My Grandfather is selling his work for the first time tomorrow, the day of his 80th birthday. Pretty impressive to make your debut at Christie's. He's a bit of an eccentric, and despite dedicating every free moment he has to painting, he hasn't shown his work to anyone outside the family for 50 years. He's always thought nobody would understand it. A change of heart was prompted after recently being diagnosed with termnial cancer. 

Yea, I'm quite upset about it too. Having spent a year living with him in London we became quite close. His work's been tipped to increase in value very quickly, so probably worth bidding on if you like the style.

From his bio-

Egyptian-born Joseph Laoutaris came to England in 1952 to study architecture but quickly turned his attention to painting and has continued painting to this day. He was invited to exhibit with Roland Browse and Delbanco, Gallery One and the Zwemmel Gallery in the 1950s. He had a once-man exhibition at the Drian Gallery in the 60s and has not exhibited since, choosing to work in complete isolation. Pierre Rouve, the celebrated BBC correspondent and art critic described his work as "exceptionally striking- evidence of a deep concern with aims and means of that speech that only the eye can hear"

Oh cool, that's nice to hear. As an aside, having spent some time trying to find references to him on the internet, I chanced upon a blog entry which is clearly reference to him.

A stranger's perspective on my grandfather, the eccentric hermit. Apologies if nobody else finds this interesting-

"It was an odd day that started with one man accusing another of racial abuse in public, and then with me buying a drawing.
Near to where I live is the home of an artist. He is moustached, walks rather like a panther about to pounce, and is of distinguished demeanour.
We have known each other for almost twenty years, buying our daily newspaper early each morning from a local Indian-run shop.
For a long time I was unable to discover what he did in life. Being of retirement age, he would, unpaid, help the ailing lady owner of the shop to move the heavy pile of papers each day. Even she was unaware of his profession. Then one day I discovered that he was an artist. So we could then talk about current exhibitions, about all of which he visited.
At one time he even told me his name – which I forgot – even though no forename was attached to it.
Refusing all invitations to come to my place for social drinks, he actually agreed to a visit, but only to look at my eclectic mix of pictures. This allowed me to go to his place to look at his works of art – only his, as he said that he had never had the money spare to buy other people’s work.
What I saw in his house was a most wondrous collection of 1950s drawings, and walls full of his abstract paintings – colourful, delicate and delightful. They were quite obviously of a highly professional standard.
I dearly wanted to acquire something of his – anything, for both friendship and artistic reasons. But, no.
The man was quite obviously a recluse, a hermit – creative hermit. And he was also quite obviously ill at ease with the company of fellow humans. He lived in an artistic envelope – sealed to the outside world.
Slowly I got to know a little of his past.
He mentioned that in the 1950s, when the angry young men of the theatre were much in vogue, a journalist on The Daily Telegraph dubbed him “the angry young artist”. So he must, at one time, have been well known.
He related that he had indeed been a contrary kind of person, an early attitude to life and art that he had come to regret. I learned more.
Offered a place at the Slade School of Art, he didn’t like his interviewers and declined to attend. They begged him to paint there, but to no avail.
Although exhibiting at the Zwemmer Gallery, The London Group, Gallery 1 and others, he declined to have a one-man show at the prestigious Rowland, Browse and Delbanco Gallery, in Cork Street. “Cold feet”, he said.
Now, in his 70s he wishes that he had not fought, but embraced the artistic establishment in his rebellious youth.
And at last I discovered his Greek name – LAOUTARIS. He was born in Egypt.
Well, we met once more at a Hammersmith bus stop, where the afore- mentioned abuse took place. We were unable to board the 27 bus as a passenger was blocking the entry and, on his mobile telephone, was trying to interest the police in taking action against the bus driver who had racially abused him. The interesting part of this contretemps was that both aggrieved passenger and driver were black.
So Laoutaris and I talked once more, the outcome being that he invited me into his house to choose a drawing. There were many framed drawings lining the walls of his staircase, one of which I could buy, but with his right of veto. I suggested one of three and he told which one I could have. Money changed hands and I made off with my prize.
I was delighted with the drawing and wanted, as is my custom for those who might acquire the work in years to come, to write on the back of the frame a little about the artist and his life. I roughed out something and put it through his door for amendment.
It had been a wonderful day for me, but that was not the end of it.
Margreet and I decided to hang the drawing where another was hanging close to a rack of wine bottles – one lying on top of the other. In unhooking the incumbent drawing in its frame, my elbow, or some part of me, nudged a bottle beneath others. The bottles, being of slightly different shapes began to slide. And down came one to smash on the tiled floor beneath, and then another – and so forth.
The floor beneath became awash with wine and covered with shards of broken glass. But both the old drawing and the new one by Laoutaris remained dry, safe, and with glass unbroken.
Laoutaris amended my little history of him and this was stuck to the back of the frame.
Now he had actually sold something and been paid for it. It was, in a way, just a little recognition. But surely much greater, and public, recognition should come his way in his lifetime. And what if he died unrecognised for his years of insular creation? His executors might have difficulty in dealing satisfactorily with his considerable artistic estate. He should be a part of the history of English (and Greek) 20th to 21st century art.
I put these ideas to Laoutaris. Reluctantly, I felt, he agreed, and I managed to get a Christie’s man to appraise the paintings. The expert on English 20th century art’s reaction was like mine, so he offered part of a Christie’s sale catalogue with history, description and paintings, or even one single painting for sale, to get his name known and on record.
But there was a snag. Laoutaris’s daughter refuses to allow her father to sell anything. She was furious that a drawing had been sold to me.
So that is where the matter rests."

