Harry Pye’s Art Lets the Joke In Before the Theory

Harry Pye’s paintings are like the friendship you never had: offbeat, irreverent, wonky-but-warm. The kind who never forgets your birthday but gives you a drawing of a cow in sunglasses as a gift. His characters grin, shuffle, and pose like they’ve wandered out of a Punch cartoon and straight into a community art disco. They don’t talk back, but they seem to know all your secrets. There’s always a wink in Harry’s work, a smirk tucked into the brushstrokes. But don’t mistake the mischief for fluff. His humour isn’t just there for laughs. It’s a delivery system. A sugar-coated catapult launching something sneakier, sadder, and smarter right at your unsuspecting heart.

That’s the trick with Harry: you think you’re chuckling at a wonky painting of a pigeon, and suddenly you’re remembering your mum, or your childhood, or the weird ache of being alive in a world that’s slowly losing its plot. His art plays innocent but never feels naïve. More like if a precocious ten-year-old with a Monty Python VHS and a minor existential crisis started painting heartfelt jokes on canvas. It’s satire disguised as sentiment, or maybe the other way around.

He’s been quietly revolutionising the scene for decades: painting, curating, zine-slinging, blog-running, VHS-rewinding. His group shows sound like pub jokes until they land like tiny epiphanies: 100 Mothers, It May Be Rubbish (But It’s British Rubbish), Remember My Name. He’s the pied piper of playful resistance, gathering the oddballs, romantics, and delightfully deranged into something that feels suspiciously like a movement.

In a landscape of self-serious minimalism and blue-chip posturing, Harry Pye is the necessary glitch, a felt-tip saboteur with a soft spot for human emotion. His work doesn’t try to impress the cool kids. It turns up in paper hats with a surrealist mixtape and emotional depth laced in the punch. It reminds you that art can still have a laugh, take the piss, and mean something. All in the same frame.

I. RAMSGATE, PRINTS & PAINTING FROM THE HEART

Ramsgate in July sounds like the perfect excuse for a print-buying seaside escape. What can you tell us about the print fair?

Ramsgate is great. I love being there, especially when the sun’s shining. The Front Room Gallery on Bellevue Road is just a ten-minute walk from the station and close to the beautiful harbour and pavilion. I always feel relaxed and happy in Rammers. Anyone who visits our Affordable Art Fair will be met with a warm welcome. We’ll have all kinds of prints - mono, inkjet, screen, and riso - priced between £50 and £200. We’re throwing a party on Saturday, July 6th, from 6pm to 9pm. The show features a brilliant mix of artists including Andrew McGuiness, Bob London, Twinkle Troughton, Tinsel Edwards, Caroline List, Julian Wakeling, Sandra Turnbull, Sarah Wood, James Lawson, Felicity Allen, Daisy Clarke, Team Beswick & Pye, Billy Childish, Harry Adams, Sophie Polyviou, Jared Schiller, Kelda Storm, Rebekah Sunshine, Jonas Ranson, Suzanne Thomas, Reece Higham, Julia Maddison, Denese Morden, and Mikey Georgeson. I hope everyone who drops by feels like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be, and leaves either with a print in hand or inspired to make their own for next year’s fair. Ideally with a song in their heart and a spring in their step.

II. NATURE, COWS, COLLABORATIONS & CREATIVE HERDING

You’re heading to Estonia for the Nature show in September. What’s your take on painting nature: do you go full plein air with birdsong in the background, or is it more of a studio-daydream situation?

These days I only paint indoors. I’m usually up early. Sometimes I’ll paint in the kitchen from around 6am to 7:30am. Other times, I’ll take the painting over to my friend Rowland Smith’s place in the evening, and we’ll work from about 7pm to 10pm. We listen to a radio station that only plays 80s music, and I sip carrot juice or herbal tea while songs from my youth - like “Zoom” by Fat Larry’s Band - float through the background. The Nature show brings together 10 London-based artists, and I’m thrilled to be exhibiting in Tallinn alongside Georgia Hayes, Raksha Patel, Gordon Beswick, Corin Johnson, Suzanne Spiro, Edie Flowers, Harry Adams, Cedar Lewisohn, and Lee Maelzer. I’m mostly showing paintings of cows. I’ve always found it fascinating how some people look at a cow and see a hamburger, while others see something sacred. I’m also showing a collaborative painting with Rowland Smith, a tribute to John Cleese and Graham Chapman. Our Cleese and Chapman Diptych imagines them as guests on a 1970s chat show. Peter Ustinov once said he went on talk shows to find out what his own opinions were. There’s pressure, once the camera’s rolling, to be more interesting than you really are. I think that tension is part of what we tried to capture. Rowland and I both admire Francis Bacon, and the piece nods slightly to his style. There’s also a reference to a painting by Agnolo Bronzino, which you can spot at the National Portrait Gallery.

