You never forget your first press trip: “I’m equally surprised to be here”

It’s 7 am on the coldest day of the year. The morning bin men are making their rounds, and I am awoken by the creaking of the wrought iron gate that leads to the communal bins outside my house. My bed is warm, my newborn child is asleep upstairs. It is the type of morning you just want to stay under the covers forever. Call your boss and tell them how ill you are. But I am the boss. I run Plaster. And today, after over a year of running the online magazine, I am going on my first-ever press trip.

A few weeks before, I get an email from Harriet, our Managing Editor. It was a press release for Louise Giovanelli’s first institutional show at The Hepworth Wakefield.

“I’ll find someone to interview her.”

Usually I’d give a thumbs up emoji, let Harriet get on with finding a writer. I liked Louise’s work — maybe I should interview her?

I reply: “I’ll go.”

Moments later, a phone call from Harriet.

“Are you sure? Honestly we can find an amazing writer to interview her”

I chose to ignore the unintended (I hope) slight.

“No, I want to go. Plus it would be good to get out of the house”

It had been four weeks since my wife had given birth and it was time for me to get back into the swing of things. What better way than to head up North to Leeds for a day trip with like-minded journalists.

I was told to arrive at Kings Cross Station, outside Leon, to catch the train up to Leeds, and then take a bus to The Hepworth Wakefield to see a Surrealist show — apparently it’s a hundred years of Surrealism — and Louise’s exhibition. Where, according to my schedule I would be given 30 minutes to interview her, before being taken into a taxi back home.

The night before I had received an email from the PR company organising the trip asking if I could share any questions ahead of time with Louise. This was difficult — as I had zero questions prepared. I thought about replying to ask whether they could possibly suggest some that I could use. However, keeping professional, I rattle off something about preferring to keep questions a secret to avoid interrupting the flow of the conversation. I quickly jot down a few general questions, just in case I got stuck.

There is a gaggle of journalists – or is it a flock? – standing outside Leon. Luckily for me a zealous PR had waved me over, diverting me as I almost accidentally joined a group of rhubarb enthusiasts on their way to visit the three points of the Yorkshire Rhubarb Triangle.

“We are so excited to have you on this trip. Let me introduce you to everyone,” the PR exclaims.

I recognise Louisa Buck of The Art Newspaper and smile. She gives me a once over, then with a dismissive glare turns back to her conversation. At least she had the courtesy to look my way. The rest were already trundling to the train, eager to get to the art first.

I head to grab a quick coffee. While standing in the morning rush hour queue, it dawns on me that I am with professional journalists, people who take these trips most weeks of the year. These are the writers who dictate our country’s art discourse. What right did I have there? After all, we are the publication that raw-dogged Frieze art fair. Not exactly a beacon of intellectual sophistication.

“I am assuming you’re not here for the historic show?” A journalist says to me while we queue for our coffee.

Do I have “no art history degree” tattooed on my forehead?

“No, I am interviewing Louise Giovanelli.”

“That makes more sense, Surrealism doesn’t seem very Plaster.”

On the train, I find an empty table of four. I plug my laptop in and pray that no one is sitting opposite me. As the train shudders to life and we move off, the revered journalist and author Hettie Judah appears through the automatic sliding doors and sits at the table. I spend the next 20 minutes wondering whether I should introduce myself. She had kindly given the Plaster MILF (Man I Love Frieze) T-shirt a shoutout in her Guardian Frieze Week roundup. I bite the bullet.

“I want to thank you for giving the MILF T-shirt a mention.”

Hettie looks up from her laptop, visibly perplexed, perhaps verging on disturbed. I realise she doesn’t know who I am or that I’m even part of the press trip.

“I’m sorry,” I continue, “My name’s Milo and I run Plaster Magazine.”

“Oh, I love Plaster! The MILF T-shirts were great.”

I let her know that because of her we sold them out.

“I would have bought one, but I don’t like to wear ironic T-shirts” she tells me.

“I don’t think it would be ironic for you to wear a MILF T-shirt.”

Fuck. Did I just tell Hettie Judah she is a MILF?

I pray she’s flattered. She gives me a sympathetic look and goes back to typing.

We pull into Peterborough and I start wondering why have I left the safety of my office desk.

The truth is, I adore Louise Giovanelli’s work. She has a beautiful understanding of the world and brings a delicacy and a tenderness to her paintings that is enrapturing. Drawing upon film stills, photographs, and beyond there is a coolness to her painting. I find I want to live inside the world Giovanelli creates. The romanticism, the sensuality, the beautiful figures. I find it all so intoxicating. At only 31 she is adored by collectors, has had a solo show and representation with White Cube and also included in the Hayward show ‘Mixing it Up: Contemporary Painting Today’.

It is the curtains, perhaps her best known subject, that I really love. There is a sensual monumentality that is rare to find in painting today. The deep blood red silks, the freshly cut grass green velvets. I want to know what’s behind the painting. What she’s hiding.  And perhaps that is why I am on a train to Leeds: to get a glimpse of what’s behind the curtain.

The train arrives. I follow the flock. Or is it a shoal of journalists? A mini bus is waiting for us. I am the last to get on.  Everyone seems to know one another. I find one vacant seat and pretend to scrawl notes in my notepad. Rapturous laughter fills the minibus. I scoff to myself at how lame the jokes are, but the truth is I am jealous, I want to be in on them. I am envious of the camaraderie.

