Arthur Sokk and the Path

ArThuR SokK &

The Path

This episodic tale is of chaotic scrambling vs in-depth investigation, follwing Arthur Sokk (aka Artie) on his journey to understanding the path of an independent artist in the year 2022 and beyond…

…and so it came to be that, after his failed campaign to connect with any echelons of the art industry, Arthur left his homestead disillusioned and disenfranchised. He picked up a half-eaten packet of tobacco, some tech and a Kimcheese Keto bagel and set off for London in search of the holy grail of originality – life as an independent artist.

But Arthur’s quest wasn’t one of hopelessness or blind futility, his was blessed by the God’s of providence; the very same entities that continue to support humanity’s never waning search for self and the soul that binds us all. Guided by that quizzical metaphysical force he knew that deep inside, if truth remained his guiding light, all would be well that ended well. After seven days of walking along the verges of A roads and navigating roundabouts like a startled bunny, Arthur Sökk arrived in West London to find a free tour of West London Galleries waiting for him at the junction of Portobello Market and Oxford Gardens (12:00 every last weekend of the month).

‘Fuck yeah’, he said. Unaware that after days of talking to himself, the invisible membrane dividing thought and speech had long since dissolved. With no filter and a fund of internal neurosis to share with the world, he was primed and ready to join in.

‘What was that you said,’ an odd timeless looking gentleman asked him. The man stood with white explosive hair, handing out indecipherable leaflets to a galleries tour. ‘It’s free you know…’ the man gestured towards a gleaming red bus, like the Willy Wonka of Arts & Culture.

‘Uhm… I didn’t mean to say Ffff… uhhhh. Can I…?’ Arthur put his mask on and edged towards the 1969 double deck Red Routemaster.

‘By all means little fella, by all means. ALL ABOARD’ the man shouted, although his role was undetermined and frankly a little creepy.

Arthur stepped on board and off they went, into a lovely sunny day over Kensington; a baseline of Reggae wafting on wind that whistled along the upper decks of the open-top bus. Draped along the side was a banner, ‘The Galleries Association’ (www.thegalleriesassociation.uk) written in poorly stencilled letters alongside ‘Portobello Radio’ and a QR code (www.portobelloradio.com). The banner flapped in the wind as the vehicle hit a dizzying seventeen miles per hour, it’s recently converted electric motors buzzing underneath the classic chassis.

Equipped with a mic and headphones, Arthur readied himself for work. He mumbled a formal declaration of commitment to the project, vowing to make it his mission to record everything; however scary the people were and however obnoxious sticking sound recorders into faces seemed to him. It was with that declaration his experiential apprenticeship begun, even if it was only himself as the mentor (for now).

Every ten minutes the bus would stop at a small or independent gallery and Arthur scurried off to interview a gallerists, a managers or at the very least a nonchalant invigilator; you know the one, a specimen constantly baffled by the enthusiasm of emerging talent and the ignorance of non-industry enthusiasts. Arthur was sniffed at, passed by and re-introduced to avoid direct dialogue with his targetted interviewees; but after four hours of scurrying, he’d managed to mine the time of two individuals – just enough to start his paper.

‘Fuck yeah!’ he said. Because it really doesn’t take much encouragement when you step out of the ether (or studio) to explore the world. Just a simple, ‘good to meet you’, ‘keep going’ or God forbid, ‘I’m afraid it’s not for me, but I know someone who might be…’. Buzzing after the bus, Arthur sat under the Westway by The Wall of Truth and listened to his field recordings.

Arthur: Uhh… so, who do you represent? Gallerist 1: ‘Young and emerging talent. I am the almighty, the benevolent. It is through me that careers are made or broken, we also run our own microbrewery from the toilets. Excuse me…’ Arthur: ‘Yes, but how do artists get the opportunity… hello?’ He tried to continue the conversation by asking the curator if that’s what feeds him as a mentor and facilitator, but the man turned away to occupy the hoppers. ‘Too many things’ Arthur thought. ‘Maybe when he has less on his plate?’ he tought.

The second gallerist was even less informative, simply offering an insight into the rotation of work, who they represented and the turnover of the gallery. Arthur sighed, undeterred by another cod shoulder in his face, ‘so busy... everyone seems so busy’. It was a start, but in fact only added to the the silence he’d faced from emails to galleries fired into the darkness those weeks before. Perhaps the answer wasn’t to quiz the gallerist, but to find like-minded artists and start a revolution.

‘Fuck yeah!’ he thought / said.

To be continued...