brooker

happy birthday John

2010-10-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

As you are reading todays blog you might just get that feeling that you have read this before...Well dear reader I will put your mind at rest.You have! I posted it here a year ago. I know what you are all saying (because I am talented that way) Where are the new blogs? They are here happy readers, waiting for there big day. I have about 5 in the can or box or where ever one keeps words. I will be back on track and posting them on a regular basis...Promise

On December 8th 1980 I was getting ready for a really hot date (Im not sure what I mean about getting ready) but I was doing what boys do before a date (still not sure?) It was one of those sharp cool nights in New york city where everything seem to look and feel good. I was living on 59th and 1st in a very nice apartment lent to me by a very nice friend (I love to use the word 'nice' twice in a sentence). The apartment was full of my paintings and more paintings (what a shock) all leaning against every wall. Brushes all clean and showing off there new haircuts. Sketches on the floor (doing what sketches do) and the smell of hope in every tube of oil paint. It could not have been more of an artist studio, even if MGM had set it up.I had just finished a series of paintings and was feeling good....very good in fact. With the prospect of a beautiful woman coming to visit and with all my work behind me for at least 5 minutes. I was ready to turn on the charm and maybe the shower (maybe even both). She called me and told me traffic was bad and that she would be a little late. When she arrived, it was a little later than I would have wanted(I hadnt slept the night before but I was young). She brought the cold air in with her beauty and explained how thing were a chaos on the upper west side. I hung on to every word like she was reciting poetry. she was more beautiful than I had remembered from the party. I poured her a drink as she continued to give me a traffic report. As I was sipping my wine she casually said that Yoko Ono had been shot .I thought I hadn't heard right 'What' I said, 'Yes the japanese woman married to that Beatle had been shot, but she was o.k.' Then she continued on about the traffic. I ran to the other room to get my little radio (I didn't have a T.V ) the batteries were nearly dead, so the story kept fading in and out. The man on the radio sounded somber. 'Reports are coming in that Yoko has been shot to death and that John was just wounded' I took a very deep breathe. He went on to say they didn't have the full story .......I pressed the radio tightly against my ear to try a hear better, while My date started to nibble on my other ear.I pulled away from her and motioned to her that I had to hear the story. Then the worst news came through. Delivered it in a low tone ,slowly and precise he said 'At 11.21 p.m. John Lennon was pronounced dead'............................... At 11.22 my date wanted to make out. I said I couldn't .I said I was numb, I said I have just died inside.I said this is really sad news. She told me to not be so dramatic. 'Its only a singer and a washed up one at that'. I was too numb to really respond.I told her it would be best to leave. I told her things wouldn't work out. I told her I was devastated and I really needed to be alone. She made one more last attempt to win me over, but her beauty had turned to ugly in a split second.I don't remember her leaving but I do remember sitting on the corner of my bed all night and most of the next day.I remember thinking what was the point of anything.I remember thinking this news was far too personal to share with a strange woman who didn't seem affected at all by the news.I remember calling my mother.I remember I cried and couldn't stop.I remember she said I would get over it. I remember thinking what does that mean ' Get over it'
Last friday was John Lennons birthday. He would have been 69.I suppose it was the closest I ever came to having a Hero.

I like to float on my back in the warm womb-like pool in Miami. I like to look at all the stars.I like to think about how big the universe is.I like to think about how huge the entire solar system and beyond is.I like to think this because It makes me feel small.No! correction! It makes me feel like I don't exist, and the truth is (in the big picture) I don't. I cant. Im so small (we all are) Compared to what's out there we are all nothing.Zero. This feeling use to scare me but now it makes me feel good.It makes me feel like nothing is that important...NOTHING! How can it be, Im smaller than a speck of dust. Smaller in fact. This doesn't mean that I don't do my best with my art or try to be nice to people, I do. But it puts everything beautifully into perspective.Recession, Mortgage payments, traffic tickets,toothaches, delayed flights, bad drivers, Assholes. Im nothing and it makes me feel good. Perspective!
I like to float on my back, in the dream-like state under the stars in Miami, because I don't exist.

Today isJohn Lennons birthday, he would have been seventy.He was the closest I ever came to having a hero. Happy birthday John.

five new posters

2010-08-22T00:29:00.000-07:00

nature morte THE MOVIE

2010-07-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

Copy and paste address below to view film or go to www.brookereditions and click on link

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJ_lQaPLCvI

tales from a paint box 1937

2010-06-11T10:42:00.000-07:00

To view the new film 'Tales from a Paint Box' copy and paste the links below...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tAtGhTeyLlk

www.brookereditions.com

(above) A still from the film 'Tales from a paint box' 1937

metro-sexual

2010-04-14T03:53:00.001-07:00

MIAMI

In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

Im trying to read T.S. Elliot, again.I say trying, because Im slightly distracted and the poems don't rhyme .I'm looking at this very large but beautiful woman. She has placed herself near the pool.There are two of her, courtesy of the pools reflection.Twins! One (the real one) is very still (oil painting still) while the other, dances wobbles and flickers across the water, like one of those dreadful kinetic installations, that seem to infect galleries and museums these days.. She looks naked, but in fact she is wearing this string bikini contraption. It has so many twists and turns,not unlike a hitchcock movie.I study it. I should be reading instead, but my eyes wont let me . I just sip my wine and realize Im enjoying myself . Her bathing costume (?) must have come complete with instructions, written or drawn by some seasoned Japanese sailor, who spent a lifetime mastering the art of knots (the rope ones not the speed) or a gifted boy scout with a taste of the absurd.Getting out of it could result in strangulation or even worse. I want to take my eyes off her, but I dont, or rather, I cant. Im sitting on a friends balcony in Miami.It feels more like an opera box and Im looking down at the cheap seats, only they are not.I want to give a little wave to the oiled baking bodies below, but I bite my chicken sandwich and sip my wine instead (not at the same time) Its a beautiful day.The palm trees are waving to each other and making that straw dress, rubbing sound against there thighs. I struggle with a few more lines of T.S. The large woman looks like a trussed (Botero) turkey.The white string of her suit, if one can call it a suit, cuts into her dark 'oven roasted' flesh.The thin white string dissappears into her body, making rare apeareces last minute,only when it really has to. It could almost look like a white footpath meandering over a range of hills, as seen from a small plane.It could, If one had the mindset to think that way. In complete contrast, her Giocametti style husband, (I think its her husband) is having trouble, with landing his huge white beach towel on the chaise longue next to her. She is oblivious to him. It looks like he is waving surrender to the wind. Maybe he is. Placing the towel down wind might help (just a suggestion) The gust suddenly sends the towel clinging to his torso (Christo- esque style) Im trying to read T.S. Elliot again, but he has too much competition today. I finish my sandwich and realize Prufrock will have to wait. At least for now.

PARIS

Im doing what I usually do on the metro.Im listening to my music and observing people .A perfect marriage of sound and sight. The truth is Im secretly filming the passengers.This amazing cast of thousands. No lines, No curtain calls, no applause. Just an incredable journey, in one act. I have been filming this stella cast for 3 years now ,with my little still camera that just happens to take 3 minutes of video (So I have to be selective) This is the greatest show in Paris.Its not just a mode of transport to get from one attraction to the next.This is the attraction,and what a show.Well worth the price of admission and never sold out.In fact its been running for years. Come rain or shine.With the exception of strikes (don't get me started)
Im sitting on hard seats that are covered in early 80s looking material. It is supposed to make the seats feel and look soft.It fails on both counts.Im sitting and pretending to be minding my own business , something Im good at, when a man pushes something near my face.Its usually best not to take a look, but I have to, its my profession. At first It was quite shocking, even at second, the shock continued .The man had no arms. No real arms. Just sticks (small painted branches), which were somehow tied or rather taped to his shoulders with dirty duck tape.He had a llttle tray tied to one of his branches or rather twigs (fingers) that said Merci! It should have said Mercy. There were a few encouraging coins in the cup already.I wanted to reach into my pockets for change, but I never carry change, in fact I dont even carry money(a metro mugging story that I will bore you with another time) My hand disappeared into my pockets anyway, to show some attempt ( dont ask me why) This made things worse of course, because the' tree man' is now waiting and waiting. Swaying in the wind.Glaring down at me. I am now commited. An unspoken contract between our eyes has been written. My fellow, hopeful, metro travellers sit there waiting for me to produce some money.There hopes and guilt are on my shoulders now. I feel like Im digging deep, very deep.I suddenly in a total moment of panic, think I should part with my watch, but it would never fit his (wrist?) I apologize with some strange facial expression, that doesn't suit me, and feel guilty for my little fake moment of charity, And guilty for having arms and hands.I think Im blushing.I know Im blushing. I vowed always to carry change on the metro for such occassions. I never did. I vowed to always carry my camera. Usually I do, except this time. Im still wondering who connected his arms.He didnt! I wonder if he takes them off at night. I think about the book 'The Giving Tree'.I keep repeating in my mind 'Im out on a limb Im out on a limb' like some crazed mantra, that I want to find amusing, but don't. The passengers, dissappointed at my lack of funds, do what they do best..NOTHING. Deliberate, nothing. I continue to blush and decide to change carriges, to escape my angry looking jury. Its a fresh crowd. Im saved. I take a huge breath and look up, only to see the tree man working his majic at the other end of my new guiltless carriage.

The begging in the Paris metro is an industry a booming one at that. Everybody has there own little show or sob story or both.The one thing the beggars have in common is the polite way they introduce themselves." Bonjour Messieurs Dames". Then we are treated to a story of hardship and misery.It always sounds like the start of a great play or the introduction to masterpiece theatre(The French version) The stories are quite lengthy, sometimes 2 or 3 merto stations long. The faces of the begging performers are always tinged with a razor sharp sadness .Most passengers often leave before the beggers get to the end of the story or the carriage.Most passengers ignore them.I stay till the end. I have seen most things over the last 3 years of filming in this amazing theatre on wheels. The vampire couple complete with real fangs, holding hands like a sweet (three thousand year) old couple. The retarded lovers(I use the word retarded in its true sense) trying to have sex.Trying being the key word. The Hitler youth group complete with flopped swastika sign and very shiny boots.With lesser versions of German shepherds by there sides.The beautiful French woman, poised like an perfume commercial in a glossy magazine. Poised until the man she was with, calmly points out that she had dropped her beautiful purple thong on the floor. Suddenly her composure crumbled as she grabbed the crumpled panties like her life depended on it, and stuffed them somewhere safer than before.They both made an exit at the next station.She had turned the same colour as her knickers, almost. But some of the most interesting observations have been just ordinary people ( A title nobody wants to claim) What people do when they think nobody is watching could not be scripted. And thats the beauty of the metro,nobody has to do or be anything they dont want. Its a kind of no mans land a free zone.On wheels.

A friend tells me her metro story. A well dressed man introduces himself every morning on the way to work.He said he wasnt looking for money or sympathy He was just looking for a wife.He told the captured audience that he worked really hard (10 hours a day) and made enough money for two. He just didn't have time to go to bars etc looking for a mate. So if any woman between the ages of 25-35 liked the look of him, to introduce themselves as he walked through the carriage. I hear hopeful 55 + woman took a fancy to the well dressed, finacially secure man..I wish I could tell you how the story ends, I cant alas.
I love observing here, deep below the city.Its a place where the light the smell the mood seldom changes, only the people .I am never bored.Its impossible.I am amazed how so many random people can enter and exit a carriage in perfect chaotic order.Most modern dance groups would envy this precession choreography. People try not to touch or look or talk to each other, its become an amazing skill. I cherish the rare moments when it all goes wrong.The train slams on its breaks and everyone lunges forward onto each other, a passenger sunami.Only seconds later to re-group and act as if nothing ever happened.I love the silver sliding curtains, that open without fanfare, just an electronic whoosh. You never know who or what will enter the stage. What a great show.It never ends. I wish the seats were a little more comfortable.I wish I could afford a season ticket.I wish they had a bar at intermission. Except there never is one (an intermission that is, not a bar.One has to supply ones own refreshments. And they do)

MIAMI (part 2)

It is perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?

The bathing beauty and her husband have removed themselves from the pool.The place seems almost empty now.Its that beautiful time of the day. The white sun cant make up its mind what to do, stay or leave, or just linger.The palms exhausted from a day of waving to each other give up. The show is over.I leave my balcony and I dont turn back. Empty plate, with traces of English mustard and crumbs in one hand, and the Waste Land and other poems in the other.
Later I will try to read Mr Elliot again.
It was a beautiful day, maybe even a perfect. But I miss Paris.
Better theartre.

But on this day, only just. Only just.

brooker editions

2010-04-11T02:19:00.000-07:00

www.brookereditions.com

the write stuff

2009-12-14T11:46:00.001-08:00

The write stuff

Im sitting in a classroom and its a really hot summers day. Its one of those days that feels stagnat. Still. I think the word people would use is, close.Im going to use Balmy.Its a balmy day and it isnt moving forward at all.I have been staring at the clock now for 23 minuits and it still says 2.47.The second hand is exhausted and refuses to go any faster. All the windows are open, letting in hotter air. I can hear the groundsman yelling at his lawnmower, that also refuses to move forward.His yelling makes me grin. The windows are open for another reason.The wax on the floors have started to melt with the heat and are giving off fumes that headaches are made of.I love this smell and I already have a headache, So Im ahead of the game. Its 2.47 still and its getting hotter by the second, which in this case means hours. I hate this lesson because I hate the teacher.She is cruel and hates kids, but she especialy hates me.We are reading Shakespeare at his worst, something kids our age shouldnt be reading.The mower starts for a second and with a huge gasp, dies instantly.The groundsman yells something that children our age also shouldn't be hearing.Its 2.48, a slight improvement. Im sitting in a hot classroom praying that the teacher doesnt ask me to read.I am not religious, but Im praying to God orJesus or whoever is out there that I get spared.I make the usual deal with god, that should I be spared, I will go to church.The teacher walks or rather marches up and down the isles of the classroom. Her shoes, which have spinster written all over them,stick to the wax floor letting out a wet fart noise with every stride.I try to contol my laugh.I am the class clown, but this is a venue where Im fraught with stage fright. The teacher marches up and down prodding backs and flicking the kids ears at random, with her boney fingers.Its 2.48 and Im waiting for the number that will spell freedom. Finally the mower starts and drowns out all sound in the classroom and also the huge cheer in my head.. This means we have to read the books quietly to ourselves.SAVED! Its 2.49 and Im on the last furlong. Just as I let out a huge sigh of relief.So does the lawnmower, and it grinds to a halt for good.The groundsman looses whatever cool he had, and says things that would make even Shakespeare toes crawl.Then he storms off to the refuge of his shed. I off course let out a less controlled laugh that seem to ricochet around the class. The teacher I hate, stares at me with her cold snake like eyes.I feel the smallest droplet of sweat trickle down my little torso.I have the feeling I wont be living up to my deal with God this sunday. She makes me stand up and tells me to read the next 5 pages.She knows I cant read.The other kids know I cant read but this doesnt stop her screaming 'Come on stupid boy, R E A D !'.When she says read, I see all of her yellow ochre teeth with tinges of burnt sienna in between the cracks. All this encased with her dry pale lips. I stand there looking terrified, unable to think, let alone talk.I stand there biting the inside of my mouth. All the words to me are just like little symbols. Little drawings all jumbled up.Hieroglyphics.She knows this. I am left handed and write from right to left and back to front.This book by Shakespeare means very little to me at the best of times.But being asked to read it! She knows all the other teachers grade my work with a mirror to reflect my writing the right way around. Everything is normal except its back to front.(this goes for drawing maps and diagrams.Playing musical instruments. Using woodwork tools) in fact everything . I dont know what to do.So I do what I do best, I grin. Its 2.50 and I want to run away, I want to go home.I of course continue to grin.
The teachers face gets meaner , if that is possible and takes huge strides towards me. She raises her arm, that looks like an out of control broken windmill, and slaps me clean across my face.The room shakes a little, and then goes silent. I see her foul face screaming at me .I can make out the word s t u p i d because she says it in slow motion over and over again. I see all the kids pointing and laughing at me.I feel my mouth filling up with blood, I grin. She slaps me again. The sound has been turned up a little.Her hand is clammy, and on contact, makes the sound of a wet fish. The volume gets a little louder, and the speed of everything gets resumed to its former miserable glory.I slowly close William Shakespeare and place it gently on the desk, but not before leaving some jackson pollock like splashes of the most beautiful cadmium red I have ever seen.The blood drops say plop! as they hit the words I couldnt read.Words by William Shakespeare blood by Philip Brooker. I then walk towards to the door and reach for the handle that would set me free.The volume is now on full. Just as I my fingertips touch the door knob, I feel this claw lift my collar and swing me around in front of the class like some prize kill, compleate with blood 'Not so fast stupid boy' the witch barks.'I have an announcement to make. Next term stupid boy here will be in the 'idiots class' as she so fondly reffered to it.'So I want the class all to say your goodbyes now'. Then she looked straight into my eyes , still holding me like a dead bird.'This is what happens to stupid boys who cant read in my class.' Its 2.59 and my face is burning.In fact my whole body is on fire. I feel defeated.My eyeslids are full of very heavy tears.I try to keep my head still, should one drop to the floor. This would offically be crying.This would be the worst.Kids can be cruel. I wouldnt want a headline like 'BROOKER CRIES IN CLASS' Im hoping for 'PUPIL SURVIVES BEATING'. Ridicule at its British best.
I hate the teacher.I hate william Shakespeare, I had the groundsman for his lack of mechanical knowledge. I hate time for stopping.
Im standing in a classroom.I have a mouth full of blood.Its 3.oclock and Im 10 years old.

dyslexia |disˈleksēə|
noun
a general term for disorders that involve difficulty in learning to read or interpret words, letters, and other symbols, but that do not affect general intelligence.

I love my new teacher.She is tall and young and her hair is pretty and she smells clean like my mothers rose garden.I love my teacher because she says Im too smart for her class and that I dont belong there.I love her because when she walks. Her shoes whisper welcome to my class . I am in the' idiots class' surrounded by' idiots'. It look like a scene from one flew over the cuckoos nest. I like my new idiot friends.They may be idiots but they are also the toughest kids in the school..They are feared. I like my new friends in a 'dont hurt me' kind of way and they like me.I have a mafia type protection. From now on nobody messes with me.I am connected I am made.I learn more in one month with my new teacher than a year with the old crow.I learn that words are not drawings.I learn that its o.k. to read with a mirror (something the other teacher would never allow) I learn that Leonado de Vinci and I shared the same problem, only he also wrote upside down.I learn I cant spell in either direction. I love my new teacher and all my new friends. I love my teacher when she sits very close to me, as I explain what these letters mean to me.I want this lesson to last forever.It doesnt, the clock wont allow it. I tell her as slowly as I can my Alphabet...
A=Wigwam B= Front-teeth sideways C=bow without a string.D= bow with a string.E=.End of fork.F= farmers hoe .G= wood clamp H=rugby goal post I=pencil J=hockey stick K=arrowhead in a piece of wood.L=nose M=mountains. N=amusement ride. O=eyeball. P=flag on a pole. Q=balloon on a string. R=slide in a playground.S=a snake. T=flathead nail U=a tongue V=TV ariel W=fangs X=tire wrench.Y=snakes tongue Z=lightning.

Im sitting in my studio in Paris.The widow is open and the cold air bites me in a friendly and loving way. Im working on the story that you are reading now.I feel strange. Maybe its because I've excuvated the dry carcass of the witch. I try not to ponder to long.I pick up my pencil and write on a new piece of paper U O Y K C U F . I stare at the letters. Then I stare at the letters as symbols.It really says farmers hoe, tongue, bow without a string and an arrow head stuck in a piece of wood.Well you get the picture or rather the word.
I bite the inside of my mouth a little too hard.
Im sitting in my studio.
I do what I do best and grin.
Im 53.

