David Shrigley - What the Hell Are You Doing?: The Essential David Shrigley

Introduction by Will Self

I am a regular if not exactly enthusiastic patron of my local bookshop. I try to buy at least some books there, because I cling to the belief that its important to maintain those businesses that put a human face on the exchange of money for goods and services. If we bought everything on the internet, our eyes and mouths and nostrils would probably begin to film over with a tegument initially tissue-thin and capable of being removed each morning, it would gradually thicken and harden until we were imprisoned in our own tiny minds.

Anyway, over the years Ive not exactly grown friendly with the staff of the bookshop, but we do tolerate one another. They know Im a writer obviously and they do me the kindness of displaying signed copies of my books in their window. On a couple of occasions Ive even given readings at the shop. What Im trying to say here is that, basically, this is a functioning relationship, albeit one of a circumscribed kind: I write books; they sell books; I buy books from them (although not my own, because I know whats in those ones already).

Then, I dont know, perhaps a year or two ago, one of the men who works in the bookshop told me he had written a book, and asked me if I would take a look at it. This happens to me quite a lot some people are looking for advice or concrete assistance to get their work published, others simply require a generalised affirmation. None of them, I suspect, is looking for genuine and heartfelt criticism such as: Your book is dreadful, you are wholly without talent; please, never try to do this again although Im glad you showed me this, for, having established just how vile it is, I have been able to burn it and so prevent it from falling into the hands of someone less worldly-wise and more vulnerable than I am, someone who might be so depressed by your execrable efforts that they self-harmed or committed suicide.

I was a bit put out by the way the parameters of my relationship with the people who work in the bookshop were being altered, but despite knowing full well that Id probably be unable to respond to the material with any great honesty, I still found myself unable to refuse. As it transpired, the book turned out to be pretty good. It consisted of a series of drawings executed in a style that was at once childlike and sinisterly knowing, and the drawings were accompanied by texts of different lengths some little more than captions, others taking up the whole page that also disturbingly married the infantile to the cynical. Overall, the impression the book

left me with was of a small and dirty window being opened on to an alien world of compelling familiarity not a bad effect, Im sure youll agree, for an artist-cum-writer to have achieved.

A few days later I went back to the bookshop and returned the book to its creator. I like your work, I told him, then said the nice things about it that Ive written here. But, I continued, I also have a problem with it. Oh, said the bookshop man, really? Yes, I said. I dont exactly know how to put this, but has anyone whos seen your work ever pointed out to you that it bears a strong resemblance to the work of someone else? Do you mean David Shrigley? said the man. Yes, I replied, that is exactly who I mean. Well, said the bookshop man, a little abashed but putting a brave face on things, I know my work is very like David Shrigleys, but, you see, it is my work, work Ive been doing for years now, since long before I was ever aware of David Shrigleys work. I accept that, I said although at the time of speaking I did, in fact, retain ignoble reservations. But what Im trying to tell you is that I think youll find it hard to get your work published given its strong similarity to the work of David Shrigley, who is quite well established. And that is where we left it.

As I said, while I was speaking to the bookshop man I had ignoble reservations. It wasnt that I imagined he had plagiarised the work of David Shrigley the notion was too bizarre. It was rather that I suspected he might have seen some of Shrigleys work, been sort of inadvertently influenced by it and then quite legitimately forgotten that hed ever seen it at all.

However, as I walked away from the bookshop my ignoble reservations dispersed, hanging for a while like a smirch of lorry exhaust against the dull shop fronts of the suburban high street and then disappearing entirely. No, I thought, its true: this man has been doing these Shrigleyesque drawings and writings for years now, and he is doomed to utter obscurity whereas David Shrigley probably lives high on the hog, sipping Kir Royale

cocktails from the bra cups of deeply aroused and admiring Hollywood stars. Yes, this man, and, who knows (because the world is a desperately big place), perhaps thousands of other men and women, will labour away at their shriggles, yet be unable to gain any purchase on the public realm, a realm bestridden by Shrigley himself. For is it not the case that no summit meeting or international conference is considered viable without him in attendance, usually giving the plenary address? These poor folk, I thought, will be restless and dissatisfied with their lives, while from moment to moment Shrigley knows a deep and abiding spiritual joy.

Still, I comforted myself, as I strolled beneath the railway bridge and noted how the pigeons had defied the measures taken against them by shitting liberally on the serried palisades of nylon spikes, might this business with Shrigley and the myriad Shrigley-a-likes be simply another instance of a phenomenon we see all about us in nature? The multitudinous elvers are spawned, but only a few make it to the Sargasso; the legions of sperm are ejaculated, yet it may be that not one manages to fertilise the egg. Untold billions of stars are hurled out into the infinity of space, but on only one of these will the Shrigley evolve.

These rarefied speculations sustained me so long as I was walking, but when I reached home I slumped, dejected. How could anyone be sanguine about a universe the ordering principle of which appeared to be such useless profligacy?