Who hasn’t heard of Banksy, the unknown artist who has turned graffiti into a desirable art form? The simple, striking sketches of rebellion that sell for hundreds of thousands of pounds. Where a spray-can effortlessly and uniquely connects the fierce foes of socialism and capitalism, society and counter-culture, pitching religion against secularism, whilst also looking quirky. To be honest, until a chance stroll down a London street my opinion of this enigmatic virtuoso was the latter descriptor – an eccentric miscreant who in my former life as a cop I may have nicked if I had seen the actual act of spray-painting on some barren wall. Only recently I felt compelled to stand under a Banksy that had appeared overnight on the old prison wall in Reading, Berkshire, principally because it would make a cool social media post. Although I had studied how to interpret canvases, especially the old masters such as Rembrandt, Turner, and more latterly Vincent van Gogh, albeit briefly at undergraduate level, I was nonetheless a novice.
To be fair, the interpretation was demanding work and even when I saw real examples at the National Portrait Gallery, I often summarised the experience as baffling, especially as I wouldn’t choose to hang the majority, even in my garage. As for the dutchman, whilst wandering around the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, I was utterly confused. Hitherto I had always assumed that the pronunciation of the Dutch post-impressionist painter’s named rhymed with a subtle ‘go.’ I was wrong. The correct utterance was a guttural and most alarming ‘GOK!’ Furthermore, his artwork left me quite numb. The swirls and blobs of a five-year-old came to mind and I wasn’t in the least surprised that he had only sold a handful of his paintings while he was alive. But then, what did I know about art? Until, that is, art shouted at me so loudly that I was deafened by the din.
Walking down the steps of the Earlham Street warehouse, the site of ‘The Art of Banksy – the unauthorised private collection,’ I was looking forward to seeing the girl with the red balloon and felt somewhat cultured as I had forked out a few quid for the privilege. The darkened temporary gallery oozed defiance and I was immediately drawn to the pragmatic insurrection, with a whiff of the whimsical as typified by this quote:
The two works below immediately appealed to me given my criminal justice heritage, albeit the nuances were compelling. In my humble opinion, Dorothy having her bag searched spelt out how much the UK is lurching towards a right-wing oppressive policing model, typified by the progression of the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill that is on a collision course with one of our most historic rights and something that makes us brilliantly British – the right to protest. Curbing our spirit by any means should be the stuff of fiction.
The other image sums up how I often felt and occasionally acted towards the scumbags who, after consuming fifteen pints of lager, articulated from mouths containing only one or two teeth that they knew more about the law on public order than I did. I often recite my numerous police stories when I have had a drink or two, although I cannot vouch for their authenticity, such as this tale which only edifies Banksy’s canny view of the thin blue line…
Giving evidence at Crown Court was always arse clenching. The theatre and customs made it a pretty hostile environment, even if you were innocent. The defending barrister had seen the twitchiness of cops many times before and his chess playing was closing in on checkmate. “What exactly did you say to the defendant when you arrested him?” The nerves abated and the officer addressed the judge, “I informed him that he was under arrest for burglary your honour.” The barrister persisted. “The exact wording if you would please officer. Verbatim.” The officer paused and looked around the court. There were no friendly faces on show. The barrister followed up with the killer blow, “Remember officer, you are under oath.” The lawman cleared his throat and rather sheepishly looked at the judge and spurted out, “OK shit stick you’re whizzed!” As the defendant rose to give his evidence the judge momentarily looked up and before the smug barrister could quiz his client said, “And by the colloquial language used by the arresting officer did you clearly understand that you had been arrested for the burglary in question?” To which the rather dim defendant cheerfully replied, “Oh yes.” Thus proving a lawful detention and ultimately firing a torpedo through the defence.
I have always loved my time in America but there is a flip side – a cultural contradiction – which Banksy vividly exposes. I will leave these images with you to reflect upon.
Imagination, rebellion and my most incredible childhood are beautifully reflected in this simple rendition. I sincerely hope that this chimes with many more adults, and for those that don’t feel a pang of emotion Banksy has an appropriate motto on the right.
I am not religious, principally since I will never grasp why a deity would sanction the death of a child under any circumstances. I nonetheless have a spiritual side and a fascination with life, especially the things that puzzle, surprise, and overwhelm me. These following paintings expressly connect with human gullibility and the power of latent control, often conveyed in symbols, labels and catchy memes.
If you disagree Banksy asserts …
But can those of us outside of the reach of religion claim safe sanctuary?
The next three illustrations spoke directly to me. Since 2016 the UK has been in a divisive political tailspin. Our elected chamber, as portrayed here by Banksy, has failed –
resulting in me losing my freedoms across the rest of Europe. Yes, like the little girl, I have lost my most beautiful balloon.
As for the unmasking of Banksy – you must be joking! Having said that, using my powers of deduction, where is the best place to hide when your identity is shrouded in mystery? Why not in the open? Close to where your footprints cross explicitly into the public domain. How deliciously seditious is that? And what of the presumptuous narrative that Banksy is ‘he’? I don’t buy that for one moment. So, next time a Banksy appears look out for the expressionless, unassuming lady. My money is on her.
In the meantime, if all else fails remember this …
Up the revolution!
© Ian Kirke 2022 and all photographs