Rich Simmons’ Art Show; the Spray Paint Peter Pan

Before we begin: Rich’s “story” comes with the triple Ds — the familiar trio of depression, disapproval and divorce. He was an outlier, raised in a broken family, slipping into various struggles, with art becoming his way through it all.

I’m not suggesting that overcoming any of this was easy. But he is not the first person to have been on a roller coaster.

These days, whenever we read about public figures, nine times out of ten the writer presents their background with a generous wash of tragedy — stories either deliberately softened or dramatised to cast a brighter light on the individual. Go on, try a quick Ctrl + F next time: if it’s not abuse, it’s bulimia or cancer — the standard ABC package.

It almost suggests that the rest of us lead remarkably easy lives.

It’s dull. And, frankly, a little intellectually insulting.

What I want to do here instead is to have a conversation with you about art — and to introduce you to an immensely talented, thoughtful and extraordinary artist (and a friend of mine), Rich Simmons.

Just him and his art. Only admiration — no need for sympathy.

I hope you enjoy this piece.

I have a friend. A famous friend. His name is Rich Simmons.

He is a street artist. According to Wikipedia, he is 33 this year. He wears a lot of T-shirts and jeans; has a pair of deep, quietly subversive eyes; a keen interest in comics; and a signed thank-you card from HRH Prince Charles, for having spray-painted the Prince’s portrait for charity over the years.

Rich’s work is unapologetically vocal. He provokes on walls and jokes through canvases. His palette leans towards pop art — playful, immediate, rooted in mainstream culture, yet tinged with a distinctly hipster sensibility. A stencilled expression of J. M. Barrie’s “betwixt and between”.

In 2011, in the weeks leading up to the royal wedding, he painted a graffiti of Kate and William — the pinnacle of prim and proper — as Sex Pistols’ Sid and Nancy: a famously destructive pairing that ultimately crashed and burned. Sid murdered Nancy, then died of a heroin overdose. What we might jokingly call #relationshipgoals in today’s Instagram vernacular — the ultimate “happy ending”.

That piece exploded and propelled him into the spotlight.

Years later came another defining work: Between the Capes — Batman kissing Superman (or the other way round; it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t). Two superheroes, locked in a kiss, in full costume — skintight latex, knee-high boots, masks and all.

When I first saw that piece online one evening, my heart stopped.

I knew I had to meet him.

I met Rich in the summer of 2018, at Imitate Modern in London. He was showing alongside Henry Hate — the tattoo artist who inked both Amy Winehouse and Alexander McQueen. I remember approaching him to ask about his work. I can’t quite recall what I wanted to know — I was simply intrigued.

Rich was holding a glass of water; I, a vodka cocktail. He told me he doesn’t drink.

A punk rocker on canvas — and a teetotaller.

Unusual fact number one.

I had to dig deeper.

I told him my favourite piece that day was Just Be-You-Tiful, but what had really drawn me there was Between the Capes. What I didn’t tell him was this:

I used to have a very orthodox view of same-sex relationships. I thought of them as something improper — even shameful. That belief weighed on me more than I realised. Whenever I saw a gay couple on television, or two men showing affection in a supermarket, I felt deeply uncomfortable. I couldn’t look at them. I felt a kind of misplaced shame — and I didn’t know why.

That changed — not only because I saw how genuinely happy some of my friends were after coming out, but also because it angered me (and still does) when a person’s sexual orientation is used as a flimsy excuse to diminish their worth or ability. It is despicable — narrow-minded, and, sadly, still prevalent, particularly in politics.

It’s like choosing a priest over a gay surgeon to perform your bypass. Do you not want to live?

Between the Capes is a reminder that love should know no bounds — and that one’s private life and professional ability should never be conflated. The artwork carries a message that is both bold and deeply necessary. It is graphic, yes — but also thoughtful, and profoundly human.

Earlier this summer, Rich Simmons invited me to his solo show at Chelsea Box Galleries. I remember standing in front of Nuclear Kiss and loving it.

