Held 21st September 2011 to mark the first anniversary of the death of Richard Martin, artpop.
Although I’m a writer by profession, finding the words to describe Richard Martin (14/2/54 – 21/9/10) and the impact of his death on all his friends, is still so hard.
When the first anniversary of his death came round last week, I struggled to find expression and it came out in the form of organising a tribute event for him exactly a year to the day he died. It turned out to be a very sombre almost funereal occasion held late afternoon on the banks of the river at Millbank.
Over 20 of Richard’s stalwart friends (aka artpops) turned up. It was changeable weather but by and large mild and sunny interspersed by little shadows of clouds, possibly mirroring his own life.
I wrote and read aloud a eulogy and a poem I had written soon after his death. This was followed by several more eulogies, from Keith Gilleran, Ellen, and John Churchill among others. Joe, one of Richard’s closest friends, delivered a poignant reading of Philip Larkin’s Aubade. It seemed to me the words floated out above our heads, over the river and into the skies above. A few people were moved to tears as more and more of us volunteered our own personal recollections of Richard’s extraordinary generosity – and his wonderful warmth and spontaneity, not to mention his intellectual prowess.
One artpop who brought her little boy in a pushchair, described how devastated she was when she learnt of his death. At the time she had given birth to her little boy Hugo, whom Richard described as a ‘future artpop’. Sadly he never met the little artpop as there was no time before he died.
Joe recounted the story of how he got to know Richard at John Calder’s Bookshop and how it took time to become acquainted with Richard’s tastes in art and literature. He explained how Richard’s artpop list came into being and how the artpop group emerged like a butterfly onto the private view art scene.
Finally, when everyone who wanted to say their bit had done so, we held a minute's silence. Then we all walked onto Vauxhall Bridge at 5pm and tossed a rose each into the river as a gesture to this unassuming figure who had influenced each of our lives.
(I brought 20 roses to the memorial and all but one were taken by the artpops to throw in the river. Finally – one tired looking last rose remained unclaimed. This rose was thrown by the mother of the youngest and ‘future artpop’ – Hugo, barely a year old, on behalf of her son who watched it slip from his mother’s grasp through the railings and sail away on the opaque waters below.)
STRANGER ON A TRAIN (Sally Gethin, 2010)
On and on my journey rolled
Well into the night
Jostling all my hopes inside
Speeding to the light
The tracks then buckled
Threw me back
But never did it crash
Every fearful unseen threat
Gone in just a flash
Hurtling hard from side to side
The train then eased and slowed
A stranger stepped onto my train
And made his presence known
He talked to me of treasures vast
Of things that he had seen
This unassuming traveller
Had stepped into my dream.
And as the journey gathered pace
And threatened to wreak havoc
He never left me on my own
Inside the battered carriage
And as we journeyed on in haste
He pointed out the views
Of artists, poets, those heroic
A panoply of scenes
And soon my life was filled with fun
An abundance of the riches
He saw the plenitude and
shared its joyful secrets
I changed from grey to vibrant hue
My pallor now infused
With all the colour all around
That kept him so enthused
But sadly as I turned my gaze
He stepped off all too soon
And yet his final words were strong
For me to carry on alone
And now he’s gone, the carriage bare
The journey’s not the same
I gaze out of the windows
but the views are all in vain
But on my train goes anyway
It chugs on in the dusk
I wish I could go back again
But onward bound I must
There’s times in life when we all need
A stranger on a train
The one with whom you share your soul
Then vanishes, unseen.
