COUM had been booked for six nights at the Howff Club, London, and we put a lot of work into getting a show together. Foxtrot was dressed as Martin Bormann in only an ankle-length Nazi leather coat, with a hat and sunglasses, singing ‘Bormann of the Jungle’. We did a rendition of the early COUM song ‘The Balloon Burst’ and a new song, ‘Now You Hear It, Now You Don’t’. As promised, COUM didn’t fail to disappoint and the next five nights were cancelled.
That experience of being more of a ‘band’ and repeating the same chaotic madcap COUM stuff left us feeling like we were going nowhere and, for me, contributed in part to the change in direction. What also affected that change was that, shortly after our move to London, Fizzy moved to York and Biggles to Leeds College of Art. That distance meant their presence and creative involvement was limited, leaving me and Gen at the helm to procure bookings, create opportunities and fund COUM, with the others turning up if available. Financing COUM was becoming a heavy burden, even with the grants we’d managed to get.
20 June 1974
It was just like any other drunken party. Carolee Schneemann did a ‘piece’. A two minute Happy Birthday song … COUM went home early, or when everyone was too drunk for mediocre art performances but just enough to dance to a lousy tape of shitty music … a projector got stolen …
The shift in direction to COUM being mainly me and Gen also coincided with my leaving full-time work and connecting with other artists at the Art Meeting Place – where the drunken party took place. AMP, as it was known, was set up by John Sharkey (along with others) in one of the buildings left vacant from the relocation of the Covent Garden fruit, veg and flower market. Other buildings had also been opportunistically acquired by activists for use as community centres and alternative arts spaces. AMP was a kind of Arts Lab that provided free facilities for artists across the spectrum – musicians, poets, film-makers – and was run by the artists themselves, with open meetings every week, exhibitions and performances. Me and Gen became regulars there, using their resources and trying out ideas in the available spaces – as did Anish Kapoor, Carolee Schneemann, John Latham, David Medalla, David Toop and Susan Hiller, amongst others.
Participating in the meetings was always interesting, watching people getting antsy with each other over art or politics, or art being a political act, feminism and Marxism. Some people had great ideas and ideals to uphold but there were time-wasters whose posturing made me angry and I got the sense that they didn’t fully appreciate what an amazing thing AMP was. Discovering and being with so many diverse and alternative-thinking artists, many of whom shared the same collaborative and collective approach, was refreshing to me and gave me a break from what was at times a rather incestuous feel to working as COUM. Playing the live soundtrack for someone else’s performance piece, being asked to contribute my (thwarted) part in David Medalla’s ‘Porcelain Wedding’ and just chipping in to help others with their projects was new and exciting.
Despite the ‘open to all’ ethos of AMP, there was still a feeling of ‘them and us’ and I was often irked by the sarcastic comments and air of superiority some of the artists had. Their elitism was useful, though: it was fuel for my fire, pushing me further than I might have gone had they been politely encouraging.
We took advantage of the ‘free’ space and performed naked as and when it felt right, which was actually quite often, as it was with ‘Gainsborough’s Blue Movie Boy’, which alluded to Gainsborough’s painting, my sex work and my previous ‘Blue Mover’ action – Gen as naked ‘blue’ movie boy. I poured thick pale-blue flour paste over Gen, covering him from head to toe, leaving him standing motionless, dripping like a melting statue.
AMP was where we first publicly used the name Throbbing Gristle, unaware of what that name would come to represent. ‘Throbbing Gristle’ was not just us being mischievous but was also a reference to and celebration of Les’s recent release from prison. Using the name acted as both an acknowledgement of his introducing us to the term and a representation of him ‘in absentia’ – effectively making the very first version of Throbbing Gristle me, Gen, Les, Tim and John Lacey.
‘Orange and Blue’ was becoming our flagship action and I liked doing it. I might not have been so enthusiastic had I known then that the Exploding Galaxy (and Transmedia Explorations) had for years prior to us performed a piece entitled ‘Orange and Blue’, which was based on a very similar idea … I wonder if David Medalla saw us do ‘Orange and Blue’ at AMP, and if so what he thought.
