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James Lawrence Isherwood was a true if eccentric painter. I had met him in 1963 and had
been impressed by his limited fame. I didn't realise I would become his agent in
1974. I didn't realise he would, under my inexperienced guidance, find fame. I
didn't know the hurt he would cause. Looking for a new venture, I suggested to
Ishy that I and another Wigan businessman should hold an exhibition of his
paintings at premises on Library Street. "O.K. but you won't sell any. I've
tried for years. It's difficult", he said in the turpentine smelling chaos
of his house at 151 Wigan Lane. He had been painting and drinking whisky for
years. He was living like a true artist - and had never forgotten a quote by
Stephen Dixon in the Arts Guardian... "He is a man living in the wrong age,
living in the Paris 1900 style but yet in Wigan in 1974". That quote
impressed Ishy. He had it printed on his pink note paper, along with the fact
that he was listed in Who's Who in Art. "They say I'm Lowry's true
heir", he said, the morning I took him for admission to Billinge Hospital
for treatment. His nerves were shot at. He had been drinking too much. He needed
help. "Show the paintings", he said, as they gave him sponge pudding
on, arrival at Billinge. "You won't sell them". He was wrong. We did
sell. In fact during a three day exhibition in the little room in the center of
Wigan, we sold out and had to ask for more. The reason was simple. I'd taken
some of the oils over to Granada T.V. in Manchester and they'd been shown in a
'What's On in the North" bulletin. The customers flocked in. We sold 25 at
a preview before the official opening. The folks from Wigan and Preston and
Blackburn had been influenced by telly publicity. Isherwood was delighted. He
made us his agents. But there was a feeling of unease. He had agreed the
commission. But then he was suspicious. "I'm the painter. I should get the
lot". He didn't say it. But that's what he thought. He remained in Billinge
Hospital. We gave his share of the cash to his brother. "I can't handle
money", he said, more contented (on the surface) with teaching other
patients to paint. We had another show in Wigan. And one in Chorley. We had a
limited edition print. 'The Lancashire Mine'. Joe Gormley, President of the Mine
workers Union signed a few. Out of 750, we sold 14. Then Isherwood found it all
too much. One night he exploded. "I can handle my own success", he
ranted. A telephone call from an evening newspaper brought the news that he had
sacked us. We were no longer his agents. It was typical. Others had suffered
similar problems with the highly original and volatile artist. It was, in my
estimation, a blow below the belt. Jim Isherwood went to live at a Southport
hotel. Then the papers said he had married. Time proved he hadn't. He rang me at
the office. "Ishy here" he said, in that soft, persuasive voice. I was
having none of it. He had let me down and I couldn't forgive him. I never spoke
to Jim Isherwood again. To this day his pictures remain in our attic.
He died in the summer of 1989. His nephew Clive arrived at our house the next
day. 'You knew him. Will you write his obituary. I did. It pulled no punches.
Although we hadn't spoken for 15 years - he had let me down so badly I couldn't
find it in my heart to forgive him - I decided to go to his funeral on that warm
sunny day. I was early and sat on the wall outside the Parish Church. It was a
time for personal reflection about this very colourful, yet controversial
artist. I met him in the early 60s. Even then he looked older than his and
walked with a shuffle. People said Jim Isherwood had dubbed a true artist not
through his paintings but because he wore sandals without socks back in the post
war years. It was easy for me, a young raw cub reporter, to be impressed
Lawrence Isherwood, F.R.S.A., F.IA.L. Isherwood with his longhair, winning smile
and his name not only in the papers but on the television. Around 1962 he
appeared on the box in a news programme painting by holding the brush between
his toes. He was a master of the news gimmick. A gift to reporters. And he
enjoyed his celebrity. He loved dropping names. During his exhibitions in big
cities - he loved both Oxford and Cambridge - he met the rich and the famous,
who bought his paintings. But Wiganers - at least most of them - didn't really
understand the art of Isherwood. "Just daubs" they laughed when they
saw his works in Wigan Lane Post Office or Lowe's cafe. Even then, it was
obvious to me that Isherwood was a talented artist. Throughout his career some
works were far better than others. He himself once said a few would be better
burned. My passion for paintings was developing in the early 70s. And there were
many visits to the house on Wigan Lane. The house with the little note on the
door asking callers to keep away until the afternoon. Isherwood's habit was to
paint long, long into the night. Go to bed around four a.m. and stay there until
