A FEW weeks ago I received a phone call from sculptor and friend, Graham Ibbeson.
“Anytime you’re free, Ronnie,” he says, sounding excited, “pop down to my studio to see my new sculpture. I fashioned it with you in mind but don’t be too harsh when you see it – it’s only half-finished.”
I’m intrigued. What possible sculpture could Graham Ibbeson be creating with me in mind? Hmmm, Graham knows I hero-worship the memory of Tommy Taylor and I’ve pestered his life out to do a statue of Brian Glover. “Have you made a Glover or Taylor statue?” I ask, impatiently.
I hear him laugh. “You know better than to ask me that. All I’ll reveal is that the sculpture is a tiny bit risqué.”
“Nowt wrong with that. Wasn’t it the singer, Madonna, who claimed, art SHOULD be controversial?”
When I walk into his studio I can’t believe my eyes. Blood and sand! There it is: the finest art-work I’ve ever seen. I stare at it, agog, then slowly walk around it, eyeing up the fine details in all its magnificent splendour.
“What do you think, Ronnie?”
It takes me a while to answer: “What do I think? I think I can’t believe it. You’ve just made your first sale, mate. And it’s not controversial, either – the problem is, too many folk are buttoned-up too tightly.”
“There are a few things I’m still not happy with,” he says, narrowing his eyes, head motionless, staring at some fine detail like a bird of prey. “It’s maybe 75 per cent complete but I’ll keep working on it, bit by bit, until I feel totally satisfied. And even then I’ll be forever thinking and dreaming about it and giving it a little tweak here and there.
“Then one morning, I’ll wake up and I’ll know, I’ll just know for sure, that it’s ready to show to the world.”
“What does your Carol think to it?”
“Carol is a bit like your Janet. She always calls a spade a spade and refuses to humour me. She goes over my work like Sherlock Holmes studying a well-forged banknote. In other words, she’s my fiercest critic but my greatest supporter when I achieve my best.”
A few weeks later I get another phone call from Graham.
“I’ve had to put an awful lot of extra work into this latest statue but I think it’s just about finished,” he tells me, his voice sounding tired and croaky.
“Last week I couldn’t sleep thinking about it and sometimes had to get out of bed at five in the morning to work on some tiny details for hours on end. I’d love you to see it now, Ronnie, and please invite the rest of the Kes Group.”
When the developing work-of-art is finally revealed to the group, there are audible gasps.
Milly asks: “What about arranging an open day, Graham, so all the great and the good can come and admire it?”
“I might have a better idea,” I reply, shutting one eye and staring up at the white wall.
Then I suggest, slowly: “What if you show it at my Ken Loach book launch’, next month?”
“Oh, I’d like that,” answers Graham with a smile on his face. “But you’re the teacher, Ronnie. Would you be happy to do the honours at the Parkway cinema on October 4 and talk the audience through it? It shouldn’t take that long.”
“I’m flattered you ask.”
Then I suddenly remember that all five of us in that studio have composed fantastic pieces for the Loach tribute book.
Milly Johnson writes, hilariously, about the film, Black Jack, and how Ken made a monumental error in his casting.
Jan Brears writes a tale about what it was like growing up living next door to the brilliant, David Bradley on the Smithies Estate.
Janet Richardson tells of when one of her Kirk Balk students answered 'O’ level English questions based on ‘Kestrel for a Knave’, even though they’d not studied the book; and Graham, himself, has written a funny piece about the time I was so nervous before the unveiling of the Barry Hines Statue, I nearly disappeared for a cigarette, even though I don’t smoke.
Graham Ibbeson will go down in history as one of the greatest artists Barnsley has ever produced, and you’d have to go to the ends of the earth to find a nicer, more modest, gentleman.
