metro-sexual

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

www.brookereditions.com

its no picnic

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.................

wish you were here (I am)

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.

origin of the world

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.

I need your help and your words

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

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

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

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

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

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.

book of the month

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.......

Philip Brooker 1977-1980

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.

the colour of despair

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?

come up and see my studio

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?