the afternoon. A knock on the front door brought shuffling and the usual
"who is it" question. He seemed almost afraid of strange voices. He
never really coped all that well with people, except his mother, Lily, who was
his absolute inspiration. And so there was entry into the painting palace. That
palace of special and total artistic chaos. No telephone then. In the dark hall,
paintings stacked in every corner. And in the front room. Everywhere, inches of
dust. The window cleaner didn't call. Those marked "Lily" on the
reverse meant they were mother Lily's and therefore not for sale. It wasn't a
ploy. Try though I did, I couldn't buy a "Lily" work. So through to
the dining room where Isherwood painted. Here the smell of oil paints and
turpentine was strongest. And in those days, .Mother Lily was there, always glad
you'd gone, always generous with the measures of whisky. Always "going
on" at Jim. Mother and son often owed. But it meant nothing. She
accompanied him to exhibitions. She saw to the business side while Isherwood
talked about painting and life and about himself and his art. They always went
to the pictures on Thursday. 'I've sold one to Prince Charles", he said,
delighted after returning m the University city in the old red van which
couldn't go more than miles without breaking down. The problem was that Jim
Isherwood never knew how much to get for one of his paintings. All about were
works showing the London scene, the Wigan views, the rainy paintings. Scenes
abroad. Horses racing. Portraits of people, mostly famous. Portrait of Mother
Lily in straw hat. Portrait of Mother Lily in Oxford. Portrait of Mother Lily as
the Lancashire Madonna in her shawl. "How much" I'd ask. And the
artist, his hands smeared with green or red or blue oils would chunter on.
"I'm not bothered. Have it. Keep it. It's a present for that story in the
'the Observer'. Look, give me a flyer - well perhaps a tenner. No, take it home
and see if you like it next week. If you do come and pay me". It was always
the same. But any painting given for whatever reason always backfired. Isherwood
would say: "Yes, and so and so still owes me for three paintings".
Isherwood - man with two faces as I was later to discover to my utter
disappointment. My collection grew. The first painting I ever bought was Boy in
Wigan with Ball. It was pink and blue, and was the subject of much mirth. 'That
art. It's a joke". Then there was a Scottish scene. A long picture of A
Wigan Bus Queue in the Rain which to this day I can't find. But Isherwood's
paintings had that certain something. An excitement. A flair. A freedom. And
other serious collectors knew that even if he never became commercially famous,
they had the work of a true original. And Isherwood was a true original. See his
works from 50 paces and you know they are his. The signature is almost
superfluous. One day I asked him why he marked the reverse of each oil painting
with the price - always in guineas - and a cross. What did the cross represent?
The answer was obvious. "It meant 'God help me'!" he said, and then
realised he had given away a secret. After the bust up in 1975 my Isherwoods
were put away. I never intended to part with one. There was one exception. A
woman living in Orrell pestered me to buy Guardsman in the Rain. I relented and
let her have it for £50. And like Isherwood, I told her that if she didn't like
it she could return it. Two days later she did just that. That oil painting had
originally belonged to a member of the Rathbone bread family. I'd bought it
because I liked it and the moment I parted with it, I missed it. I was always
thankful the big oil painting came back to me, the "rightful" owner.
In the spring of 1989 1 was unaware that Jim Isherwood was ill. And my interest
in his paintings was still so intense, I advertised to buy his work. No-one
replied because Wiganers were hanging on knowing that they may, one day, be
worth big cash. And that day, it seems, is almost here. Within months of his
death, one sold at a Chester auction for £600. Isherwood would have been
gratified. He wanted to live on through his work. On that funeral day, the
cortege arrived on the dot. The Rector, Canon Malcolm Forrest, waited. There
were few mourners. And, that was a shame because Isherwood had touched the lives
of so many Wiganers. The woman he said was his second wife was there holding a
rose. Gordon Isherwood, brother, who is his double, nodded to me as I waited to
follow the official mourners. The address by the Rector was ever eloquent and he
mentioned the tribute I'd written in the Wigan Observer. "A man as
colourful as his canvases", I recall he said. It was true. Within the hour
J. Lawrence Isherwood was buried alongside his Mother Lily in Wigan Cemetery. He
left a legacy of fiery and energetic paintings which will live on in thousands
of homes here and abroad. And it was only after Ishy died that many Wiganers
admitted they'd always meant to buy a painting but never quite got round to it.
Ah, isn't that the story of art?
Geoffrey Shryhane |
Isherwood Art .co.uk