L S Lowry and the dark heart of Manchester

As a teenager, I was wrong about Lowry and the subjects he painted. He was not a nostalgic Sunday painter, but an uncompromising, uninvolved and self-centred witness of suffering and turbulence: the indirect colleague of Orwell, Grierson and Hoggart, keep

When I was growing up in Stockport during the 1960s, turning 13 in 1970, I paid little attention to the vast brick viaduct that soared above the sunken town centre carrying trains to and out of Manchester, six miles away. It was just there, doing its humdrum job, high above Mersey Square, the busy bus terminal abutting the Merseyway shopping centre that had been built in 1965. Merseyway was the first of its type in the country, a bold attempt to mend and modernise a depressed, broken town, drag it out of the shadow of the viaduct and the rundown hat warehouses topped with the forlorn chimneys that would never smoke again.

Of the two great structures, I gravitated to the post-industrial, 20th-century Merseyway and the sudden new glamour of wellstocked shops; becoming an early primitive version of the mall rat, hanging around a carless, smokeless futurepark, a world of exciting time-wasting possibility safely shielded from the surrounding irrelevance – all that stubborn, morose past. The grand, 19th-century viaduct was as invisible to me as the high and mighty Victorian buildings in Manchester that had survived the wartime bombing that contributed to the depletion of the great world-changing shock city. As pop culture picked up speed throughout the 1960s and 1970s, pleasure-seekers hunted underground thrills in battered old buildings – side-tracked, sinister remnants of industrial glory revamped as clubs and music venues, planning escape routes into a future that was surely the other side of landing on the moon.

At the time, the extremely non-pop, nonspace- age paintings of L S Lowry were as invisible to me as the viaduct, as distant as the ghostly, forbidding gothic Manchester buildings of Alfred Waterhouse and others: once visionary emblems of cresting 19th-century civic pride that sternly loomed above the city-centre streets, a long way from becoming home to boutique hotels, loft apartments, arts festivals and coffee shops. Back then, many of them were boarded up and banished, because the action had moved elsewhere, perhaps forever. Lowry in his own crooked, needled way had recorded exactly that dark history that seemed to be impeding any sort of progress. It was not where you looked if you craved recovery and a restoration of volatile, demanding Manchester energy.

The effects of the Second World War, post-industrial concussion and necessary social and political optimism, had combined to encourage deeper engagement with the idea of the future, of what on earth was next, after all that building up and falling down, and deprived, dispossessed masses crowded under toiling clouds that could yet become nuclear. The new buildings that appeared in Manchester in the 1960s broke away from the claustrophobic, intimidating Victorian and Edwardian, exploiting curves, glass and steely, sky-scraping pretension to reconstruct devastated civic confidence. Granada Television confidently beamed its flashy red logo from its recently built city-centre studios on Quay Street. Even though it gave the world Coronation Street, an apparently rosetinted yet grouchy relative of dated, domestic Lowry concerns, it was determined to generate the future and coat an expectant north – glowing with suddenly flowing Beatle juice – in new media pride.

Lowry’s paintings stopped well short of imagining the future; they were a flat, unevolved reminder of a disgraced world, studies in unglamorous endurance, apparently painted with a coarse understanding of form and content that verged on the cartoonish. He seemed on the outside of the fast-flowing currents of British art that were interested in the smashing new subjects and glittering found objects of the 1960s. Lowry’s own interests were out of place and out of time, somehow quaintly grotesque. He was labelled a Sunday painter, a sentimentalist best reproduced on tea towels; his typically dry, terse response was that if this was the case, then he was a Sunday painter every day of the week.

My new book The North: and Almost Everything In It is a history of Stockport, its viaduct and the Mersey as much as a history of the wider, wilder north, of its inventive vigour and complicated deterioration, of the region’s caricatured position as the deprived other half in the classic north-south divide. While writing it, the story seemed to fan out from the Stockport Viaduct, once dead to me, now coming to life in my imagination not least as an impassive, cryptic symbol of the solitary Lowry himself. It consists of 22 million bricks and is now more modern-looking than the still-serving but shrivelled-up 1960s shopping centre. It is now so visible to me when I visit Stockport I marvel at my childish ignorance and teenage blindness, that such a monolithic structure seemed less apparent than the gaudy C&A in the shopping centre.

I discovered it was a favourite structure of Lowry, the unlikely centre of his universe as well as mine, each brick a miracle, each arch a cathedral, and he would contemplate it at length – its productive inertness, its unruffled certainty, as though it was as natural even supernatural as the nearby eerie moors – and regularly slip it into one of his composite, panoramic industrial paintings.