Above: My left hand from the series 'souvenir of dinard' Digital print on paper. 7'x4'

the upper crust

2009-12-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

O.K. today we start off with a simple quiz .A French quiz if you will, only it's in English. Ready? What are the first three things that come to mind when you think of 'The French?' and when I say 'The French', I mean of course 'The Parisians'.This isnt a trick question . Oh I know what your thinking, go on say it, we are all grown up here.Top of the list .They pong (usually the armpit area and always on the metro, and for some reason, even in the winter) 2.They strike at the drop of a hat (or rather a berat) Number 3. The woman dont shave there armpits'. Really! is that what you are all saying? (actually its what I am saying, but for the sake of argument, we will pretend its you) Well you might be right. But personally I was thinking something more like this (play a piece by Debussy when reading the next few lines).....Beautiful woman in skirts gliding on bicycles down avenues with names that sound like exotic pied piper-like perfumes.Or, strange seductive cigarette fumes that dance and drift in and around cafes. Inhaled by the likes of Jean Paul Sartre, Serge Gainsbourg, Juliette Greco.But really, When I think of what Paris means to me, It is something closer to this.The amazing buildings that loom over me with a knowing smile, while running there fingertips gently through my hair as if to say, 'welcome my skinny English boy to my warm ample bosom.'The erotic smells that waft in and around this city,looking for a soul to inhabit. A whisper that seems to say 'eat me, drink me take me. One whiff and I'm all yours. Or the feeling you are walking and living and yes breathing , in one huge flirtatious sensual expo with an accent or subtitles. O.K. dear reader, I know what you are thinking. Philip is on his third galss off wine.Well you are wrong, its my second. But I did have an amazing martini around 7 crammed with olives......O.k. getting back to the essence of 'The Parisian'......Oh! forget the essence and forget the quiz. Today I'm writing about that national instituation that rises with the sun ever morning. BREAD! yes BREAD! yes French! BREAD.

It seems that on every street in Paris and I mean every street, at all times of the day (with the exception of 1.30am -5.30am or there about) there is a person or persons walking casuallly with a baguette under his or her arm (and when I say arm) I mean arm-pit (more about that later) And when I say baguette, I'm talking about that fantastic, warm crusty, out of this world stick of bread, with a smell that should be bottled or arrested or both. O.K. before I waffle on too much, here is the answer to the quiz I posed 3 glasses of wine ago..The answers dear readers (or reader), in no particular order (Drum roll please) has to be ' The Baguette' (forget the other 2 on the list) THIS very very very French icon that we have all come to know and love and smell and YES! even eat, is the clear champion ..only its not, dare I say, FRENCH! (but its still the winner and an icon)
I will tell you why (yes I actually did some investigative reporting on this one) those years at the Miami Herald actually payed off. Im glad something did.
Im not sure I have ever walked down a rue or an avenue without someone carriying a baguette. It almost seems like a joke or an artist happening or a huge campaign set up by the French government or the French bread commission to make you buy bread. BUT NO! People here do it as a natuaral daily routine.Sometimes its more than one loaf, sometimes its up to 6 sticks (I suppose for those tres chic parties that I never seem get invited too) I have seen men woman children and yes even dogs carring these amazing sticks of bread.I have seen grown men using them to practise there golf strokes or young boys trying to perfect there fencing technics or woman caressing the end as if to say 'if only if only'. A young woman beating her boyfriend over the head with it. A boyfriend wacking her on the ass with it. I have seen people eating the ends of the bread on there way home,or the middle( also on there way home) I have seen a woman drop 3 of them in a poopy looking street, only to brush them off and be on her merry way ( the guests will never know) Trust me, its all a set up.I know, or think I do. That these various people are employed on a daliy basis just to carry these things around with them to entice others (tourists) to buy, as if the smell wasn't enough to lure us all in..But I hear what you are all saying 'philip, didnt you say something about this French instituion not actually being French at all?" What good SOBER memories you all have.
O.K. let me take you back to last tuesday or was it wednesday? ( it should be said,I knew as much about baguettes as you do, maybe less) I wandered to my local boulangerie (a good place to start I thought) to ask some soul searching dough rising questions..It went something like this, 'Bonjour Madam' (then it went to English with the help of an interpreter(Yes i know, I really must learn French.) I asked 'can you tell me something about the Baguette? She looked startled at first (maybe it was my new haircut) then I offered her some help ;'The history maybe?' Even more startled. Then she shrugged her shoulders so high, I thought she might hurt herself and other people nearby.Her poetic reply was 'you want to buy something or not' I pressed on, and asked her another tough question...This time she answered 'we sell the best bread in the area maybe Paris..You want to buy something or not? What a sweetheart, and what a smart beard she seemed to be sporting.It will look just fine when its grown in.

Not the type to be easily defeated (with distant memories of the battle of Waterloo flashing in front of me) I moved on to the next boulageroie and then the next..Same answer, same shoulder shrug 'we have the best bread in the region and maybe all of Paris..At least the last ladies reply was a little different 'why do you want to know? Dont ask so many questions, just eat the bread...Then she went on to say she sold the best bread in the region and Paris and even France.I did notice that she forgot to shrug her shoulders.Maybe she did it when I left. So with all this wealth of knowledge and a warm baguette nestlled firmly under my arm, I went to the Bibliotheque National (the mother of all French libraries)to find answers. I will save you all the boring bits, but here it is in a nutsdhell. When did the Baguette become an icon in Paris? Why didnt any of these woman know anything about the history of the bagette? Why did I cut my hair so short, (its winter for goodness sake?).....What I found out answered all my questions (apart from the bad haircut one) Brace yourselfs readers, you may not like the answer........

(WARNING!) There is almost no history to this story either. I know what you are saying (yes! I read minds also) You are saying, 'What? Europe? and NO HISTORY"? O.K there is a little bit, but not as much as you may want...It goes something like this.
In the early 19th century an Austian artillery officer called August Zang who opened a very famous bakery in Vienna in 1838. BUT! Also founded the daily newspaper 'Die Presse' which still exists today (this doesnt have much to do with this bread story at all, in fact nothing at all.Well maybe a little. One uses dough for bread and gets dough to work at a newspaper but thats about it). Quite a clever geezer if you ask me. Anyway, he also introduced the new 'Deck oven' (a combination of gas and steam) into Paris.The steam, as Im sure you all know, allows the crust to expand before setting, thus creating a light fluffy dough inside, yet a golden crusty skin outside. Voila!! This is the bit where it gets very French (you may want to sit down). In 1920 a law was passed forbidding bakers to bake bread after 10p.m.till 4 a.m. making it impossible to bake the tradittional round bread in time.So the problem was solved by baking the thin Baguette.It could be baked and ready for the grumpy French customers in the morning. And so was born le Baguette. ( rod, wand stick, Baguette has a few meanings..you get the crust or rather drift).In 1960 an ad campaign was launched to further the popularity of "La Baguette", a woman dressed in a smock walking through the streets claiming "Ben, que c'est bon!"( Well! its good! ) and grinning. The sales went through the roof ( of the oven no doubt) .Im sure being a French ad, she was really only wearing a smile, making not only the bread rise..Oooo la la.So this crusty icon of the Parisians is in fact a late bloomer as far as icons go.Because they sometimes go far.
Im always amazed at the passion the French have, for most things. Usually most things that are a food. Im going to the boulangerie tomorrow.It's a sunday and most shops are closed Except for (yes you guessed it) There will be lines of people coming out of these places.Lines not seen since the end of the war or lines still whitnessed in Russia or whatever its called these days.People will stand for a long long time (patient,nearly smiling, all very unlike the Parisians) Looking and acting almost like crack additcts getting there daily high. Or demented teens lining up for a Britney Spears tickets.These customers will stand in a gastronomic trance. I will be with them, staring at them 'standing in a trance'
O.K. I want to end this Blog entry the way I started (and I don't mean another martini) I want to finish with another quiz. Question: What part of a Baguette should you never ever ever eat.? (I will give you 30 seconds)....Would you like a clue? (A CLUE) Espically on a summers day.....Oh come on, the answer is a breeze....WHAT!You need another clue? oh! your'e the pits...

Bon Apetit

The Promo

2009-11-10T12:10:00.000-08:00

11.11.11.

2009-11-09T01:45:00.000-08:00

"No pen or drawing can convey this country—the normal setting of the battles taking place day and night, month after month. Evil and the incarnate fiend alone can be master of this war, and no glimmer of God's hand is seen anywhere. Sunset and sunrise are blasphemous, there are mockeries to man, only the black rain out of the bruised and swollen clouds all through the bitter black of night is fit atmosphere in such a land. The rain drives on, the stinking mud becomes evilly yellow, the shell-holes fill up with green-white water, the roads and tracks are covered in inches of slime, the black dying trees ooze and sweat and the shells never cease. They alone plunge overhead, tearing away the rotting tree stumps...annihilating, maiming, maddening, they plunge into the grave which is this land; one huge grave, and cast upon it the poor dead. It is unspeakable, godless, hopeless."
-Paul Nash

Painting and words by Paul Nash.
Official World War One artist.

tomb it may concern

2009-10-25T09:43:00.001-07:00

I have been walking amongst the dead today. In fact I walk in and around the dead most days. Oh I know what you are saying 'Philip, Stop being so melodramatic' or 'Please limit yourself to one martini when you write your blogs'. The truth is, I live amongst the dead. We all do in Paris.I live amongst the dead and it would be impossible to have it any other way. O.K. let me explain. It is impossible to get around paris or give directions without spanning at least 200 years of deceased historic figures. Let me give you an example (I know by now, with my long lead in, that you must be craving one) Today was the perfect Paris day to buy an English newspaper. Fresh air. Fresh thoughts. Fresh underwear,Fresh newspapers. The short journey began here. I walked up Theophile Gautier (1811-1872 poet critic painter) then I took a right on Francois Millet (1814-1875 painter), kept on going across to Ave Leopold 11 (1865-1904 king of Belgium) then I went left on Ave Mozart(1756-1791 composer) then took a right on Henri Heine (1797-1856 German poet, journalist) then a left on Rue du Dr. Blanche (1796-1852 Doctor Duh!) and then to my beloved paper stand (they were out of the Times and Observer,I left it too late.) On the way home ( disappointed and paperless but still fresh) I passed down Rue Michel- Ange (1475-1564 painter, sculptor) then down George Sand (1804 - 1876 writer, feminist). Well you get the idea (and also great directions to my favorite paper stand as well. But get there before 11a.m.)
On every street corner (oops! excuse me, Rue or Ave or Blvd corner) there is a name. Under the name is written the date of birth and death and occupation. This is a perfect history lesson, even if you didn't ask for one.I don't want to sound preachy, but in the states, its generally street numbers and avenues,59th and 1st doesn't sound as glamorous. Also, wouldn't it be more educational to have famous people as roads (o.k. I can hear what your saying, Im starting to sound preachy) Paris has a way of making the dead seem part of everyday life. It's romantic, historic and dare I say it, Alive! Yes I live amongst the dead. Apart from the Rue names there are also statues of a dead littered everywhere. Oh joy!
But todays story isn't about the 'famous' dead (yes I know.I have waffled on for 300 words already) No dear reader, todays blog is about my death. Well my eventual death. But lets not get ahead of ourselves. As an artist I am expected to die early (it is written somewhere) so my art will increase in value (I cant tell you the number of times my relatives have had that look on there face, that 'when are you going to die?' look) Just so there little sketch, I gave them one christmas, 20 years ago, might be worth something. If I die (or rather ) when I die, I have big plans, and I mean that literally. You see I have drawn out on a blueprint my tomb. Yes! you heard right, my tomb.I have designed a very simple but cosy tomb, where my body (lack of cremation, ashes etc) will be laid out. I have painted beautiful scaled renderings, to show the builders of my future resting place, how to execute (wrong word maybe in this context) every detail of my modest final home.(They will get the plans only if I suddenly die, you understand) My final digs, which will be situated somewhere on a slope in Paris. A 'Tomb with a view' if you will. I started working on this project when I was 16. I didn't quite have the location down, but the drawings were complete.I have made very few changes to them since. The soul (no real pun intended) of the project is still intact . The outside is made of sandstone, with very simple and clean lines. The inside is a little more complicated. The walls will be painted and there will be words, lots of them (I wont spoil the surprise now, There has to be some mystery even in death) I have put aside some money in my will, to have this little structure realized.I would and should leave this tale right here. But there is a little more to say. You see, I want to work on one more art project even in my death. My final work if you will.I'll explain. Above the door of my tomb will be a phone number. When you call that number you will get an answering machine( Yes! you will hear the phone ring inside the tomb) It will say 'Hello you have reached the home of Philip Brooker.Unfortunately I cant get to the phone at the moment, because I am very dead. Please leave a message, but I very much doubt if I will get back to you any time soon'. Then the beep, and then you leave your message.The best and most creative messages over a 5 year period will be made into an exhibition.I will have photographed and filmed the building of my final resting (ha! resting, What a joke ) place in every detail and every stage of the way. So it should be an enjoyable show. Im sorry I wont be around to attend.I love the idea of having a fresh new show even in my death. None of that retrospective nonsense.

Im a little busy at the moment with all my projects, but as soon as there is a little break, I will start looking for a nice place to be laid out. I will build my tomb and paint it while Im alive (like there is a choice) I need to see what it will look like.I will also take some of my favorite items to keep me company (these will also be featured in the exhibition) I would hate not to know where Im going to spend all my 'golden dead' years.

They say Paris is to die for. I say its to die in. I just hope I live long enough to pass away it in this great city. You can quote me on that, But not till I die. Which hopefully will be in a few years from now. Quite a few years. Who knows, maybe I will be a Avenue or Rue one day.

nothing is real

2009-10-13T07:30:00.000-07:00

On December 8th 1980 I was getting ready for a really hot date (Im not sure what I mean about getting ready) but I was doing what boys do before a date (still not sure?) It was one of those sharp cool nights in New york city where everything seem to look and feel good. I was living on 59th and 1st in a very nice apartment lent to me by a very nice friend (I love to use the word 'nice' twice in a sentence). The apartment was full of my paintings and more paintings (what a shock) all leaning against every wall. Brushes all clean and showing off there new haircuts. Sketches on the floor (doing what sketches do) and the smell of hope in every tube of oil paint. It could not have been more of an artist studio, even if MGM had set it up.I had just finished a series of paintings and was feeling good....very good in fact. With the prospect of a beautiful woman coming to visit and with all my work behind me for at least 5 minutes. I was ready to turn on the charm and maybe the shower (maybe even both). She called me and told me traffic was bad and that she would be a little late. When she arrived, it was a little later than I would have wanted(I hadnt slept the night before but I was young). She brought the cold air in with her beauty and explained how thing were a chaos on the upper west side. I hung on to every word like she was reciting poetry. she was more beautiful than I had remembered from the party. I poured her a drink as she continued to give me a traffic report. As I was sipping my wine she casually said that Yoko Ono had been shot .I thought I hadn't heard right 'What' I said, 'Yes the japanese woman married to that Beatle had been shot, but she was o.k.' Then she continued on about the traffic. I ran to the other room to get my little radio (I didn't have a T.V ) the batteries were nearly dead, so the story kept fading in and out. The man on the radio sounded somber. 'Reports are coming in that Yoko has been shot to death and that John was just wounded' I took a very deep breathe. He went on to say they didn't have the full story .......I pressed the radio tightly against my ear to try a hear better, while My date started to nibble on my other ear.I pulled away from her and motioned to her that I had to hear the story. Then the worst news came through. Delivered it in a low tone ,slowly and precise he said 'At 11.21 p.m. John Lennon was pronounced dead'............................... At 11.22 my date wanted to make out. I said I couldn't .I said I was numb, I said I have just died inside.I said this is really sad news. She told me to not be so dramatic. 'Its only a singer and a washed up one at that'. I was too numb to really respond.I told her it would be best to leave. I told her things wouldn't work out. I told her I was devastated and I really needed to be alone. She made one more last attempt to win me over, but her beauty had turned to ugly in a split second.I don't remember her leaving but I do remember sitting on the corner of my bed all night and most of the next day.I remember thinking what was the point of anything.I remember thinking this news was far too personal to share with a strange woman who didn't seem affected at all by the news.I remember calling my mother.I remember I cried and couldn't stop.I remember she said I would get over it. I remember thinking what does that mean ' Get over it'
Last friday was John Lennons birthday. He would have been 69.I suppose it was the closest I ever came to having a Hero.

I like to float on my back in the warm womb-like pool in Miami. I like to look at all the stars.I like to think about how big the universe is.I like to think about how huge the entire solar system and beyond is.I like to think this because It makes me feel small.No! correction! It makes me feel like I don't exist, and the truth is (in the big picture) I don't. I cant. Im so small (we all are) Compared to what's out there we are all nothing.Zero. This feeling use to scare me but now it makes me feel good.It makes me feel like nothing is that important...NOTHING! How can it be, Im smaller than a speck of dust. Smaller in fact. This doesn't mean that I don't do my best with my art or try to be nice to people, I do. But it puts everything beautifully into perspective.Recession, Mortgage payments, traffic tickets,toothaches, delayed flights, bad drivers, Assholes. Im nothing and it makes me feel good. Perspective!
I like to float on my back, in the dream-like state under the stars in Miami, because I don't exist.

Last friday was John Lennons birthday, he would have been sixty nine.He was the closest I ever came to having a hero. Happy birthday John.

P.S. The photo above Isn't me...It's John Lennon....I just happen to have an identical photo.

say cheese

2009-09-26T02:40:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with Joel Peter Witkin last night.

Growing up (I'm still in the process) I have seen a lot of art. I have seen a lot of artists. I have seen a lot. One has to, its part of the art buisness, if one can call it a business, and Im starting to think it is (foolish me) I have never really connected with other artists (living or dead) I was never the artist who could gaze at art for hours in some kind of tantric bliss. I just didnt feel it, it just wasn't me. 'I have looked a lot' Matisse once said.I know how he feels. I try not to miss a great exhibition or even a not so great one. I try not to miss anything where I think I might find another piece of the jigsaw puzzle. When I first went to New York I was invited to studio 54 by a friend who thought it was all a bore. I couldnt wait. O.K. to be honest the place was a bore, unless you are into shattered ear drums, bad music,and bad coney island fairground lighting.Snorting huge amounts of coke and doing things to very ill looking skinny girls that didnt look pleasent. Needless to say, studio 54 was not my cup of tea. That said, I did meet a lot of people there. I met Andy Warhol (who looked like someone trying to impersonate Andy Warhol ) and who seemed to take a brief liking to me. We chatted (or rather I did) over the loud music for 10 minutes.I told him about my art and who I was and so on and on and on..His response was (if you could actually tell there was one) 'you are very clean' I took this to mean! well!!!! er!!!!!!! Well Im not sure....Years later when I worked for Tropic magazine as the art director, I had the good fortune to spend the day with Robert Rauchenburg. He was installing a huge mural at the local museum (MAM).It was good to meet him, I liked his work and I liked the fact that he had a drinks trolly following him around. He asked me if I would be at the opening (I hadnt planned on it, 11 hours that day with him seemed enough) but I said yes anyway..The next night I went along to say hello. He was already sourrounded by 300 blue haired ladies by then, but managed to see me throught the haze of hair lacquer and beckoned me over.I cut through the sea of facelifts with big bank accounts to say hello.He gave me the biggest bear hug that went on forever and ever (actually 5 minutes) It was almost sex.I could tell from the fumes bellowing out of his mouth that he must have had a million drinks by then.It was fun, he was a very good artist and a very nice man.
Many years later I was staying with my dear friend Billy in the Hollywood hills overlooking LA. Pure magic. It was beautiful and rich and I felt at home (although I always felt like quasimodo compared to all the droves of beautiful talentless people).I had dinner and lunch quite a few times with David Hockney.We both had the same art shcool in commom and became (friends would not be the word, but the next rung down on the ladder) We would fax each other art . He was a little boring and talked and talked about...well nothing really.I liked him though.It always fun to meet famous artists. Why am I telling you of all this you ask? Well Im not sure (maybe its the martini) I never really liked that many artists.I never thought they were that good.It always amazed me how very little talent could go a long way. Picasso Braque Miro kieffer,Tapies (sometimes )Twombly (always) and a few others have touched me, but its rare. When it came to photography and photographers I am at a loss.I think photography is an easy art. I think a lot of people have built a massive carear around there index finger hitting the shutter.Although I do love to hear photographers talk up what they do, always amusing. There are few and far exceptions.I could tell you some juicey stories of when I worked with Anne Lieberwitz ( I wont because she seems to be needing good vibes about now ). I could tell you about the time I worked with Mary Ellen Mark for 10 days (I wont because it will give me a headache) Needless to say, I dont think many photographers are very good.In fact I think 95% of them are very bad.
I am always amazed to what people consider 'A great photo' What do they mean by that? The answer is easy. A 'great photo' really is mostly just a 'good photo' 'a good situation', 'a good moment' captured in that split second. It is not a great photo. Its a good photo achieved by luck or being at the right place at the right time. As for set up photos like in fashion, I think most are lame, very similar, almost a formula. I could go on but I think you get the point.Can you remember the last 'Great' photo you saw? If so I would like to see it. So I very seldom use the word great to describe a photo let alone a photographer. They do exist but its a rarity They could almost be counted on one finger let alone a hand. Photography has a long way to go. It will get there. It has too.

