The other day when I opened the newspaper and saw an article on ”The Tate of Art” with a picture of the museum titled: ”Tate Modern in London exposed with light and lasershow at the opening,” I had a déjà-vù. As the picture of the Bankside Power Station, I had seen myself 26 years ago, reappeared almost with exactly the same colours as those reproduced in this paper.
The year was 1974 when I found myself travelling around in Great Britain with a dream of seeing the tales of King Arthur come alive, half expecting to see dragons and knights dressed in armour at every corner the road let me. I was hitchhiking up and down the country when I got a lift with three young men. During the ride I showed them some pasteldrawings I had done while travelling from Iona to Tintagle of stonecircles, knights and castles. One of the three, a journalist liked my work a lot and said that he had a job for me if I came to London. He gave me his address and told me please to remember. Some weeks later I found myself at Waterloo Station standing face to face with the same man. I had totally forgotten all about our appointment, of which he surely blamed me. He enlightens me of the work, he has for me, I´m to draw illustrations for a book he is writing. A book of different buildings in London. I move into his flat where I can stay while working, and already the same day we are off for a ride in his small car. He wants to show me some of the buildings. In my own imagination I had visioned castles, Art Nouveau houses and other romantic buildings, related to the places and buildings, which had fascinated me during my voyage. But I’m strongly taken back, when he stops the car at the side of the Themes, to point across the river at a huge and ugly factory. ”This fantastic building, the Bankside Power Station is one of my favourites!” He explains with real enthusiasm.
I want to run and escape what a stupid idea, I don’t want to draw something that horrible, I only wish to create beauty. But while finding an excuse, a recent experience comes into my mind.
I had been visiting a dear priest in a vain hope of gaining more intellectual and spiritual knowledge. But instead he had shown me myself. With gentle insight he had told me that I already knew and did what I had to do, but maybe I would benefit from working with the transformation of evil. These words suddenly became crystal clear in my mind.
There I was in front of this grey monster of a building, its´colours getting only darker and darker with smoke, as my eyes climbed up the chimney. A monument of the greed of mankind, producing energy for money and man’s sake only, spreading smoke and foul gas into the sky, and that without even a thank you.
Yet I want to hide away, to say, that’s nothing for me, pretending to see the building from another angle. But here was indeed the incarnated power of pollution, a real task. Don’t run! Have patience! Just look, look and see!
Suddenly the whole space changed, the factory is transformed into a castlelike fortress lying dark and gloomy at the river, A heavy, thumping rhythm sounds like a mechanic heartbeat from the depth of the fortress, glowing ominous red, alarming and demonic, while a Viking ship glides up the Themes from the ocean. A big sail is filled, as if the ship was riding on the wind of destiny and lonely he stands; the knight, the warrior in the bow gazing forward. The ship casts anchor at the shore, and with strong determined steps he walks straight to the gate of the fortress. Three times he knocks hard with the hilt of his sword.
Spread out over the floor are huge ponds of fizzing corpsegreen acid and sulphur washing the walls cracked and dressed in oozing cinders and fungus. Huge spiders web reach down trying to force its way with diverted intention into the knight’s mind. But he moves on straight forward, as if he knew what has to be done, despite that no enemy is seen, no human or other ghost. Suddenly I’m outside the fortress again at the bank of the river witnessing the battle as an act of transformation. The knight has reached the innermost sanctorum, the sound of the demonic thumping heartbeat. In a lighting flash he raises his sword that sparkles. Then all is silent.
Slowly the transformation takes place, the whole building shakes, while the colours melt, the ash grey dark surfaces are purified with fire. Lying as a lotus on the water the entire building looks like an azure blue temple, from dark ultramarine at the foundation the colour climbs shining lighter and lighter up towards the highest point from where a faint smoke rises, a thin white veil of incense.
The building has turned into a space of homage, a hymn where life is praised. The smoke that was a product of waste has now become a sacrifice, an ode to a supreme power.
Now I can draw the building!
With the drawing the journalist got the story of the whole vision on the same bargain. Few more drawings were made during the next days for the same article.
As far as I remember, I was paid 35 pounds plus food and lodging for the illustrations. The money I spent on an old illustrated volume of Sir Thomas Mallory’s: ”Le Morte Darthur from 1926.