spiral spiritualist temple. 

‘My mission, if it succeeds, is of great significance to humankind. For I am able to describe the path of the soul from the beginning of the spectacle of life to its end.’

4. ‘Through Nature We Can Become Aware of Ourselves’

After Af Klint completed the Paintings for the Temple in 1915, she continued to explore abstraction and mystic themes, but without spiritual guidance. Her work became smaller, she experimented with watercolour and she produced more than 150 notebooks of thoughts and studies.

‘The more we discover the wonders of nature, the more we become aware of ourselves.’

In 1920 af Klint moved to Helsingborg, a coastal city in Southern Sweden and she committed to examining the wondrous truths in the natural world around her.

‘I shall start with the world’s flowers. Then with the same care I shall study whatever lives in the waters of the world. Then comes the gate into the blue ether with its many species of animals. And finally I shall enter the woods to study the damp mosses, all trees and animals living among the cool dark multitude of trees.’

Group IX/SUW, No. 17. The Swan, No. 17, by Hilma af Klint. Courtesy of Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk. Photo: Moderna Museet / Stockholm

5. ‘Achieve Stillness in Both Thought and Feeling’

Af Klint was a fiercely independent thinker, a vegetarian, a loner who didn’t need the affirmation of others. Having spent a lifetime contemplating existence, she seems to have attained peace.

‘Only for those prepared to leave their familiar life behind, will life emerge in a new gown of continually expanding beauty and perfection. But in order to attain such a state, it is necessary to achieve stillness in both thought and feeling.’

6. Don’t Hide Your Light, or Let Your Light Be Hidden

Though af Klint was wholeheartedly committed to spiritualism and her artistic path, she rarely had the confidence to show her work to her contemporaries, and she only exhibited a few of her abstract paintings at paranormal conferences. She was not actively engaged with the artistic movements of her time, and to the outside world she maintained the profile of a conventional landscape artist. 

In 1908 af Klint had invited Rudolf Steiner, the founder of a spiritualist movement whom she greatly admired, to view her abstract paintings. Much to her dismay, he disapproved of them and of her claim to be a medium, and he advised her not to let anybody see the work. The setback prompted her to give up painting for four years and she concluded that the time was not right for her abstractions. 

Af Klint wrote a will leaving all her art to her nephew and stipulating that it should only be made public twenty years after her death. Accordingly more than 1200 paintings and drawings, 100 texts and 26,000 pages of notes and sketches were carefully stored away.

The Ten Largest, №7., Adulthood, Group IV, 1907 Tempera on paper mounted on canvas 315 x 235 cm Hilma af Klint

Af Klint died in Djursholm, Sweden in 1944 following a traffic accident. She was nearly 82 years old.

Perhaps it was no surprise, given all this, that when in the 1940s and 1950s the Museum of Modern Art in New York set about defining the history of modern art, af Klint did not feature. Yet even when her archive was opened at the end of the 1960s, recognition came slowly. In 1970 her paintings were offered to the Moderna Museet in Stockholm, but the donation was declined unseen, due to scepticism about her spiritualism. This seems particularly unfair, since many artists working in the same period, including Kandinsky, Mondrian and Malevitch, were also enthusiasts for the paranormal. 

‘You must learn to ignore fear, for without the will to believe in yourself, nothing good will happen.’

Now, at long last, af Klint is being given the credit she deserves. In 2018-19 more than 600,000 visitors attended her first major solo exhibition in the United States: ‘Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future’ at the Guggenheim in New York. It was the most-visited show in the museum’s history. 

Af Klint had finally found her grand spiral temple.

Hilma af Klint Exhibition @ Guggenheim. Photo: Radiofreemers

'All the modern things
Have always existed.
They've just been waiting
To come out
And multiply
And take over.
It's their turn now…'

Bjork, ‘The Modern Things’ (B Gudmundsdottir / G Massey)

No 324

It Only Takes a Minute To Lose a Pitch: A Tough Time for Optimists

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn ‘The Sampling Officials’

'We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.’
Alphonse Karr, ‘A Tour Round My Garden’

I consider myself an optimist.