The sun is bright. A clear cold day in Leeds. I am feeling car sick. We drive past a 13th-century medieval church — ‘not very Plaster’ I think to myself. The Hepworth Wakefield appears, glittering in the midday sun. A strangely beautiful, angular concrete building designed by David Chipperfield. We step outside. The air is cool and I take a large, restorative breath. I hear the sound of the river flowing underneath the museum. I continue to follow the group as we enter the museum. Finally, a familiar face: Matthew Holman, a trusted Plaster writer and friend.

“Ahhh, now I know why I wasn’t allowed to interview Louise for Plaster,” he exclaims.

He says he is surprised to see me. I let him know I am equally surprised to be here. He lets me know the lay of the land. Who is who. Who has written for Plaster — apparently half of the group. And who despises Plaster — the other half. At least no one is indifferent.

Sandwiches are laid out: sweet potato and onion – an unusual combination. It’s heavy on carbohydrates, which is not quite in line with my new high protein diet. I drink three cups of coffee instead. The caffeine makes me dizzy and hurts my empty stomach.

I catch a glimpse of Louise Giovanelli for the first time. She is wearing a tailored pinstripe suit and talking to another journalist. She radiates 70s California rock icon energy. She seems relaxed and bored by whatever the journalist is saying to her. I hope I don’t bore her with my conversation, when the time comes.

The shoal of journalists. Or is it a brood? Are taken first to ‘Forbidden Territories: 100 Years of Surreal Landscapes’. A curator introduces us to the exhibition. She seems smart, but I tune out quickly. I am nervous. I feel myself tightening up. My back hurts. I feel agitated. I am eager to get on with my interview. The curator introduces an artist, who goes on to read a poem. I tell myself to feign interest. I see the journalist who told me “Surrealism isn’t Plaster,” I tell myself I must look focussed — I don’t want to prove her right.

The poem drags on.

I’m tapped on the shoulder and beckoned through the double doors leading to Louise’s show, a large room of paintings. On the far side, a beautiful deep reddish curtain painting appears to be fluttering, gently swaying. I walk closer. I find myself pretending I am in Twin Peaks. I think “this is surreal.” For a moment, I believe I can peer behind the curtain.

I walk over to another painting, Auto-da-fé, 2021. I am certain I have seen it before but smaller. It depicts a smiling woman, her face partially cut out of the frame. The image glistens. I recognise the figure in the painting but can’t place who it is. My mind feels muddled. Matthew Holman comes up to me. I tell him I feel like I’ve seen this before but smaller. He tells me that Louise works on the same image more than once, so there will be several versions of the same painting. That is surreal.

Someone calls my name. “Louise is ready for the interview.”

I am taken to the museum director’s office, where Louise is waiting.  The office looks onto the river. The sound of rushing water fills the room and I worry the noise will interrupt the sound quality of my audio recording. I choose to not mention anything.

She appears relaxed. My heart rate amps up. I chastise myself for getting nervous in these situations. I thank her for agreeing to the interview.

I tell her what an incredible show it is, how much of a fan I am and how I have been following her work since before the Hayward show. She seems pleased by my genuine fandom.

“We are the same age. I still feel like I’m trying to figure out my life, yet here you are having an institutional show. How does that happen? Is it one day you just get a phone call,” I ask.

“I wish it was as simple as that,” she tells me. “It sounds very seductive, doesn’t it? to get a call from Hepworth but it never works out like that.”

She describes it as a “stepping stone” process. “Someone follows your work for a while. They see the paintings included in Hayward, then they see the White Cube solo, then eventually an idea is floated that there may be a slot free at the Hepworth and would that be of interest?”

For Louise it was a no brainer. The reason she had joined White Cube, she tells me, was that she “wanted critical exposure” and in her opinion, The Hepworth Wakefield is one of the “best in the UK.”

She is quick to assure me that it was by no means luck that got her to this place. Part of the relief of signing with White Cube meant “she could relax a little because she had a gallery who could really support [me].”

Louise had spent ten years honing her craft to get to this point, from her art foundation and BA in Manchester to where she set about learning about the “tradition in which oil painting sat.”

I wonder how much of her 21-year-old self she still sees in this show. “I am far better technically now and you can tell I’ve developed but you’d still be able to see it was mine. My interests have morphed, developed and deepened but there still is a core there,” she explains.

I admire Louise’s dedication, having fumbled my way around the art world trying to find my place… still trying.  If you are an artist in demand, I imagine it would be hard to stay true to your essence with so many people pulling you in so many directions. Louise appears to have retained her core. Her work feels true, authentic.

I feel myself running out of things to say and the conversation slowing down. I see that Louise is maybe ready to move on from the interview, her mind already at the opening tomorrow night. She has invited her friend Helen, who runs The White Hotel the “best bar in Manchester” to  perform with her in which “many martinis are involved”. She doesn’t go any further.

Suddenly, I feel like diving into the nearest pub and staying there until the performance the following evening.

I thank her for her time.

“Thank you. I hope that was alright. I like off the cuff,” she tells me.

I am on a train back to London. Matthew Holman is next to me. “It’s a long way to travel for a 20 minute conversation and a show.” I nod in agreement. Although, I am grateful for the day. I am grateful to have seen Louise’s work.