The epic viaduct became for me a route to the unknown power of Lowry. Not, as he once seemed, an irrelevant artist, nostalgically even morbidly clinging on to a warped world swarming with freakish stick figures lacking character and emotional depth, but as a complex, experimental artist who transferred ideas first explored by the dazzling, new city-thinking of Poe and Baudelaire and the touch-sensitive French Impressionist painters into a setting that just happened to be northern, because that was where he was.

The journey across the viaduct into the complicated urges of Lowry took me beyond the silly, comical man in the silly novelty song who had been turned by critics into a crude, limited painter of a lost fantasy world. It took me further and further into a northern heart of darkness, into a vital, often unsettling dreamscape, disorientating and chocka-block with stimuli. To an artist tracing the broken contours of an antiquated labyrinth, examining the once very strange and modern on the dirty road to extinction. To an exploratory painter of mood, memory and menace, attuned to the political value of history and the uncanny beauty of ruins.

The journey across the Stockport Viaduct into the territory inhabited by Lowry now takes me to Tate Britain, where there is another attempt to revise his reputation, to lift him beyond the condescension of those who have branded him as a part-time artist, indiscriminately prolific, deeply incurious, miserably obsessed with relics, rituals and railings, ordinary people, uninspiring bleakness and congealed monuments.

At Tate, the former Berkeley art historians T J Clark and Anne M Wagner come to Lowry and Lancashire intrigued but unswayed by the haughtiness of an incestuous London art world that generally classifies him as narrow- minded. They are not put off by his quirks, or his repetitive content, seeing it as being in its own way exotic and also thoroughly investigative. They’re enthralled by how the exiled Lowry gazes across fields of rubble into an industrial working-class history that has been marginalised by those following allegedly cooler, smarter trends. Lowry was never fashionable, because he was following his very own, often very square interests: Victorian bricks, factory gates and monotonous terraced streets more than flags, fame and fortune.

Lowry has been dismissed as provincial, regional, and therefore inferior, as if his matter-of-fact subject matter means a backward, whimsical view of life and living. Lowry, it seems, cannot be great because what he painted was, apparently, only the mundane, unsophisticated images of industrial life stuffed with the common, ugly riff-raff, the stunted, sordid remains of social ambition. No flowers, no stormy seas, no stunning breakthroughs, no sudden shifts of perspective, no innovative application of paint, no mystical conceptual ingenuity, no artistic progress: therefore, surely, quite futile.

This exhibition collects many paintings that are now better known at home in Salford and Manchester, where Lowry has become slowly more celebrated, loved and named after, but still unfamiliar in London. The show unapologetically presents Lowry with big-time London pizzazz as a serious artist experiencing an entire industrial era with melancholy, mischievous, sometimes tortured intensity; one who painstakingly developed a distinctive if eccentric compositional technique.

We can observe the origins of his swarming, battling, often reviled skeletal figures, distant cousins of those more generously honoured peasants in a Van Gogh field, and discover that they looked that way not because he lacked ability but because he was painting a manmade landscape that looked entirely wrong without hordes of preoccupied and harassed people. His landscapes were often crowded with the hard-up masses serving, or avoiding, their masters. But he didn’t want to finish these people off as compositions, giving them richer, sharper, more generous detail, which he was capable of doing as draughtsman. That would have obstructed his view, the view, of harsh ignoble reality turning into a dream, where ungraspable history can be better stored and interpreted. His people haunted the pictures, not as crude, jerky-jokey stick creatures, but as wasted, savaged presences, smeared across canvas, etched into time, curtailed by circumstances, incomplete fragments of his own restless mental state.

Elsewhere, in those emptier, sparer paintings less associated with him – the more abstract ones, less formulaically strewn with emaciated forms, from outside dead-set, dead-end 1930s Lancashire – there is a less cluttered sense of Lowry. We see what is hinted at in all of his paintings: a deeply personal artist, the inheritor of Impressionist impulses, working his lonely, mournful way through the 20th century, getting the job done, creating hiding places, avoiding eye contact, observing his own journey across and under the viaduct, towards the vacant lot of oblivion.

His paintings detail a storm that had just passed through – the 19th century falling apart, the ruins of past promises, the capitalist technological dream of progress leading to catastrophe – causing one hell of an impact. But he also anticipated in a less specific way that there would be another storm along soon, completing the wiping out of these sorts of communities and the places where people settled because they had no choice.

All is not completely right at the well-intentioned Tate Britain show, nicely set up to be the kind of publicised national cultural event once deemed beyond the range of an artistic commoner such as Lowry. But inside the gallery, you will still hear dumb, nutty George Formby, turning out nice again amidst all the nastiness. Lowry was funny and Lancastrian and working at the same time as Formby, but the music creates the kind of tackiness that sticks Lowry to the humble and farcical, where on the whole this exhibition wants to take him away from that.

