An accolade to James Kearney

Why attend an art exhibition private view? A cheap ‘preen and be seen’ tactic? A pointless exercise in browsing what amounts, pretty much, to giant decorated canvas? Rather than dismiss it, however, one would do well to consider its networking prospects, which can be priceless - especially if you’re able to get into the parties others can’t reach. A private view shimmering with the allure of money is an invaluable means of getting to meet those elusive behind-the-scenes figures (forget the celebrities – those are just surface material) who might just give you your make or break moment.

It is this - not where the art is, but where the money is - that keep the photographers, pop singers, musicians, DJs, writers, illustrators, film-makers, actors, fashion designers, architects, television presenters and performers as well as artists coming. To aspire to be an artist and overlook the opportunity to make new contacts in this way – or at least get a sense of what’s pulsating right now in contemporary art - is a grave mistake. Obvious though it may seem, there really are people who don’t go because visual art does nothing for them.

An even graver mistake would be not to accept an invitation from James Kearney to accompany him to one of them. A small, quiet figure with Harry Palmer glasses (which he later changed) and short, wiry hair the colour of mature Irish whisky, as far as in-the-know deaf circles were concerned, for three glorious, occasionally sozzled years - until he moved to his native Kilrea, where he now lives - Kearney was the doyen of the London private view.

Never mind that he never actually worked in the arts, being a long-time BBC man; Kearney, or JK as he is informally known, had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Artrabbit and Time Out were his oracles, and with some nous and a couple of strategic connections, he’d get himself to stand ponderously next to Gilbert & George, Jay Joplin or Helena Bonham-Carter, glass of wine in hand. Then - having edged close enough - he’d stick up his trusty Nokia Communicator for a couple of blurry snaps, just so you knew He Was There.

And all this he did without a sound, unless, of course, the air was right for a sound-bite. JK’s lugubrious appearance – which he once compared to one half of Pinky and the Brain – belied a first-class drollness, enabling him to make straight-faced comments that were as succinct as a Lucio Fontana cut, yet never offensive. (Such is his pokerfaced manner that a friend once posted a photo of him on Facebook with the caption: “*Exclusive*: JK smiles.”) He was the best diarist The Guardian never had and the perfect guest, innocuously relishing everything that others might object to about the London contemporary art scene: selfish, arrogant, vain, pretentious, snobbish, disgusting even.

One likes to think that he was (still is) a friend of the world, bringing together Australians, Italians, Chinese and Brummies through distributing his weekly private view (or PVs, as he referred to them) emails to a growing list. Certainly, being a simple potato gratin man, he was no connoisseur – in art, food, wine or beer for that matter; he’d grab glasses of alcoholic plonk for himself and his friends, caring not whether it came from Italy or Ipswich - only that it was a gateway to enjoyment.
Through his attendances JK was able to lend the private view a democracy that the elite figures might pretend to welcome (why otherwise those thin smiles in the Nokia pictures?), opening them up to the Deaf Community in a way that no-one else has quite managed since.

Alas, the party was short-lived. In 2008, JK had to up sticks for Ireland to care for his father, who has Parkinson’s Disease, in the wake of his mother’s death. And with the move went not just the only link (for most people on his distribution list) to the glittering contemporary art scene, but also the one thing that tied him irrevocably to self-indulgent, repulsive, glorious London. JK, we raise a glass of (free) wine to you.
© Melissa Mostyn 2009