Plinth Poem

Here is my poem which I read out on the plinth as part of Antony Gormley's One and Other art work in trafalgar square (11/7/9, 6-7am was my slot)

You can see me perform it here: http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/Max though the video seems to freeze at about 45 minutes for some reason. Pah!

Thanks to everyone who got up at some ungodly hour and turned up to see me...you're all amazing, wonderful people!

Plinth Poem

There once was an artist called Anthony Gormerly
A world famous sculptor whose works had all formerly
Taken the form of figurative sculptures
And won him great plaudits from the critics of culture.
He's done huge bronze cast figures suspended from strings
And negative images in toast and such things.

He's asked children in lessons to make figures from clay
And arranged the small people of brown and grey
And placed them all, a hundred or more
Upon the gleaming gallery floor
From where these fields stare upwards unblinking
An army of clay both small, yet unshrinking,
Meeting your gaze and holding it fast
Like terracotta armies evolved from the past.

He's done a huge angel with wings spread out wide
Which from miles around can clearly be spied
A gargantuan figure that stands tall and hard
In the lands of the north over which it keeps guard.
And in Winchester cathedral Gormley has slipped
Another small statue below in the crypt
This contemplative figure is called Sound number two
And it seems to reflect thoughts both clear and true.
When the crypt's flooded the scene is perfected
With the man's contemplation clearly reflected.
In the water beneath him, like glass at his feet
Reflection reflected both pure and complete.

He's also done sculptures much nearer to home
Like his piece Quantum Cloud, right by the dome
(Or O2 Arena as it is now known)
In which broken images are somehow shown
In negative spaces which through his endeavour
Show figures and faces all blended together.

But the project for which our own Mr Gormley
Attained much acclaim and was received the most warmly
By the public as well as the world of high culture
Was "Event Horizon" - a collection of sculptures
Arranged across rooftops both sides of the river
Spread out in the distance almost forever.
Or certainly as far as your eyes
Could see from the street looking up at the sky.

The project uses artistic invention
To stage a remarkable intervention
Into the environment built all around us
That aimed not only to fully astound us
But also intended to make us all question
Our life in the city, our place, our direction
And help to connect the down low to the high
With silhouettes placed up in the blue sky.

This project that offered these questions to ponder
Took place at the South Bank just over yonder.
And could be viewed crystal clearly from here to right there
Which brings us quite nicely back to the square
And the work that A. Gormley is doing here
For the next full 3 months of this year.

One and Other, for that's what it's named,
Is Gormley's new piece and has been explained
By using a randomly chosen selection
As an exploration into the connection
Between what we are like, and how we appear,
What we find funny, or thrilling, or fear.
To find out a little bit 'bout this fine nation
Through the means of self-representation.

I'm sorry if that rhyme seemed somewhat frayed
And if these ideas confuse you be not dismayed,
I'll try to rephrase it another way
What Gormley is trying, i reckon, to say
Is that by raising the public up high
Through all types of weather, the wet and the dry
Continually for a hundred odd days
That we'll paint a clear picture, colour the greys
About just what it means to be from the UK
Our beliefs, our cultures, our different ways
From the sensible through to the truly bizarre
We'll discover both how and just who we are
A project about one great monument in time
To explore the unique and reveal the sublime
Well, that's the plan at least anyway
And that's what Antony Gormely says
But it's also a cracking excuse to see
People performing as high as a tree
(By high I mean up vertically
not influenced pharmaceutically)

So the stage has been set and the plinth is the stage
And menfolk and women of every age
Are stepping up to do their long hour
In this public venue, on this small square tower.

But what of the plinth? Just why is it empty?
Thinking about it there must just be plenty
of other statues that could stand up there
Churchill, Frank Bruno or the late Fred Astaire
Or how about Shakespeare, or Lord Conan Doyle
David Beckham, or Dickens, or Miss Susan Boyle?
Or even a statue of young Stephen Fry?
There's plenty of Britons you could raise up high.
It really shouldn't be too hard a task
just depends on the opinions of the people you ask
As to who they think would be best to put there
Next to Lord Nelson, north-west of the square.

