Posted by: Philip Carr-Gomm | March 3, 2009

A Sight for Sore Eyes

As a sight for sore eyes, after reading those rather long posts of a few days ago, can I offer you some pictures painted by Jamie Reid? Jamie was brought up as a Druid, and he is the great nephew of the old Chief Druid, and founder of the Ancient Druid Order, George Watson MacGregor Reid. As wikipedia says: Jamie Reid (born 1947) is a British artist and anarchist with connections to the Situationists. His work, featuring letters cut from newspaper headlines in the style of a ransom note, came close to defining the image of punk rock, particularly in the UK. His best known works include the Sex Pistols album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols and the singles “Anarchy in the UK“, “God Save The Queen“, “Pretty Vacant” and “Holidays in the Sun“.

Jamie is a lovely gentle soul who we hope is coming to live in Lewes. He says I can share some of his pictures here, and if you’ve got a few bob you can buy his pictures at the Aquarium Gallery.

Jamie Reid 1

Jamie Reid 2


Responses

  1. Beautiful paintings… particularly the second ‘star’ one. Gorgeous and magickal.

    And ‘wow’ that he was the artist for all those iconic pistols sleeves… boy does that bring back my own punky memories.

    In fact here’s something fellow Pistols fans might find amusing (it’s a wee extract from my new book The Path of the Blue Raven and touches on the ‘Pistols’):

    Chapter 2

    Pistols, Python & Hateful Epistles

    My quest eventually led me to the Church of England. I remember it happening – the eureka moment! I was sat in a place where my friends and I used to play – a big green park called The Quarry. I’d been busy trying to work out what I was going to do with my life now I’d come home. It was confusing because, while I knew I couldn’t continue as a Pentecostal, I still carried a distinct sense of vocation. I needed to find a faith community where I could express my spirituality as well as explore the possibility of ordained ministry; but it needed to be a place that could cope with my open mind on the one hand, and my passion for mystery and enchantment on the other.

    Then I noticed it, jutting out above the roof tops and trees, the stubby point of a church’s spire. It was the very church where the tediously dry and totally compulsory school communion services were suffered by a teenage Mark Townsend and his rebellious friends. It was also the very church where, quite a few years previously, I’d managed to sneak in and find the record player that played phoney church bells music at God-only-knows how many decibels. I never did find out whether they ever actually played the Sex Pistols LP I’d left on the turntable. The mischievous part of me still enjoys the thought that one particular Sunday morning, a few decades ago, the poor unsuspecting verger unwittingly treated his quiet middle class neighbourhood to a mega-watt helping of ‘I am an Antichrist!’


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