John Latham's confrontations with authority

John Latham is probably the most important post-war British artist you have never heard of. His admirers range from Nick Serota, Director of the Tate art museums and galleries, who was pouring tea at Latham’s wake, to Damien Hirst, who admiringly said “He [Latham] proves it is possible to be an enfant terrible for ever.” Latham’s former house, turned into a gallery after his death, closed its doors over the weekend.

Why was Latham so obscure? Partly, it was the longevity of his career—which lasted from his first joint exhibition in 1948, held with fellow student John Berger in a former butcher’s shop when they were at Chelsea College of Art and Design, to the 2005 Venice Biennale three man show “God is Great” with Anish Kapoor and Douglas Gordon. Partly it was the restlessness of his imagination. When you spoke to John he always wanted to talk about the new work, the old stuff—however interesting—was in the past. Not for him the telling of war stories about the sixties, instead his philosophy could well be described by Wittgenstein’s cry: “Back to the rough ground!”

Mainly, though, John Latham was “thrawn”—that great Scots word for someone who is stubborn, obstinate, intractable. His uncompromising artistic vision was matched by an equally uncompromising approach to authority. I first met John when I was a Southwark councilor: he had a planning dispute relating to his house/studio on Bellenden Road in my ward. Steering John through this process was the beginning of a long and rewarding friendship.

But this was not his first confrontation with authority. Lecturing at St Martin’s School of Art, he was a vigorous opponent of Clement Greenberg’s critical writings. Borrowing a volume of Greenberg from the library he tore pages out of it and encouraged members of his class to chew them up and then spit them into a jar. Latham then attempted to “distil” the wisdom from the pages. He received a library fine—which he refused to pay. And then he got the sack. The book, the correspondence, the “digested wisdom” are all part of a work titledArt and Culture which is on display in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

His longest running and most bitter dispute was with the Arts Council. In the mid-sixties, together with his partner—in life and art—Barbara Steveni, and other artists, he jointly created the Artist Placement Group (APG) which sought to refocus art outside of its traditional setting by placing artists in organizational environments, such as in business or governmental contexts.

This was how Latham worked. He is described by the Tate as being concerned “not with the production of art objects as an end in itself but with various processes and consequently with the recording in three dimensions of sequences of events and of patterns of knowledge.”

Latham coined the term “incidental person” to describe the artists who took part in placements—who would then develop their work based on them. They had no brief, but their work was extraordinary, as a retrospective in Berlin last year showed. (The same show is in Summerhall in Edinburgh this month.)

This idea was simplified, and to Latham's mind bowdlerised, by the Arts Council through their artists in residence scheme. He sought to establish copyright in the idea and to receive payment for the exploitation—in all senses—of his idea. When this wasn't forthcoming he stole the Arts Council Royal charter from their headquarters and held it hostage.

All this is to barely scratch the surface of the work he did with APG and its successor O+I.

When, a decade ago, Latham died suddenly and unexpectedly, the question arose of how to cement his legacy. Traditionally this is done through a foundation that owns and promotes work and projects, and protects the artistic and intellectual legacy—the Miro Foundation in Catalonia is a great example. An alternative route is to find a way to send the ideas out into world over a short but intensive period. This was what Latham's family and friends did. A retrospective in Brooklyn's PS 1 (also part of the Museum of Modern Art) in 2006 was organised with the enthusiastic support of the Lisson Gallery—a long-time supporter of Latham's. His home in Peckham was named Flat Time House (FTHo), based on his theory of time—“flat time”—and opened as a gallery in 2008 to promote his work and vision. And also to host artists who worked in ways inspired by him.

The subsequent years have seen a substantial amount of interest in FTHo and a broader revival of interest in Latham. From the South London Gallery's Stewart Home curated revival of Latham's play Juliet and Romeo to the Henry Moore Institute's recent exhibition “A Lesson in Sculpture with John Latham.” And Barbara Steveni, a partner in John's work, has been touring Europe with her piece I Am An Archive, retelling and reclaiming her part in art history. Ten years on, though, the decision has been made to close FTHo. The ideas have been seeded, or in reality re-seeded, and they now have to thrive. At the weekend there was a closing party for Flat Time House—a sad occasion in some ways, marking the closure of a moment. But a joyous one too. A reminder that artists are unacknowledged legislators of the world. After all, the last decade has not just seen Latham's work getting worldwide recognition but Peckham—where he chose to live—has become a hub of artistic endeavor. Staying in one place, as an “incidental person,” can have a powerful impact.