But the history of the plinth is an interesting thing
For decades they've argued about who to bring
Up on this platform for the public to see
But still it seems that no-one can agree.

In 1841 the plinth was erected
As designer Charles Barry had clearly directed.
An equestrian statue it was meant to show
(That’s a figure on horseback in case you don't know.)
They had lots of funds, but it isn't funny
For when you run out of funds then you run out of money!
And with no money left they just had to stop it
And leave the plinth empty with nothing atop it.

For many a year, it seemed the plinth's fate
Was to remain empty, stay in this state
But then something happened back in '98
That changed this strange story and ended the wait.
The RSA launched a new competition
Which would result in the final commission
of various pieces of sculptural work
(Some since have driven the public berserk!)
But now at least the plinth has a purpose
And provides the public with a valuable service
By displaying exciting contemporary art
Which from the other plinths sets it apart.

So now it's Antony Gormely's turn
To present us with ideas and lessons to learn
Two thousand four hundred hours of fun
And this is my story about only one
Of the plinthers who is taking part
Just a tiny fraction of this work of art
So gather round closer if you want to hear it
It's a plinth, it won't eat you, there's no need to fear it!

But hang on a minute, just checking the time,
It seems I've a while left to finish my rhyme
So instead I beseech you please give your permission
For me to set up a brief intermission
In which I will give you a vocal rendition
Of a poem which I have previously written.

It moves from the subject of the plinth and the square
But it's still about art, set in the Tate over there.
So the subject remains significantly arty.
The poem's about a gigantic party
Set in that gallery upon Christmas Eve
With rejoicing revellers you wouldn't believe
Now the scansion is different, and so is the rhyme scheme
But I do hope you all will enjoy the theme
And I hope you don't mind, or think it unreasonable
As it probably is somewhat unseasonal.
So if you don't mind, and have some more time
Please settle down and I’ll start the rhyme.

[Ahem]


'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Tate,
The art was left hanging from the small to the great.
The guards and the guests had all left for the day
Said goodnight to Monet and gone on their way.

The galleries were stillness, a clock struck 12 chimes,
When a voice in the darkness said: "It's party time!"
And if you had been there, what a sight you'd behold -
All the artwork was stirring, the new and the old.

Up came the lights and some music then started.
Amazing the sight, not for the faint hearted,
Of a manless guitar both shiny and clean,
Made out of the parts of a washing machine.

The guitar worked a solo around Jingle Bells
And other strange instruments joined in as well,
Cubist constructions were dead set on their goal
Of creating new genres they called Braque and Roll!

A fiddler by Chagall then joined in the throng
And a chorus of portraits all broke into song -
Covering carols and pop songs in fine throaty voice
The night before Christmas was a popular choice.

They sang Wizzard, of blizzards, sleigh bells and Slade,
And though some of the sculptures became quite dismayed
When Freud's Francis Bacon started his rapping,
By the time he had finished, they couldn't help clapping.

Hearing the music coming in from the hall,
The Snail by Matisse unpeeled from the wall.
When he set off a-searching, the party to find,
He left a bright trail of confetti behind.

Three figures by Bacon then hopped on his shell,
Each seeking a ride to the party as well.
They whooped and they cheered though their progress was slow
And threw rainbow streamers at those down below.

Next came 3 dancers by Picasso's own hand
Jiving and grooving along with the band,
And if you had seen those 3 boogying there
You'd never believe that all cubists are square.

And over the scene of this rocking and ravin'
Were collections of lights made by Daniel Flavin,
Brilliantly blinking in time with the beat,
With Carl Andre's Forge dancing under their feet.

You may find this dance floor somewhat surreal,
Though Surrealists were elsewhere ordering a meal.
But phoning for pizza is often quite tricky
With a lobster receiver - pink and all prickly!

