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Anthony Howell – Table Moves

By Stewart Lee in The Observer New Review Posted on Sunday, September 12th, 2010

BEST PERFOMANCE

It was my school friend Simon Smith, perpetually and enviably ahead of the curve, who made me see the then unknown REM catch fire at a small student gig at Warwick University in 1984. And so when Simon suggested we see some ‘live art’, at the gallery in Birmingham, by a man called Anthony Howell, I said I’d go. I was sixteen and susceptible.

That night, we sat on plastic chairs in a semi-circle on the flagstones of the gallery café, around two suitcases, a small table and a wardrobe. A compact little man came out and moved the suitcases and the table around in inscrutable silence for forty minutes. Then he climbed into the wardrobe and it fell over. I was in a hot flush of embarrassed hysteria throughout, terrified I would wet my pants and shriek with laughter, puncturing the mood for the two dozen spectators. So this was the pretentious shit those middle class Guardian reading wankers I learned about in my parents’ Daily Mail were watching?

I composed myself for the second half. The art twat came out again, with his smug and insolent face, now lit only by oil lamps, and clambered noiselessly about the same furniture holding two pails of water. Howell had his impenetrably important work to do. We had been invited to watch. And this time I was spellbound, amused, moved to tears even, and converted, though into what I didn’t really know.

I never saw Antony Howell perform again, but his passable poetry washes up in second hand bookshops and he appears to have made a sideways move into Tango. Simon Smith, meanwhile, went on to head E-bay Australia, his nose for culture plugged by the stench of barbecued prawns.

I remain eternally grateful to him for that night in Birmingham. There’s no end of punters posting on-line their loathing of my work, especially when they feel out of step with the crowd. “Everyone around me was loving it,” wrote someone this Summer, “and I hated his guts.” I know how they feel. I suspect that if I had seen my current act as a younger man, its passive-aggressive monotony and veiled performance art strategies might have left me equally irritated. But I take some comfort in the fact that Table Moves, which I remember with great fondness, appeared to me too, at first, to be intolerable.

Written by Stewart Lee in The Observer New Review on 12th September 2010. Filed Under: Written For Money
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