You wish you were hearing William Walton or the Durutti Column, the Unthanks or Roy Harper (also born in Rusholme and much closer to Lowry in peeved, vagrant spirit than Formby). At the end, when you inevitably emerge into the shop – stocked with peculiarly perky Lowry souvenirs, including ties and mugs, and a less perky copy of my book, which relishes how Lowry turned the down-to-earth into something other-worldly – you will be able to buy a flat cap, as if such a thing will always be on top of the north, holding it in, keeping it down, even after Laurence Sterne, Lewis Carroll, the Brontës, the Pankhursts, Barbara Hepworth, Anthony Burgess, Ted Hughes and Joy Division.

Still, mustn’t grumble, and here for sure is a new Lowry, better served through six mind-opening rooms as the surreal, discerning documentarian of traumatic modern times. The uncompromising, perhaps uninvolved and self-centred, lurking at the tatty edges of life but extremely present and alert witness of suffering and social turbulence, the indirect colleague of Orwell, Grierson and Hoggart, keeping history alive.

He was remembering the end of the world, as he saw it, picturing it as best he could just in case anyone paying attention in the future gave a damn about the world he lived in and the crying-out-loud sadness he felt at how it all just disappeared. The drifting artist who always seemed to be behind the times, incapable of escaping an embarrassing past and accepting a changing world dedicated to wiping out the negative, loaded past, turns out to have been ahead of his time.

Paul Morley’s book “The North (And Almost Everything In It)” is published by Bloomsbury (£20)

The end of the world as we know it: Industrial Landscape (1955) by L S Lowry.

This article first appeared in the 01 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Brazil erupts

Almeida Theatre
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Rupert Goold: “A director always has to be more of a listener”

The artistic director of the Almeida Theatre on working with Patrick Stewart, the inaccessibility of the arts, and directing his wife in Medea.

Eight years ago Rupert Goold’s Macbeth made his name. The critics were unanimous in their praise, with one calling it the “Macbeth of a lifetime”. Goold’s first Olivier Award soon followed (Enron won him a second in 2009, King Charles III nearly won him a third last year). It was a family triumph; Lady Macbeth was played by Goold’s wife, Kate Fleetwood.

Now the pair has finally reunited and Fleetwood is his undisputed lead. She is playing Medea in the Almeida’s latest and final play of its Greek season. Directing your wife is one thing. Directing her in a play about a woman who murders her children because her husband abandons her is another. And it’s been harder than Goold expected.

“You live with someone every day, and they don’t age because the change is so incremental, and then you do something together and you realise how much you’ve changed. It’s like playing tennis with someone after eight years: you’re completely different players.”

As it is, Goold thinks the director-actor relationship is inevitably fraught. “There is an essential slave-master, sadomasochistic, relationship,” he says. “The incredibly complicated thing about being an actor is you’re constantly being told what to do. And one of the most damaging things about being a director – and why most of them are complete arseholes – is because they get off at telling people what to do.”

Goold doesn’t. He’s as amicable in person as the pictures – bountiful hair, loose jacket, wide grin – suggest. And when we meet in the Almedia’s crowded rehearsal rooms, tucked away on Upper Street, 100 yards from the theatre, he’s surprisingly serene given his play is about to open.

He once said that directing a play is like running towards a wall and hoping it becomes a door just before the curtain goes up. Has the door appeared? “It’s always a funny moment [at the end of rehearsal]. Sometimes you do a show and it’s a bit dead and the costumes and set transform it. Then sometimes it’s perfect and the design kills it.”

We meet shortly before last Thursday’s press night, and he can’t tell how good it is. But it “certainly feels quite private. The idea that loads of people are going to come and watch it now feels a bit weird. You bring a lot of your sense of relationships and parenting into it.”

Goold has always argued that the classics wither without intervention. So in this revival of Euripides’ 2,446-year-old play, Medea is a writer and her husband, Jason (of Argonauts fame), is an actor. “But it’s not really about that… it’s more about divorce, about what it means to separate.”

“It’s about the impact of a long-term relationship when it collapses. I don’t know whether there is a rich tradition of drama like that, and yet for most people, those kind of separations are far more profound and complicated and have greater ramifications than first love; and we have millions of plays about first love!”

Every generation discovers their own time in the Greek plays. Goold thinks he and playwright Rachel Cusk were shaped by the aftermath of the 1970s in interpreting Medea; “That’s the period when the idea of the family began to get tainted.” And when critics praised Oresteia, the Almeida’s first Greek play and a surprise West End transfer, they compared it to the Sopranos.

Yet there is something eternal about these plays. Goold says it’s the way they “stare at these problems that are totally perennial, like death,” and then offer answers that aren’t easy. Medea kills the kids and a mother rips her son to shreds in the Bakkhai (the Almeida’s predecessor to Medea). Where’s the moral compass in that?

