Brian Catling obituary | Performance art | The Guardian
The Guardian have done Brian proud and there are other obits on line. Still too saddened by this and other deaths to hunt out my photos -
-but this one gives a good idea.
In my day, mid '60's, art education consisted of a pre-dip (pre-diploma) course, followed by a Dip AD (diploma in art and design.) In latter days these were converted to degree status. Something to do with Thatcher and quantifying artists - that went well, didn't it, though that's a discussion for another time.
I'd done my pre-dip at Farnham art school (now called something more saleable) and subsequently trotted off to Walthamstow. The carrot was their reputation for creativity, the possibility of science collaborations with the nearby engineering department, their success rate in getting young artists into the Royal College of Art. The big plus is that they accepted me.
One of my friends at Farnham was Brians then girlfriend and, alerted, he spotted me on day one; terrifying me. He knew my name and he looked like staff. He wore a three-piece pin-striped suit with a watch chain across his belly. I didn't know that on the end of the watch chain was a scab. I found out.
Brian was in the year above me and his studio was available for visiting, for hiding in. He continued to terrorise. He delighted in watching me standing on a chair shrieking as his motorised penis followed me around - it was a semi-sphere of polished steel covering wheels (I guess) and controls, with retractable tubing holding a cast resin penis tip. It crept about with the head pumping in and out. May not sound like much today but it was pretty scary then - and most beautifully made.
His work referenced hospitals and there were machine-type things in the studio, with silicone tubing wheezing away.
Working in the print department on the top floor, I used the (staff-only) lift to carry hot chocolate for my colleagues up on an etching plate. The lift jerked to a halt and all the hot chocolate tipped onto my jumper. When I pulled it off me the skin came off with it. The doors opened and there was Brian. He had a strong stutter. He said; DD DD ont move, I'III get mmm my cam cam camera.
He went onto the Royal. I met his prof., Bernard Meadows, at a party and really for want of anything to say said that I thought he was teaching a friend... CRIPPEN!!! SHE KNOWS CRIPPEN!! he shouted. He was delighted and enchanted with him.
Turns out that Brian had invited the staff to dinner and had made the knives and forks... yup, casts of penises. Cries of shock as especially the wives picked up the implements.
He wrote and drew and printed little books of his work - and I never kept any, dammit - but rather gave up when the police arrived, asking questions. It seems that one of the nastier murderers of that time lived in a tent on the moors and one of Brians book/pamphlets had been found in it. Alas.
He was the stuff of myth throughout his life. Whenever I got to a performance he was clustered about with students and fans. Kudos to me for knowing young Brian; he was a hero to many. And to me, of course. Though I got into trouble at a big show in Bristol (The Arnolfini) when I put my cigarette out in a bowl on the floor - which turned out to be salt, and a votive offering. Woops.
He destroyed his work as soon as it was done with, never keeping any props, but his books are available and as deeply sinister as one might imagine. Recommended, of course.
Commiserations to all, the wives, children and friends. Can't imagine ever meeting anyone remotely like him again. Bon voyage, Brian.
P.S. Walthamstow was closed down on the grounds that the students were left too much to their own devices. Not enough rigour. Heheheheh.
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