I was certainly optimistic about our pitch for the prestige pen brand. We had assigned a top team and worked really hard over the previous six weeks. We had a pedigree in the sector, and, what’s more, we had arrived at a compelling proposal.

Luxury goods the world over had been de-coupled from the expertise and craft that originally justified their premium. They had been reduced to names and logos, gold and glitter, soulless fixtures in airport retail. If appointed, we would re-harness our pen brand to the skill and artistry of its design and manufacture, and embed it in a community of like-minded craftspeople and makers. We would re-position it within the emergent world of artisanal care.

We presented in an airless room in an anodyne airport hotel. There were neatly arranged water glasses, nondescript mints, blank notepads and a dispiriting flip chart. Arrayed before us was a panel of suited executives from the key sales regions around the world. Our audience looked on - stern, impassive, pokerfaced. One talked quietly into his mobile phone every now and again. Another popped out for something important.

Undeterred, we gesticulated and enthused. We were animated and energetic. We radiated positivity. I nodded my head a lot. 

We had been told to pay particular attention to the Chinese representative, as he carried a lot of commercial clout. But he wasn’t giving anything away. 

A trolley of mayonnaise-soaked sandwiches was brought in.

Our Creative Director took to the floor with a flourish, and presented our idea across a range of platforms, tasks and territories. The work was elegant, thoughtful and intimate. It completely eschewed the tired category conventions of bling, gloss and glamour. 

I summarised our pitch and invited questions. 

There was a stony silence. 

At length the Chinese representative put his hand up, gestured towards our creative work and, with measured enunciation, asked:

‘Where is the luxury in this?’

I mumbled something about new prestige codes, opinion leadership and the artisanal aesthetic. But, of course, I knew immediately that with those six words we were defeated. 

It only takes a minute to lose a pitch.

Ours is a curious business. All that industry and innovation, argument and anxiety; all that energy and enthusiasm, those late nights and early mornings - they can just go up in a puff of a smoke. 

What a waste.

'Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable.’
Voltaire

We are, of course, sustained by our optimistic outlook, our relentless positivity. Upwards and onwards. Let’s learn the lessons. Let’s get up and do it again. 

But relentless positivity can be exhausting. And through the pandemic I’ve been struck by the fact that optimism can sometimes be a curse. I’ve personally been steadfastly optimistic: expecting waves to recede, targets to be met, data to improve. And I’ve been consistently wrong all year. 

It takes its toll.

The Stockdale Paradox was popularized by Jim Collins in his book ‘Good to Great.’

James Stockdale was a US naval officer who, while flying on a mission in the Vietnam War, was shot down and taken captive. He was held in the Hỏa Lò Prison (the infamous ‘Hanoi Hilton’) for the next seven-and-a-half years, and was routinely tortured and denied medical attention. 

When afterwards he reflected on his traumatic experiences, he concluded that the people less likely to survive were the optimists. They pinned their hopes on getting out by Easter, and then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas. And each time they were disappointed. 

‘They died of a broken heart.’

The Stockdale Paradox suggests that, to get through an ordeal, we must confront the reality of our situation, however grave it may be; that we must find an appropriate balance between realism and optimism.

‘You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end - which you can never afford to lose - with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.’

Admiral James Stockdale

We should have known from the first chemistry meeting for that prestige pen brand - from the bureaucratic process and fragmented hierarchy; from the sales-driven culture and conservative communication to-date - that this was not a pitch for us.

But hope can make you blind.

‘Pessimism is the one defence I have against optimism.’
Arthur Miller

Of course, we should continue to regard the inherent optimism of creative professionals as an asset. Optimism catalyses camaraderie and inspires innovation; it prompts industry, ambition, and often success. But we should also nurture Resilient Realists: people with the objectivity properly to assess a situation; and the fortitude to endure disappointment.

As the old saying goes,‘we should hope for the best and prepare for the worst.’