I had dinner with Joel Peter Witkin last night........A great photographer indeed.

French pigs ( "pâté de tête" )

2009-09-17T12:17:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: O.K. before I start this weeks story, which happens to be about food.I feel I should point out that Im from a place where great taste and bad taste both exist side by side. A gastronomic disaster if you will. A land where taste buds have long been extinct and maybe never really existed.YES! you guessed it England. I feel I should tell you this up front, because Im about to make a little fun of my friend who happens to be French and who happens to be an amazing chef. Yes you heard right, An Englishman making fun of a French chef. Very cheeky of me Im sure. When I was growing up I watched my mother in her garden all hours of the day and night. I watched her grow nurture and basically coddle her fruit and vegetables. Needless to say they tasted amazing.Grown with true love. Every mouthful was a sheer delight, a pyrotechnic display of flavor that had my taste buds jumping hoops for joy. This was of course before she cooked them. The fresh cabbage, peas, carrots, cauliflower, Brussel sprouts all murdered before my very eyes.A crime most English. My dear sweet mother would boil every bit of life and of course taste out of them, let alone the goodness. My mother was not alone, it seemed the whole country all joined in on this most bizarre act. Volumes of steam, belching out of every kitchen, every sunday, as lunch was being prepared (I use the word prepared lightly) So when people say that English food is the worst in the world (apart from Holland that is) I have to agree with them. BUT! only after its been cooked .
Which brings me to my friend Blandine (yes a funny name but all names seem funny to me in France) She is from the country in the south, from a region called Cevennes. Its real peasant country (and I mean that in a good way, really I do) She was telling me about her amazing school lunches. Blood sausage, rabbit liver pudding, oats porridge soup and goat and chestnut milk. suddenly my school lunches didn't sound (or look) so bad. I wish I could tell you what they consisted of, but to this day I still don't know.I can tell you that all the food was a light grey. A boiled light grey.The parts that were not as boiled, were dripping with lard.They were a colour I had never seen before or since .A shiny colour. Anyway, Blandine was telling me romantic(slaughter) stories of how the kids, aged between 6-11 would watch the pigs get slaughtered.How the blood would spill from the 'slit opened carcass' into a large pan. How an older woman would stir the blood and remove the fibers, so as to stop the blood congealing (my god!, to think at the same time I was reciting Shakespeare) I would have traded the Bard for a slaughtered pig display, anyday. When I told Blandine that I was working on a project, and I needed parts of animals, like tongue and eyeballs and pigs feet and yes even a pigs head etc, she didn't batter an eyelid (and when I say batter, I don't mean the English fish and chip sort), She set off to harvest my animal bits from around Paris. Every weekend I would go to her apartment (because of the great light and because she has a fridge big enough for a pigs head) and start shoot these beautiful and horrific parts for my art. I will tell you more about this project a little later in the year when its finished (actually it is finished) but more later. Have you ever wondered what to do with a huge pigs head when you don't need it anymore? Well, I hadn't but Blandine had. COOK IT!...Im not going to give you all the details now, only because I made a small 3 minute film (which has not been edited yet) that I will show here on this very blog in the next few weeks. I will let Blandine narrate the film and tell you what a great tasty dish this is. She will tell you how country people don't waste one part of the animal. She will tell you that in the country, people know how to create great dishes using natural ingredients to bring out the true flavor of the beast. She will tell you that English food is the worst in the world (apart from Holland) You will have to excuse me know, Im steaming some veggies for dinner. Its been on now for nearly 6 hours so they should be almost done.

Ah! like mother like son..............

FIRST EMAIL response from Blandine. She writes... the strongest memory of my first time to England is all smells : in the small village of Welwyn, Herts, a lingering smell of cold beer mixed with the sharp stomach wrenching cheap vinegar drizzled over fish (white flaky flounder ?) and chips and the love-hate smell of tepid takeout chicken and curry pie, and above all the microwave reheated steak and kidney pie with the barely cooked gravy soaked bottom dough...hmmmmyeeek
Then my first scones, first gooseberries, first potted chicken liver paté, first cucumber sandwiches, all served by bluish haired ladies on Royal Doulton, I could go on and on...

SECOND EMAIL from Blandine...she does go on and here it is...

I am all love/hate
About hate :
Marmite
Beans on toasts
breakfast sausages
Plastic looking fruit
Dreadfull fish flour fed chicken tasting like fish (in the 70's)
tepid beer smell
fluorescent peas
vinegar
Worcestershire sauce (I love it now, in tiny quantities)
bad bitter Madras curry powder
clogged marmelade
grey boiled vegetable
custard powder
jello powdered gravy
in fact anything artificially flavoured or processed which is always worse than french processed food

this was in the 70s, it improved so much since... (note from me)...IT HAS?
If you have the urge to read more about Blandine ...Here is her blog link blandineboyer.blogspot.com

a grave situation

2009-09-06T08:56:00.001-07:00

When I was about eight years old my hamster died. It's name was Hammy hamster (yes I know). My sister and I cut the top of a coca cola can and stuffed the very still cute fluffy beast into it. Then we buried it at the bottom of the garden (funny how things are always buried at the very end of the garden, away from the house) Anyway, that was that. A few sweet eight year old words about heaven or god or both, and HH was off to meet his maker...... Two weeks later I decided to dig up Hammy. Im not sure why. I don't think its because I missed my little fluffy friend (all he did was go around and around on a wheel, a bit like me know) I just felt the urge to see what he looked like after this short period of time (I will spare you the details dear reader). I tell you this story because I just returned from a trip to England. Some family things, some professional (more filming).I wont tell you about the filming , as much as I want to, and I wont tell you about staying with my father.But I will tell you about my trip to EnGLAND. I will tell you about the damp nylon vail of sadness that wrapped its clammy fingers around me as soon as I arrived.I had grown up in this area, I, as most of us do, have vivid recollections about our childhood.I for some reason remember every detail. I was only there for 5 days but it could have been months. It didn't take long for the rot to set in and take hold. I drove all over this very familiar place, and looked and looked and looked and took a direct hit and sank immediately. It seemed I had a story for each of the places .Dr Browns house on the Southend road where I had my finger stitched back on, when I nearly sliced it off from a huge piece of glass, buried in a snow ball .The sand pit on 'bread and cheese hill' where my brother and I would dig tunnels into the sand, had it collapsed I would never have been found. Benfleet creek where I left my fishing bag with all my little hand made flies and floats and hooks (I hated fishing but I loved the stuff ) I went back but it had been taken. Rushbottom lane where I wanted to kiss Ann Wakerling but couldn't because I was so shy, even though she wanted me to. The train station where I would sneak up to London and be scarred half to death because of such a big adventure. It was a childhood full of worries and stress and a huge box of paints where I could find refuge. I saw all these old sepia stained memories again. I really wanted to enjoy my trip back home. I really wanted to live each memory again. I really wanted to bask in the memory, like it was a big warm bed on a sunday morning.I couldn't of course.What it turned out to be was a bed of nails.The place didn't hold anything good for me, it didn't feed me or give me what I so needed. I wanted beautiful sunny kodak moments, all presented in an expensive photo album,leather bound with little corners on each of the photographs. I wanted to look back and feel like I was listening to a song that was around when I first saw June Pritchard, the six year old that lived across the street. My home town of Thundersley, Benfleet, Essex, England, felt like it was on its last legs, out of breath. nearly dead. It felt like life has been leached out of every living cell.Dark.stagnant. Still. I listened to people talking, talking volumes about nothing . Sad little nothings............Nothing.
I should never have never dug up Hammy from his resting place , only to see a frenzy of maggots dining out on a free dinner.I should never have revisited my little pet only to see and smell fluids dripping from his once plump golden furry body. I should never have pulled him from the earth, to see a sticky mess woven with death. I should never have gone back to where I grew up.
They say you should never go back.'They' who ever 'They 'are were right this time.
I'm back in Paris now.I don't have a hamster to bury. But its never too late.

The photo above was taken at St. Mary's in Woodam Ferrers Essex. A grave situation indeed.

its no picnic

2009-08-26T10:57:00.001-07:00

Im wizzing around on my bicycle in the Bois.I have been back in Paris for 2 days and I just had to see, feel and yes ,smell my own personal garden, some call the Bois de Boulogne, I call it heaven..Its still there thank god in all its dry sun scorched glory. I took my usual route, up past the racetrack and left into the woods ,where I was confronted by a totally naked old man (more about him later...maybe) This place never ceases to amaze me.I have written about it before. But one thing that strikes every time, is the way the French pose themselves in a park. By this I mean the way they sit and ponder, the way they play with a ball, the way they ..well ...just sit. Its as if someone is painting them, or as if a photographer is taking a photo on a large format camera (say fromage). Its not just one group its the whole park.I almost wanted to burst out laughing its so posed. Or mess them all up a little, like I do when I see the pillows in my sisters perfect house, sitting perfectly on her perfect couch (maybe she is half French) IThe park is all very quaint and all very .......French, Parisian French that is.The usual suspects are there, breast feeding there babies, one woman looked old enough to be the babies grandmother (a wet nurse maybe).The hookers were busy trying to put food on the table while there knees were firmly plated on the ground (a figure of speech you understand) The muscle men were busy trying to discover new muscles, the hot ,half naked woman jog, while there breasts were heading east and west in a beautiful rhythmic fashion as if to say (at least to me) life is beautiful and so are woman and so is this park and so is...o.k. I get a little dizzy when I see this constant display) The fair has come to town (note to self: must finish 'fair comes to town' little movie from last year) Its not set up yet, King Kong is still on the back of a huge flatbed truck, looking very sad and very not King Kong. I cycle past the beautiful little cafe's that have been in the park over a hundred years.I want to stop and drink a beer but think maybe I will hold out, for a martini when I get home.(Im home now and Im drinking my martini...I toast you) I listen to Joni Mitchel singing in my ears as I wizz past little families with there long 7.30 pm shadows trailing behind them.'Everytime I think of you swallowed by the dark' it sounds corny as I write this, but surrounded by nature it means everything to me, it makes me blissfully sad .Thank you Joni. I cycle on and on trying to get lost in a park I know very well..........I climb up the last little slope in bottom gear, the sun is flickering on the tips of the trees and I know its time to say goodnight. I head towards the racetrack and turn right.The naked man is still there, basking in the last splatters of golden rays that nature can squeeze out. Maybe I should update my idea about the perfect French pose in the park.This man is a lucian Freud kind of still life. Maybe its title should be 'Meat and potatoes in the Bois'...Kay Sera Sera or rather Kay Seurat Seurat.(with apologies )

Goodnight one and all.................

what a novel idea

2009-08-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

Soon it will be time to go back to Paris. Soon it will be time to pack up all my traveling circus equipment (art stuff) and take the show back to the other side of the pond.I have been here about 4 weeks and it seems I have been glued to my desk the whole time.It seems that way because its true (am I complaining again?) no dear reader Im not.I love being glued.
I have flown many times now (with the aid of a jet plane) across the atlantic. I do what most people do I suppose.I watch the stupid bad films that always seem to stop every three minutes.I listen to the captain state the obvious over and over a very very loud sound system (forget sleeping).I watch people get cranky and rude.I look at the very sad 'in flight' magazines and spend way too much time looking at the sky mall catalog (an amazing collection of stuff you would never buy on terra firma) I look forward to the really bad food and of course marvel at the angelic flight attendants as they scream at the passengers (the customer is never right when 30 thousand feet above ground it seems) Only when one actually leaves the plane might the beauties in uniform crack a smile 'thank you for flying with us' 'Oh ! the pleasure has been all mine' I smile back. I say all this and its not a very unique story. We all have stories from hell or rather in this case, 30 thousand feet closer to heaven.So I have decided (because the mood is perfect) to write a novel.As you have probably guessed, if you come to this site often that I am no writer. This of course is why I am writing one chunk of chapter a flight.I have written 2 already. Someone once asked a writer is there was a novel in all of us? and the writer replied 'Yes and thats where it should remain". Im not writing this to get it published (although don't think Im not going to shop it around) Im writing it to pass the time. Im writing it to expand a part of my brain that is usually occupied with all things visual. A few cans of paint and a few old oak easels.I really enjoy it, in fact I'm loving it. It's not that hard, all the words already exist in a book called the dictionary, the key is to pull out all the right ones and put them in the right order that make some form of sense. It's a lot of fun to create a a story and add and tweak and scratch out.I do this already of course with my art, as we all know, the process in most of the arts is the same...So what is my story about you ask? (I know I know you never asked) Well I will give you the name of the book and the first sentence for free (you will have to buy the book 9 flights from now)

SWEETTOOTH
By Philip Brooker

Reginald Sweettooth looked and smelled like an abandoned old house.

If it doesn't work out I can always think very very hard about wether to have the chicken or the beef. (I always take the chicken) I could also learn to spell in that 9 hour flight.That could also come in handy.
Now where did I put that dictonerarry, dicktinory,dectaniory....Damn!!!!

wish you were here (I am)

2009-08-08T09:11:00.001-07:00

If only the image above really did reflect my feelings or rather my state of mind. Im sitting at my desk in my office as I have now for the past 2 weeks (sitting is a new experience for me. I will spare you the details but I fear you already know them) Im here in Miami, Key Biscayne actually, or as the locals call it 'The Key' (if only it was the key). Im sitting at my desk with my two best friends my apple computers. Quiet, Obedient mysterious and hard working. My trusted friends with there quiet hum of anticipation.I have a fantastic view from my window that would be the envy of a lot of people.I can see the tip of south beach with all its modern wedding cake buildings.I see coconut grove famous for so many many things, I cant think of one.I see the ocean with the gentle waves beckoning me to play with them (I cannot of course). I see herds of large cuban woman walking the beach clad in little bikinis (I admire there confidence) . Amazing pelicans so large and so agile swooping into the ocean like they are spitfires in the second world war over the English channel. Caught in an amazing dog fight (maybe that term was from the first world war), only they are not. I see flocks of herring in close formation showing off . Everything twinkles and winks at me like it knows something I don't. And of course it does. This is tropical splendor at its best. A best dress. A new car shiny and clean as its driven from the showroom for the first time. Im sitting at my desk for 14 hours a day doing what I love the most, Working. Working on my art, creating images. Making sense of this stupid occupation that has been thrown on me like a can of red paint (oil based paint, not the easily washable acrylic). Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have it any other way. Im inspired. I love my new projects. I think maybe Im doing the best work I have ever dreamt up. What else would I say. I love my desk, I love my pieces of paper with silly sketches for future projects.I love the glow of my friends as they await my wacom stylus touch. I love that I can sit again. I love my martini at 7 (6 if Im in an adventures mood).I love all the new projects that will be born and delivered by the amazing Studio Bordas' and his beautiful assistant. An amazing studio indeed but also a delivery room, full of doubts and fears but usually not. I love the fact that I don't work in a factory but actually I do.I love that nothing is there one minute and then the next a whole set of images are ready and available, poof! out of thin air or me or maybe thats the same. I love that I can sit now without feeling Im being burnt on glowing white coals. I love that she lives in my building even though I haven't seen her. I love that I have written another entry for my blog.Long overdue.I love that my mother is in a safe place.I love all this and should feel very grateful. What I don't love (anymore) is Miami. It feels like an old marriage.It feels like the left overs from a great party.It feels like 2 inches of champagne left in the bottle that has gone a little flat.It feels like yesterdays pizza.
Im sitting at my desk with my best friends and its time for lunch.Maybe I sound ungrateful (Im not) Maybe I should look out of my window at the view of Miami in all its glory......I wont.

Wipe that smirk off your face

2009-07-22T00:32:00.000-07:00

This is my second favorite film after 'Billy Liar' (see blog entry below ) Its called 'The loneliness of the long distance runner' Why is it your second favorite film you ask? O.K. you didn't ask. I will tell you anyway. I am also very busy getting ready for my trip back to Miami tomorrow, that I'm not even sure I have time answer why..... O.K..... I will always take time to talk about myself (as some of you have already noticed) well someone has too.
Like the movie Billy Liar' this film had a huge effect on my life, even though it could not be further from upbringing. Basically its about a working class boy who gets into trouble with the law and is sent to a borstal (a boys reform school, 'Prison lite' one might say) He plays 'the game' to get in good standings with the school (much to his other inmates horror) and is selected to run against the public (private) school. The governor puts all of his (personal)hopes into the lead character (smith) only to be crushed at the end......I know we are all very busy in our lives doing god knows what. But I urge you to watch this little excerpt. It is the smirk at the end of the race, that has stayed in my mind since I first saw this film.Some people scream abuse, some people give the finger, some people smirk.I am, dear reader 'A Smirker' (not sure thats really a word). When ever I have been verbally abused or yelled at (that might be the same thing) its the little knowing grin on Smiths face that I pull from the deepest part of my soul (console, so to speak). I use to get in a lot of unwarranted trouble at school or at work. My teachers and bosses always thought I was laughing at them..I WAS, well not quite laughing. Its my way of saying 'you stupid little person, you don't fool or get me' I have met many many people in my life, who just were less than nothing.Silly little people, talentless hollow upstarts with power and a position to abuse (and they did) My weapon of choice was always my smirk (a grin if you wish).I don't suffer fools gladly.
So Im catching a plane to Miami tomorrow (oh joy!).I will try to use my expired gold American Airline card to get through the express line. It nearly always works.Once it didn't, and a very angry man starting lecturing me about standing in the proper lines, queuing etiquette of sorts.He wouldn't stop, he was loud and very frothy around the corners of is mouth.I thought maybe he had rabies.All this yelling!.....I stood there avoiding his spittle missiles for at least five minutes. I waited till he finished his rant. Then I gave him 'The Smirk. It works everytime (well at least for me)... I suggest you try it sometime, its very satisfying...The film is a little dated and hasn't really stood the test of time, my smirk on the other hand.

