Free Seven Years with Banksy by Robert Clarke Page A

be surrounded by the most splendid of Bristol’s freaks, nutters and artists. It was not a bad place to be on the eve of the new millennium.
    Everything was sorted out when I arrived at around eight o’clock in the evening. I spoketo some people and picked up the buzzing vibe then I took my place at the door
and waited. It was quiet despite everything, as nobody had turned up as yet.
    The next thing I noticed was a lone figure moving up the hallway. The gait was Robin’s. He was alone, dressed in black and hunched up. He looked up once or twice not without grace as he
floated along. Things went sort of quiet, people were absent. It slowed down and I had a chance to observe him. He was a little feline, swift. I can see him even now moving along. And then, bosh,
he was there – standing in front of me, looking. I think he was wearing a backpack but that wouldn’t be unusual; he was probably set to run some black-ops on the eve, a perfect
opportunity to make art while the town went rampant.
    I could be wrong but I had a strange feeling he had come just to see me. I didn’t tell him I was here tonight but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know.
    ‘All right?’ he said as he looked up, giving a customary nod.
    ‘Yeah; good to see you,’ I responded. There was a slight air of expectation about him so I perked up and paid attention. We exchanged a few pleasantries and he got down to
business.
    ‘I’ve got a question for you,’ he says. I knew what he was going to ask. It had been the elephant in the room for some time and it wasn’t going to be my hand in
marriage.
    ‘Yeah?’
    He took a breath in. ‘Do you think I should reveal myself, you know, to the press, tell them who I am, let them know and all that?’
    I’d already thought about this so my answer came easily: ‘No, no way,’ I said emphatically. He’d brought the cold in with him and I shivered a little. I offered him a
drink but he declined in an instant so I said, ‘You, you’re the Robin Hood dude. Everybody’s going to know you, knowabout you through your work. The papers
are going to love you. You’ve got this Andy Capp appeal, don’t you? From the Sun to the Guardian , you know. They’ll all be talking about you. For what you’ve
got to say. You’re that good that you’ll be on the tongues and in the minds of the population. You don’t need to reveal yourself. You’re going to be known by all anyway. And
because they don’t know what you look like they’ll always want to know. Won’t they?’
    He was as composed as ever, listening, shuffling his feet a bit but didn’t say anything. He obviously knew this stuff anyway. Sometimes you just need someone to confirm your own way of
thinking. I probably wasn’t the only one of whom he asked this question.
    I went on talking, for encouragement’s sake, but the main substance was said. ‘Who the hell wants to be famous anyway? All those fuckers breathing down your neck. It would spoil all
the freedom you’ve got.You wouldn’t be anonymous any more – wouldn’t be able to move around the streets, that would be fucked up. It would stop you.
You can have the best of both worlds: be free and your work be known.’
    I looked at him because this occurrence was irregular. He had never asked for my advice before. I could tell he was really listening. That was enough deference, if you could call it that, in the
absence of suitable words. He didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge; the silence of consideration enveloped us and a bubble was around us. We were deep in conversation though we weren’t
talking. To me his rise was inevitable, he was the unique, the authentic; as sure as day follows night he would be known, he was just that good. Like an equation, you know, mathematics.
    ‘If you make any money you should put some away,’ I added.
    He cut me off real quick and became animated again and said, ‘No, nah, that’s not important. I couldn’t care less about that. Icould go back