Round a dim lit corner, further from the dancing
Figures sat by candles eagerly romancing.
Under Christmas mistletoe it was hard to miss
The slow and tender smooching of Rodin's "The Kiss."

Further from the music and the cheery banter
Some of the pieces were writing lists for Santa.
Each asked for different presents shiny and brand new,
But all Yves Klein dreams of is a Christmas blue!

Down the same hallway were Marylyn Monroes,
Hanging up their stockings and striking a pose.
They left cookies and milk out down by the lifts
Singing "Oh Santa baby, please bring me a gift!"

Slowly and steadily, under the dim light,
The whole Seagram series then sparked into life.
A sight so peculiar, to imagine it's hard,
Those abstract expressions were playing charades!

Meanwhile a girl, dressed in a cloak and a bonnet,
Found herself a chair and sat down upon it.
Constable's girl giggled, as she watched with glee
The statue led procession of the Christmas tree.

And, Oh! What a tree! Twelve metres high or more
Was put up by artworks right by the front door.
As soon as it was up and the swaying stopped,
Gormley's big bronze angel flew up to the top.

Then far, far below, with that cold marble floor
Joyful lines of Summertime found a place once more.
Pollock's threads unravelled, so happy to be free
And twined themselves like tinsel around the Christmas tree.

Up on the branches warm light began to glow
While Degas' young dancer span around below,
And the massive bronze angel looked down from above
Upon the festive scene of laughter and of love.

Giacometti's figure stood pointing the way
To a massive table where the food all lay.
Roast turkey and stuffing, spuds, gravy and greens -
A banquet of quality, full fit for a queen.

Which was quite lucky for behind all those things
There was in fact sitting a queen with her king [Henry Moore]
At the head of the table where on plates they piled
Hot food for Dame Hepworth's Mother and Child.

All the -isms and the -ists most animated
Together found common ground, and celebrated.
Pop artworks pulled crackers, Dadaists ate jam,
The whole Christmas party went off with a "Whaaam!"

Forward looking Futurists can't wait for New Year -
They were toasting technology with glasses of beer.
And the loudest of all them found in that place
Was a large walking bronze - a unique form in space.

The great figure of Newton as painted by Blake
Was using his compass to divvy up cake.
He cut equal slices and then they were plated
For all who towards him had gravitated.

Landscapes by Turner of hillsides and mountains
Ate figgy pudding with Duchamp's white Fountain.
Styles from different places, found both far and wide,
All broke bread together and sat each side by side.

It's the same every Christmas, all that is arty
Gathers together to throw a massive party.
When each of the artworks has the time of their lives
From Tates Liverpool, Britain, Modern and St Ives.

I wish we'd time to stay with all of our new friends,
But I'm afraid our rhyme is now reaching the end.
So from the Tate collection, at every different site:
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!

So that marks the end of my Christmas tale
And if you are thinking that it makes a frail
Connection to the art you are seeing
Then I must say that I would be agreeing
With your opinion, but wait just a minute!
There's a little bit more of a connection within it.

It is after all, all about art
coming to life and playing a part
And surely, perhaps, what all of that means
Has plenty in common with these very scenes!
Bringing to life, and making ecstatic
Traditional statues both still and too static.

Anyway, that's the end of the break I had planned
It's time to get back to matters at hand.
I promised you all a particular tale
Of a certain plinther who happened to scale
This platform one morning and take on his part
Upon this small stage right here in this art.
A plinther supremo both brave and true
Who stood on this spot all caked in poo.
(It was the plinth that had poo on it, not our brave gent
I'm sorry if it wasn't clear what I meant).
So gather round closely and prick up your ears
For this is a story that might move you to tears.
Tears of joy hopefully, or maybe of laughter
Not tears of boredom, but we'll find out soon after
I've read you the poem, though I must confess
How you'll react is anyone's guess!