Now where did I put that gold card?

smirk |smərk|
verb [ intrans. ]
smile in an irritatingly smug, conceited, or silly way : Dr. Ali smirked in triumph. See note at smile .
noun
a smug, conceited, or silly smile : Gloria pursed her mouth in a self-satisfied smirk.
DERIVATIVES
smirker noun
smirkily |-kəlē| adverb
smirkingly adverb
smirky adjective
ORIGIN Old English sme(a)rcian, from a base shared by smile . The early sense was [to smile] ; it later gained a notion of smugness or silliness.

to catch a thief

2009-07-12T01:28:00.000-07:00

I would like to start this blog entry with a very simple question (although I fear your answer may not be that forthcoming) Question; When is the last time you stole something? Just to remind you what it means to steal, here is the Oxford dictionary's description....
steal |stēl|
verb ( past stole |stōl|; past part. stolen |ˈstōlən|)
1 [ trans. ] take (another person's property) without permission or legal right and without intending to return it : thieves stole her bicycle | [ intrans. ] she was found guilty of stealing from her employers

O.K. now that that is out of the way we can proceed...or rather I can (I'm starting to sound like a trial lawyer...sorry)
When I was about eleven I snuck up to London with my friend (who we will call John) because that really was his name.We didn't tell anyone we were going to the big city, we just went. We also didn't really plan anything, we just went from museum to museum.It wasn't that we were into learning or anything(we were eleven for Gods sakes) it was that the gift shops we were after, easy pray for out thieving little fingers.
On this occasion we happened to be in the Victoria and Albert Museum or was it the Natural History Museum, I forget. It doesn't matter.We found ourselves in the bookstore, slash, gift store. John and I started to wander separately around the store. I actually found a few books that I got lost in, and yes I really was drinking in all the 'stuff' but I couldn't tell John, I felt it would let him down somehow. The next thing I know, I was awakened from my million mile away dreams by a big nasty hairy hand on my shoulder 'Do you know this young man' the gorilla in a uniform asked?'pointing to John with his other ape like hand, 'Yes Yes ' I stuttered. 'Come along with me sonny' the ape barked(O.K. I'm not sure apes bark, but you know what I mean) We were led to a small stale cream coloured room at the back of the store. Its at times like this that you really notice that one have a heart pumping away.Mine at this point was working overtime. The prime 'evil' asked us to empty our bags.THANK GOD IN HEAVEN, I didn't have any stolen goods from the boring educational book store.No pillage, haul, spoils, ill-gotten gains, pickings; informal swag. NOTHING...TOTALLY EMPTY HANDED....John on the other hand had enough literature to open a small library(a kind of Victoria and Albert bookstore 'EAST' East of London, that is...thats where we lived).I'm not sure I will ever forget the look on Johns face as they called his parents. I on the other hand felt pure and clean (maybe even a little smug with a pinch of innocent written beautifully across my stupid young face) and not really in the same league as John.I was a free man (boy).It was a long journey home I can tell you (and as you know, I am). I felt I should take some of the blame of my friends shoulders, but I couldn't. I didn't really steal things. I really didn't. Poor John, he didn't even want the stupid books.Why do we steal things we don't really want.Well, John, went on to steal many many more things ,and well, I just didn't ....until now.
Ever since I have been coming to Paris (22 years) I have had my eye (both of them in fact) on some really old beautiful gates (photo above) I fell in love with these gates from the moment I saw them. And who wouldn't.They are old, weathered and very very beautiful.The sad thing is ,that in there day they must have been very grand gates, to what was a very beautiful house.The house is long gone and the property has a nasty concrete block wall around it.But the splendid gates remain.....So what do I do? I walk past 'my' gates at least twice a week and wonder how I can remove them and install them in my posession .If I don't take them, they will just rot and fade away, like the house.I know it would be wrong to take them, because they do not belong to me, but if I just sit by (or in this case walk by) they will crumble and be gone forever.I think really hard about what to do. I think what would be the best situation for the gates and me.I think what would John have done.I think I know the answer.
So when is the last time you stole something?

GROIN UPDATE: (for those that care)
AGHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

not sure you should know this

2009-06-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

Im not sure anybody should really know this. Im not sure because it doesn't paint me in a very good light.I first saw this amazing film 'Billy Liar' when I was 11 and it changed (to say the very least) my entire life.I will let the film trailer (above) tell you what this movie is about, and its about a lot.What I can tell you, or try to, is tell you what it means to me. I was a very very shy boy (I still am) I would blush and hide at the drop of a hat. As a boy I couldn't stand to be in a room full of people.I couldn't stand to read aloud in class (and that was before I was slapped across the face by a witch who pretended to be an English teacher) What Im trying to say is, my life up till seeing the movie 'Billy Liar' was a self imposed nightmare.Why? because everything as a child was so mentally harsh. Everything was cold, and in your face and direct, it all left very little room to roam in and out of colours and smells and warm stories. It was in fact, very grey with a slight chance of early afternoon thunderstorms. It was always the deadly three o'clock on a sunday afternoon, with the strong oder of someone else's bad English boiled cooking. It was always low wattage light bulbs hiding behind gaudy net lace curtains. It was garden gnomes dripping with the constant drizzle that seemed to last a lifetime.Damp nylon sheets...It was my life , it was England, it was death.
Then by chance or divine intervention, I was a little under the weather and stayed home from school (a rare treat).At the time there were only 3 channels BBC BBC2 and ITV. T.V. during the day usually consisted of 'How to make cheese' or a show about farm dogs. So when this jewel of a film appeared, I was lost...and found.
Its not that I suddenly developed an amazing talent for lying (I was already working on that, as all 11 year olds do,and I was bad at it, I still am) It was that this film taught me to invent, to make the best of a dreadful situation, and there were many. As a young artist, I needed this, I needed to know it was alright to break away from the normal constraints of every day mundane life.That it was alright to dream and use my young imagination to its fullest. Suddenly I had colour paints to play with, instead of one giant grey tube.It was a bigger canvass a bigger set of paints and a lot more brushes. I could go on and on about the impact this film had on me but I wont, I think you get the point.I watch this film at least twice a year to remind myself its o.k. to invent, its o.k. to see things in a different light. It is not alright though to hurt people , and I have. The influence of this film had nothing to do with that. In fact I wish it had, I would have an excuse.Im sorry about what happened and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you. Maybe one day I can tell you everything. I think about what 'Billy' would have said and in fact he did in the film' If I can get to the bottom of the road with my eyes shut, everything will be o.k.' If only that was true. After all its only a movie.

it's all a facade

2009-06-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

Im sure you are all quite bored with my medical problems, God knows I am, and Im the ' not so proud owner' of them...or rather 'it'.
Dont get me wrong, I feel I could bore you all for years about the burning hot pain I'm in. I wont. Instead I'll change the subject completely. As everybody in the world knows by now, I love to walk in Paris. I love to jump on the metro and let it take me to places I would never ever visit. I love to jump on the metro also because Im making a little film (more about that in future blogs) Today I did something a little different, something I haven't done in a while. I went for a stroll in my part of Paris 'the 16th district' known for its cold but beautiful bourgeois buildings and people. Full of bankers,and people who pretend to be bankers and models who don't resemble bankers at all. Lots of sad looking black nannies pushing the very white sad looking babies in there very expensive prams .The woman of the 16th all looking very BCBG. Clean tight little shops that border on the precious.I know I should dislike all this, being the groovy artist that I am, ha ha. But the fact is I don't, I adore it. Why you ask? (alright I know you didn't ask but I'll tell you anyway) Because it is all so very very very French and whats more, totally Parisian. I live in a small village in a town in a city,Perfect! On every corner there is a great photo to be taken and usually everything in between. I wont waffle on about this so I'll come to the point. O.K. there is no point, but there is this stange very thin building just around the corner from where I live. It's very tall and extremely narrow. All the windows and little balconies face the street.I wondered why there were no windows at the back. So I ventured to the derrière only to find to my amazement, a very small but quite beautiful graveyard.
I love this building for its Hollywood facade look. I am happy that I took a stroll in my part of the city, and I'm happy because now I know where all the bankers go to die.

what a nerve

2009-06-09T11:33:00.001-07:00

This morning I went for an MRI or as the French say an IRM. I went because I have been in severe pain in my 'groin' for the last 9 weeks (in fact its been the last 30 years that this pain has come and gone.No pun intended) I just found out what I have suspected for a long long time,unlike all the American doctors I had seen over the years. American doctors who sent me on a wild goose chase of endless tests and dreadful treatments at a cost of thousands of dollars, only to arrive at the same undiagnosed place. So I decided to see a doctor here in Paris, and after listening to me explain my pain, with the aid of some beautiful colour coded drawings (pink for mild pain through to bright red for severe) He told me in less than 15 minutes that I have something called 'Pudendal Nerve Damage' but to have an MRI just to make sure. Well I did, and there it was on the scan, a little white line showing an extremely swollen and very painful nerve.
This nerve is situated in what has become known as 'My Groiny area' It is in fact situated where the leg joins 'your' or rather 'my' torso. Its symptoms are never the same from day to day or even hour to hour or even minute to minute, which makes it a lot of fun.....HERE is the layman's explanation of what the symptoms are...
Pudendal Neuropathy is frequently caused by a mechanical and/or inflammatory damage to the pudendal nerve. Such damage to the nerve can manifest in a variety of ways, such as vague pains, stabbing pains, burning sensations, pin pricking, numbness, twisting, cold sensations, pulling sensations, or the feeling of sitting on a lump. Pain is usually worse when sitting and less when standing, lying down, or sitting on a toilet seat.( GREAT!!! if I want to sit down it has to be on a toilet.Thats not going to look very nice in my office.) It gets better..PNE is a nerve condition causing pain for no apparent reason in the area served by the pudendal nerve. No one pain pattern dominates. Pain can be in just one area, several, or all. It can be on one side, two sides, or the middle. PNE can occur suddenly or develop over time without one realizing it. It can be caused by frequent prolonged sitting, cycling, repetitive movement , exercising with the legs or for no appearent reason.
I wish I could make all kinds of jokes about this (god knows I've tried) but the truth is my life will have to change completely (it already has). It means that I cant sit down for more than 10 minutes at a time (I've timed myself) without feeling like someone is inserting red hot coals inside me (without my permission). It means I will have to stand all day while I work on my computer editing my film or producing art. It means no cinema, no restaurants. I have no idea about flying (can I stand all the way back to miami for 9 hours?) Driving is a nightmare. Yes dear reader I'm a mess. I have a really nasty flu at the moment also (just as an added bonus).
Now if you think Im going to take this bad news sitting down you are WRONG! I Cant, I don't have a choice. In fact I haven't sat down for at least a week.Nothing would please me more than to take this news sitting down....It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Could it?
I want to say I just cant 'stand' it, but the truth is I can. Because standing 'it' is all Im able to do. Standing 'it' is my only choice....
Am I feeling sorry for myself? you bet your sore pudendal nerve I am.I feel like going for a bike ride to forget all this, but yes you guessed it...No more bike rides.
Why am I telling you all this? Well they say misery loves company, the trouble is there is no company, they are all out sitting down somewhere. I'm standing room only.

P.S. The Doctor kept my drawings.He wanted me to sign them also.

origin of the world

2009-06-01T07:14:00.000-07:00

When Gustave Courbet’s painting “The Origin of the World”(above ) went on permanent display at the Musée d’Orsay in 1995, it was emerging from what must be one of the longest periods of visual quarantine in the history of art. Painted sometime in 1866, for the better part of 130 years it had been cordoned off in private collections, its existence known only to a small group of people, few of whom left any record of the work. Even Courbet, with his swashbuckling disregard for convention, seems for once to have erred on the side of caution. Neither signed nor dated, the picture was never mentioned by him in writing, and it is only on the strength of two small contemporary documents (the report of a dinner at which the painter, never more fulsome than when singing his own praises, likens his little figure to the nudes of Titian and Veronese, and a description by Maxime du Camp so slapdash that one doubts whether he had actually seen the picture with his own eyes) that we can be sure Courbet painted it at all.

Everywhere you turn in the painting’s history, you meet with the same pattern of secrecy and obfuscation. The man thought to have commissioned the picture, a wealthy Turkish-Egyptian diplomat named Khalil Bey, kept it hung behind a green cover in his private dressing room. When Edmond de Goncourt came across it, some twenty-three years later, in 1889, it was concealed by a second Courbet, “Le Château de Blonay”, in a double-bottomed frame. In 1913, it passed into the hands of a Hungarian collector, Baron Ferenc Hatvany, who kept it under lock and key in his town house in Budapest. The last and best-known of the private owners, the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, hung it in his workroom at Guitrancourt, where it was again concealed by a sliding panel, painted by his brother-in-law André Masson. The earliest known reproduction, in an obscure gynaecological publication in 1967, in fact depicts a copy, now missing, but thought to have been made by Magritte. In 1988, the painting was shown in public for the first time, at the “Courbet Reconsidered” exhibition in Brooklyn; today, it hangs in the same room at the Musée d’Orsay as Manet’s “Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe”.

Which brings me to the other photo above. In fact the little boy (who in a way reminds me of ME) is looking up the dress of a little doll, Why you ask? This is an advertisement which can be seen in the metro at the moment, promoting an art fair which opens this weekend in Paris. So what does the little boy and the doll and the painting above have in common...Well of course its Gutave Courbet, one of the greatest painters ever. Not sure the little boy will see such a fruitful view as the Courbet's painting but you can at least try. Its a very clever advertisement and I suppose if you were not aware of the beautiful painting 'Origin of the world' the advertisement would mean very little.........Thank god for French art education.

how to get there from here

2009-05-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

I just got back from photographing this old water tower hidden deep in the 'Bois de Boulogne' (Yes I know, it seems I live in the woods) I found this beautiful old building about a year ago and its taken me all this time come across it again (I was never a boy scout, this could explain the time lapse). I have many ideas for this and other hidden buildings but more about that later. Strewn around this building are lots and lots of tissues and rubbers so it must be quite a popular place for , shall we say 'lovers in the night'. How come they can find this place in the pitch black and I cant even get near it during the day? Never mind... Well like I said, I have some plans for it. I took about 500 images and I will need to go back to shoot some more when the light hits it at the back (that should be around 11 in the morning) I just hope I can find my way back, maybe I should pay one of the 'ladies' that work there to guide me in (no pun intended) Then again maybe I should just buy a compass and some brain cells.
Better still a map.Don't worry, I will work it out.

I need your help and your words

2009-05-24T06:54:00.000-07:00

Its been about three weeks since I got my hands on the doll from the south of France ( see posting April 28th below...but read this first) Its been 3 weeks and many thousands of photos and many hundreds of hours and many many shots of ice cold Vodka from the freezer to finally say, the images are finished. Well as finished as they can be. I finally arrived at a series of 15 images.It always seems to be 15. Im very content, dare I say it? happy! with the outcome. I now need to ask you dear readers for something that will make this project sing.I need to ask you for your help.I know this would make a beautiful artist book.I know that the images are strong enough to stand on there own.But as with most of my projects, I have the urge or the need maybe , to include stories. Yes dear reader, I need words. I need your words. So here is what Im asking. Im sure most of you grew up with a doll. Im sure most of you have wonderful or dreadful or tragic story about your first doll (or second) I need THAT! story,and if interesting, would go with my doll project (the project doesn't have a name as yet) Your story shouldn't be tooooooo long, in fact it should be on the shorter side, unless of course its amazing.So please please if you are interested, could you send your story to me. If I get 15 wonderful varied stories I will include them with this project....I never knew I could take that amount of time to photograph a small burnt bald plastic doll from the south of France that doesn't even speak English. O.K. Im waiting for the stories, If I dont get 15 stories Ill pull her arms off.......Just kidding, I'll start with the legs.
SEND STORIES TO www.nicecupoftea@mindspring.com

groin update and other stories

2009-05-17T02:35:00.001-07:00

Last night I went on a bicycle ride. Usually this wouldn't be a big deal in the big scope of things, but last nights bicycle ride was the first I have taken, since the now famous' groin pull'. So I thought maybe it was time to take me and my hurting bits for a spin. I went where I always go, to the bois de Boulogne. Paris st. Germain were playing last night so I first had to navigate my way through very very very drunk football fans who for some reason took a dislike to me (maybe its because I yelled 'Chelsea' in response to whatever they screamed at me) Who knows. There were lots and lots of police everywhere, most of them on horses.I know this because the roads were covered with horse poop. I nearly skidded off into a few cafes on my way, which isn't how I usually enter a cafe. Once I got past the herds of hooligans the mood completely changed, I was suddenly confronted by very well dressed, half naked models in funny hats (a fashion shoot maybe? ) No, in fact it was a wedding and a very posh one at that. So I stopped and gawked .Nobody looked happy, everyone looked frozen to death, everyone was way underdressed. Well it was a wedding after all. I moved on, my groin till in tact. The bois is an amazing place, the scale is perfect for humans to get lost and found.The little walking/cycle tracks are beautiful and ideal for breathing in the fresh-ish air, looking at the rabbits and pheasant that roam freely and greeting the hookers! Oh yes the hookers. I have been cycling in the bois for about 2 years now , so the woman? in the bois and I are on bonjour/bonsoir terms.I always feel like a client window shopping, but I put on my best English schoolboy look (hard for a man my age) and whistle buy (ooops!!! I meant by).
I will write more about these poor souls another time, because there is so much to write about. I always think this would be a gift of a project for me, but I haven't quite got the grip of it yet (no pun intended). I cycled on. My groin at this piont was throbbing in perfect beat to an Annie Lennox song on my i-pod. I thought I would venture back home to warmth and safety and a bag of ice. On my return I saw 2 poeole doing very rude things to each other, Im not sure who was paying who. I didn't stop to look but thought maybe they should build a motel for this kind of thing, here in the bois. Not a bad idea. I would build it underground (so it would not destroy the beauty) and with a 100 rooms. One could rent it by the hour and it could be safe and warm for the ladies (?) and there friends to do what they usually do in the woods, up against a tree...just a thought.
I was glad for my little ride through the bois.I was glad because nothing says Paris more to me than a little cycle ride from my apartment, around the lake and back. So much to see and hear and smell. Its all free and almost painless.

Last night I went on a bicycle ride and Im glad I did. My groin on the other hand has a different story.

The wonderful photo above is of course by the amazing Brassaï.

oh no!!!!!!!!!! not another project

2009-05-14T04:20:00.000-07:00

On every corner there is another project just waiting for me with a huge tempting seductive smile. Thats all I will say about this one ( because I don't trust the art thieves out there) I will shoot this project in the winter for reasons only I know (and you will too soon) I shot this yesterday on the way back from somewhere I cant really remember.A old lady yelled at me , thinking I was taking her photo.I had to show her all my frames on the little monitor before she let me go. Thats a funny term isn't it 'taking a photo' Real photographers (whatever that means) always say 'making a photo'...Give me a break...
A lot of cultures really feel you are taking something away from them when you 'take' a photo...
O.K. back to work. All work and no play makes Philip a very very boring boy.......

its no walk in the park

2009-05-11T05:15:00.000-07:00

I want to go for a walk in the park because its such a beautiful thing to do.I often go on my trusted bike (tonto) but sometimes its just a sheer pleasure to stroll. To stroll and look at people that look nothing like you. People from very very different walks of life . Countries and cultures that Im sure I couldn't even pronounce let alone find them on a map. I lived in New York City for 6 years once upon a time and use to go to central park .The people there were also from all over the globe, but for some (good) reason they all seemed american, therefore alike. The people I see in the bois all seem to be from all over and not French, even though Im sure they live here.I like this, in fact I like this a lot.
I want to go for a walk but I cant. Im driven. Its a dreadful place to be. Im driven and I cant get out of it. I have so much work to do. So much art to produce. So much. Does it sound like Im complaining, Im not. I remember when I was very very young, sitting in my very cold bedroom in England, painting my little pictures that felt far from little. I remember telling my mother that if any of my friends come by, to tell them Im busy working. YES!!! working...I was 7..........Well dear readers things have not gotten any better, in fact they are worse..Worse and better..I am driven by something that cant be explained (thank god)
I have so much to do. Im grateful to the art gods that they have given me the burden to create.
I want to go for a stroll but I cant, im busy with art, im busy creating, I want to cry but I dont have time....