The 21-year-old me once dreamed of a marriage proposal on a battlefield. There’s nothing more romantic than promising the rest of your life to someone with an orchestra of bombings, gunfire and flying cannons in the background. Ridiculous, I know — but there it was: my fantasy, spray-painted onto a canvas and hung on a wall…

Rich speaks Millennial so fluently. Bullet Heart is a brilliant reflection of modern-day dating, where the rise of dating apps has turned the search for “The One” into little more than a numbers game.

One surely needs a lot of bullets to fill a heart.

Dating apps have introduced access to a sea of opportunities, but at the same time created a false sense of abundance. People think they have endless options when, in reality, it’s a sprawling buffet with no guarantee of quality. They forget that you cannot expect a return without investing in someone — or in something.

They lose sight of what they’re looking for and become incapable of truly caring, because what? They’re afraid of getting hurt. It’s rather sad. It turns something inherently beautiful into something half-arsed.

Rich Simmons’s art is the kind you might find in the man cave of a tech entrepreneur — and, oddly enough, also in the walk-in wardrobe of a Chelsea girl. His pieces often feature familiar narrators: icons that speak on his behalf. Superheroes, the Mona Lisa, 1950s pin-up girls; the recognisable emblems of Chanel and Louis Vuitton.

They are contemporary, relevant, instantly recognisable — each carrying its own message. The latter, in particular, is his way of mocking materialism. And to push this further, he has even created works from emptied spray cans and discarded billboards.

His pieces are worth collecting because they capture the spirit of the time we are living in. There is excess. There is scepticism. There is a lingering sense that we are all, in some way, slightly absurd.

The world outside romanticises the past and criticises the present. “Millennial” has somehow become a derogatory term, and no one seems quite certain about the future — especially after so many questionable decisions in politics and the environment.

On the inside, everyone appears to be grappling with something. Mental health is constantly discussed, elevated, examined — and yet I’m not sure whether it is the increased awareness that encourages people to label their struggles, or whether the struggles themselves have truly intensified.

I sometimes wonder — in the past, when your boss made you work late or your boyfriend left you for someone else, would you simply take a long bath, collect yourself, and carry on?

And yet, here we are — confined by our insecurities and surrounded by uncertainty. Add to that the relentless pressure amplified by social media. Like Rich’s Skullerfly, we drift through cities on blue, skull-marked wings — unsure whether we are sad or happy, a little lost, yet quietly intoxicated by the thrill of it all.

Rich’s work captures that contradiction perfectly.

If there’s one thing I would ask of him, it’s this: paint something about Brexit. I know it’s a sensitive subject — something people prefer to avoid. But twenty years from now, I imagine sitting with a glass of wine, with your partner and children, looking at that painting and reflecting on the turbulent times we once lived through.

A bird and a boy.

The reason I wanted to write about Rich is simple — and personal. I’m not typically drawn to street art, but his work speaks to me. He speaks to me.

I admire his art, but more than that, I admire his character. He is grounded, down to earth — someone who believes in hard work and in reaping what you sow. And so, he keeps working.

At the same time, there is something of a bird about him — uncaged by social dogma, untouched by the storms he has weathered. Free. Fearless.

He has recently relaunched a movement he first started in 2008, called Art is The Cure. It feels like his way of giving back — having been shaped and, in many ways, saved by art. His aim is to inspire creativity and to promote art as a form of self-therapy.

I think it’s remarkable.

I don’t know what you look for when you stand in front of a piece of art — whether it’s the colours, the form, the narrative, or even its commercial value. But I do know this: art matters.

It isn’t pretentious unless you choose to see it that way. It feels like a luxury only because it asks you to slow down — to notice, to reflect, to recognise something of your own struggle, your own story.

Like Rich, in his Neverland.

In art, you are allowed not to grow up.

To find out more about Rich and his work, go here. Follow him on @Richsimmonsart.

As for me, I’m on @alxndrluella – a bit of art, a bit of travel photography and a lot of my face. Go follow.

With love x