David Buckingham’s debut UK solo show, Under The Influence, recently opened at Scream in London. The exhibition presents a colourful collection of his reclaimed metal sculptures and wall-reliefs. The Los Angeles-born artist has a penchant for scavenged and discarded metal, which he finds in the arid and inhospitable Californian dessert and beyond, meeting life’s deserters along the way.
Having ditched (or been ditched from?) a job in advertising thanks to a dangerous heroin addiction, art popped Buckingham back on the proverbial tracks. It is perhaps not fanciful to suggest that art saved his life, having met East Village art collective The Rivington School’s father figure, sculptor Cowboy Ray Kelly. The former Rothko assistant introduced Buckingham to the influential 1980s New York art scene. The rest, as they say…
The London exhibition space could not be further removed from his workshop – read: junkyard – the large-scale metallic works hang neatly within the crisp white gallery – the serenity a compelling contrast to the chaos from which Buckingham’s works originate. Subject-wise, his art continues to look at guns and popular culture, a use of bold lyrics or film quotes recall early Pop Art – fame and notoriety are observed. The colour themes are hopeful and bold, but in keeping with metal’s properties. Buckingham is clearly having fun.
We caught up with David for a little chat about guns, uncovered treasures, toothless methamphetamine freaks and being hunted down by a psychotic Mexican…
Why choose guns… are you pro or anti?
Guns are a perfect example of American iconography – this country was pretty much founded on the gun – they’re a challenge to build, and they always get a reaction. All of the guns are historically accurate; for example the Kurt Cobain shotgun is a Remington Model 11 20 gauge and the Phil Spector gun is a Colt Cobra .38. I’m neither pro-gun nor anti-gun… I grew up hunting ducks in Louisiana with my cousins, so I’m no stranger to firearms, but I do find the level of gun violence in the US absolutely sickening. There are some who think me a gun nut, others who consider my guns to be profoundly anti-gun. All readings are valid. Hell, I’m just glad someone’s paying attention.
Excited about showing in England? How do you find Europe?
Sure, I’m looking forward to traveling to the country that twice deported one of my idols, Lenny Bruce, on the grounds that he was an ‘undesirable alien’. I’m hoping to speak to the Queen about a posthumous pardon whilst in London. And I plan to find Europe like every other American, by looking on a map… it’s next to Poland, right?
Can you reveal where you have found your best treasures?…
I’d be glad to take you out there and show you. You just won’t be coming back.
What is your favourite place in your favourite city?
Without question that would be the Napoleon House in the French Quarter in New Orleans, a venerable 1797 mansion with an inimitable aura of decaying elegance. I’ve whiled away many a pleasant afternoon there, listening to classical music while sitting at a sidewalk table, sipping a Pimm’s Cup and watching the world go by. Back when I was but a callow youth, each time I got bailed out of jail in New Orleans I’d repair to the Napoleon House to drown my sorrows at the bar and reflect on the error of my ways.
Can you tell us more about the people you find living out in the dessert. Do they welcome the conversation? I bet there’s some stories to tell…
I like to say that the people you meet in the desert often make the folks in Deliverance look like Rhodes Scholars. And the deeper into the desert one travels, the weirder it gets. Many of these people live “off the grid”, miles from paved roads and without city services like electricity and running water. There’s usually a cheap trailer sunk into the sand, a slap-dash fence made from old tires, trash and derelict vehicles everywhere, a few goats running around and sometimes a deformed child crawling about in the dirt, playing with a rattlesnake.
I’ve had the dubious pleasure of making the acquaintance of toothless methamphetamine freaks, paranoid survivalists, doomsday weirdos, wife-beaters, devil worshipers, and heavily-armed fuck-the-world-leave-me-alone types. We’re talking about guys with names like “Rattlesnake Randy”, “The Swede”, “Gonzo” and “Mr. Black” – even though the dude wasn’t black and his name wasn’t Black. Some are glad to see me, some aren’t. Some, like the leathery old cowboy who regaled me with tales of busting broncos on the Texas plains in the early 1920s, are chatty, some barely speak. But they’re all glad to see my cash when I persuade them to sell that fantastic old school bus out there in the weeds.
