James Lawrence Isherwood
Jim 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 4am 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 rowed. 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 fiver - 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
Jim 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 4am 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 rowed. 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 fiver - 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