'Son, don't put your hat
Where you can't reach it.
It doesn't make no sense.
Good things come
For those who work hard for it.
Adjust yourself
To the life you can afford to live.
The road to the top
Is long and winding.
A foolish dog
Barks at the flyin’ bird.
Patient man
Ride donkey.
Cool Out Son.
Cool Out Son.
Junior Murvin, 'Cool Out Son' (J Gibson)

No. 320

Don’t Be a Busy Fool: My Stressful Experience as a Debenhams Dishwasher

Kitchen Maid with the Supper at Emmaus, Diego Velasquez

'It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?'
H D Thoreau

In my holidays from College I took a number of random jobs. I distributed law reports around Chancery Lane (beautiful buildings). I delivered the Christmas post around Romford (great canteen). I dug holes in Harold Hill (excellent for sun tan and body tone). And I did a fair amount of filing - which was a major occupation in the pre-digital age (not good for anything really, other than mind control).

My most stressful employment was in the kitchens of the Debenhams Department Store in Romford Town Centre.

I was stationed on my own alongside some large stainless steel sinks and industrial dishwashers. A conveyer belt brought me dirty crockery, cutlery and glasses in a steady stream from the adjacent customer restaurant. All I had to do was sort and stack the items as they came through.

The problem was that I had no control of the speed of the conveyer belt or the volume of the dishes. And I couldn’t prevent myself pausing occasionally to finish off an attractive unwanted pastry. 

As the lunchtime rush accelerated, I struggled to keep up. Pots and plates, mugs and jugs, saucers, soup bowls and serving spoons presented themselves to me in an ever more confused, messy muddle. I piled and loaded with diminishing care and increasing anxiety, spilling gravy on the floor, dropping the occasional glass. I became somewhat flustered, which hampered me even more. 

And the conveyor belt kept on rolling. And the dirty dishes kept on arriving, unrelenting, unforgiving. 

It all got a bit too much. I shouted through the plastic flap to the restaurant, begging the nearby waiters to slow things down. But they carried on regardless, pacing the floor in a catatonic stupor.

I read somewhere once that stress derives in large part from lack of control. The problem is out of our hands, beyond our ability. There’s nothing we can do. Well, dishwashing at Debenhams was the very definition of a stressful occupation.

Eventually, as lunch turned towards afternoon tea, the volume of crockery declined and I recovered my composure. 

I helped myself to one last custard tart.

President Dwight Eisenhower made a celebrated distinction regarding the challenges he faced in office (quoting Dr J R Miller, president of Northwestern University):

'I have two kinds of problems: the urgent and the important. The urgent are not important, and the important are never urgent.’ 

This sentiment should resonate with many people in modern business. We know that we should really be applying ourselves to the big long-term issues that loom on the horizon. But we just can’t quite get around to them, because pressing short-term problems keep demanding our attention.

The truth is that some of these short-term concerns are not as urgent as they may seem. They’re a distraction, and they should probably be dealt with by someone else. Indeed a few of them may be entirely superfluous. What’s more, some of those long-term issues really need to be addressed right now. 

'Nothing is less productive than to make more efficient what should not be done at all.'
Peter Drucker

Smart business people learn to concentrate on the urgent issues that are really important, and the important issues that are actually urgent. They have the ability to differentiate and delegate, categorise and schedule. Prioritisation of tasks and challenges is a critical skill in life and business.

'Being busy does not always mean real work. The object of all work is production or accomplishment, and to either of these ends there must be forethought, system, planning, intelligence, and honest purpose, as well as perspiration. Seeming to do is not doing.'
Thomas Edison

Gwyn and I left BBH at the same time, and we both embarked on a stage in our careers that is more plural in nature. BBH Founder John Bartle, wary of the pitfalls of such a path, offered Gwyn the following concise advice: ‘Don’t be a busy fool.’

'Got to have a job to put the food on the table.
Got to have a job to keep that party able.
Got to have a job to bring home the bread.
Got to have a job to keep that family fed.

Sometimes your business is all messed up.
Sometimes you don't have your thing together.
And when your thing is all messed up,
Somebody will take that fire, yeah!
So, if you don't give a doggone about it,
If you don't give a doggone about it,
Then they—
They won't give a damn!’

James Brown, 'If You Don't Give A Doggone About It'

No. 317