But please do stick with it, it starts kind of slow,
Right, throat cleared, deep breath, ok here we go...

[Ahem]

It was six in the morning, 11th July
The sun was up rising in blue sapphire sky
Casting shadows across Trafalgar square
Upon pigeons and people all gathered there.
Each person upon which that shadow fell
Had a past to proclaim and a story to tell
A hundred men and women [ahem], and a thousand birds
Lives each described by sqwawks, coos and words
Only when put together could explain the mystery
Of why on this day of all days in history
And all of the years in the future forever
They had gathered here in this square together
Star crossed spectators quietly waited
For the plinthy performer to become updated
Seen from above like a night sky perverse
Stars gathered and grounded, constellation reversed.

Why they were there then on that chosen day
In that exact arrangement, no-one can say.
But there they were of that much I'm certain
And they weren't showing any signs of desertin'
For they had come from places far and wide
Flown over mountains, sailed cross the tides.
Or possibly it hadn't been such a strain
They'd just jumped on the tube or taken the train
I'm probably getting somewhat carried away
In describing how they got there that day!
But nonetheless no matter how far
They’d travelled to get there (by scooter or car)
The fact is between them they had all got there
On that morning in London at the north of the square.

[Applaud the crowd?]

Some came from Bristol and some came from Slough
And some came from the city Glas-gow
(Though I'm told that in Scotland they say
THe name of that city a different way)
From Newcastle, Norfolk, Paris, Bombay!
(Oh dear, I'm again getting carried away).

Some came from as far as South Bromley
To see the new work by Anthony Gromley
(From what I hear by word of mouth
That's how they think it's spelt down south
The local gazette is mostly to blame
For a printed typo in the artist's name)

Anyway, enough of the people let's talk of the person
Who I'm meant to be reading this long windy verse on.

So out of the crowd up rose the crane
To replace the plinther all over again
And upon that crane there could be found
Our hero, our plinther, rising up from the ground.
Then platform met platform the plinthers replaced
And the crowd and our hero came face to face.

The man as he stood there gave a little wave
He was dressed for a wedding and cleanly shaved.
He'd clearly dressed himself up formally
To impress the crowd (And Mr Gormally).
Aside from that, and please don't be appalled,
The man on the plinth was going quite bald
I don't wish to sound awfully un-PC
But it would be Autumn if he were a tree!

Anyway, if I want to continue progressing
I must try to stop this silly digressing
And this frankly unhealthy obsession
With follicle strength and hair recession.
Where was I before being side-tracked by hair?
Oh, yes, that's right, the plinth and the square.


So onto the plinth up climbed the man
He'd no juggling balls or guitar in his hand
Just a man on his own standing up on a plinth
With no bongos Kazoo or Casio synth
Nor did he have a bassoon
or hundreds of green helium balloons.
All there was up there was him and him only
Static and still, silent and lonely
And there stood the man with receding hair
Up in his place on the plinth in the square
Just doing nothing, just standing there
Greeting the world with a smile and a stare.

[Long Pause!]


Well! At the prospect of watching this man for an hour
The crowd started to stir, the mood became dour
A voice piped up from the back of the square
"Hey You! Yes you standing there!
Since you're not painting or dancing or dressed as a poo
Please tell us exactly what you plan to do?
I'm really quite busy and I just have to say
If you don't start up something I'll be on my way."
But the man he did nothing and simply just stood there
Not moving at all and looking out cross the square.
"Come on please just do something, be a good sport
I want to use these binoculars I bought,
So please just do something, one thing for me,
Cos if you do nothing there's nothing to see!"

But hearing the plight of the girl with the lenses
Didn't bring the man to his senses
In fact i would say he stood even stiller
He moved not a single scintilla!

"Now look here young man" spoke another young gent
"There are better ways, I tell you, for my time to be spent
Than craning my neck at a chap who ain't moving
Just tell me what you think it is you are proving?
I mean what good is a statue that is so restrained
I came here this morning to be entertained!"
But the man he stood there not speaking at all
"Gadzooks!" said the gent "He's like a brick wall
Made out of stone, not budging an inch
All cold and grey surfaced, he's just like the plinth."

