Martin Creed, by Sicco Diemer

Martin Creed is a Scottish artist based in London. He has said that he ‘does not know what he wants’, which leads him to ‘just try things’. His work is lauded internationally and included in collections of the most prestigious museums around the world. He will bring his deadpan compositions, reductionist lyrics and subtle showmanship to the Village Mentality stage at Field Day for one of only a handful of gigs in the UK this year…

Do you enjoy writing music?
“I just find it really hard. Enjoyment isn’t exactly the word I would use. It’s a buzz when I get an idea that I am excited about. Trying to face up to and not bullshit yourself is not easy. When writing a piece of music, there are always so many choices which I find torturously difficult to make. The only way to decide on those things is to live with them. I suppose it’s a bit like buying a new chair and deciding where to place it when you get home: one tries to make a self-conscious decision on whether it should be next to the window or in the corner alongside the coffee table. But if you get home and just put the chair down anywhere, after a while you come to realise that the chair is best wherever it ended up. It feels to me that the latter is a better way of making decisions. The feeling that you are in control and you are deciding this thing now is rather stupid.”

Is that just a form of illusion management?
“Aye, yeah. I suppose it is a feeling that you yourself are very important and are making a big decision, rather than seeing how it goes and working within the limitations of a certain situation. I think that trying things out is a more realistic manner of working. Every work, song and gig is an experiment to try and make something better from within the restrictions of my own limitations.”

Martin Creed live at the Cultch and District 319 from Rennie Collection on Vimeo.

It seems that you made the first composition for bass, drum and guitar whilst you were still at the Slade in 1986. However, it was not until 1994 that the first compositions became part of your ‘official’ output as an artist.
“In fact, I don’t feel that it was later really, those works that you are referring to are from 1993/94 and were made just after university. When I was a teenager and I had not yet entered art school, I was always writing songs. It never never felt different than producing visual art. It was only after art school when I was making sculptures which I felt weren’t really good enough, when I thought that a song I could perhaps help me say what I want more clearly.”

Do you ever actively listen to music, without engaging in any other activities?
“Yes I do, recently I have been just sitting on the sofa, listening to a whole album without doing anything else. Saying that, I also have music on when working on music.”

What are you currently listening to?
“Waylon Jennings, who is a great country and western singer and has written beautiful songs. I have also been listening to a French singer, called…erm…shit…what’s his name? Erm…aye, Charles Aznavour.”

Any particular album?
“The Waylon Jennings album I am listening to is called ‘This Time’. It really is a brilliant album produced by Willie Nelson. The Charles Aznavour album is kind of a greatest hits album of songs he sang in English. I find Charles Aznavour a brilliant lyricist.”

What was the last gig you went to see?
“Oh my god, erm…the last gig I saw? You mean music? Aye, let me think. Aye, well I am going to see Ron Sexsmith next Tuesday in Cambridge.”

The physical nature of your work seems very minimal, however the effect it seeks could be described as emotionally charged. Is this a paradox you purposely seek?
“It feels to me that the most important things in my life are feelings; how I feel about things. Feeling happy, depressed, sad, excited etc. The problem with feelings is that you can not see, listen or measure them. The things that you can measure like shapes, colours, words and sounds are the things with which one can try and influence/control feelings. What I am trying to say is that art is magic, something you cannot put your finger on. What is it that one finds beautiful in an object or a piece of music? When it comes to making work all I can do is concentrate on what I can see and hear and what I can influence myself within my own limited means. If I was to purposely try and make a piece of work which was supposed to make someone cry, I know I would not be able to do it if my life depended on it.

“In general I don’t think communication is very direct. When I do or say something, I might think I am communicating something particular, but someone else who is the at the centre of their own universe, is likely to interpret it as they see fit. The relation between the physical world of objects and the metaphysical world of feelings and thoughts are all mixed up together. It is very difficult to orchestrate the precise connections between one and the other.”

Is this why you use very pared-down aesthetics, to refrain from dictating people’s thoughts and feelings and to allow for a broad reception of the work?
“Aye, exactly. It is also a matter of trying to do what I am able to do within my limited means. I can only control what I physically can control; I can try and make a sculpture which is a certain shape or play a rhythm on a guitar, but how it will be perceived by someone else I can obviously not control. I suppose that is why I try and pare my work down to what I realistically can do. Rather than living in some kind of fantasy where you are doing something beyond what you can really do.”

Sviatoslav Richter once said that he would prefer to always perform in the dark, in order for people to focus on the music, rather than the performance. You recently performed in the dark – how did you experience that?
“Aye, it definitely made me concentrate more on the music. It was a real revelation to me and makes me want to practice more in the dark. In a way it’s kind of stupid, as it is such a simple principle. It made me realise that you basically forget that you can see. When you go to a gig, you are listening to the music, but you probably forget that you are also looking as well. To a certain extent you often hear what you see accordingly. I suppose it’s a bit like closing your eyes and trying different flavours of crisps, you basically have to know what colour the package is to determine whether it is salt and vinegar you are eating. I don’t think you can really separate hearing from seeing, even though that is what the Blackout gig set out to do.”

I suppose visual perception made way to a different kind of seeing, that of imagination?
“Aye, yeah. The one thing that surprised me, which I didn’t really expect or think about beforehand, was that I suddenly realised the audience was really vulnerable. Being able to see gives you a feeling of control, not seeing makes you feel vulnerable. We (the band) knew what was going to happen, but the audience had no idea.”

That seems somewhat of a role reversal.
“Aye yeah, exactly. Usually it is the band who is vulnerable, as they are the ones who look like lemons.”

Will you be going to see anyone play after your show at Field Day?
“Aye, definitely. I will try and see as many acts as possible. I‘d like to see John Cale and maybe Anna Calvi. I saw her on TV and thought she was great.”

Finally, are there any particular styles of music you dislike?
“[Laughs] Erm, not really, no. I dunno, but strangely enough, and I am wary of this, a lot of things you hate are often things that you are in fact attracted to. I often thought I did not like wanky jazz. I was always into punk rock and all that pissing around which I thought characterises jazz I considered to be a bit wanky. In actual fact that was a sort of a prejudice I used to have. My current drummer Dan comes from a jazz background, so it seems I am attracted to Jazz. Maybe I am too similar to it, which is perhaps why I did not not like it. Ultimately all music is a collection of noise.”

Text and Picture: Sicco Diemer