How do you begin to sum up the events of twenty-five years that have seen APT grow from a semi-derelict warehouse into a thriving studio complex and a gallery known throughout London for it’s innovation and unceasing support of artists at all stages of their careers? For much of this time Liz May has been at the centre of things building networks, building buildings, caring for the gallery and the artists, tidying, talking, adding up the figures and exhibiting work from all over the world. This exhibition is a reflection of some of that time.

In the absence of a gallery with open doors, we have tried to put together something of the show here - not a full catalogue perhaps, but with a feel for the delicate, bold and vibrant works in the show.
Works from the exhibition …

Perhaps the person best qualified to talk about her time at APT is Liz herself so she has put together some text and images recalling some of the memorable events that have allowed all of us to arrive where we are today.
Reflections by Liz May …

Introduction

Eighteen years is a long time - a great deal can change in eighteen years. As we now know, a great deal can change in eighteen weeks. And yet, sitting on the little platform outside the tea-hut in the yard behind APT, looking down the creek towards Greenwich as the tide recedes one can’t help noticing how much has stayed the same.

So, imagine a Thursday afternoon in early October. A bank of grey cloud hangs low in the west over Deptford and the Bird’s Nest wears a white crown. Two ducks crash noisily into a pool of sunlight on the creek, laughing at the hull of a boat keeled over in the mud.
Low-tide.

With a reluctant sigh a train glides over on the DLR, a red-grey movie unspooling into Greenwich, shedding silver fragments into the water.

The office is a terminal moraine of boxes, stacks of paper, artworks frosted-up with bubble-wrap and a random scattering of tools and clothing. A keyboard shivers out its text in a rapid clattering of words that stitch the world together like a ship’s rigging and the printer whirrs as it wipes a fresh white plate onto the hull. An artist enters the room and asks whether mice should be trapped and released or treated with poison – words fill the air pushing the other sounds away before floating quietly to the ground once more.

A snappy little salsa dances from the gallery through the clutter in the back corridor and in through the stockroom door. A woman’s voice with cavernous distortions makes a personal statement before falling into a brief but fizzing silence. Then the music returns, on a loop, the same snappy salsa. On the gallery wall in the shadows of the rear room a blue figure walks towards the camera holding a bright orange fruit. She turns, dances away and is replaced by a carnival of colours and the word ACTION spelled out in capital letters. On the wall nearby hangs a large painting of the facepaint of a clown next to a small painting of a parakeet.

The glass door from the street swings open and a man comes in attracted by the red silk banner and the barrow-load of earth. He enquires if the show is open and is told about the private view at 6:30. He mumbles his thanks and walks slowly down the line of fifteen broken objects fixed to the wall.

Later, while the glasses clink and kiss, the spot-lit air will be warm and bright and filled with a baggage of voices. The congregation by the gallery desk will be introducing their oldest friends and familiars and the pavement will be crowded in the gallery lights. The DLR will still be running but the night air will be turning cold. The yard behind APT will be dark and the birds will have fallen quiet. But the tide will be coming in. 

Thank you for all of this Liz.

[Text by Patrick Semple]