The Reason

The reason. I never know whether the reason is as important as the act – I also know that on telling people the reason they either understand or dismiss it as catharsis not art. Not that the two are mutually exclusive. I always tell them a painter paints someone they’ve loved and lost. A songwriter writes a song about someone they’ve loved and lost. And what about Calendar Girls and sponsored walks. Are people who run a marathon for someone they’ve loved and lost insane. As an artist you can use whatever means you can to celebrate and commemorate someone you’ve loved and lost. I loved my brother. And on 17th May 1998 he fell down some stairs in Liverpool and broke his neck. He was 20. There were 13 steps. I travelled to Liverpool with my parents to pack a car with his things. When we got back to Nottingham I unpacked the car and set everything up in his room as he would have done. As if he – not his things – had come home. Over the years the room has evolved but his things and the memories remain, scattered around the house. One morning in 2004 I woke up to realise I wasn’t angry any more. I didn’t understand. I never will. Death like life is an accident waiting to happen. I realised I wanted to turn it into a happy accident. To turn horror into colour. To drive to survive. To laugh at the sadness.

It started with a letter. On 17 May 2004 I was going to post a letter into the river Mersey, My brother went on a ferry across the Mersey and dropped a camera into the river, He told me so in a letter, A letter that would arrive the day after he died. Such is Royal Mail. The letter I wrote became a parcel as I started to realise I wanted to send him things as well as words. The parcel became a suitcase, The suitcase became a trunk. The trunk became a car. There are too many things, His things that I unpacked when he died. Things he gave to me that I only keep to make me sad, Birthday presents. Christmas presents. Then things that represent stories I hadn’t been able to tell him. Birthday presents. Christmas presents. That I hadn’t been able to give him. Everything until now.

The River Trent. When he lived we went to see Nottingham Forest together. When they were good. We went to Trent Bridge to watch the cricket. These were happy times. So happy that his ashes were scattered there. On the cricket pitch. I see him when I go there. I see him when the cricket is on television. And when I sit – watching cricket – I feel the closest to him I can be. There is no grave, There is only grass. And I feel happy. Trent Bridge is also a place from which I have considered throwing myself when I miss him and everything he meant. The water. Represents the flow. The current of information and emotion I still feel. The pilgrimage I’m still making. The cleansing. The purification that perhaps this catharsis is. The calming, The remembrance that if anything life goes on.

The proposal. I propose to park the car on the edge of a jetty beneath Lady Bay Bridge. The boot is open. The items arranged in a Long and Winding Road from the boot etc. And maybe – if we can – drive the car into this river – to anoint the car and begin again.