At least when we performed at AMP there was no threat of arrest, just tuts and people walking out – unlike when we did ‘Orange and Blue’ in Manzoni Gardens, Birmingham. We were naive to think stripping off in a public place with families around was no big thing – but it was. It began so well, very measured and calm, until we got to the changing-clothes part, revealing our naked flesh – at which point a very angry teenage girl came at us, shouting incoherently, throwing milk in Gen’s face, scattering our props and getting increasingly aggressive. We managed to contain it but not before someone had called the police. We were threatened with arrest and prosecution for ‘nudity in a public place’, had names and addresses taken and were told we’d be hearing from them. We never did.
15 July 1974
No job from Ragdoll, I don’t expect any at all this week. I was supposed to go to Ragdoll to see Avril today but I just couldn’t take it. I undercoated the pyramids ready for the gloss paint tomorrow. Gen went to ACGB to take the bulletin …
Each day was a juggling act, making COUM props, keeping on top of Arts Council applications, COUM booking enquiries, massive amounts of mail art and ringing round for modelling jobs. I was still with Ragdoll model agency but only sporadic work was coming in, and travelling to their West End office to check in, then being sent across London to auditions in Barking, West Hampstead, Teddington or wherever consumed so much energy, money and time. With other COUM commitments it was difficult, especially when any modelling jobs that did come my way seemed to cluster within the same week as COUM bookings.
I’d expanded my ‘repertoire’ to lesbian and group-sex photo shoots but wanted to make sure I was covering the different genres of sex magazines, from high-end glossy to the lower end of the market. Agencies had their client bases and Ragdoll was sending me to the same people all the time and just wasn’t getting me enough work to cover the areas I needed for the project, so I joined the Jan Lawland agency as well – who weren’t much better.
At least, unlike other COUM works, my modelling project was largely self-financing through the fees I got paid, which also helped no end in subsidising COUM and with the day-to-day living expenses and paying for mundane necessities like the fitting of a gas fire and cooker in Beck Road. It wasn’t just the fees that cast us a lifeline; the contacts I’d made also came in useful. We rented out our Victorian dentist’s chair as a prop for Pussycat magazine to pay for the van insurance, and one of the guys I’d worked with on a shoot was in the rag trade so I called him and asked him for some home sewing work. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. ‘Come round to the factory and you can do a trial bunch of garments for me. I’ll show you the ropes.’
When I turned up, he sat me at the industrial sewing machine then gave me a dozen men’s boxer shorts in an incredible assortment of the most lurid patterned fabrics I’ve ever seen (or would want to see) worn as boxer shorts. I reckoned it was all leftover material from other ladies’ blouse and dress jobs: both tiny and huge brightly coloured flowers on equally brightly coloured backgrounds. Crazy pants sewn by Cosey. I didn’t expect I’d be sewing bloody boxer shorts to pay gas and electric, but at least I was resourceful. The room I’d hoped Les would live in was now my sewing room. Les never moved in. I’d gone to Hull when he was released and stayed with him for a week, talking till three in the morning, just loving being together again and so relieved he was free. All too soon I was back in London, taking Les with me. I showed him round, we jammed in the studio, ate in the local Forlini’s Cafe, and he transfixed us for h
ours recounting tales of his time in prison with his inimitable sense of humour.
12 September 1974
We didn’t realise the journey was going to take us 24 hours … I realise now, looking up and finding it difficult to focus, just how tired I am. The German passport man asked us to open our bags on the train and if we had any hash or hemp …
I felt regrounded after Les’s visit. He’d returned to Hull and I was off to Germany. COUM were taking part in Stadtfest, Rottweil’s city festival. Over a hundred artists, including Robin Klassnik, Robin Crozier, Pauline Smith and Bridget Riley, had been invited to design and supply a flag to be hung throughout the city. I’d sourced the plastic from a tarpaulin supplier and took the bus across London early one morning – with a frustrating detour as I realised I’d got the wrong bus and was going in the opposite direction. I lugged the plastic all the way back to the studio and then me and Gen cut out the three pieces that made up the design. The flag was red with the COUM sunburst symbol in fluorescent orange within a large white egg shape. I tried in vain to sew them together and asked Bruce if he had any ideas that would help us out. He came to the rescue with some special plastic glue, which I tested on a few scraps and left overnight in case any nasty melty reaction happened. The flag was completed over the next week and shipped out to Germany ahead of our arrival. We took the ferry from Harwich to Holland then travelled by train to Stuttgart, arriving at 4 a.m. and then boarding the 6 a.m. train to Rottweil, finally reaching our destination at 8.30 p.m. The journey was quite an experience.
