I was lying in bed listening to the late night news bulletin on Sunday night (technically Monday morning), when I heard that Sol LeWitt had died. Although like around 95% of contemporary artists his work did tend towards the formulaic and a bit uninspiring in the later years, his pieces of the 60s and 70s were among my favourites.
In the past I sort of 'collected' the Minimalists, a bit like collecting baseball cards. As previously reported on this site, I spent a rather bizarre but unforgettable day with Dan Flavin. An afternoon with the amazingly gentle Carl Andre. And of course I've worshipped at the altar of Donald Judd for years now, though (probably thankfully) never got the chance to meet him. And I once spoke to Michael Heizer on the phone, even though he kept on insisting he wasn't actually Heizer between asking me how I'd got hold of the number. Very strange.
I had the chance to meet LeWitt a few years back. I wanted to interview him for a documentary, but (rather like Andre) he didn't want his image to be seen on the media. He said a sound only interview would be the best idea and invited me out to his studio. In the end, we chose not to go because it was a long way to go and I assumed that we'd end up cutting it from the film. Now I feel bad that I never got to meet him. He certainly hid away - there was only one portrait picture of him on Google Images when I looked today, and it must have been all of at least 40 years old.
There's a fabulous room of four wall drawings on show at the Tate Modern right now - white on black. I hope they keep it there for a while and I can go and pay my respects. And I hope art history is kind to Sol - I for one think he deserves it.