THESE CORRODED POEMS
A few weeks ago I lost a friend - and one of the most authentic artists and human beings I know - to a tragically short battle with cancer. His name was Joe Loughborough.
One moment Joe was here and nothing seemed different. He was still the same person he’d ever been. But his body was being silently taken over. The cancer was working in secret to rewrite instructions and slowly sabotage systems until it finally reached his brain - and small signs started appearing. By then it was too late. Within weeks of diagnosis, he had died.
It’s hard to see how anything good can be made from this sort of news. It doesn’t make any sense, and it feels cruel. For Joe - for all those days that have been stolen- and for all those that loved him for all the time we thought we had still to come.
News like this drops you to the bottom of the well. It stirs up the deepest questions. Why are we here? What’s the point of making anything? Of creating, working, even continuing? But as the dust begins to settle, I find myself slowly understanding that there are lessons to be learned. Not easy ones. Not comforting, tidy answers. But something real. Something about presence. About love. About showing up for the things and people we care about while we still can.
Joe lived his life as an artist with quiet authenticity and a deep, steady passion. He never needed to take up all the space in the room - he made space for others. He listened more than he spoke, cracked jokes at just the right moment, and was always up for a philosophical chat over beers. He was one of my favourite people to go to art shows with, because his love for the work was as strong as his love for silliness. Joe walked that rare line - taking things seriously, but never forgetting the deeper truth: that this world is mostly chaos, signifying nothing.
As I’ve been grieving and remembering Joe these weeks, there’s a detail that keeps coming back to me. Something he’d do, that neatly summed up his dedication to his craft and the care he always showed towards his friends.
We’d often meet in the early evenings to go to private views. Because of the timing of these, it was easy to end up skipping dinner, or - worse - having to make uncomfortable excuses for why you couldn’t go to a restaurant after (the real reason being: because it can be hard to make money from art, and you couldn’t afford it). But Joe always came prepared. We’d sit down for a beer and from his pocket, he’d pull out a cheese and pickle sandwich neatly wrapped in foil, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That small gesture always struck me. It wasn’t just thriftiness - it was care. It was foresight. It was his quiet way of making sure nothing, not hunger or money or time, would stand in the way of what mattered to him. He found a way to live fully and do what he loved, without fanfare or complaint. That sandwich, to me, is a symbol of how he moved through the world.
And it feels like the best way to honour a friend like Joe is not just in words, but in the way I live and work. I think it starts with the small things. With trying to be more present. With carving out time for what matters and not worrying so much about what may lay ahead. And showing up for the work, for the people I love - and for the absurd, beautiful chaos of it all.
In The Red Hand Files this week, Nick Cave speaks of drawing inspiration and strength from those who have passed away, as if calling on their spirit allows us to temporarily inhabit or channel their best qualities. It really resonated with me - it gives grief a transformative dimension. It becomes not only something we suffer, but something that can empower us.
I’ll never stop missing Joe. But I know I can honour him best by living with that same quiet courage. By making the work. And maybe, sometimes, by remembering to bring a sandwich.
Joe’s final exhibition was created before even finding out about his diagnosis and the Private View opened only days after his death. It was a beautiful evening of family and friends - and a fitting tribute to an artist who dedicated his life to his work.
You can look at his final body of work at Well Hung Gallery in Hoxton and the show has been extended over the summer to give more people a chance to see his work “These Corroded Poems”