We performed on the streets of Rottweil each of the next two days. Getting such a positive response to our actions from Bridget, Ernst Jandl and Erich Hauser seemed to validate our artistic status and reputation, which helped us considerably in our pursuit of arts funding to support our work. Also, being in the mix with people so well connected with the tangled web that was the London art scene was an unforeseen advantage and led to invitations to participate in the 9th Paris Biennale and later to represent Britain in Milan for the ‘Arte Inglese Oggi 1960–76’ exhibition. Our unconventional actions were straddling both the fringe and fine art.
31 October 1974
Finally got to Bridget Riley’s at about 11 o’clock. Still she got both of us a glass of scotch and brought Robert over. She said she’d have us to dinner soon.
Me and Gen arrived late to Bridget’s party, having come straight from dropping off our gear after doing ‘Birth of Liquid Desires’ at Goldsmiths. We walked up the steps to the front door of her large Georgian terraced house. We knew we’d got the right address when we saw a very shiny brass plate stating simply riley. Such perfection and class.
The party was in full swing when we got there. Bridget came straight over and gave us a glass of Scotch each and introduced us to her other guests. Some were by now pretty sloshed and I wove my way through everyone, avoiding the slurry-speeched, droopy-eyed ones as best I could, just looking around me in awe at the art on the walls and then ecstatic when Bridget showed us some of her works in progress. Small-scale sketches of future Rileys, showing a variety of colour sequences and shapes awaiting precision application to their final large format. I loved these as much as the finished works. At the unrealised stage, drawn by Bridget, they held her charge, infused with a potency that screamed out the wonder and magic of the creative process.
The cumulative effect of our diverse activities, collaborations, friends and contacts in the art, literary, theatre and sex-magazine worlds made 1974 and 1975 the years that everything started to come together as the processes of progressive transmutations began. Feeding off creative and personal experiences, aspects of the turbulent melting pot of what was my life informed and affected my perspective on life and my art. The coalescing of life and art at such intensity allowed the flow of new works and projects to seemingly form quite effortlessly. I was receptive to new challenges, whether instigated by myself or by unexpected events. I wanted to take things further, step outside my comfort zone, even if the mere thought of prospective ideas made me want to run for the hills. Breaking through barriers in my pursuit of self-discovery was a heavy burden at times – more so when Gen tried to push me. I didn’t need to be pushed: it wasn’t about someone else’s idea of what I should or shouldn’t be or do. I wasn’t doing it solely for art, or for feminist ideals, or for Gen. I didn’t think of my work as acts of transgression. They were a means to an end and gave me an overwhelming sense of freedom, self-achievement, confidence, strength and belief in myself.
5 January 1975
What a day! Gen had a terrible flare up. He smashed one of the dinner plates and then grabbed one of his drawings from the wall. When I tried to take it from him, he smashed it over his knee. I held him and we were both shouting. Me saying ‘That’s it, that’s enough’ and him saying ‘No it isn’t’. I started it by going on about him not turning off the kettle when it boiled …
Domestic life continued to have its regular ups and downs and I carried on shouldering the responsibility for Gen’s tantrums. It was easier than having things escalate by making him face how unacceptable his behaviour was. Either way, leaving a kettle to boil dry is never a good thing and calming things down was, seeing as it was the night before we were due to model for Hipgnosis, a company Sleazy worked for that designed album covers for musicians like Pink Floyd, Peter Gabriel and Paul McCartney.
