J.P Trevor, artist, artist in hollywood, artist in exeter

THE ROYAL POOP by JP Trevor

‘I thought this would be the painting that would get in, the moment I’d waited for, after years of submissions and rejections, I thought this one, my largest painting so far, a thirty foot mammoth work of three dimensional city in an unknown future would touch the hearts of the judges at the RA, like it did Bruce Boa who didn’t want to die before it was completed. I had pushed the boat out on technique during its 110 days of anaerobic intensity to bring together LEVIATHAN and it’s 150 square feet of vision and thought maybe now I’d passed the threshold from mere technique into another realm it would get an A.

So In 2005 I submitted LEVIATHAN. At it’s unveiling in 2004 two hundred people gave it a standing ovation when the curtain came down, including Norman Fosters people and Stephen Fry who said ‘He wields a mighty brush’ when he saw it.

‘It will get accepted by the RA, it will go to the Tate Modern’ they all said.

It never happened. The official letter came from the illustrious Royal Academy in London. Verdict: LEVIATHAN that had consumed me had been rejected. Tate also rejected it, but then God has to introduce you to get in that place.

These rejections had mounted over the years. I once took refuge inside the RA’s boiler room from the rain waiting to get in first with a painting; rejected. I was eighteen.

In 2003 I sent in a classical piece that some said was as good as a Thomas Moran or Biershdat. Rejected. I’ve been called a jeune maitre and a few other complimentary things and Bruce Boa (Faulty Towers) the man wanted to live long enough to see LEV completed, brought flowers to its unveiling but had to leave as he was dying. So I figured this one, it would make it, because it seemed it had moved something in people. But is judging art about the heart. The two hundred people who broke into applause cant have all been wrong.

But they were. OK, this time I’ve had enough. It’s time for a little bit of fun. I go to one of my favourite shops.

Mostly for the spirit of LEVIATHAN I decided that in my own way I would at last have my day. This is what I did out of a strange kind of love for a painting that almost brought me to my knees. (Literally).

I chose the best looking, most realistic one the shop sold. ‘That’ll be £1.95’ the man said.  I walked out with something that in the right hands in the right context with mucho urber hype, someone like Larry Gagosian could sell for bucks. The following year there was even one at the Frieze - a real one. Phew.

First I went to the RA to see what competition my endurance test painting had been up against. Oh dear. I’m not happy. I see very little, except in the architect’s area that merits an entry but then who am I to say what is art. Not a curator or a judge in sight this time, just me and my fabulous looking pooh, and although fake, clearly very lifelike to the woman who’s just come through the academy doors to visit the summer expo, with her brochure and her elegant shoes. She carefully steps next to it and peers in the catalogue to see if it’s listed and under what name. I hadn’t thought of that, it needed a nameplate titled: ‘Pooh, By Me. A five-minute installation. Not for sale.

. My best moment, and I imagine if my pooh had a soul, for it too, was when a group of Italian kids became fascinated with it. This was it, my moment, this was my own private show deep inside the bowels (sorry) of the world famous Royal Academy. For one electric moment - to replace the anal whispering (why does everyone one whisper in art galleries!) and hushed awe - there was life, vitality, a sense or wonder inside the RA, a feeling of greatness, my pooh had come to bring fresh air into the old boy’s club. Children laughing, a woman mesmerised by my little mound who obviously couldn’t believe it wasn’t in the catalogue, (I must send her a catalogue of my upcoming Poohs) and that took no effort but great pleasure. I had entered into the Royal Academy with my new work inside my pocket - no machine could detect so pure, so honest, so primitive an expression of self – installed it sans jury, and left feeling that life was now in order.

I’d like to say that I did have the decency to install a reproduction when I could so easily, given the way I was feeling, have released an authentic version at no financial cost. But manners and style come first.’