Except there is a twist in Goold’s Medea, and it’s not one every critic has taken kindly to. It was enough to stop the Telegraph’s Dominic Cavendish, otherwise lavish in his praise, from calling it “a Medea for our times”. Nevertheless, the reviews have been kind, as they often are for Goold; although The Times’ Ann Treneman was vitriolic in her dislike (“Everyone is ghastly. The men are beyond irritating. The women even worse.”).

In theory, Goold welcomes the criticism. “I’d rather our audience hated something and talked about it than was passively pleased,” he tells me ahead of reviews.

Controversial and bracing theatre is what Goold wants to keep directing and producing; as the Almeida’s artistic director he is in charge of more than just his own shows. But how does he do it? I put a question to him: if I had to direct Medea instead of him, what advice would he have given me?

He pauses. “You’ve got to love words,” he begins. “There’s no point doing it unless you have a real delight in language. And you have to have vision. But probably the most important thing is, you’ve got to know how to manage a room.”

“It’s people management. So often I have assistants, or directors I produce, and I think ‘God, they’re just not listening to what that person is trying to say, what they’re trying to give.’ They’re either shutting them down or forcing them into a box.”

“Most people in a creative process have to focus on what they want to say, but a director always has to be more of a listener. People do it different ways. Some people spin one plate incredibly fast and vibrantly in the middle of the room, and hope all the others get sucked in. It’s about thriving off of one person – the director, the lead performer, whomever.”

“I’m more about the lowest common denominator: the person you’re most aware of is the least engaged. You have to keep lifting them up, then you get more creativity coming in.”

It’s not always simple. When actors and directors disagree, the director can only demand so much, especially if the actor is far more famous than them. When Goold directed Macbeth, Patrick Stewart was his lead. Stewart was a movie star and twice his age.

“Patrick’s take on Macbeth… I didn’t think it should be played that way. I’d played him as a student and I had an idea of what he was.”

“But then you think, ‘Ok, you’re never going to be what I want you to be, but actually let me get rid of that, and just focus on what’s good about what you want to be, and get rid of some of the crap.’”

Goold doesn’t think he’s ever really struggled to win an actor’s respect (“touch wood”). The key thing, he says, is that “they just feel you’re trying to make legible their intention”.

And then you must work around your lead. In Macbeth, Stewart was “a big deep river of energy… when normally you get two people frenetically going ‘Uhgh! Is this a dagger I see before me! Uhgh!’ and there’s lots of hysteria.”

“So we threw all sorts of other shit at the production to compensate, to provide all the adrenalin which Patrick was taking away to provide clarity and humanity.”

Many people want to be theatre directors, and yet so few are successful. The writers, actors and playwrights who sell shows can be counted on a few hands. Depressingly, Goold thinks it’s becoming harder to break in. It’s difficult to be discovered. “God, I don’t know, what I worry – wonder – most is: ‘Are there just loads of great directors who don’t make it?’”

 The assisting route is just not a good way to find great new directors. “The kind of people who make good assistants don’t make good directors, it’s almost diametrically opposite.” As for regional directors, newspaper budgets have collapsed, so they can no longer rely on a visit from a handful of national critics, as Goold did when he was based in Salisbury and Northampton. And audiences for touring shows have, by some measures, halved in the past twenty years.

Theatre has also evolved. When Goold was coming through, “There were not a lot of directors who felt they were outside the library, so for me to whack on some techno was radical! Now it’d be more commonplace.” New directors have to find new ways to capture our attention – or at least the critics’.

But the critics have changed too. A nod from a critic can still be vital in the right circles, but the days when critics “made” directors is long over. “I remember Nick de Jongh saying, ‘Oh Rupert Goold, I made him.’ Because he’d put Macbeth on the front page of the Standard. I owed my career to him, and in some ways I did! But it's an absurd idea, that would not happen now.”

“It’s all changed so much in literally the past three years. There was a time, for better or worse, when you had a big group of establishment critics: de Jongh, Michael Billington, Michael Coveney, Charlie Spencer – they were mostly men – Susannah Clapp. And if they all liked your show, you were a hit.” (“They could be horrible,” he adds.)

“Now I get more of a sense of a show by being on Twitter than reading the reviews.” It’s “probably a good thing”, Goold thinks, and it certainly beats New York, where a single review – the New York Times' – makes or breaks plays. But it’s another problem for aspiring directors, who can no longer be so easily plucked from the crowd.

It’s no longer a problem Goold needs to overcome. His star could wane, but he seems likely to be among the leading voices in British theatre for a while yet.

Harry Lambert is a staff writer and editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.