I want to go for a stroll.

The photo above is from a little walk I took last thursday evening while listening to Mahlers 10th.............

going dutch

2009-05-08T02:22:00.000-07:00

I just spent less than a day in Amsterdam. I went to see a really beautiful gallery there (oh! and the man that owns it) The meeting went well. I hadn't been to Holland for a long long time, so it was long overdue. After my show and tell with Mr Willem( the gallery owner) I headed out into the world of canals, very tall older hippies and everything Van Gogh and Rembrandt, Oh! and the constant but faint smell of pot (which seemed to follow me around). I walked and walked this city because that is the best way to really view it. The second choice would be a bicycle. The third, a helicopter. I want to say that it resembled Venice because of the canals and old squashed together, leaning buildings, but it didn't. I have always loved the architecture in Holland as well as the design and some photography. Its a very stylish place. Pretty woman that are at ease with there looks, unlike the Parisian woman who look like they just swallowed a poodle.There is an organized chaos between the pedestrians, bicycles, trams and cars but it all seems to work like some mad plot that I wasn't let in on. I was a tourist that day as I wandered in and out of Amsterdam.I was thrilled to see this beautiful city. My photographs above are just stupid snap shots but I even enjoyed taking simple photos without the burden of a project hanging over my head.
Now Im back in Paris and its back to' The Doll' project.The Dutch gallery man described the images like being punched in the face, so I know I'm on the right track.
Going Dutch was a very good idea,Its something I haven't done for a long time. Click on the images above to make larger (if you so wish)

guys and dolls

2009-04-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about a friend of mine who was in the south of France. Im sure dear readers you all remember the story (see march 11th blog entry ). While she was walking through the countryside she came across a plastic doll and took a photo of it, then she sent it to me (the photo not the doll) but she did promise to bring the dolly back with her. Anyway, I went to pick up the doll in question sunday and now have it in my studio..
I knew I would love this doll since I first saw the photo, and when I finally set eyes on her , I was not disappointed, far from it.
Yes! she smells. Yes! she is a little scary looking. Yes! she has mange. But after a day of photographing her, she promises to be a wonderful piece of art and maybe has a future as an artists model (o.k. I may be going a little too far with the last statement)
So what is a grown man (thats me) doing with a sunburnt doll from the south of France? This I think is a good question. Here are some other good questions 1. At what point does it become art? 2. Why would something like a plastic doll interest me? 3. What do I see in this object that will make me work for a solid 2 weeks? 4.Is it o.k. for me to be seen playing with dolls? (the last question was a joke of course....wasn't it?)The truth is I work on instincts, I will produce the art first (with all my electrodes firing rapidly )and when the art is finished, I will start to pull apart all the reasons for making this a project. I realize that logic would have me work the other way around.I just didn't wont to talk myself out of this.Usually my instincts are dead on.
The image above is just a snap shot, nothing like the finished image, which of course isnt finished yet, because I just started working on this project today..whew!!!!!

You will have to excuse me now. As much as this doll promises to inspire great images out of me, she is stinking up the place with a kind of burnt rubber, mixed with hot rancid, cooking oil smell.
Ah! art has never smelled so good...............then again.

springtime for Hitler

2009-04-22T13:53:00.000-07:00

Last year I went to England to photograph something really strange and really quite horrific.I don't want to give too much away because I want to continue with this project .Let's just say I photographed a gathering of military people (all civilian) in the heart of the English countryside. They were dressed in army uniforms of every shape and size and nationality.Let's just say there were hundreds and hundreds of them, a small army in fact. The uniforms that stood out the most and for good reason, were the Nazi uniforms (I should point out that these uniforms are beautiful and very striking in there own right, if it wasn't for the dark cloud that looms over them) I tell you this because on this most beautiful spring day here in Paris, I stayed in (except to shoot the photo above) to work on this fascinating project. I could say a lot about how I feel about grown men dressing up in Nazi uniforms, and trust me, there is a lot to say. I could show you the beautiful dark photographs I took on that gloomy day last year (but I always fear copycats) So instead I decided to show you one of the streets near my apartment in full bloom.I actually have a photograph of this house shot in 1903 but alas I cant find it. My brain and my street both in full bloom.
This isn't really the sort of photo that belongs on my blog, but if I posted one of the uniform photos you might say the same. I will continue to work on this project but I wont continue to post pretty photos of flowers...promise.

GROIN UPDATE; Im feeling a little better...I know you all can sleep a little better for this information.

table for one

2009-04-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

I ventured out this morning for the first time in a week (read posting below to know why) I ventured out and for the first time in a week and I started to breathe. This city for me is the biggest tank of oxygen (with a glass of wine mixed in) Even though I just made it as far as the supermarket, I realized I was alive and kicking (not quite kicking but you get the idea). I also realized that its a city I explore alone. Actually I never feel alone. This city always feels like a wonderful motherly woman (with an occasional bad temper) but always with her arms around me. Its a city that makes you feel that there is a lot to explore, not just the surface stuff but deeper more meaningful things. A woman with great stories.A woman thats lived.

Yes this city is a woman. A woman in her late forties who wears a little bit too much make-up and who refuses to give in to her age.But a beautiful warm woman all the same.She must have been a very sexy in her youth.She still has a lot of seduction.I like that in a woman....oooops!!! I mean city.
Yes this is a city that I explore alone. I feel I am on a mission. An explorer of sorts. Now leave me in peace so I can smell her neck.....The city that is. MMMMmmmmm! Slightly older perfume but what a body.

book of the month

2009-04-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

As you can probably guess from the dark and gloomy images above, I'm back in Europe, well Paris to be exact. As you probably all know, dark and gloomy are my middle names (even though I don't really have one...yet) Well let me explain.When I was in Miami I picked up a very very very (a million very's) heavy TV set. To say that I heard a orchestra of snaps and twangs is an under statement. Needless to say, I hurt myself.I hurt myself in places that don't have names, or if they do they are all in Latin. Thats all I'll say about this matter because a lot of you might be eating while reading this...Don't worry, Im getting better.......OUCH!!!

Which brings me to todays topic (yes there really is one, its not all going to be about my groin...sorry) I have had time to look at my past work this last week. This is something I don't often get a chance to do.The images above are from my 'Death Sentence' project. The images above are from that project but in book form.I sometimes like to take my projects and apply them to different mediums (books films etc).I made this book about a year ago and I just looked at it again after sometime.It got me excited again (as excited as I can get at the moment with this groin strain) It got all the brain cells firing at full throttle.This year I will produce this project in a box portfolio or a 'real' book.I will also start my film about this project. In fact I will shoot the first scene this month.I will tell you more about this later.Yes! I just got back to Paris and my brain is on fire again.I just wish I could get to the shops to buy some wine or better still some vodka.

It's for medicinal reasons you understand..o.k. o.k. I might just enjoy it as well.......

a sorry state of affairs

2009-04-12T13:20:00.000-07:00

Don't ask me why, but when I leave miami I start to feel very strange, very strange indeed.I have tried try to figure out what it is that makes me feel this unsettled, but to no avail. Is it my on going feeling that I haven't quite achieved as much as I could have (maybe I should have worked 20 hours a day instead of 16) Is it that I don't quite know where my home is?
As you can see from above I have made yet another card with my name and phone numbers on it. As you can see from above, it looks like another creative funky little card, that people will just throw away, or keep, as is there want. I might sound a little strange at the moment (how could one tell?), because the truth is, in a few days before I catch a flight. I start to think this could be my last few days on earth. I know this all sounds very dramatic, but its true.I don't subscribe to the notion (as most people do) that when your time is up, its up.I try to put everything or most things in order, I pay all my bills, make sure my will is updated, make sure nothing is left exposed for the cold clawing hands that would come seeping into my life (or death) before my body gets a chance to cool.Putting things in order is easy, its just stuff. Putting feelings and very strong emotions in order is another situation when it comes to people.There are so many things I want to say but cant.There are so many things I should have done but didn't. I know I have hurt, when that was not the intention. I wish I could make everything wonderful (Im very bad at this) I have been down this narrow gravel road before with no success. So here I am, writing a kind of apology (again) Hoping that it will all be fine, fine is a thin word, I hope it will all resolve itself (it wont)
My cards are made, my apartment is a mess (unusual for me) and I will have to start thinking about packing (always so much stuff to carry).I will have to bring all my sad flowerless flowerpots inside and close my rusty shutters in preparation for the looming hurricane season, which is just around the corner. So much to do, so much to think about.

Dont ask me why but I get this very strange feeling when I leave Miami......Sorry

now thats a concept!

2009-04-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

I use to do illustrations for business week. Usually they were quite interesting assignments. Usually they had to do with the stock market or hedge funds, things of that nature. But once and a while they threw me a curved 'illustration' ball. For example; Alan Greenspan in a speedo jumping into an empty swimming pool from a great height (the art directors concept not mine) later they decided not to use it on the grounds that Alan Greenspan looked to disgusting in a speedo, DUH!!!. Yes, I was paid anyway. I could give you a huge list of amazingly bad ideas that usually came from the minds of editors (not known for there great visual thinking) I always knew when it was a bad idea, the first clue was when the art director would apologize before telling me about the assignment, It would go something like this 'I'm really sorry about what I'm about to tell you, its not my idea , really! its not!!!' and then go on for about 20 minutes saying things like 'do you hate this as much as me?' or 'I'll try to get you more money for this one' I have had editors tell me not to use a certain colour because the publishers wife doesnt like green or could you make 3 versions and we will pick one. The truth is I always did what they wanted. I would always put my spin on it of course but basically they would get what they asked for every time. Which brings me to the illustration above.I think everyone knows that creative people do there best work when they have the freedom to create. No horrible guidelines , no colour restraints, no speedos.So when this wonderful magazine calls me 4 times a year, to create a cover for there tech section, I cant help but smile. Its a joy to make these illustrations. Freedom of design and colour and expression. I always put my heart into these illustrations, they are basically fun.I have had many wonderful assignments over the years and here is hoping more come my way. Did I ever tell you about the snake giving birth to a turtle illustration? Time magazine, and no! it never ran, because it was killed before I ever put pencil to paper, and no! I wasn't paid.

P.S. Nobody should wear speedo's

bottoms up

2009-04-06T10:32:00.000-07:00

Is it really the goal in life to work work work.I came from a family that did just this, 24 hours a day. So it isn't any real surprise that I never seem to sit still for one minute. Well actually I did,it was last night and it was for just about a minute (maybe 2) It went like this. Yesterday I did so many things that listing them here would make your heads and mine dizzy. Last night after a day and a half, I talked myself into having a martini (it didn't take much talking as you can imagine) I whipped the glass out of my cupboard and just caught the base and it shattered everywhere. Not to be swayed by my slightly shattered misfortune, I had another stab at the easy task of making a martini.This time it was a huge success.A huge success until a piece of the dead previous and very hidden martini glass cut my foot, quite badly. So Dear reader I did get my one minute of relaxation, just enough to swab the cut and stop the bleeding. I'm sure there is a moral to this story and if there is I would love to hear it. Today is monday and I feel I have done a million things already. Is it really all about work? I'll let you know later, now I have to go back to (yes you guessed it) work.
IMAGE ABOVE: The actual martini from last night, version 2

miro miro on the wall

2009-04-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a young man (20) I use to walk around New York like I owned it (but in reality I was a little bit scared) I use to visit the amazing museums everyday, or at least it seemed like everyday.I use to spend hours and hours studying the paintings. Then I moved on,taking a little sketch pad and a 2b pencil and would walk from Picasso to Braque to Miro making little notes. Most people wanted to see what I was doing (but alas I couldn't show them ) .To most people it seemed like I was one of hundreds of students who would faithfully copy the masters as best one could. It would seem like I was drawing my little heart out, trying to capture the essence of these most beautiful paintings.The truth is, I was, but it wasn't the paintings I was trying to master, that would have been way too easy (for I had started copying paintings since I was fourteen, mainly Picasso and Braque) It was the signature I was trying to perfect. I wanted to get it right. Picasso's signature changed over the years as did most of the artists I was studying (thats a nice word, as we will see later for forging) I cant go into what I got up to in New York.I would be crazy to lay it all out here on my blog, But let us say that I produced some amazing paintings over the years .I produced as many as one hundred , mainly Picasso, quite a few George Braque, many Modigliani's, and a few Miro's, the list goes on (and so mabe do I ) These where not copies, these were 'original fakes'. Beautifully perfected so that even an expert couldn't tell. Once again I would be foolish to tell all here. I still relish my freedom. I became very very very good till one day (well Im sorry I cant tell you) Lets just say I had studied enough.....Sometimes I hang a painting from those days in my house. I would hang a painting minus the signature of course. Like I said, I relish my freedom.

NOTE TO FRAUD SQUAD; The above painting is not signed.

Philip Brooker 1977-1980

2009-03-29T11:39:00.000-07:00

I have lived in a lot of places in my life. I have also lived in a few countries, but the place that will always be home sweet home is in my scull. What's not to like, its warm safe portable and there are so many things to play with. In other words I like it there (most would not). Last week I did something I have been putting off for many many years, I photographed my old work from when I lived in England. This was a lot of work and very physical (the canvasses are very large and heavy)It wasn't so much the actual work (even though it took me 16 hours to shoot) but the actual thinking about who and where I was at the time. Most young people are in there young prime at 21, I should have been doing what 21 year old men (boy) do.I should have been out and about drinking up all there was to offer.I chose dear readers to stay in my studio and paint. I chose dear readers to spend a tremendous amount of time in my head (home) Im not complaining, but as I looked at the enormous amount of work I produced in that period, I wonder what's more important in life. It's not that I really had a choice, but it could have been very very different.
So the image above is what was running through my head at the time.These were very complicated paintings, they are also very large. I have kept the hundreds of canvasses in a huge roll and carried them around with me for so long (my babies that never grew up) So now its time to air off the bodies and get them out there. Im glad I photographed them, Im glad I gave them a new lease on life , I'm glad I live in my head....What were you doing when you were twenty one? Living I hope.

Paris in Miami

2009-03-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

When I started art school at 16 I thought the world was my oyster, or in my case the world was the biggest box of paints. I loved to paint paint paint paint (well you get the picture, or painting) So when I bumped into a very shady character who went by the name of Ronnie, my life was about to change (as in short change). Ronnie looked like he had just stepped out of the 50s and in fact he sort of did. He asked me if I knew anyone who would like to paint his amusement ride in his traveling fair. I of course jumped at the chance. ''I'll do it Ron '' I said, to which he replied ''its Ronnie'' So we struck a deal, one hundred pounds to design and paint the front of his ride called the 'Fun House' This of course was about to prove to be anything but fun.
I figured it would take a month to come up with a great colourful concept, draw it all out and paint it, maybe a month and a half tops. I of course figured wrong.
As I approached the ride, I realized it was much much much much much bigger than I had expected, and when I say MUCH! I mean MUCH MUCH BIGGER! Maybe 3 double decker buses bigger.Im going to cut this very long story sideways.I will tell you that over my many trips to the fairground which was never in the same location twice, I got to know fairground people very well, you might say a little too well. They are a different breed from most of us, they like to talk in a very strange accent (code ) they carry most of there money on them(they don't trust a soul) and they like to have sex as many times as is humanly possible and with as many different people they can (usually the local punters) I of course painted and painted and painted my way around this amazing education.
I'm now going to make the story even shorter (just so you all stay awake) It took me a year and a half to paint the bloody 'FUN HOUSE! ' When it came time to pay me, he (Ronnie) took me into his beautiful caravan and offered me a bacon sandwich made by his very sexy and somewhat dangerous wife. Then I think he offered her to me instead of paying me the hundred pounds (eeek!). I took the money (silly me) and ran for the hills. Which brings me to the photo above.This is a mural painted on to the side of a dry cleaners in Miami (Paris dry cleaners).It is badly painted but somehow has a charm most would dismiss. When ever I see badly painted murals I think of all the time and effort that went into creating it.There seem to be all kinds of things going on.The world trade center towers are still standing.The eiffel tower seems to be on a hill. I look at this mural and think I could have painted that in a week, but deep down I know it would have taken me 6 months maybe even 8. I wonder if the person was paid as much as me (HA!)

Sorry about the ugly photo but a nasty dog was snarling at me while I was snapping away. Or maybe it was the dog that was snapping away.I just got the 2 shots.

Un chien andalou (revisited)

2009-03-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

Its not that I don't have enough projects at the moment (in fact I have 7, including 2 films) Its not that I really need my brain to be extended anymore than it already is.I'll explain. Some things just stay with you forever, like where you were when John Lennon was assassinated or when the world trade center was reduced to dust or when you first viewed 'Un chien andalou'. I saw this film when I was 16. I joined the art college cinema, which basically meant that you could walk into the small crappy room with a projector for free, which was fine since joining meant that you just show up. I saw this film in that small fug filled room with about 50 students all smelling of pot and sweat (it wasn't hot, they just didn't wash) I saw this film and I think I held my breath from the moment it started till the end, at least it felt that way. I held my breath not because of the student stench but because this film truly took my breath away and it never really came back until now.

The film opens with a title card reading "Once upon a time". What may be the film's conclusion unfolds; a middle-aged man, the "husband" (played by Luis Buñuel), sharpens his razor at his balcony door and tests the razor on his thumb. He then opens the door, and idly fingers the razor while gazing at the moon, about to be engulfed by a thin cloud, from his balcony. There is a cut to a close-up of a younger woman, the "wife" (Simone Mareuil), being held by the "husband" as she calmly stares straight ahead. Another cut occurs to the moon being overcome by the cloud as the "wife's" eye is slit by the "husband" with his razor.

The idea for the film actually began when Buñuel was working as an assistant director for Jean Epstein in France. Buñuel told Dalí at a restaurant one day about a dream in which a cloud sliced the moon in half "like a razor blade slicing through an eye". Dalí responded that he'd dreamed about a hand crawling with ants. They were fascinated by what the psyche could create, and decided to write a script based on the concept of suppressed human emotions.

The legendary shot of the cow's eye being slit by Luis Buñuel.
The eye that was actually sliced in the opening scene was that of a dead calf. Through intense lighting, Buñuel attempted to make the furred face of the animal appear as human skin. During the bicycle scene, the woman who is sitting on a chair, reading, throws the book aside when she notices the man who has fallen. The image it shows when it lays open is a reproduction of a painting by Vermeer. Vermeer was a Dutch painter greatly admired by Salvador Dalí, whom he referenced often in his own paintings. In Buñuel's original script, the last shot was to feature the corpses "consumed by swarms of flies". However, this special effect was left out due to budget limitations.
Given the general distaste for surrealism among the French public, Buñuel and Dalí carried sacks of rocks in their pockets on opening night as self-defense, expecting a negative response from the audience. They were disappointed when the audience enjoyed the film, making the evening "less exciting", according to Dali.
The movie contains several thematic references to Federico García Lorca (who was in love with Salvador Dalí) and other writers of that time. For example, the rotting donkeys are a reference to the popular children's novel "Platero y yo" by Juan Ramón Jiménez, which Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí hated.
Both of the leading actors of the film eventually committed suicide; Batcheff overdosed on Veronal on April 13, 1932 in a hotel in Paris and Mareuil committed self-immolation on October 24, 1954 by dousing herself in gasoline and burning herself to death in a public square in Perigueux, Dordogne.
Modern prints of the film feature a soundtrack consisting of excerpts from Richard Wagner's Liebestod, the concert version of the finale to his opera Tristan und Isolde, and a recording of the Argentinian tango "Ole guapa". This is the same soundtrack that Buñuel chose and played live on a phonograph during the original 1929 screening in Paris. They were first added to a print of the film in 1960 under Buñuel's supervision. The film here (part of it) has a modern awful soundtrack but its the only copy I could get at time of posting.