Being an ex-copywriter, have you ever written any fiction?
Jesus, what do you think advertising is???
What influence are you under now in terms of inspiration? Art, music, architecture?
For half a century I’ve had just about every facet of American culture, from high to low, pounded into me and now, after ruminating on it for all that time, it’s starting to make its way back out – in metal. I need a constant stream of stimulation, some form of incoming artillery to the brain, to keep my attention. What interests me seems to change about every five minutes. I spent twenty years in the ad game and was lucky enough to work with the best typographers, designers, filmmakers, musicians, photographers… all of them idea people. The idea is still paramount. Someone once asked me, “where do your ideas come from”? I replied: “hell, if I knew, I’d go there every day.”
How similar is your life to the found, battered, used metal that you reappropriate? What or who reappropriated you?
Listen, I’m no Freud but I don’t think it’s any coincidence that I’m attracted to the battered and beaten, the cast-off, the discarded, things that have had a previous life and have the scars to prove it. Between my advertising career and my sculpting “career” (insert wry smirk) there was a terrible time of heroin addiction, a truly god-awful period of my life that took me to places of unimaginable hell and perdition. Maybe it’s because I’ve been through the wringer than I’m compelled to use materials that have also been a little beaten-up along the way. (Paging Dr Freud…)
Images courtesy of Scream
and Goswin Schwendinger.
Unless otherwise stated.
When not creating or searching what do you like to do? Tell us what your typical ‘day-off’ might be like…
Sculptors don’t get days off. “Sculpture is a full-time occupation; it is a mental obsession” – Henry Moore
And finally, please tell us a short story…
OK: years ago I was bouncing along a dirt road deep in the desert in my pickup truck when I spotted a tattered home surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. The place looked abandoned. On the fence was pair of real pistols and a home-made sign reading: WE DON’T DIAL 911. I found this implied violence, quite amusing, very American, so stopped to take a quick photograph of the sign. I jumped back into the truck and continued down the road, which was nothing more than a dirt track, barely wide enough for my Ford F150. I was doing a good 40 miles per hour and throwing up a huge cloud of dust, so thick that I couldn’t see anything behind me, which shouldn’t be a problem because there’s nobody out there, right?
A few minutes later I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw, through the dust cloud, the hood ornament of a large truck not 6 inches from my bumper. WTF??? This is clearly some kind of hostile move. I hit the gas, but the marauder starts trying to pass me, like something you’d see in a cop movie. Finally he pulls up alongside me and yanks his wheel to the right, which forces me off the road and into a deep sand bank. Before I can react, this madman jumps from his truck and takes cover behind the truck’s door, like Rambo. He’s an older, grizzled, squat Mexican with a bizarre crewcut and red insane-monkey eyes. He’s obviously under the influence of some kind of powerful, dangerous substance and looks like he hasn’t slept in years. He’s also waving a very large revolver.
“WHY YOU VEEDEO-TAPE MY PROPER-TY?” he demands. “WHY YOU VEEDEO-TAPE MY PROPER-TY?” Then it dawns on me: that abandoned house was occupied by this maniac; in his agitated, paranoid state he thinks I’ve stolen his soul by taking a picture of his 911 sign. I try to calm the savage beast by explaining I only took a photo, and reach into the truck to show him my camera. “DON”T MOVE OR I KEEL YOU!!!”, screams my new friend. Oh, great. I’m in the middle of nowhere with a homicidal maniac pointing a gun at me. I start wondering how long it’ll take the authorities to find my body, if they’ll follow the vultures to my final resting place. After a few tense minutes, Mr Diplomacy relents, holsters his gun and speeds off furiously, but not before shouting, “EEF YOU COME TO MY PROPER-TY AGAIN I KEEL YOU!!”. I haven’t been back.
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