You’ve curated a ton of group shows over the years. 100 Mothers still gets name-checked. When you’re curating, do you look for a clear theme, or is it more instinctive?

I’d love to exhibit the 100 Mothers paintings again sometime soon. The last time they were shown was at The Other Art Fair, where they got a fantastic response. People still mention another show I curated, Viva Pablo, which featured dozens of fake Picassos. Someone told me recently that my real superpower is getting people to do things. And maybe they’re right. When I left art school in 1995, I didn’t paint. I made zines, interviewed artists, and curated themed exhibitions of other people’s work for about five years. It was my friend Jasper Joffe who encouraged me to show my own paintings. I ended up winning a Daily Mirror painting competition, judged by Gilbert & George. Since then, about once a year, someone in the art world throws me a bone. Jasper’s sister Chantal included me in a Discerning Eye show at The Mall Gallery, Sasha Craddock selected me for Creekside Open, David Remfry picked my work for the Royal Academy Summer Show, and Magda Archer included me in a group show at Jealous Gallery. Every time someone’s helped me like that, something good has come from it. These days, I see myself as someone who paints and occasionally curates, which feels very different from when I was mainly organising other people’s shows. Recently, I co-curated a four-person show with Cristina Calvache at Harts Lane in New Cross. We were really touched by writer Neal Brown’s response. He said: “This show curated by Harry Pye and Cristina Calvache is a sort of Rubik’s cube, whose six colours and internal pivot mechanism comprises four very good artists, the richly characterful gallery space, and you - the intelligent, well informed, art loving viewer. But there’s no Rubik problem to be solved here - no task, condition, puzzle, or expectation - as the cube’s arrangement values are immeasurable things like fun, laughter, pleasure, poetic sentiment, intimacy, and bittersweet reflective melancholy … all in the context of a compelling, contemplative engagement.”

III. MUSIC, MUSES, & THE FILMIC FATALE

You’ve been collaborating with Gordon Beswick on a video for Nigel Planer’s cover of Femme Fatale. That’s quite a trio. What’s the concept behind the video?

Gordon Beswick and I have been collaborating for a couple of decades now. We’ve made dozens of short films and music videos together. I’ve been a fan of Nigel Planer since The Young Ones. He’s got a fantastic voice and is always a pleasure to work with. The late, great Neil Innes (of The Rutles and Bonzo Dog Band) had worked with us on a video for his song Rio. He’d wanted to collaborate again on a film called Show Me The Sanity, but sadly, he passed away before we could make it happen. Nigel, who was also a friend of Neil’s, agreed to record one of Neil’s songs, Let’s Be Natural, and Gordon and I created an animated video to accompany it. I then sent Nigel a track I’d co-written about ten years ago called Sleepless in South London, a song Neil had liked and once said he’d wanted to record. Nigel sang it beautifully. There’s a group called The Specialized Project that releases compilation albums to support charities like Teenage Cancer Trust. Their next release is a tribute to female icons, and I pitched Nigel the idea of doing a ska version of Nico’s Femme Fatale. He loved it. We’ve got an incredible lineup on the track: Paul Speare (formerly of Dexys) on sax, Claire Kenny (who’s played with Edwyn Collins and Roddy Frame) on bass, and Johnny Turnbull of The Blockheads on guitar. Specialized asked us to create a video with just a 30-second clip, not the full song. For visuals, we used some of my paintings of ’60s musicians - Ray and Dave Davies from The Kinks, Simon & Garfunkel - and created a stylised New York City backdrop. I also invited a few talented artist friends to contribute portraits of Nico. I think it all came together quite nicely.

You’re also working on a documentary about Nico. What drew you to her story, and are you focusing more on the music, the mythology, or the messy middle bits people don’t usually touch?

I had a friend who worked in a record shop, and he told me that at 5:55 p.m., when they were desperate to go home, they’d put on a Nico album to help clear the shop. I never forgot that. I also never forgot seeing my father listening to Nico’s first solo album in the dark. He had this tendency to really connect with certain pieces of music and become slightly obsessed. One week it might be an Ornette Coleman jazz track, another he'd be weeping to Madame Butterfly. With Nico’s CD, he’d sit in the kitchen at night, lights off or eyes closed, focusing on the music like it held a secret message or could transport him somewhere far away. He thought her voice was incredible. To some people, her records might sound like punishment. But to a chosen few, they’re powerful works of art. It’s kind of like what I said about cows. That was the starting point. I began interviewing people about what they thought of her voice and music. Actor Kevin Eldon reads a quote from Songs They Never Play on the Radio. A young singer, Dorothy Dunn, pays tribute. There are observations from writer Richard Cabut, and cabaret legend Eve Ferret talks about Lou Reed’s lyrics. Nico’s relationship with Reed is fascinating. He wrote several songs for her. It’s also heartbreaking to read stories of her being both racist and violent. As we know, hurt people often hurt others. Gordon and I are still deciding what to include. And what to leave out.

