Banksy blunder - The benefit of hindsight

Banksy elephantIt’s not quite as bad as being the man who failed to sign the Beatles but sometimes, as I crawl to work through Bristol traffic on a dismal Monday morning, it feels that way.

In the late 90s, I began to notice funny and subversive graffiti emerging around the city.  A rat here, a clown there, a thought-provoking stencilled slogan amid a scrabble of tags.

One particularly striking image appeared overnight on the side of a pub next to our old office on Hotwells Road opposite the SS Great Britain.  It was of a screaming clown with Kiss-style eye make-up, toting two pistols.  For some unaccountable reason it cheered me up every time I saw it.

While talking one day with a pal who owned a skateboard store off Park Street, I learned that the artist responsible was known as Banksy.  I filed the information away and continued to enjoy his work as it cropped up throughout Bristol, experiencing a kind of old school ‘I Spy’ thrill every time I found one.

Fast forward to 2000, and the announcement that Banksy was making the move towards the more traditional medium of canvas, and marking this with an exhibition at the Severnshed restaurant. I went along.  Although many of the paintings bore red ‘sold’ stickers (prices were in the high hundreds, rather than today’s astronomical figures) the event itself, it seemed to me, was sparsely attended.

I met and chatted with Banksy’s then manager Robert Birse, in the course of which I was invited to visit the man’s studio, which I jumped at.

If memory serves, the near-derelict space was tucked away in Bedminster.  I’d persuaded my news editor that there was something very interesting going on here, although the Banksy phenomenon was still a long way off.

During the course of the visit, I enthused as was shown various canvasses, including one particularly strong image – an elephant with a missile strapped to its back, against a vivid pink background.

“The frame on that one is slightly off,” said Robert.  “If you hold it up you’ll see it’s a bit skew-iff.”

It was.  It meant it wouldn’t hang completely flat.  “Still amazing though,” I replied.

Robert thought for a moment and then said:  “Well, you could have that one for a reduced rate, if you like.”

“So … how much?”

“Say £300?”

Now, at the time I was a pretty hard-up reporter with three children to support and another on the way.  Three hundred quid bought a lot of nappies and Wet Wipes. But still …

“Yes,” I said.  “But is it OK if I give you a cheque for £100 now and pay the rest over the next couple of months?”

He agreed, and I loaded the piece into the back of my battered Peugeot 205.

Back at the office, I phoned my wife and – having spent the journey back planning the best way of pitching the purchase (investment/it’s beautiful/it’ll cover that dodgy bit of plastering in the front room) – recounted the tale.

An ominous silence.  A reaaaalllllllly long, ominous silence.  Then:  “You know we can’t afford it, so I don’t even know why you’d consider this.  It’ll have to go back.  And you need to get the bloke to tear up the cheque before he banks it.”

The channel for negotiation had clanged shut.  I muttered something about a loan, or perhaps borrowing some money from a parent or a mate, but we were already overdrawn to the hilt, and this was met with a dangerous snort.

So back it went.

I’ve tried to “take a positive” from this over the years, but I can’t. I experience a pang – actually it’s more of a stab – every time I read about a Banksy selling at auction, or something like the wonderful Dismaland opening its rusty doors to the public.

If there’s anything I learned from my own very personal Banksygate it’s this.  If you love a piece of art for what you believe it to be – something you love – then buy it, if you reasonably can.  Absurd as it sounds now, I genuinely didn’t have the spending power at the time, but I guess I could have rustled up the cash somehow.

The other thing I take comfort and joy from is that I can still see and enjoy Banksys every day, in the streets here in Bristol.  He even painted a commemorative flower over the trigger-happy clown on Hotwells Road, which always raises a smile.  I see them every day, and they’re free.