Just as my
Father always ensured I did upon meeting someone, Dave Merrell looked me in the
eye and gripped my hand firmly, exuding an unassuming but self-assured confidence.
Born and
bred in Flixton, Manchester he reminded me of a PE teacher I once had at
school, a brilliant footballer whose unreliable knee put paid to his professional
career.
Given the
size of Dave’s large frame I may have concluded his sport was rugby, but a
quick scan of his studio reminded me how dangerous it can be to assume anything.
Portrayed in an inimitable style, epic images of Gerrard, Pele, Zidane, Aguero,
van Persie and Balotelli occupied the white spaces of the walls. While some
were framed, others were simply taped to the wall at the corners as if they’d
just that minute been finished. A couple of them he had to unfurl like a
medieval scroll from their tube storage.
No need to ask
if he’s a football fan, then, I thought.
Despite
reasoning that football is just a game, I grew self-conscious as I asked the
inevitable question of which team held Dave’s support. As a fan, living in a
city like Manchester is impossible without pledging a red or blue allegiance – approximately
35 miles down the River Mersey, Anfield and Everton literally split the city of
Liverpool in two – and for a brief moment it felt as if I was standing in front
of the Pope questioning his faith in Christianity. A broad smile fixed Dave’s
face and I almost expected him to draw a cross on his chest and look up to the
sky as if I had betrayed his love for City just by asking the question.
Unprompted
but without a trace of cockiness, Dave followed up by saying, “things are good
at the moment [at City]. It’s not a case of if we will score, but when.”
In the
summer of 2013, Dave’s Pele and Zidane received plentiful acclaim at the Fantasista
Exhibition of football art in London where his Pele also featured on the front
cover of the program. Inside, the introductory notes next to his name read, “the
sensitivity with which his football heroes are rendered reflects his affection
for them: The skill of the footballer is manifest in the skill of the artists’
hand.”
This might
be a good time to admit that I was cast aside like a spent palette when the
good Lord was handing out artistic talent and, for this reason, I was even more
awestruck upon being shown Dave’s art by a colleague.
Despite my
lack of talent for drawing, I knew enough to realise that Dave’s style reminded
me of Cubism, an influential art movement of the twentieth century pioneered by
artists such as Pablo Picasso and Paul Cezanne. In Cubism, objects are analysed,
broken up and reassembled in an abstracted form, much like the process Dave uses.
As I threw my observation in Dave’s direction, I could tell the notion wasn’t
that alien and he was quick to agree a similarity in style, adding that one of
his favourite paintings is the Modernist classic, Marcel Duchamp’s Nude
Descending a Staircase.
The longer
Dave and I talked about his art, the more I felt I should be calling him by a
more majestic name, one that adequately reflected his artistry. But Dave seemed
more than fitting for his unpretentious nature, which he modestly substantiated
by admitting that his style was conceptualised whilst sketching in front of the
TV. His subject, you ask? A Stormtrooper’s body armour.
From Stormtroopers
and caricatures of TV characters to footballers and various other works, I got
the impression that Dave is in a good place and more than happy with the
direction of his art. His love of football came through not just at the mere
mention of Manchester City, but through the pride he has in his work and the enjoyment
he clearly gets from portraying his subjects.
Exchanging
pleasantries with Dave as I was leaving, I thought back to the Cubists and felt
a strange combination of sadness and curiosity. While the likes of Duchamp and
Picasso will never realise their works’ impact and influence on the artists of today, I wondered how
they would have drawn the world’s best footballers if they were still alive.
Dave’s work can be viewed at www.davemerrell.com
