Lowry - They laughed at Lowry!

Excitedly I phoned a friend to tell him my news. I'd just won an international development award for my film script Watch My Back (based on my book by the same name); I had to tell some one, it's what you do when providence lights your day. 'Oh yea,' he said half-scoffing, half laughing 'I suppose it'll be the Oscars next then?' His attitude landed like a heavy right. There was bitterness in his tone that made me regret the call.

'Well yea,' I replied (a bit too defensively) 'if that's what I intend to do then why not? Why not! There's a guy in Preston, Nick Park, who's won four!' (If I have to I'll go and get one of his).

After placing the receiver down, still reeling from his unexpected response, I reminded my self (sub-vocally off course) that my friend's attitude need not slaughter my day, neither should I ever let him, or others, hold me back. Criticism, cynicism and jealousy are a familiar trinity, often encountered when leaving a muddy comfort zone en-route to a starry ideal. I wasn't the first to be laughed at for daring to dream, neither would I be the last.

When a young German climber told friends of his bold intentions to climb the perilous mountain Nanga Parbat, solo - a feat never before attempted, let alone achieved - they didn't just laugh at him they called him insane. Equally insane was the idea that two men - with an investment of only $30, a penchant for good ice cream and absolutely no experience - could one day take on confectionary giant Hagen Das. Rehnald Messner climbed Nanga Parbat solo only six weeks after conquering Everest without Oxygen and Ben & Jerry turned their $30 investment into a billion $ giant slaying industry. Who's laughing now?

And they laughed at Lowry too you know. When the great L.S. - renowned painter of match-stalk men and match-stalk cats and dogs (join in the chorus if you know the words) - first placed his oils to canvas the haughty elite of contemporary art held their chuckling bellies and laughed the gentle northerner out of Manchester. They slurred him at every opportunity for trying to be more than (they thought) he was. They called this lovely working class rent collector, working out of Pal Mal, an amateur and his work (at best) naïve. 'Who (they asked) does he think he is'? Later, when the sugar pedestals of the (so called) mighty had crumbled under the might and beauty of Lowry's vision and his genius shone through the oils (bidders eventually paid up to £6000,000 to own one of his originals) Lowry had the last laugh. His later exhibitions were dedicated to 'The men who laughed at Lowry' and Manchester opened The Lowry Galleries to honour his work.
I love that! Don't you love that? All of us have at one time or another has had our ideas stamped on, scoffed at or laughed about - and often by those closest to us, all of us have watched the uncouth kick our dream around the floor like a coke-can. I love the Lowry story because I have been the butt of many an unkind 'who does he think he is' jibe when I dared to swim against the societal stream. I can take solace in the fact that they laughed at Lowry; and look what happened to him. He became global not only in spite of his detractors, but also perhaps because of them.

I can well remember sweeping around the lathe in the middle of a corn-flake sized comfort zone in middle England, bored to depression, thinking 'there must be more to life than this'. Seeking succour and words of balm I turned to my lathe-turning, jobs-worth workmate - elbow-deep in suds, nails full of shit - and half-asked half-stated, 'there's got to be more to life than this'. He too laughed, then leaning forward (as though about to tell me a secret) he winked at me - as wise old veterans are inclined to do - 'this is your lot' he said, 'you should be grateful, this is a job for life'.

It was the job for life bit that scared the tripe out of me. I think he could tell by the slackness of my jaw and that fact that my eyes hit the floor like marbles that his shop-floor philosophy had failed to enlighten. What he said next - not just the words but the bitterness and conviction with which he delivered them - did not. It was like a dry-slap across the gob. 'You'll still be here when you're sixty'.
Shortly after my tête-à-tête with Plato of the lathe I snapped my broom (very symbolic) and left the factory forever, never to return. All the things I wanted to do, things I was told I could not, I did. And more. And I am still doing them. This is my life, I can do anything, go anywhere, be who ever I want. We all can. And for those that laugh at my dreams watch out!

They laughed at Lowry, and look what happened to him