ditto.

I saw a few arts yesterday. Went to Manchester gallery after pub lunch. Splendid.

Nice. Free wine all round then! And the words opening and cum sitting together nicely looking rude but not being rude. Splendid.

revelthedog wrote:

Some of my latest stuff, one for the nursery and the other for a client (unfinished)

This was me a few years back:
Them: "You can do that art stuff, right?"
Me: "Erm, yes I am studying Illustration at Uni (braces self for the inevitable)."
Them: "Can you do a drawing of my grandchild/dog [insert other pet or footballer here]?"
At this point I can't keep the look of horror off my face, which leads too...
Them: "I'll pay you. I dunno £20?"
Me: "Erm, (starting to become flustered - how the fuck do I get out of this) I am busy with Uni/actual job at the moment."
They then look hurt as, you know, it's not like a real job or something is it? And what kind of child hating fascist wouldn't want to look at a picture of their moon faced grandchild for 2 days solid for a whole £20?


This is me now:
Them: "You can do that art stuff, right?"
Me: "I don't draw kids, pets and stuff, sorry."

Please feel free to tell me to fuck right off.
I know it is a work in progress but the old horsey's paper is a little thin and is getting creased, in the future you might want to spend the extra and get something a little heavier with a slight grain to it.
Plus at the moment it needs a little contrast (could be just the nature of the photo itself) ala:

Revel, buy a 9b.

And there was me (to paraphrase McNulty) trying to fuck him gently.

Went to the Baltic today. It's always a bit hit and miss but they had Janet Cardiff's The Forty Part Motet. Which was amazing and if you're in the area you owe it to yourself to hear it if you haven't already.

However today was the last day, so.. sorry.

It's not just that thing you said

http://www.balticmill.com/whats-on/exhibitions/detail/janet-cardiff

LazyGunn wrote:

boing

Reminds me of this:

You can move around, but even if you stand still every voice comes out of a different speaker arranged in groups at different times, so it's like the worlds greatest surround sound system.

Nice find. I'm very tempted by the $30 option ($55 with p+p), and you know it's happening 'cus it's stormed through every target they've set. Twenty hours to make my mind up.