IV. HUMOUR, HEROES & VHS ESCAPES

Your work often walks that tightrope between funny and heartfelt. Is that something you aim for or just how your brain processes the world?

When I was younger, making zines and putting on shows of other people’s work, I had the arrogance of youth. It’s easier to be cheeky when you’re young. But things shift. Francis Bacon once said he was a shy child, and people thought it was sweet. But when he grew up, that shyness stopped being endearing, so he had to transform himself into an artist. If I poked fun at successful artists now, it might come off as bitter rather than cheeky. There’s a Morrissey love song that starts, “There is something I wanted to tell you. It's so funny, you'll kill yourself laughing.” I think a lot of people want to make inarticulate speeches from the heart like that. Some people just don’t feel the need. Maybe those ones got more hugs as a kid, or an extra scoop of ice cream. Or maybe they’ve got fewer rocks in their head. I suppose my work sometimes taps into that idea that life is a comedy to those who think, and a tragedy to those who feel. Over the past 20 years, I’ve made a lot of paintings. Some have drawn howls of derision. A few have made people angry. But most of the time, people say they find them funny - or moving - in some small way.

You’ve collaborated with a wide mix of creatives – writers, musicians, filmmakers. What makes for a good creative partner in your world?

I mentioned John Cleese and Graham Chapman earlier. Apparently, Cleese would write 90% of a sketch, then show it to Chapman to figure out which bits were funny and which didn’t land. Cleese once wrote a sketch about a man returning a faulty toaster. Chapman said it would be funnier if it were about a dead parrot instead. It’s a reminder of how valuable the right sounding board can be. The best collaborations often lead to places neither person could reach alone. About nine years ago, I made an album with Francis Macdonald called Bonjour. Mojo gave it four out of five stars and called it “odd but good.” We made a video for a song we co-wrote called “Sympathy For Jean Luc Godard.” I’d sent Francis the lyrics expecting a short, upbeat tune, but he came back with something hauntingly beautiful and plaintive. When Godard died, a German TV show called Cultural Time played the video as a tribute. The artist David Risley also included it in an exhibition in Copenhagen that featured people we admire, like Robert Crumb and David Byrne. Not every track on that album hit the mark, but it had some great moments. One was a spoken word piece called “Mondrian in Liverpool.” My dad had passed away, and I found myself at Tate Liverpool, where they were showing work by his favourite artist, Piet Mondrian. I felt a strong urge to share what I would have told him - about being back in Liverpool for the first time since he took me there as a kid, and what I thought of Mondrian’s work. Francis wrote a subtle, sensitive piano piece to go with my emotional ramblings. Together, I think we created something that was, in the best way, “odd but good”. Something neither of us could’ve made alone.

When you’re not painting or plotting projects, what’s your go-to escape?

I used to swim. I used to drink. I used to do lots of things. These days, I rewatch three episodes of The Bill or the comedy show Cheers. During lockdown, I made my way through all the Alfred Hitchcock films. I especially like the characters Charters and Caldicott in The Lady Vanishes. Unless the cat decides to sit in my lap, I’ll escape by watching something like that and making a collage. I find collage-making surprisingly relaxing.

What’s a piece of art that more people should know about?

When I was in the third year at school, I read about how Bruce McLean had made a sculpture called A Place To Lean, a politically correct mantelpiece. At the Tate, I’d also seen Bonnard’s painting of his wife in the bath. Somehow, both works nudged me toward the idea of going to art school. My sister was obsessed with people like Michael Clark and Leigh Bowery, who seemed wildly fascinating. When I started foundation at Camberwell in 1989/1990, I had some excellent tutors. Clive Garland and John Duffin both spoke passionately about artists. Clive pointed me toward Jean Dubuffet, Goya, and Philip Guston. John was evangelical about Edward Burra, and often discussed Francis Bacon and David Hockney. Around that same time, The Pet Shop Boys released Being Boring, with that great lyric about finding inspiration in anyone who’s ever opened a closing door. And there were plenty of visual artists whose work opened doors for me. As I mentioned earlier, I’m keen to finish the Show Me The Sanity film with Gordon Beswick because Neil Innes wrote so many brilliant, under-appreciated songs - songs of Innespiration. It’ll take us a while, but we’ll get there.

What would you love people to feel (or question, or laugh at) after seeing your work?

I loved the All About Love show by Mickalene Thomas at the Hayward Gallery last February. While she and I come from different backgrounds and make very different work, I related to the spirit of it. I often create in collaboration with friends I love, and the work tends to be about the people and things I care about. I paint to cheer myself up and distract myself from the world. What I really hope is that when people see my art, they feel inspired to make something of their own, even if they haven’t picked up a brush since school. I hope they feel the love in it. And I hope it makes them a little bit happier.