By now the crowd had started to bustle
But our hero stood fast and moved not a muscle.

“Come on sir you've been given the chance
to do something different, to sing or to dance
By just doing nothing you only demean it,
(Plus don't you know that they're going to screen it?
It's on the TV and live on the net
Streaming online through sun snow or wet)"

But the man on the plinth he didn't care
Whether or not the crowd thought it fair
And now the crowd's shouting took a different tone
They moved from complaining and having a moan
To talking about what it is that they'd do
Given the platform and an hour to see through.

Ideas poured like water breaking a drought
Thoughts, dreams and feelings flowing out of their mouths:

"I'd tap dance", "I'd clean it!"
"I'd say things and mean it!"

"If I were up there I'd sit and eat lobster
Dressed head to toe like a 50's mobster!"

"Me I'd just stand there and call all my friends
Or brew up fresh coffee and try different blends"

"I'd definitely move, and probably dance
If i were to be given the chance
Not like this chap here, I mean he is just lame
Just standing there idly, what is his game?
Oh...hang on a minute I just saw him twitch"

But the plinther was merely scratching an itch

And on the crowd went discussing the matter
Urgently adding more voice to their chatter

"I think i'd paint the view that I see
And auction my painting for charity.
It's a view quite unique that I'll not see again
So a pictorial record I'd make there and then."

"I'd put a plinth on the plinth and then I would stand on it"

"I'd dress up and then do a full one man band on it"


"Personally I'd just read a good book
Complete a few chapters and then have a look
Across the square at the scene down below
Wondering how long there is left to go."

"I'd pad up and bat up to salute the Ashes"

"I'd wear a selection of novelty 'taches."

No we all know that it can be frustrating
To be stood around just watching and waiting
For something to happen, some action to start,
But when it just doesn't t can break your heart.
So finally it all got too much for the crowd
And they all piped together and shouted out loud:

[All]
"Hey Mr Plinther, an hour may go slow
But you haven't got much of your time left to go
Please just do something to keep us all happy
Only just one thing, come on make it snappy!"

And though the plinther still didn't fret
Or even seemingly break a cold sweat
If you looked at him closely and with some care
Past his thin and receding hair
Towards his still mouth, then I swear
You could see the slightest smile just there.

Right in the corners his mouth almost covered
On the edge of his trembling lips it just hovered.

But from there the smile spread and started to rise
Moving right from his mouth past his nose to his eyes
Till his whole face was covered and fully alight
With mischief and mirth wrapped up in delight.

He shook with a chuckle and tugged at his coat
Looked at the crowd beaming and cleared his throat
And finally, at long last he spoke
With just these few words the silence he broke:

"I thank you all for entertaining me today"
And with that he climbed down and went on his way.

And just like the plinther that's all I've got
My verse is most over, my nerves are all shot
And now that my poem has run its long course
I have to confess that I am slightly hoarse

But then Sir Charles Barry would be delighted
That upon the plinth there had alighted
A little hoarse statue! (Though this hoarse isn’t quite equine
I’m sure the plinth designer would like it just fine!

So that’s it from me, I’d just like to say
Thank you friends and strangers for coming all this way
To see me on Gormley’s plinth and performing
At this ridiculous hour in the morning.
Right that’s it I have nowt left to say
Except thanks once again, goodbye and good day.

(Oh, a little PS from high up above you
I’d like to tell you dear George just how much I love you
Now the problem with love is that once you’ve submitted
You end up married or mental, either way you’re committed
Well, committed I am, and crazy I may be
But I am so glad that you are my baby
And now you’ve agreed to become my wife
I know that we’ll build a wonderful life.

And finally, finally I’d just like to know
If I can come down yet, I’ve got vertigo!)

FIN