We’d been asked to model for the new UFO Force It album cover they were doing. Sleazy was late, a trait that we became very familiar with, eventually building in an allowance by telling him to arrive an hour before anyone else. That ensured he’d arrive more or less on time. We all took a taxi to Aubrey Powell (aka Po)’s house to wait while the set was prepared in the bathroom of a house in Fulham. The shoot didn’t start until after 5 p.m., and the house was being renovated so there was no heating. Posing half-naked in a shower meant we were turning blotchy and we shivered with cold between dowsings of warm water for a faux shower effect. Sleazy loved every minute of it in his role of photographer’s assistant, and I was used to modelling. But Gen wasn’t familiar with being in that situation and took a while to relax and take directions. It dragged on longer than necessary, then at the end, and to everyone’s amusement but mine and Gen’s, we got showered with cold water. At least the £30 fee paid the phone bill.
Through David Mayor and his work in publishing we got to know a literary crowd, including the poet Allen Fisher, who visited us often and knew the editor of Art and Artists magazine, Colin Naylor – or Collette, as we called him. He became a great friend and we got into a routine of going to eat his fabulous tasty spaghetti at his flat in Clapham any Saturday we were free. ‘Spaghetti Junction’ visits led to us meeting other artists, art critics and Studio International guest editor and art historian Barbara Reise, who we also started regular meal meet-ups with. Barbara was full-on; she could be ultra-nice, bloody-minded and argumentative, and was often depressed, but I was quite fond of her. She’d sometimes join us at Collette’s spaghetti evenings and conversations would get feisty. Collette was commissioned to do a book on contemporary artists for St James Press and asked Gen if he wanted a job helping to compile and edit all the information. It was a mammoth task that took more than a year and included 1,350 artists. Gen had never had a job and the reality of working each day at set times was a huge step for him. He decided to take it on. It was a prestigious project and paid well, giving him a regular income. But he wasn’t happy about it. The first thing he typed on the office typewriter on his first day was a letter to me intimating that working was akin to death: ‘In celebration of death this is my first daze work and it is 3rd February 1975 …’
Our routine changed. I’d wake him each morning and make him breakfast before starting my day. Him working nine till five doubled my workload, as he wasn’t around to do anything. In addition to the everyday chores and sewing damn boxer shorts, I took on more of the grant and bookings correspondence and travel arrangements, phone calls and meetings, repairing and m
aintaining Doris, as well as organising any modelling jobs that came through. I was constantly knackered and ill but more worried about Gen getting tired and overdoing things, as he’d go to the studio in the evenings to catch up on stuff. As the letter-writing to artists for the book increased, I was called on to relieve some of the strain. I squeezed it in between everything else. I’d thought St James would do Gen good but Collette’s constant cigarette-smoking in the small office space was bad for Gen’s asthma, but more than that Gen resented the job taking time away from his own work. When the book was published in 1977, Gen had an entry under his own name, with a half-page photograph of me and him doing our 1976 COUM action in Milan. Neither COUM nor myself were listed in the book.
The ‘Orange and Blue’ had expanded to include a large dual-coloured floor made from sheets of chipboard I’d bought and painted. It also became an audiovisual piece, with our actions amplified through contact mics, creating its own soundtrack. It was the most complete the work had been – and the last time we performed it. It was put into storage and the floorboards eventually used to repair the studio floor when more of it collapsed.
Gen’s job also meant I started to do COUM actions without him. Me and Fizzy went to Gross-Gerau in Germany and had a great time staying in a converted water tower with a lovely family and being treated so well. We did three days of actions in the street, the first being stopped by the police and the remaining ones moved from the main thoroughfare to a small square – and away from any children (by police order). There was too much blood and chains involved. The TV filmed our action and interviewed me, and on the final day of the festival all those involved had a last-night party. Me and Fizzy got through a bottle of Polish vodka supplied by Mishoo, a Polish artist and a bit of a Casanova.
The action in Gross-Gerau prompted a recommendation and secured COUM’s participation in Kieline Spieline in Kiel, Germany, where me and Gen once again met up with Mishoo and his partner, Ewa (Zajac). This time Mishoo succeeded in seducing me when Ewa told him to escort me to my hotel room after I’d thrown up and nearly fainted from sunstroke during our action. Hardly romantic. I didn’t know Ewa was his wife. (They were the parents of the little girl, Kama, who would later appear on TG’s D.o.A. album cover.) Gen was furious with me for having sex with Mishoo. A guy gave us a print of a photo of us performing the previous day and Gen said I couldn’t have it, I didn’t deserve it – what I’d done was to him the end of an era between us.
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