happy birthday John

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.

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

the write stuff

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

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

11.11.11.

"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

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

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

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" )

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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.