So why do I see this film as another project? Well, once I get my 2 films finished I will start on my version of this film. I have 2 books full of ideas and shots all mapped out. Ever since I was 16 I wanted to do something artistic as a response to this masterpiece.I have one small (gigantic) problem, who will play the leading lady....Im open for suggestions. I usually have an eye for this sort of thing, if you know what I mean. At least I can breath again, It's been a while.

the colour of despair

2009-03-14T06:50:00.001-07:00

When I was 16 I was thrust into the uncomfortable world of art school.It was a long way from my high school days in more ways than just geographical. I remember my first few months there very clearly.I remember them because at much as this very green student thought he knew it all, I simply didn't (what a shock). I learned a new way of thinking, a way that would shape my thinking till this day. I remember the first few projects the professors gave us. At first they seemed crazy and stupid and a total waste of time (because at 16 you simply didn't have time to whittle away..ha ha).I would go home at night after a very very long day at art school and work on something I called 'my work' till the very early hours of the morning. Later I figured out that all the work I did was MINE. So on that very cold 'northern English town' kind of morning I walked into my first real lesson and was presented with a box made out of wood.It was the size of a basketball only it was a cube.It was painted a flat black and looked very dull in a beautiful way. When I picked the box up and started to turn it, it made very strange noises.Sometimes a bell, then a spring, then a thud, then the sound of water, then the sound of rice or some sort of grains falling. The box never made the same sound in the same order.It was a complete mystery what was inside and a bigger mystery how it was made, even now I try to figure out how it was put together...
The lesson was to turn the box once and draw the sound. Then turn it again and draw that sound. The lesson was to record all the sounds in the box with an image. There were 25 sounds and we were only allowed to turn the box once a day, therefore producing an image a day, a 10 hour day. The project lasted 3 months and I produced a lot of very interesting images.I also taught my brain to think in a completely different way, or maybe it taught me. Which brings us to the image above. Sometimes between very large projects I like to go a different direction with my work (just as a mental exercise) and sometimes the result can be quite rewarding. I wanted to figure out what colour certain emotions were or places or smells or simply stuff. The colour of remorse, the colour of damp nylon sheets, fear, hurt, sadness, lies, pretense, nerves, talent, regret, failure and so on....I will spare you the process but I had 50 english beer bottle just laying around, so I thought this would be a perfect vehicle to present my new little project. I created this about 6 years ago.
So now I have to go into my studio and photograph 40 painting I did 30 years ago.It needs to be done , but I would sooner be working on my film.

I wonder what colour exhaustion is?

hello dolly

2009-03-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

I have a friend in Paris whose name is Blandine. She is a new friend. All I can tell you about her is that she has a passion for food. She also has a passion for life. She is a wonderful cook and a very talented food stylist. O.K. you now have the picture. Recently (actually last week) her mother passed away. She lived in the south of France. Blandine was very brave and very sad when she left for her mothers funeral.
Apart from cooking and styling, Blandine takes wonderful yet simple photos with her i-Phone. In fact, ever since I met her she has recorded her daily life in images.I know her better through her photos than I do in real life.. .These are not the best photos in the world and she would not call herself a photographer (although she could be).She just snaps away, little moments and also big.
So while she was in the south of France, she came across this doll in a field, and sent it too me. I loved the image at once.It had all the components that made me bristle with creative excitement. I felt a little strange asking her to bring the doll (my new model) back to Paris (remember she was there for her mothers funeral) But she did. Everyday Blandine sends me a photo of the doll eating something or visiting a church,or just being a doll. all very strange and yet all very funny...
So what does a grown man want with a plastic doll that has mange (the doll has mange not the grown man) Well you will have to wait for that answer.But when I get back to Paris I'm going to spend a whole day photographing the doll in my own slightly morbid strange style. If you give me a choice between a fashion model or this scary little doll, I would take the doll every time.
I'm glad I know Blandine. I'm glad she brought the doll back to her home. I'm glad she is feeling a little less sad. In a few weeks you will see the result of my shoot.I have so many ideas. I wonder if Blandine will let me set up a mini studio in her apartment. I also wonder is she will be cooking that day...HINT HINT

my left hand

2009-03-10T13:42:00.000-07:00

One really cold winter I was playing in the snow with my brother and sister (fighting more like).It was one of those days that just didn't get light. The whole day was seeped in grey, murky under the water North sea light, or rather lack of light. I remember it being so bitterly cold. I remember that my fingers were numb to the bone, in fact my whole body was (what there was of it ). It didn't matter, I loved the cold , I loved the bleakness of winter, I always have and always will...I was 5.
I remember something that stayed with me forever, as things do that shock or scare us as children. My brother and sister and I were pelting each other with snow balls (more like ice balls) The darkness of the afternoon had almost turned its lights off completely .In fact it was dark...I just managed to grab one more clump of snow before heading back home. I knew something had gone wrong. I had picked up a broken piece of glass mixed in with snow and while squeezing it into a perfect sphere, I noticed a huge piece of glass coming out of my hand. It didn't feel like anything because I was already numb. It just felt like something very wrong. I could see the blood gushing out, the blood had no colour in the dim light (in fact I don't remember colour much in England except for grey and dark blue) I ran home as quickly as I could, still being attacked by snowballs (life can be so cruel) I was rushed to the family doctor (Dr.Brown) It was a friday night and I remember my father telling me to be brave. It was the first time I had a notion that you could stitch skin.I always thought a needle and thread was only employed with dressmaking. This really had me worried, I could't think how it worked. For a split second I thought the Dr might even run my hand through a sewing machine, not unlike my mothers old singer, only I wasn't singing. It all went well, I received my pocket money and also my first real injury.
I mention this because I just came across an old piece of art I made a few years ago.I hadn't thought about the snowball day when I had created this piece (above) Maybe all the hands in my art stem from that day. Maybe my obsession with anything medical comes from that day.
I sit here staring at my scar that nearly took my finger off on my left hand. I sit here in the warm glow of a perfect Miami day, full of light and colour....Womb-like safety.
God! I miss the cold. I miss the snow, I miss the grey. I miss me. Thank goodness I dont miss my finger.

I need help...Really!!!

2009-03-01T08:56:00.001-08:00

I have this little problem I would like to share with you all today, because thats what friends are for. O.K. here goes. Everyday for the last 2 months (and when I say everyday , I sometimes mean twice a day) I have been going to ( http://www.paris-live.com/paris_webcam/eiffel_tower_cam3.htm) to see a webcam picture of the Eiffel tower in all its static webcam glory. I know this is an illness and for the life of me I have been trying to figure out why I'm so addicted to this shot. Could it be because I want to see how the weather is? Could it be because I just need a quick Eiffel(eye-full) Could it be a nervous tick (or click) Whatever it is, Im getting worse. This webcam website offer other views of the Eiffel tower.I can see little people lining up in the rain to go to the top.I can see the traffic racing past the tower as if its not there. In fact I have quite a few camera angles that even Hitchcock might envy. When I first moved to Paris I would walk there everyday, so I know the area really well (maybe a little too well) I am starting to feel like a stalker, or a private eye staking out someone. It's not like I have time to look and ponder at this wonderful collection of steel bolted together with nuts and bolts. Well today I have decided to quit cold turkey, thats right, quit!! FINIS...Its not like I wont be going back or anything, So I will be able to see it up close and way too personal...So there it is, I have cured myself through the power of venting to all you dear readers by way of the blog..Ahhhhhhhhh What a relief...Really I feel like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders......WAIT!!!!!!!! Its nearly the top of the hour, and we all know what that means, YES!! The Eiffel tower twinkles for 10 minutes......Just this once. I promise it will be the last time.....Promise.

Just in case you might need another addiction, here is the address
WARNING: VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK..
http://www.paris-live.com/paris_webcam/eiffel_tower_cam3.htm

come up and see my studio

2009-02-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

Today I'm starting a new segment...it's called 'Studio Visit' (are you all asleep yet?) WAKE UP!!!!!!!!! Its going to be fun (at least for me).O.K. every so often I will take a photograph of something in my studio and write something clever and witty (maybe). It might be something really small (like my studio..ha ha) or very large (like my electricity bill) It will be something of interest (hopefully) Why am I starting this fun segment you wonder? Well dear readers, the other day (yesterday to be precise) I started cleaning out my studio and I came across hundreds and hundreds of 'THINGS' in and around my studio. It's true that I very rarely ever throw anything away. So after spending the good part of 7 hours I actually trashed 2 items.See I'm really bad at saying goodbye.
Please dont be put off by the photo above, it will get a lot better than that...I shot many photos yesterday and will start posting them in the next few weeks and months (until you all tell me to STOP!!!!))
Here is the really strange part.I know where everything is........Everything!

Now where did I put my martini?

a cheesy story

2009-02-21T05:12:00.000-08:00

The other day I posted a little painting I did when I was 6 years old.Today I came across a photo of when I was 5 years old. In fact I had just turned 5. My mother thought it would be a lovely idea to get the local photographer to come to our house a take a few photos. I remember this day very very clearly. Not for any other reason than the photographer had the nastiest smelling feet in the world (or maybe even beyond) I remember asking my mother what that dreadful pong was. I remember my mother saying 'for Gods sake dont say anything' I remember telling my brother and sister that the dreadful cheese smell belonged to the photographer.
Needless to say , the shoot was hurried along (maybe because I was making my brother and sister and mother laugh by holding my nose through the session) the totally embarrassed photographer and his cheesy feet left in a hurry. After my mother had opened all the windows in the dead of winter, we all laughed and laughed for the longest time. I of course had a sty on my eyelid that day and looked like an homeless extra from a lesser known Charles Dickens novel, that was adapted into a movie. Apart from my sty that looked a little like a black eye,I can also see that little smirk on my face.This smirk would get me into trouble all through my schooling years and actually all through my life.

A photo is worth a thousand words (maybe)

I think I'll have cheese for lunch... I wonder why?

smirk |smərk|
verb [ intrans. ]
smile in an irritatingly smug, conceited, or silly way : Dr. Ali smirked in triumph. See note at smile .
noun
a smug, conceited, or silly smile : Gloria pursed her mouth in a self-satisfied smirk.

yaba daba doo time...

2009-02-18T19:50:00.000-08:00

I know what you must all be thinking (Im clever that way) you are all thinking that you have seen these images before...Well maybe you have. Also, you may be thinking I'm running out of subjects for my blog (impossible) The truth is I actually just brought them out for some fresh air. Ten years ago the flintstone people (hanna/Barbara) asked me to portray the flintsones in the style of famous artists (this was a dream assignment for me) I painted them all in oil and put a frame around them and sent them off for there approval. A few notes here: On the Wilma painting, it first read 'Oh Fred I'll never cheat on you again' That was a massive no no.They said Wilma would never cheat, so I changed it to 'oh Fred I'm so sorry...' Also it was the first time that Betty was ever painted naked, We have to thank Matisse for that....Anyway dear readers, enjoy the paintings and of course have a gay old time.....( apologies to my european readers (you know who you are) 'Have a gay old time" were some of the lyrics in the theme song.

Cick on image to make larger, unless of course you simply don't want too.
P.S. I painted 5 others, not shown , so don't try to click on those.

philip brooker age 6

2009-02-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

For years and years(2 in fact, it just seemed longer) I sat on the floor of my very cold bedroom at 139 kents hill road, north Thundersley, Benfeet, Essex, England (sorry about the long address but it felt good writing it after so long) and thought of very strange things to draw and paint. I was after all 6 years old ,and even then, I couldn't remember a day I didn't draw or paint something. Well dear reader nothing has really changed.Its not cold anymore and I have a few more tubes of paints, and yes even more than one paintbrush.I loved that paintbrush, I wore the poor thing down to one very sad hair...I still have it.
So when I came across my earliest work this morning, I selected this one (above) It seemed the most finished and happiest. I remember painting it, I almost remember every stroke. A little like we all remember learning to ride a bicycle or learning to swim for the first time.I remember thinking I was a clever boy (I didn't really think that out aloud, I was too shy for that) but people said 'aren't you clever' or 'who does he take after?' this seem to worry adults around me a lot. It was then that I first heard the name Picasso... 'He's a right little Picasso isn't he'. Five years later I would actually go to the Tate gallery my see my first Picasso.It was the portrait of Dora Marr 'The Weeping Woman' I went home and stayed up very very late painting my version 'The weeping man' (I will find it and post it here)
So after all these years I still have the same routine.I get up early, I paint, I draw, I work on my films and illustrations, I design furniture, I take photographs. Today instead of creating a painting called 'The weeping man' deep inside I've turned into one.

Well its time to go back to my studio......
Philip Brooker age 53

all you need is love

2009-02-14T08:37:00.001-08:00

All you need is love ? Could this really be true? Happy valentines day

a little shaken

2009-02-10T16:25:00.000-08:00

There are not many things I would give up. So when I decided to give up drinking Martins it was somewhat a shock to my system and my friends. Now, I now what you are all saying (yes I'm psychic) 'Why give up drinking martinis Philip, you love them so much?
Well, I will tell you the answer...Well, actually, there isn't an answer (what a let down) The reason is, I just wanted to test my willpower, I just wanted to see if I could do it. It was only for one month 2 days and 35 seconds... Winston Churchill chose to forgo vermouth completely, saying that the perfect martini involved pouring a glass full of cold gin and looking at a bottle of vermouth. General Patton suggested pointing the gin bottle in the general direction of Italy. Alfred Hitchcock's recipe called for five parts gin and "a quick glance at a bottle of vermouth." See I'm in good company. I have to admit that my martini is really called a 'vodka martini' I will only drink gin if the vodka has run dry (and that might be just impossible) Tonight Im going to make myself a fantastic you know what..Vodka from the freezer, a splash of vermouth (in my case a spray) and as many olives that I can humanly stuff in the glass...AHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh heaven.
Next month Im going to give up eating chocolate and cookies. Willpower you say? No! I have to stop my little plump belly that seems to be growing.
I took this photo illustration (above) for the Miami Herald food section. It was about the most expensive martini in Miami. It was $100.

a view with a room

2009-02-09T14:26:00.000-08:00

When I look around my apartment I see millions of details, maybe hundreds of millions..o.k. o.k. I'm getting a little carried away. But there are lots. Let me step back here a minute (I'll try not to walk into something) Five years ago a well known British television company filmed my house for a home and design show (we will call them the BBC just for the hell of it )
I watched what they filmed. Even though they did a very nice clean job and made everything look beautiful and interesting, I felt they missed the details (and how my hair looked on the show, but that really is a blog unto itself) So I promised myself that if I ever moved to another house or apartment, I would record it in a series of details...The images above are just bad snap shots (I dont want to give everything away before its published now do I ) .I have just finished shooting a thousand shots and have edited them down to one hundred...WHEW!!!
I'm writing a story and arranging all my photos and hopefully I'll get it in a magazine....So stay tuned.

Now where did I put my sandwich? It was here a moment ago...My next home will all be white, that way I will be able to find my sandwich, which thankfully is whole wheat bread not white.

this explains a lot

2009-02-04T17:09:00.000-08:00

After watching 'The Red Balloon'(below) again after so many years, I decided to dig a little deeper into my early viewing on the television.There were so many very very strange shows on TV when I was a kid.The BBC was just starting to get childrens programing together.We didn't have superman or any comic book hero's. We had 'the Woodentops (this was about a large family that were made out of wood), Then there was 'Rag Tag and Bobtail'(this was about a rabbit and a rat and a snail that lived underground) and then there was the Tales of the river boat' (the main lead in this show was a hamster called Hammy Hamster' Brilliant!!!) But the best one by far was Bill and Ben (yes I know, it sounds a little fruity) this was about two little men who were made out of flowerpots (what else?) and lived in flowerpots. There best friend (apart from each other) was a weed (called weed...what else) anyway do yourself a treat and watch what I was forced to watch as a child.The fact is I loved these shows, it explains a lot ...Pink floyd, Monty Pythons flying circus, oh the list goes on. In fact it explains a lot about me and my early take on things...

the red balloon

2009-02-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

This is a very simple message ...If you have never seen this film, take the next 30 minutes and enjoy it.If you have seen it,then take the next 30 minutes and enjoy it again.I posted this because of my little film 'The White Balloon' (below).I love how Paris looked in 1956, I also love the music and will be whistling it all day now... As I mentioned below, I didnt want to ruin this film by seeing it again.Well I did and its even better than I remembered. The love affair between me and Paris is stronger than ever..

the white balloon

2009-02-01T20:40:00.000-08:00

Here is my latest little film. Its called 'The White Balloon'. The first time I ever heard the word Paris was when I watched the remarkable film called 'The Red Balloon' (French: Le Ballon rouge) (1956) It's a wonderful fantasy short film, directed by French filmmaker Albert Lamorisse (who won an oscar) I think it was then that I fell in love with Paris at the tender age of five. The film has stayed with me all these years and so has Paris. I'm tempted to take another look, but wont of course. Why ruin the perfect love affair...Enjoy my little film 'The White Balloon'
To view my film, It might be better to go to http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=bH85TFYNcKI&feature=channel_page and hit the high quality button just under the film on the right.The quality is so much better.....Then again, I also want to to stay on and in my blog.

up in smoke

2009-01-31T20:04:00.000-08:00

This is going to sound a little strange (how unusual for me) I miss the smoke from cigarettes in Paris cafes bars etc..I miss walking into a cafe or bar and not seeing the room full of blue smoke...in fact not seeing anything.I miss my eyes stinging from the dry fug filled rooms. I know the pitfalls of smoking and all that stuff.I don't and never have smoked, but I think it was a French institution to have bistro's etc full of smoke.Those days are gone now and I know Americans and my clothes are very happy to hear that (but what can we complain about now) I feel we (they) have chopped a huge part of french culture off at the knees.So when I pass a TV station called NRJ (energy) I see this outside ashtray always full...always.
The French cant smoke in the cafes anymore but they still smoke, they smoke like chimneys, in the freezing winter as well as the hot stinky summers.I shot this photo (above) when it was 11 degrees below freezing.There were maybe 21 people standing outside NRJ trying to enjoy a cig.They looked stiff and maybe a little frozen ...but god bless them for making the outside ashtray a little work of art and maybe a small revolution against..??? Well what? Are we all becoming health freaks at the expense of national institutions , are we not allowed our little vices anymore.The next thing you know, the Parisians will start treating people with manners and courtesy..God forbid!!!

and now on the brighter side

2009-01-29T08:40:00.000-08:00

Here is a little illustration I just finished for the Knight Foundation. As I'm sure a lot of you know (because I bored you to death with it) I won a grant from the Knight Foundation to start a project called 'The Miami Poster Project' Basically 'YOU' design a poster and win a lot of money, as well as great exposure. Its open to everybody. It doesn't have to be a drawing, it can be a poem, a story, a word...BUT!!! It does have to capture the essence of miami.(More about this later) Soon the website will be finished , so all you budding and not so budding artists can read all the simple details...who knows you may even win....Stay tuned, its going to be very exciting....
The illustration above is to call for entries for the new Knight Foundation awards 2009. Who knows, you might win that as well....I did.

a promise is a promise ...except!!!

