In 1991, Nick Bantock
turned the book world on its ear with the Griffin &
Sabine series, a new genre of picture books for grownups.
The Museum at Purgatory is his latest image-rich tome,
and fans will be thrilled to learn that he's at work on a
second G&S trilogy. Last week, the author and artist
spoke to WW about his new digs in Vancouver, B.C.,
and how he might like to die.
Nick Bantock appears at Powell's City of Books (1005
W Burnside St., 228-4651) at 7:30 pm Thursday, Jan. 20.
Free. See also Bibliofile.
Willamette Week: Is the art in The Museum
at Purgatory pictures of items you own, or illustrations?
Nick Bantock: Ninety percent of them are things that I've
made; the other 10 percent are things I've found and tampered
with.
Where do you find the objects that you collect?
Well, for example, the ones that I didn't touch at all
were the taxidermy creatures; what I did do was sort of
encourage them in their decrepitness. The bulk of them came
from a woman who lived around the corner, who had picked
them up because they were cheap, not in such good condition,
but that's what I loved about them.
Do you go to auctions and garage sales?
Yeah, I do. I never spend more than 25 or 30 bucks on any
of them. It has to be stuff that almost no one else can
recognize its potential.
Do you give away any of your creations as gifts?
Yes, sometimes. There's a kind of compulsive holding, because
I never quite know what I'm going to be doing next, and
I also have to admit--on a horrific ego level--there's a
part of me that says, well, maybe one day you might end
up having a sort of major retrospective exhibition at a
museum, and then you don't want to have to go chasing all
around the world to get it back. But I've kind of circumvented
that; the next thing to come out is a retrospective, a book
called The Artful Dodger. It'll come out this
time next year.
A sort of autobiography?
It shows all the art and books and things I've done since
I was 18 years old; not only is it full of about 500 images,
but it's full of anecdotes. Some people don't give a damn,
but a lot of people care about how you actually physically
do things, and that's the kind of stuff that never seems
to appear in art books.
What's your house like?
A bloody mess at the moment! They're gutting to put insulation
in. I moved about three or four weeks ago. On the island
[near Vancouver], we had quite a large house, an extraordinary
house, that we built. It was a cross between an Indonesian
temple, a Russian Orthodox church and an English cricket
pavilion, but somehow it worked. We sold it to another writer,
Wade Davis, and Wade owned a cottage in West Vancouver,
so in part trade, I ended up with this cottage.
When I was in Vancouver, I felt very much like I was
in the land of Philip K. Dick--the buildings are so sci-fi.
How is that for a surrounding?
I like it because it's one of the few cities that actually
breathes, with the mountains being reflected off the glass
and the reasonably wide streets. When I go to New York,
I feel like I'm in a pit. Here, I'm very much above the
ground. I grew up in Northeast London, I've been chased
by gangs of skinheads. I've known the dark side, and I don't
need any more of it.
Non, the curator in Purgatory, landed there because
of his hubris as a cosmetic surgeon. Why did you make that
Non's past?
Very easy. For me that was the best way of describing an
artist's arrogance.
Do you think cosmetic surgery is a despicable profession?
No, I don't. In fact, there are many cases where people
who are born with cleft palates or deformities, who suffer
appallingly at the hands of others, are--in the hands of
perfect surgeons--liberated. The one time I was faced with
the option myself I had some problems with my ear, and the
ear, nose and throat guy goes, 'Oh I noticed your nose has
been broken at some time, we can correct that if you like.'
And I said, piss off! No one's taking a hammer to my nose,
I like it! I don't care if it bends one way and not the
other--it's me.
Do you imagine what might be the best way to die?
Well, there was a wonderful poem written in the late '60s,
called Let Me Die a Young Man's Death, and it listed
all the ways the author would like to die, and the one I
liked best was the last one: 'At the age of 94, let me be
caught by my mistress in the arms of her daughter.' So I
think there are many wondrous ways to go. The truth is,
I'd rather avoid severe pain.
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Willamette Week | originally
published January 26,
2000
|
