bradley headstone
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Posted: September 4th 2009
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I find myself immersed in the world of contemporary art, not an obvious choice for your average football fan, but I like to confound expectation and it’s not a million miles from the literary world that was my living. Trying to research a new subject as the football season is kicking in leads one down unexpected avenues and it wasn't long before I was discovering some surprising links between the two worlds.
You can make some compelling arguments for many artists to be the 'father' of modern art; generally the vote tends to be split between Edouard Manet and Paul Cezanne, yet the artist who defined the concept was Marcel Duchamp. The creator of the concept of the 'ready-made' was not the keenest student and a love of billiards and chess found new expression as a deep lying playmaker for his local football team. Had he been born in a footballing hotbed rather than the backwaters of northern France then maybe the Hungarian footballing revolution of the fifties would have come much earlier.
Duchamp’s flirtation with football didn’t last long, an unfortunate stubbed toe incident just at the very instant he was having a ‘eureka’ moment in a public urinal would end his fledgling career, though it launched his reputation in the art world. (all sounds a bit George Michael – Ed)
Having anchored my midfield I began to search more earnestly for footballing artists and particularly custodians of the net. Goalkeepers, I figured, would be hardest to find. What self-respecting artist wants to shackle himself to a rectangle? Obviously I checked out Mondrian first, but too obvious. In the end I came up with not one, but two surprising candidates (and no, neither of them are the great artist/keeper of our time, David James. His particular genius has yet to be recognised!)
Twinkle–eyed Salvador Dali was more than the clock melting slightly mad surrealist superstar we now recognise, he was also possibly the tallest artist of the twentieth century. His spidery six foot seven inch frame suggests a Crouch like figure, leading the attack. But no, encouraged by his friends, the future Barcelona players, Samitier and Sagibarba, he developed a unique and often unbeatable style. Dali would hang, Billy Casper (Kes) like from the crossbar, sketchbook and pencil at the ready. As approaching strikers readied to pull the trigger he’d implore them to hold the pose for a drawing. The infuriated forward would more often than not try to hit the wildly grinning Dali and invariably miss the target altogether.
He’d be my first choice but I’ve lined up a reserve keeper too! Indolent, enfant terrible of the YBA’s, Damian Hirst. Possibly the last great corporate artist, had and indeed has little or no interest in football. His only flirtation with the game was when he made up part of Football chant songsmiths, Fat Les, whose ‘Vindaloo’ very nearly became the sound of another ignominious England campaign.
Growing up in Leeds and keen to avoid the rigours of Rugby League, Hirst would deign to play football, but would only go in goal where he would languidly chain-smoke and stare quizzically at neighbouring fields where nervous looking cows would refuse to meet his gaze.
At the heart of the defence you would want English heart of oaks, while not quite John Terry, Stanley Spenser was a robust, no nonsense launcher of the ball. He’d possibly have made more of his football were it not for his obsession with his own penis. Spenser never missed an opportunity to paint it and would often take so long getting ready that his team would be two or three down before he’d torn himself away from any available mirror.
Equally at home in the men’s locker room would be his defensive partner, professional northerner David Hockney. Not a talented footballer but an enthusiastic tackler of lithe opposing forwards, what he’d lack in technique he’d make up with ‘nice’ moments and ‘lovely’ touches.
Any manager would try to ensure their back four communicated, so staying English I go for British art’s version of the Neville Brothers, Jake and Dinos Chapman. I know nothing of their football provenance, but a brief glimpse of their back catalogue suggests a pair of attacking (if not reckless) full backs who won’t be phased by anyone’s reputation.
Alongside Duchamp in midfield I’ve plumped for a bit of discipline. Some good Old Russian constructivism, the perfect compliment to the Frenchman’s freethinking. I suspect every 20th century Russian artist was a robust and athletic specimen. I’m thinking, Aleksander Rodchenko, who better to keep the shape and compensate for the wild ramblings of the loose cannons at full back. Photos suggest that he could look after himself; I like that in a midfielder.
Flanking the midfield you’d traditionally want to encourage a bit of left-field thinking, some anti-authoritarian crowd pleasing especially if the crowd can’t quite understand how he’s doing it. I’m going with Joseph Beuys, think Gordon Hill in a hat!
Beuys was always up for an argument and prepared to fight his corner to the last. I’d expect him to keep going for that dead ball line and to enjoy the thud of the limited full back’s wrath.
On the other side you’d want a bit of balance, not so much maverick as willing tryer. I’m going to break a few taboos here by naming American photographer Cindy Sherman. Sherman’s body of work is dominated by self-portraits that display a chameleon-like ability to change her appearance. In one set she bares a remarkable resemblance to the sycophantic hypochondriac winger Darren Anderton. More than enough justification for her inclusion I would say.
Any manager will tell you that the key to football is putting the ball in the net and while for certain teams, the correct response to a striking crisis is to purchase another midfielder, I’m more of a traditionalist. For me it’ll always be two up front, and where possible you want to combine a loose cannon with a legend.
My loose cannon is Edvard Munch. Much of Munch’s early life is unknown allowing me to summon to life an imaginative youth, defying the sodden old leather ball to wow fledgling football fans with his close control, deft touches and inability to find a final pass nor and decent finish. Indeed his most famous work, ‘The Scream’, was originally subtitled, ‘striker’s anguish at missing a sitter’.
His profligacy would not matter, for Pablo Picasso would lead the line, the De Stefano of the brush. I see him as Rooney-esque in his play. Red-blooded physicality mixed with flashes of brilliance. Most importantly none of the others would mess with him.
His uncanny reading of a game was based on the cubist philosophy of being able to see the whole picture. Having both eyes on one side of his face didn’t hurt either.
Picasso would be a goal machine, a safe bet in the striker’s lottery. Manchester City would probably buy him before I’d completed a season!
Like all the best managers I’d be obliged to keep the talisman sweet, already I can feel the seeds of discontent building. ‘He’s lost the dressing room’ they’d say, but what a dressing room to lose. By the time they’d finished if I couldn’t sell it to Sheikh Mansour I’d give Jay Jopling a ring.
Like any decent football tale, this one is embellished a little. Well all right, it’s a complete fabrication. Despite some considerable digging I could find little or no links between Football and Artists. They all appear to be driven men, single-mindedly careering towards death or glory (wouldn’t Rio Ferdinand’s concentration improve were he to dabble a little?)
Philosophers thought long and hard about football, Artists consider sex to be the best sporting activity.
Now there’s a dilemma!