2009-01-27T16:46:00.000-08:00

Remember dear reader, when I promised never to write anymore about my Dr Marten boots (see January 11th entry) I promised you this because my blog is supposed to be about art and culture and me and everything in between. Well I'm sorry, I have failed you once again.For here is (and I promise it will be the last word on boots) another entry about Dr Marten boots. No I'm not being paid to advertise them, nor am I short of blog entries...It's just that when I was out the other day (monday) I saw this brand new pair of Dr. you know who boots. They had my name all over them and they were on sale. What more could a starving struggling artist want (o.k. I'm not really either) So now, I am the proud owner of some very flashy boots...Dont you think?

Oh! the photo above are not the boots I bought (are you crazy !!!) NO NO, I bought another pair of classic dark brown ones...
Besides they didnt have my size in little flower prints....Shame. BLOODY SHAME.

my screen saver or scream saver

2009-01-25T16:02:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you but I have been through a million(maybe 9) screen savers over the last few years, I just cant seem to settle on one. So recently when I went into the apple store (as I tend to do every 30 minutes, it seems) the guy helping me (I think he was a genius) said ''what a scary screen saver''. In fact this Isn't the first time I've heard this and probably wont be the last. As an artist I usually like to work with a white screen, it seems cleaner and somewhat fresher. But since I bought my laptop, I have settled with one image. It's by one of my favourite artists. The painting is called 'l'historie centrale'and it was painted in 1928 , its by (as I'm sure you know) Rene Magritte. I have only used the top half of the painting, the best bit as far as I'm concerned. The story behind the painting stems back to when Magritte was fourteen, his mother committed suicide by drowning in the river Sambre. Following her footsteps to the river, Magritte saw a group of men pulling a woman out of the water, which turned out to be his mother. Magritte saw her body which was naked apart from the nightgown which had become wrapped around her face. This is all true, except that Magritte never actually saw his mother being fished out of the river. After some research, it seems the story was probably told to him in glorious detail, by his nanny .

I told the apple genius this story thinking it would put his mind at ease. He stared at me for a few seconds and replied ''will that be credit or cash?'' I probably wont tell the story again but I will keep my screensaver, at least till I find a gloomier image.

Screen Saver (also screensaver)
noun Computing
a program that, after a set time, replaces an unchanging screen display with a moving image, originally to prevent damage to the phosphor and now mostly for decoration or entertainment.

time to kill..part one

2009-01-24T13:57:00.000-08:00

I have so much stuff in my apartment (Big sigh) It's all very beautiful and hand picked from a lot of strange and wonderful places. I've been collecting 'stuff' since I was a kid. I simply couldn't part with one piece. Never! Ever! Out of the question.
Inconceivable...
Well dear reader thats what I use to think as of maybe a few weeks ago. Now Im back in Miami, I seem to be looking at things with a fresh eye (both of them in fact) So I woke up the other morning (really!) and took a long hard look.I came to the conclusion, that even though it's hardly junk, I simply don't want it anymore.So I'm starting a new segment on my blog, it's called 'What the F... am I going to do with my little treasures' O.K. it's not really called that, but you get the idea...The 'stuff' has been very important in my art and also I have really enjoyed living with it ,but it's time to go (the stuff that is , not me) So here is the first in a very long series...

Part One.
ALL MY CLOCKS (no it's not a soap opera)

Yes thats right...I have about 60 clocks, all very lovely and all in working order.All the times are set at 2.45. The question is what should I do with them?

A. Give them away to a clock collector?

B. Sell them on E-Bay?

C. Put them in storage?

D. Drown them?

E. Pretend I don't see them.

I'm taking suggestions. The winner will get a clock...What else?

Why are the clocks set to 2.45 you ask? well thats the time my mother died.
Who said they were happy clocks.

P.S. All my clocks are featured in the film I made about my mother 'Sylvia' If I can loose my mother I can certainly loose all my clocks...Cant I ?

lights... camera...edit?

2009-01-22T16:32:00.000-08:00

If you scroll down on my blog you will see (on the right hand side) the image above. There you will find all the little films I have made. I'm telling you this dear reader as a added service we (It's only me but 'we' sounded bigger) offer here at the blog. O.K. O.K. I'm saying this because 2 people complained they couldn't find my films on my blog. So that solves that little problem... It seems a tad strange to be editing yet another little film about Paris with the waves of Miami singing there sweet song outside. I wonder where I should edit the big film I'm making 'Au Revoir Monsieur Bonjour Mademoiselle' (The life of April Ashley) I shot that in Nice Paris London and liverpool. Oh well I have plenty of time to worry about that. Meantime stay tuned for the next little film, It was shot over Washington while the 'swearing in' was happening, and I have exclusive images ...How is that for a teaser...Then again maybe I'll post the Paris balloon film first...Then again.

where am I?

2009-01-21T05:28:00.001-08:00

I just got back from Paris last night, so no postcards from Paris for a while (although I will be showing 3 short films here on my blog, in the next few weeks). Here is a photograph I took this morning, from the beach just outside my house. It's going to take a few weeks before I get use to not having Paris all around me.So bare with me.

I'll be fine....Really!! don't worry.

GObama

2009-01-19T09:05:00.000-08:00

I'll be on a plane flying back to Miami when Obama is being sworn in. I wanted to write so much about this event and about the horror of the Bush years,but I wont. I'm just so happy to be flying back to a country that might just (by the skin of it's teeth) be o.k. Thank God Bush has gone...The photo above is an ad thats all over the metro.I think its for books (I really need to learn French) Really!!!!!!! I miss Paris already.

bright and breezy

2009-01-18T02:07:00.003-08:00

A lot of people (usually my family) say 'Philip why is your art so dark and gloomy?" and I usually reply "I need a martini" Anyway here (above) is an example of my lighter more colourful side. It's for a magazine called Mortgage Monthly (yes you heard right) and I produce four of these covers a year.I really enjoy creating these illustrations because the art director gives me complete freedom.My family likes these illustrations because they are happy and joyful, unlike my other work which is, shall we say a little deeper.I sent this illustration to my sister and she said 'Philip why don't you create more art like this?" to which I replied "I need a martini".
So for the readers who prefer the lighter side of my brain go to www.anicecupoft.com
for the readers who like it a little (lot) darker go to www.philipbrooker.com

oh I'll just have one more

2009-01-17T02:37:00.000-08:00

It's a well known fact that I hate birthdays. I have never really understood them. What is one supposed to be celebrating, a year closer to the grave? I know I know, I should lighten up (as they say)But I see the diggers waiting. So this year, after years of hiding under the pillow or something like a pillow, I have decided to take this situation head on and do what I do best, NO NO NO not creating art...DRINKING!!!!!!!!!!!!!Im really enjoying my birthday now (or rather the champagne) So maybe it's not so bad after all.....It will be lunch soon, maybe Ill have another glass. 'Happy birthday Philip'.. ' you're welcome'.

celebrate |ˈseləˌbrāt|
verb [ trans. ]
1 mark (a significant or happy day or event), typically with a social gathering
• [ intrans. ] do something enjoyable to mark such an occasion : she celebrated with a glass of champagne.
• reach (a birthday or anniversary).
2 perform (a religious ceremony) publicly and duly, in particular officiate at (the Eucharist) : he celebrated holy communion.
3 honor or praise publicly : a film celebrating the actor's career | [as adj. ] ( celebrated) a celebrated mathematician.

4.DRINK A REALLY GOOD BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE.
P.S. The photo above makes no sense at all but drinking and being creative never sat with me very well..unlike most artists...

then and now...and then?

2009-01-14T02:46:00.000-08:00

I know this isn't the most original idea, but sometimes one just has grit one's teeth and just do it. O.K. that said, here is a new segment I call 'then and now ' this of course will change with time..I came across this old postcard of a building I know very well (I walk past it everyday except when I don't..ha ha) Anyway , it looks a little like the flat iron building in New York, only much smaller( and its not in New York). I photographed a modern version of this building this morning, and the truth is, it hasn't really changed a lot, in fact it almost the same. Maybe this isn't the best example to start my new little segment (then and now) but maybe its good to see that progress (if one can call it that) hasn't swept over everything in it's sight....

I use to go to that cafe in the photo above, but they have a really nasty old pit bull working for them and she barks (and bites) very loudly in French.I passed the cafe this morning and heard her tender tones ringing out. I think she has been there since 1927..Ahhhh!! somethings truly never change. Alas!
(click on image to make it larger)

a story with a soul and a sole

2009-01-11T03:48:00.001-08:00

I was thinking how nice it is to be wearing my red boots again after so long. Living in Miami most of the year one didn't see much reason to put on big boots. But now I am living in Paris I try to wear them every chance I get. I know you are all wondering what sort of boots do I wear? In fact I'm convinced most of you must be loosing sleep over this question. Well dear reader, worry no more, I will tell you, Dr Martens...YES!!!! thats right, the amazing Dr Martens. I bought my first pair while living in the north of England, just before I started art school. What a big day that was for me (buying the boots not the first day of art school) I rushed home, all excited and with the vigor of a wild horse. I started to polish them till I couldn't feel my fingers anymore. My fingers had actually turned from a dark brown from the polish (and after many washes) to a nasty yellow.It looked like I was the heaviest smoker in Britain.I had those boots (and still do, just cant throw them away) for nearly 40 years, They cost 12 pounds...So 2 years ago I thought to myself in a moment of pondering, 'Isn't it time I bought another pair of Dr Marten boots' and in a flash I did. In stead of going to a dark dank workmans shoe shop, I ordered them online. Oh what a day it was when they arrived.After smelling them for an hour or so I set out to polish them all night long (as well as taking a sniff here and there) They cost $120 and will probably outlive me...Maybe I'll be buried in them 'God rest my SOLE'
Last night I got out the shoe polish and after an hour I could see my smily face reflected in them. Even though my fingers look like I'm now the heaviest smoker in France I know that I just might have the shiniest boots in Europe and who knows maybe the world.

A FOOTNOTE (ha ha) and a short history, because I know you need to know more
Klaus Maertens was a doctor in the German army during World War II. While on leave in 1945, he injured his ankle while skiing in the Bavarian Alps. He found that his standard-issue army boots were too uncomfortable on his injured foot. While recuperating, he designed improvements to the boots, with soft leather, and air-padded soles. When the war ended and some Germans looted valuables from their own cities, Maertens took leather from a cobbler's shop. With that leather he made himself a pair of boots with air-cushioned soles.
Maertens didn't have much luck selling his shoes until he met up with an old university friend, Dr. Herbert Funck, in Munich in 1947. Funck was intrigued by the new shoe design, and the two went into business that year in Seeshaupt, Germany, using discarded rubber from Luftwaffe airfields. The comfortable and durable soles were a big hit with housewives; 80 percent of sales in the first decade were to women over the age of 40.
Sales had grown so much by 1952 that they opened a factory in Munich. In 1959, the company had grown large enough that Maertens and Funck looked at marketing the footwear internationally. Almost immediately, British shoe manufacturer R. Griggs Group Ltd. bought patent rights to manufacture the shoes in the United Kingdom. Griggs anglicized the name, slightly re-shaped the heel to make them fit better, added the trademark yellow stitching, and trademarked the soles as AirWair.
The first Dr. Martens boots in the United Kingdom came out on April 1, 1960; with an eight-eyelet, cherry-red, Nappa leather design. They were popular among workers such as postmen, police officers and factory workers. By the late 1960s, skinheads started wearing Dr. Martens boots. By the late 1970s, Dr. Martens boots were popular among some British punk rock and New Wave musicians, and soon many punk fans were wearing them. The boots and shoes then became popular among other youth subcultures. (who are you calling a subculture?)
I promise I'll never write anymore about my boots or anyone else's.

2009-01-08T02:45:00.000-08:00

warm hands cold feet

2009-01-08T00:15:00.000-08:00

My only regret in making this little film is that I didn't have my good video camera with me, and that I didn't have wool socks, on both feet. I shot it all on my tiny camera which only allows me to shoot 3 minutes (its not really a video camera, it just thinks it is )...I'm hoping it will snow again, in fact I think Paris will get lots of snow this winter...Remember you heard it here first. Sit back and enjoy the film.You may want to wear a hat and gloves and sip on something hot.
If you want to see this film in better quality, Go to you-tube and press the better quality tag bottom left of the film.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=V5reS0c60Yc

Film noir...(well actually film bleu)

2009-01-04T02:01:00.000-08:00

I froze everything off shooting this little film (even my little camera caught a cold) . The eiffel tower was blue and now it's back to its normal colour (a golden yellow). The reason it turned blue 6 months ago, was because France took over the European Presidency, and I'm sure you all know that the EU flag is blue with yellow stars. Now the presidency will go to another country that doesn't have an Eiffel tower or great food.

Anyway I think the real reason it was blue, was because it's freezing cold in Paris at the moment. Im going to thaw out now, maybe Ill turn back to my normal colour soon....pink!!!

Happy new year

2008-12-30T00:49:00.000-08:00

My next post will be on january 3rd 2009 and it will be a small film...So stay tuned. Have a great new year and don't forget to drink a lot.

Yes I admit it...I'm a tourist

2008-12-28T09:00:00.001-08:00

This morning I went for my usual walk to nowhere and noticed once again the beautiful Metro entrances. So yes! I did what I usually do at a time like this, I whipped out my trusted camera and started clicking away...(tourist)
The beauty of Paris often resides in the most everyday objects, such as the swirlingly ornate entrances to Metro stations. Foreigners (like me) have sometimes grasped this truth more readily than Parisians. The New York Modern Art Museum bought the disused wrought-iron railings from a Metro entrance 40 years ago and displays them as a pioneering and beautiful example of art nouveau.

The Paris transport authority, the RATP, has finally recognised it has an extraordinary artistic heritage in its care. The remaining art nouveau entrances to Paris Metro stations are to be dismantled and lovingly restored, at a cost of pounds 1.4m,(pounds) over two years and rebuilt on their original sites.

Much has already been lost. An estimated 180 station entrances were constructed of wrought iron to the designs of the architect, Hector Guimard, starting with the first Metro line in 1899. Of these, only 86 remain. His most ambitious design - a fan-shaped arch of wrought iron and glass, described as "like a dragonfly opening its wings" - was used at 20 different sites. Most fell victim to the modernising ravages of the 1960s and 1970s, and the destruction was halted only in 1978, when all Guimard entrances were declared historic monuments. Just two of the arches, or pagodas, survive, at Porte Dauphine in the 16th arrondissement and at Abbesses, near Montmartre.

These and the less grand, but equally beautiful railings and signs at other sites, full of ironwork scrolls and squiggles and fronds, will be taken to the RATP workshops, scoured and sand-blasted and re-soldered where necessary. Worn sections will be replaced, copying the original manufacture.

They were made from interchangeable sections, capable of being adapted to every kind of Metro entrance,. Putting them back together will be a real jigsaw puzzle.I wish I could have helped.

The people undertaking this massive but wonderful feat have even scraped off successive layers of paint, to discover the original colour of the ironwork.The entrances had often been painted in an unflattering, dog-sick yellowy-green (not that I have anything against dog sick). They will be repainted in their original hues, dark green for leafy locations and bluey-green for street sites.

Guimard entrances have not always been prized. Even their name - edicule - is not flattering. It can also mean "public convenience". Guimard's fanciful ironwork scrolls upset conservative Parisians early in the century. One entrance, due to be placed opposite the Paris Opera, was never constructed, such was the outcry from the opera-goers of the day. Guimard resigned soon afterwards as chief architect of the then Compagnie du Metropolitain Parisien.

His work is now regarded as having been an important influence on the art nouveau movement. Two new Metro systems - one in Lisbon, and last year, the one in Mexico City - have each built a replica station entrance in the Guimard "dragonfly" style.
So there you have it..A little stroll around my new home unearths all kinds of little and big treasures...I wonder what tourist sights I'll see tomorrow?

politicians imitating politicians

2008-12-26T07:04:00.000-08:00

I'm sure by now you have all seen the Obama poster.So I was quite surprised to see a Sarkozy poster (posted all around Paris) in the same style..
O.K. I wasn't really surprised I just needed to post something today........

Merry christmas if you want it.

2008-12-24T05:04:00.000-08:00

I felt I had to do a christmas post. So here it is. The original image shown here is called "Merry Old Santa Claus," by Thomas Nast from Harper's Weekly,published January 1, 1881.
I of course added all the other stuff.....
Merry christmas and remember to be really really nice to people in the new year (but only if they deserve it) Some people simply dont..

These strange little houses

2008-12-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

So what are these strange little huts-houses-garden sheds??...Well if you guessed one of the 3 you would be wrong. In the late thirties and early forties the French government encouraged people to exercise, to get outside and take the sun and breath.In fact people were starting to see mind and body as something one should take care of...Anyway, on this little island just north west of Paris, all these little huts(about 250) were built by the French government, a kind of chalet. People would go to the island and rent these little chalets, and after taking the sun and stretching and swimming and basically getting fitter, they would take naps and rest in the cute little summer houses. All this sounds wonderful, an in fact it was. Wonderful except for one very important little detail. Asbestos! Thats right Asbestos... All the little chalets were built with this deadly fiber. Just to remind you what this is (The asbestos minerals include chrysotile ( white asbestos) and several kinds of amphibole. The danger to health caused by breathing in highly carcinogenic asbestos particles has led to stringent control of its use) None of this was known then of course...
So what are these chalets used for now? Well, just about everything, from garden sheds to little huts to weekend chalets. Thats right, people still use some of them as there little hut away from home...I photographed maybe 50 of these structures and I held my breath most of the time.So much for taking in the fresh air. One of them is up for sale. So how much is this deadly structure going for? Well the chalet and a little section of land will cost you 9,000 euros...Gasmask not included.

seeing is believing

2008-12-22T03:39:00.000-08:00

I love this story, I suppose because I'm in the business of looking and looking and looking. A British inventor asked himself a simple question 'What if it were possible, he thought, to make a pair of glasses which, instead of requiring an optician, could be "tuned" by the wearer to correct his or her own vision? Might it be possible to bring affordable spectacles to millions who would never otherwise have them'?

The British inventor has embarked on a quest that is breathtakingly ambitious, but which he insists is achievable - to offer glasses to a billion of the world's poorest people by 2020.

Some 30,000 pairs of his spectacles have already been distributed in 15 countries, but to Silver (the inventor) that is very small beer. Within the next year the now-retired professor and his team plan to launch a trial in India which will, they hope, distribute 1 million pairs of glasses.

The target, within a few years, is 100 million pairs annually. With the global need for basic sight-correction, by his own detailed research, estimated at more than half the world's population, Silver sees no reason to stop at a billion.

If the scale of his ambition is dazzling, at the heart of his plan is an invention which is engagingly simple.

Silver has devised a pair of glasses which rely on the principle that the fatter a lens the more powerful it becomes. Inside the device's tough plastic lenses are two clear circular sacs filled with fluid, each of which is connected to a small syringe attached to either arm of the spectacles.

The wearer adjusts a dial on the syringe to add or reduce amount of fluid in the membrane, thus changing the power of the lens. When the wearer is happy with the strength of each lens the membrane is sealed by twisting a small screw, and the syringes removed. The principle is so simple, the team has discovered, that with very little guidance people are perfectly capable of creating glasses to their own prescription.
I wish I could help this man in his quest, maybe I can...we will see...and see and see and see

The sign of the times

2008-12-21T23:42:00.003-08:00

After a day of shooting (sunday) the new pool (when I say NEW, I mean the new 'old' abandoned Deco swimming pool) just north east of Paris, I came across this road sign.It was the perfect balance of a man made object and nature (harmony) .Not much to say really except it was a very very dull day as far as the weather goes and the photos were very very flat (I cant use any of them.BUT!! this road sign and the tree made it all worth while......Another lesson in how nature will always conquer over man...maybe harmony is the wrong word.

