Farewell, Matthew S. Farrell

Matthew Farrell. Self-created raconteur, impresario, dandy, sponsor of the arts, cheerleader of creativity, perpetual inspiration. Our dear ice cream server Grace once jokingly referred to him as “the winner, and only contestant, of Charlottesville’s Oscar Wilde Lookalike Contest”, and y’know, she was pretty spot-on. Matt (I was told at various times to call him Matt, Matthew, or “just Farrell”, so to this day, I call him all those things) had his own style that was clearly modeled on his platonic ideal of a perfect gentleman. And this gentleman dressed like a Fitzgerald character, talked like a continental aristocrat who summered in some undefined New England coastal village, and walked like Groucho Marx. He smoked unfiltereds, often two at once, just for kicks, which he would hold when gesticulating excitedly as he greeted dear friends or total strangers. Pretentious? Yeah, a bit. Sincere? Always. Distinctive? Absolutely.

At some point, I think I recall him saying something one must “always dress better than the competition”, which was absurd on a couple levels: first, this was Charlottesville circa 1995, so he could literally have worn a cabbage on his head and a leopard-print blazer and outclassed the surrounding sea of flannel and acid-washed denim; second, there was truly nobody else in his realm.

Nobody else would have created a publishing imprint just to promote the works of young ne’er-do-wells who evidenced a glimmer of talent, nobody else would have penned lengthy anonymous poems and posted them in flyer areas as public art, nobody else would have written epic Jazz Age novels based entirely around the characters that populated The Downtown Mall. Nobody else would encourage and support artists so entirely and wholeheartedly – even (especially) when the art they were making was objectively lousy. Farrell believed art was in the making, and so long as you created something and gave it a sincere effort, it was worth celebrating.

There was one time we discussed the age-old division of art and design. And while he eventually conceded that yes, the two were not synonymous – design can be considered art, but art is only design if it communicates an idea – he gleefully pointed out that “all failed design is STILL VALID ART!” and we both agreed that he had somehow, by turning the conversation on its head, won this argument that wasn’t actually an argument.

I met him… Actually, I don’t know. Maybe at Spencer’s 206 (the legendary downtown record store with fluffy couches, walls and shelves covered in Steve Keene paintings, an espresso machine, and a secret bottle of Irish whiskey behind the counter that was shared with only the most valued customers). Maybe at Gallery Neo or some other arts establishment. Maybe at Fellini’s during a smoke-filled and rowdy Hogwaller Ramblers gig (possibly even one where the band made it to the end of a set before declaring they hated each other and breaking up). Maybe just walking down The Downtown Mall on some lovely afternoon.

But I do remember April 8th, 1994. I was at my brother’s apartment, hanging out, probably borrowing some CDs to take home and tape, MTV was on in the background. As I was about to leave they broke in to announce that Kurt Cobain had been found dead.

We were shocked, obviously. And I realized that the self-appointed town cryer of Downtown should be informed. So I walked downstairs and outside, looking for Farrell. Two blocks later, at Central Place, I ran into him as he was on one of his countless “quick breaks” from work. I gave him the news. He thanked me for telling him, and said something about at landmark moments such as this, we will always remember where we were when we first heard.

The next afternoon, I ran into him at practically the same exact spot. I had a stack of xeroxed flyers collaging the day’s news reports. He had a stack of xeroxed flyers with an unattributed poem about the premature passing of a troubled young man. We laughed at having had such similar ideas, he gave me his stack (“so nobody knows who’s behind it, please don’t tell”), and I walked up and down, posting our memorials on kiosks, on lampposts, and in shop windows.

* * * * *

In the late spring of 2000, Downtown Charlottesville was weird. Old businesses were disappearing, things were getting more expensive, new buildings were rising and casting shadows over everything, the hot local bands had either broken up or hit the big time, the tight-knit arts scene was stretching and unraveling. We made it past the great scare of Y2K, and the new millennium was nothing to write home about. I was personally not in a great way, and many of my friends were in a similar state.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Matthew Farrell appeared with a mission for us. He thought things had gotten staid and boring. He had an idea of a scavenger hunt for the unwitting public, a way to turn all of Downtown into an open-air gallery. He handpicked a dozen friends and asked them to recruit others, to work in secret and install pieces in the dead of night for the world to discover as they went about their business. Some of those he tagged, like me, were insistent that we weren’t artists and had no business creating or displaying anything (though we’d be happy to help with placement and logistics) – but Matthew wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted we needed to make things. He was, as ever, correct.

We all went to our separate corners, labored over things we thought were worthy of public exhibition. On a predetermined date in June, the first pieces appeared… And most of them were gone within 24 hours. We were bummed. Many of us went to Miller’s that evening, we ran into Farrell, we expressed our disappointment. He sympathized but also gave a weird kind of pep talk, a “don’t let the bastards get to you” thing.

And then the next day, a group of us got together after work (and after a couple drinks) with an assortment of scavenged materials: spray paint, pizza boxes, construction supplies, traffic cones, plywood, seat cushions from some old chairs we found being thrown out. And for the rest of the summer, whoever was around on any given evening would meet, make things, and then run around and find places they might fit (and hopefully evade removal for a day): high on a ledge, inside a vacant storefront, behind a drainpipe, tucked next to an awning, woven into the bars of an air vent, peering out of a planter. “Think less, make stuff faster, and make more of it” became our mantra – pretty much exactly embodying Matt’s philosophy of art, though I don’t think he gave us any explicit direction. He simply saw a need, provided the fuel, lit the flame, and celebrated the results at every opportunity.

That was Matt. Or maybe Farrell, or Matthew, or even MSF (who only appeared on rare occasions). Matthew Sean Farrell, who believed we could all do whatever we wanted, and believed whatever we did was worthwhile. I wouldn’t be here as I am today without that spirit, and hopefully – if I’m doing it right – I’ll pass a bit of that on to others along my way.

So thanks Matt, my friend. For all of it. Your inspiration and your light shines on. And you’d be happy to know I wear a tie fairly often these days – by choice, not simply out of obligation.