The beautiful metro

2008-12-19T04:19:00.001-08:00

I may stand alone in this thought, but I love the Paris metro. I have been photographing it for many many years (22 actually) Just snap shots, things of interest. This last year I have been looking at it in another way 'A Project ' kind of way. I have shot some very majestic shots that I think I'm going to make them into something...(stay tuned)
The photo above was shot last night on my way home from a Peter Brook exhibition. It was late and nobody was around to ruin the shot..This photo is just ordinary but I think it's time to look at (in my opinion) the beautiful metro again with a closer eye and a camera ...oh and a very warm coat...and maybe a shot of cognac.

dirty (naughty) seaside postcards

2008-12-15T14:32:00.001-08:00

I thought, after the shoe throwing entry (last blog, see below) we needed something a little lighter..Not many people know this but I collect what is known as 'dirty postcards ' or saucy postcards'(WOW! I hear you all saying 'What a shock') These are very very English and are basically badly drawn cartoons with a really stupid naughty sentence written somewhere on the card (as you can see from the example above) I have been collecting them for years...It suddenly hit me today, as I pondered through my extensive collection to ask the question WHY? Well I cant really answer why I collect them but I'll give you all a little history about these cards....o.k. here goes..

Saucy Seaside Postcards are a peculiar tradition but are synonymous with holidays along the British coast. They typify the quirky humour of the British which often revolves around sex or bodily functions.

With the English invention of seaside holidays having been popularised by the Victorians, the promenades and piers started to see stalls selling seaside novelties. Seaside postcards with bawdy captions first appeared in the early 20th Century and became extremely popular during the First World War.

Characters would mostly be well endowed young women, well built older women, hen pecked husbands and red nosed drunks. Subjects usually involved either the beach, hospitals, nudist camps or indeed anything where a sexual content could be included. The predominant feature being double entendre (A word or phase having a double meaning especially when the second meaning is risqué) and spoonerisms (A transposition of the initial sounds of two words).

If you are still awake after the brief history, I will tell you that last time I was in a seaside town that use to have an abundance of these cards (southend on sea) I looked for them and looked for them...Guess what? They are all slowly disappearing.I blame the internet. So maybe its time to dust off my seaside vulgarity and frame them and hang them in a place of honor for all to see ..then again.

P.S. Most of the cards have something written on the back and that something is all rather similar from card to card.It says something like this...'Having a wonderful time. Little bobby threw up all over harry but we did laugh.It hasn't stopped raining.See you next tuesday, wish you were here...

My new hero....and I dont mean bush

2008-12-15T01:54:00.000-08:00

I wont often post political items here on my page but this was too good to be true. Why couldn't someone in America have thrown their shoes at him earlier? Maybe it could be a new trend. Maybe wherever he goes, people of all ages could just take off there shoes and throw them at him.Or carry a spare pair just incase they see him. This (shoe thrower) man really is my new hero. It took a lot of courage to do what he did. I will follow this story and see what becomes of him, and when I say 'him' I mean my new show throwing friend...My Hero.

kiss me kiss me kiss me...then again!

2008-12-13T13:48:00.001-08:00

"After struggling with the thought of another holiday season. Philip, slowly, but with the air of certainty, slipped into a festive mood with the exuberance of a party animal."

One day I'll post all my christmas cards from the last 20 years. This years card is a little tame by my sick standards , but I thought given the world climate (and I don't just mean the weather) I would be nice. Also as I am writing this, I feel like death. A lovely flu I picked up in Miami, I'm sure from all the coughing spluttering art people who sneezed in my face at Art Basel......Anyway, happy holidays and all that stuff and I hope you remember to give give give. REMEMBER It's better to give than receive. Well thats what we are led to believe.
Time for a hot lemon drink with honey......although a martini sounds pretty good about now. Maybe a honey lemon martini with olives and aspirin. CHEERS!

Ah! Paris...the lights the culture the chinese food?

2008-12-11T03:54:00.000-08:00

When people I know come to Paris, to do what people do when they come to Paris, I do what anybody living in Paris would do, I take them to the best restaurant in town, My local Chinese. WHAT!!!!!! I hear you thinking...Well, I understand your reaction, but you might just be be wrong. I know there are amazing places here to eat, and trust me, if I sold my apartment and took out a huge loan, I would most likely visit them at least twice a year. But they would not even come close to my beloved Chinese place.The food is all cooked to order, the best rose wine ever and smiling faces served fresh with there version of a kind of sake. As a special treat , the sake cups have a photo of a naked woman at the bottom (or a man if you are a woman or gay) It's such a lovely way to end a cold evening, Great food and a naked woman swimming in alcohol ....OH!!!! and Paris, everywhere.

Where is this fantastic restaurant I hear you saying? Ask me and I will tell you.If and when you go, tell them the Englishman that stares in his sake cup looking like a lost soul sent you.

love sex and death in 3 minutes and 20 seconds...give or take a few seconds. In 3 acts.

2008-12-08T20:17:00.000-08:00

I was asked to produce a small 3-5 minute film about my work to be shown at the Wolfsonian exhibition 'Thoughts on Democracy' during Art Basel 2008. O.K. enogh words.....roll the film (popcorn not included)

the latest illustration...

2008-12-05T12:50:00.000-08:00

O.K. O.K. I know what you are thinking.What is philip doing!! This illustration is too bright and happy and nothing like his 'real work' Well you would be right thinking this, and as much as it was fun to do I now crave for a darker me (don't worry, dark lurks just beneath my skin) A change is as good as a rest they say, so consider this illustration a little rest, almost a nap... It's for The Miami Herald travel section.You get to see it before the readers of the paper will......o.k. now where did I put my tube of dark paint?

3-5 minutes all about me

2008-12-03T20:12:00.001-08:00

This Saturday I have to present 3-5 minutes all about me and my work. To the left is the flyer for the event (click to make larger)... It should be fun.I made a very little film (which I will show on my blog in the next week or so) It seems very strange to cram all those years of work into such a small time...Oh well. I'ts late so I had better brush my teeth and go to bed. It takes me longer to brush my teeth than it will to show 6 years of my work in my film.....and I have done a lot of work.

P.S.I love the fact that my name is larger than Martin Parr

miami, coffee and me

2008-11-30T10:59:00.000-08:00

One of the few things I miss about Paris when I come back to Miami is the coffee. I know I'm supposed to love Cuban coffee and don't get me wrong, It's not bad but it Isn't the coffee I adore in Paris (my god!!!!!!! What on earth do I sound like) Anyway I'm only here for 10 days so I'm sure I'll survive. The photo above is a coffee cup I designed about 20 years ago.I made this image of Miami beach,deco buildings , sea and sand. I had forgotten all about it or rather them. I'm going to sell them as a limited edition of 20. All signed and numbered(they come with a signed and numbered certificate). So place your orders now. They are $30 dollars each which sounds very expensive I know, but then again there are only 20 in this edition. Just think of the pure delight as you sip your French or Cuban coffee from a little work of art.........As for me, I'm going to make a nice cup of tea..you can contact me at www.nicecupoftea@mindspring.com

The proceeds will go to the very very expensive film I'm working on....

perfectly homeless......almost

2008-11-28T17:33:00.001-08:00

Blvd. St. Michel, Paris. 11.15 A.M.

I never get fed up with strolling around Paris.I never get fed up with strolling around Paris if I have my camera with me that is.This homeless man set up the perfect scene for begging. He didn't have to be awake and neither did his two friends. He was the perfect homeless man, almost dreamed up by disney. Cute, charming, and cuddly almost. I wanted to pay him for all his trouble or rather for lack of it, but I only had a 20...So I took the shot and went on my business. After my two meetings that morning I thought I had better go back and give him a euro( I'm nice that way). So I got change and went back. On my return the scene had turned a little bleaker, more freddy kruger than disney. The man had woken up and was growling louder than his two little cute puppies, It was a growl with an oder of whiskey and urine. The two little doggies had turned into demons and had decided to try to bite the hand that feeds them. With my fingers intact I hurried off to the safety of the metro (ha ha) hearing only the distant verbal abuse from the 3 of them. ...A few blocks down I came upon another homeless man with 4 beautiful kittens. I didn't even get my camera out . I just kept on walking and walking...

see me make a fool of myself in 5 minutes or less

2008-11-25T04:04:00.000-08:00

Im going to post the letter the Wolfsonian Museum sent me (below)...It will save me typing,but first I'll explain a little, here goes .....I have 5 minutes to say and show something that will amuse designer/artist types. I'm calling my bit 'Everything I've done(visually) in the last month in 2-5 minutes give or take a second'. It should be fun (not for me but the viewer) hopefully.
The poster above is the one I produced last minute (because the Wolfsonian asked me last minute) that is included in the thoughts on democracy exhibition.... www.thoughtsondemocracy.blogspot.com/

Dear Philip:

Thank you for taking part in The Wolfsonian's Design Marathon: Five Minutes of Designed Freedom. It will be an exciting, jam-packed day, moderated by Debbie Millman, host of the internet radio show Design Matters. Thirty-five designers and artists are taking part in the program, which serves as an extension of the Thoughts on Democracy poster project.

It will take place at The Wolfsonian on Saturday, December 6 during Art Basel–Miami Beach. . The Design Marathon event begins at 1:00 and ends at 5:00 pm.

We are asking each participant to create a 2-5 minute visual/verbal presentation that will relate to, or build upon, the theme of Thoughts on Democracy. Whatever you choose to do—show your own work, the work of others past, present, or future; address issues or respond to the election, the economy, or the democratic process; and so forth—is fine with us. But please be prepared to do so in an engaging and/or entertaining five minutes or less.

Its a very interesting museum... www.wolfsonian.org

O.K. I had better start thinking about what i'm going to show..And I have to pack my things because I'm leaving for Miami thursday......now where did I put my suitcase and toothbrush?

yet another pool

2008-11-24T10:48:00.000-08:00

Most of you know about the old 1933 abandoned swimming pool north of Paris. Most of you know I've photographed every angle it has to offer and even some it doesn't. Most of you know Ive just about finished shooting that pool which is the subject of my a film called' les eaux muettes' (see www.philipbrooker.com) BUT! What most of you do not know until now, is that I have found another pool, YES ANOTHER POOL!!! and IT'S ABANDONED!!! and It's designed by the same architect . I took my first trip there this sunday with my new friend and tour guide Blandine. It's not easy to get to, it involves the metro, the RER train, a car and a small boat..oh! and my feet (lots of walking and climbing). The day I went it snowed like crazy then turned to driving rain then sleet then ...oh you get the picture...Above is a snap shot of the place. It's going to be fun shooting it. I had better hurry because there are plans to make it all beautiful again with a hotel etc, not really my idea of beauty... Next time I go out there I'm going to pick a sunny day. It has taken me 2 days to finally thaw out.

This project will be included in a book and a boxed portfolio.More about that later.....now where did I put my cashmere socks?

the great english breakfast

2008-11-20T00:37:00.000-08:00

I just got back from England, Liverpool to be precise, I was working on my film. I haven't really lived in england since I was nineteen. The thing that struck me the most about being back again , is how bad the food still is. Heavy boiled tasteless goop, slop, gruel, well you get the picture. EXCEPT!!!!!! 'The great English Breakfast' Ah! a pure-ish delight. Yes of course its a cholesterol nightmare, laden with fat and grease and other enjoyable ingredients like lard, but what a way to start the day.
Armed with the inner glow of my breakfast swirling around my belly like restaurant swill in a blender, I felt I could tackle anything that England could throw at me.......Anything, except the price of petrol and the awful traffic jams, the rain, the cost of living, all those rotten teeth...Oh don't get me started...

Now where did I put that pepto bismal

spike goes for a walk in north london...and so do I

2008-11-19T11:08:00.000-08:00

This might just be the most beautiful dog in the world and his name is spike... Marilyn and David are the proud parents. M and D are the fab people I stayed with in London. David told me a grim story about a lady who was walking her large dog on Primrose hill (a nearby famous park) when her dog suddenly died. Totally in a panic she rushed home to find a bag to put her now dead dog inside.The only bag she had was her very expensive Luis Vuitton case. So she packed her dog inside the suitcase and started to drag it home. On the way back to her home, a robber spotted the woman dragging the case. Thinking this was a good opportunity to make some money from the VL bag, mugged her and took off with the case and the very dead dog.....

dog day afternoon (actually it was in the morning)

the erotic museum, paris

2008-11-19T06:30:00.000-08:00

I'm currently working on a very beautiful series of 50 erotic prints. So I decided to get a little inspiration (or perspiration) from the erotic museum here in paris. It is best to go very late as I did (1 a.m.) quite empty except for a few giggling couples and one very strange looking woman (I think it was a woman) As usual I took my little nikon still camera that also takes film....

For a sharper view of the little film you can go to 'you-tube' and type in 'erotic museum paris' then click on the
'higher quality' (bottom right, under film) Also I would let it load before viewing, it drives me nuts when it stops.

A brief history or a labor of love
The Erotic Museum was founded by Alain Plumey and Joseph Khalifa, two Parisians who assembled a vast collection of erotic art and artifacts in the 30 years that preceded the museum's opening in 1997. The two men turned a former cabaret into seven stories of galleries, some devoted to permanent displays and others featuring temporary exhibits of art and pornography. You could call it a labor of love, I see it more of a labor of lust.

The Musée de l'Erotisme is at 72 boulevard de Clichy in the 18th arrondissement, just east of the Place Blanche at the southern edge of Montmartre.

The Erotic Museum is open daily from 10 a.m. until 2 a.m. Tickets cost €8, but you can get a 3-euro discount voucher at the museum's Web site.

the happy tree

2008-11-18T04:48:00.001-08:00

Bous de Boulonge, Paris

Most mornings I wander around the truly splendid and magnificent Bois de Boulogne . Most mornings I just wander with my ears plugged into my podcast ( Bill Mahers 'real time' or music loud enough to scare the leafs silly) and look at all the bois (woods) have to offer, birds rabbits, pheasant, grouse, hookers. I usually take my prescribed route until one day I decided to go a little off the beaten path. Most of the trees have turned into a pyrotechnic show of unequal proportion. Most except for this very large old tree.It looked like it had seen better days.On close inspection I realized why, as I'm sure you can see from the photo above. I call it the 'happy tree' It's located just yards from a very busy hooker area where business is brisk. I now make the happy tree part of my morning walk and you will all be happy to hear that the tree isn't dying, its just taking a well earned rest till next spring.

11.11.11.

2008-11-10T14:41:00.001-08:00

An evening with April Ashley...Who?

2008-11-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

Who may well ask...I wont go into the whole long amazing story now (its best to google her or go to the film section at www.philipbrooker.com) But Im filming this event for my movie 'Au Revoir Monsieur Bonjour Mademoiselle'
So it's off to Liverpool (home of the fab four, only now, alas, the fab two) April is giving a talk about her life, and what a life it has been. Yes I know this poster looks very similar to the movie poster (below) but I'm a busy man.
Four days of shooting will probably be 5 minutes of footage I can actually use...Why am I doing this again? Painting was so much easier....then again.

April Ashley...the movie

2008-11-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

As most of you may know by now I'm making a very big movie about the life of April Ashley. I've know April for 30 years or so (I'm drinking a very large martini as I write this so the dates may vary...bare with me..or is it bear with me) Its going to be a pretty good movie, in fact its going to be a wonderful film. This wednesday I'll be going to England to shoot some more footage on April. If you have ever made a film before you will know that it involves not sleeping for two years. I don't quite know how I found myself in this position but here I am. I'm hoping this film will be finished this time next year. With very little sleep and spending every penny I have , I might just be able to do it...Did I mention the other film Im making at the same time.......Whew!!!!!

P.S. I hope you like the poster, it was so much easier to do than the movie.

the poster that never was...

2008-11-09T03:17:00.000-08:00

I painted this poster of the beautiful river-beach swimming pool in Boran, France for one good reason, A poster was never made. Lots of photographs and newsreels were taken of the inauguration in 1933, but no poster was ever produced. I thought this quite unusual for that time and a wonderful opportunity to see what I could do. After a lot of research into other posters of that period. I set to work. As many of you already know , I have shot a lengthy photo essay on the pool as well as a one hour film..I suppose this is my latest obsession at the moment. The film will be out next year under the French title 'les eaux muettes' For more information about the film and the photo essay go to www.philipbrooker.com
Yes! this poster will be available later this year (maybe early january) and hopefully details are being worked out for an exhibition of the photos as well as a book about the project... Stay tuned.

If you are still awake, here is a brief history....
On May 2nd 1933 The Magnificent 'Plage du Lys-Chantilly' situated on the river Oise bank just north of Paris, opened its doors to the public and over the next seventy years would attracted thousands and thousands of people for miles around. Hailed as the most beautiful river beach in France. It instantly became a hit. This was not to last.
What's left today are the sturdy remains of a once majestic pool. A place steeped in a sad romantic atmosphere.The structure is still sound but nature seems to be winning the battle. The sand of the beach has an uneven blanket of grass and weeds. The 190 cabins have no doors and most of the original mirrors are broken.The faded plage rules still hang in every cabin as a reminder.Alongside are the original clothes hangers that look very naked, except for draping cobwebs. No longer is there music coming from the huge speaker. The chequered dance floor boasts only of weeds and grime. The reflections of the once grand river beach complex lay dormant. Sad majestic ghosts hang in the air.

my latest illustration

2008-11-07T12:43:00.001-08:00

I did this illustration for a magazine called mortgage monthly. I know what you are thinking 'boring' (the name of the magazine and hopefully not the illustration) but you would be wrong.
Visually this magazine has some of the best illustrators around gracing its pages. I suppose this really isn't the
right time to be saying the 'M' word what with the economy the way it is....ooooops!!!!!!!!!!
P.S. Dont forget to click on the illustration for a better view of the detail. Merci

postcard from paris #1

2008-11-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

(For better quality, go to you-tube and type in postcard from paris #1 and click on 'watch in high quality)

Q. What are postcards from paris?

A. Postcards from paris are just little videos taken with my small but wonderful nikon coolpix p4 camera (a still camera but with the ability to shoot video). They are not supposed to be great works of art or even beautifully shot films. They are just glimpses, little moments. Each film will be under 2 minutes and with very little or no editing. What you might call raw.
Postcard from paris #1 was shot at pere lachaise cemetery on a very cold wet dark day. Perfect !!!!!! Sometimes postcards from paris will just be a photo with my usual witty commentary (well, as witty as I can be that is)...

A brief history (or, all you will need to know, to impress people at a cocktail party)

The cemetery takes its name from Père François de la Chaise (1624-1709), confessor to Louis XIV, who lived in the Jesuit house rebuilt in 1682 on the site of the chapel. was bought by the city in 1804, laid out by Alexandre-Théodore Brongniart.
The cemetery was established by Napoleon I in 1804. Cemeteries had been banned inside Paris in 1786, after the closure of the Cimetière des Innocents on the fringe of Les Halles food market, on the grounds that it presented a health hazard. (This same health hazard also led to the creation of the famous Parisian catacombs in the south of the city.)
At the time of its opening, the cemetery was considered to be situated too far from the city and attracted few funerals. Consequently, the administrators devised a marketing strategy and with great fanfare organised the transfer of the remains of La Fontaine and Molière, in 1804. Then, in another great spectacle in 1817, the purported remains of Pierre Abélard and Héloïse were also transferred to the cemetery with their monument's canopy made from fragments of the abbey of Nogent-sur-Seine (by tradition, lovers or lovelorn singles leave letters at the crypt in tribute to the couple or in hope of finding true love)
This strategy achieved its desired effect when people began clamouring to be buried among the famous citizens. Records show that, within a few years, Père Lachaise went from containing a few dozen permanent residents to more than 33,000. Today there are over 300,000 bodies buried there, and many more in the columbarium, which holds the remains of those who had requested cremation.

A good website for all your up to the date graves...
www.findagrave.com

congratulations america

2008-11-05T07:56:00.000-08:00