The Fifties Party Part 1.

 Up in the tenement flat on a grey street in the awkwardness of autumn. The succession of strangers who have traipsed through this flat, shuffling over its carpets, takes a toll on one. Sometimes you are suddenly introduced to the friend of a friend, who you never see again, and yet you're with them in a photograph that somebody took.

I'm not sure if I like these impermanent relationships, although they seem to be all the rage with the smart set. People encounter you and then completely forget you, or there's the embarrassment of encountering someone who you encountered drunk or in a compromising moment, now sober and formal. Somehow all this was a source of pain to me, these masks and other selves that people wore. 

Now the job of getting a flatmate to share with; the succession of strangers increases, becomes a flow. Some bring their mums, who do all the talking. A Chinese girl arrives, a blonde German girl, a dark German girl with a bumbag and a Pink Floyd T-shirt, a cheerful Russian girl, an Argentine, a Nigerian, a girl from New Zealand. A native Briton who has brought his sister and approved of my C.D. collection. A garrulous girl who brought two friends, one a very tall fellow. A Latvian girl, and her friend, another Latvian girl, who said she would take the room and then didn't.

I saw them all without favour or prejudice and usually it was obvious which would align with the flat and myself, and which would not. The best flatmate is one who is studious and quiet and is there to sleep and then removes themself in the morning, to school or work. Girl flatmates are not necessarily a problem, in fact they might be preferred as girls are calmer and sometimes more civilised. 

Here the impersonal relationship is to be encouraged.

This flat is supposed to be Bohemian, and that was the atmosphere I tried to cultivate. Bean bags and jazz and I looked at wonderful pictures of Bob Dylan in the East Village in the early sixties. 

In fact, far from the sixties, we go back into the fifties: I got the Fifties source book from the library, and was repulsed and fascinated by the horrible cadillacs and the glossy sheen of Elvis Presley's face, his skin that looks like pink airbrushed plastic. Even to look at these things makes one feel nauseous and strangely full of desire. When you get a hold of old 1950's magazines the most interesting things are always the advertisements, far more interesting than the articles. Because the ideal in them is always to be perfect, plastic, shiny, and presentable, glamorous but respectable, sweet-smelling but with a maximum of artifice. 

Boards and bulbs should be bare. A Dansette record player can be included. Beatnik poverty cultivated in contrast to the technicolour luxury in the magazines and in the source book. 

From a cheap book I took a cheap black n white photograph of Gene Vincent. Cheapness again you see, in contrast to the luxury. 

Gene is emblematic and significant because proletarian and naive. He has a sickly smile, a semi-cripple of some kind from a Virginia seaport, habitue of sailors and unsophisticated. He is very pale and his hair is slicked back except where it falls in a bunch of greasy hair on his thin forehead. 

I thought by association that Gene was a sort of sailor or longshoreman. Even his leather jacket was a simple one, of basic type. He was poor but aspirational; he didn't have a car but he could get it. You felt that his persona was bluster, that he was not really a greaser or a biker, but was just a boy, essentially naive and pure-souled. Above all he should not be made fashionable or hip. 

The theme for the fifties party should be: Those parts of the 20th century that have gone out of fashion and in fact have been forgotten. 

I Am The Great North Sea!

I am the Great North Sea 

The same under the stars

That rolls eternally

Witnessing endless wars, 

Never a surge without reason,

No storm worries me,

Only the flood in every season,

Where the waves make free. 

Deep, deep down in my depths,

There whispers a joyful sound,

Where the first secret is kept

In a gold casket bound. 

Only the song remaining, 

For the box has lost its key, 

Where all the waters draining

Unite in a symphony,

I am the world's waning,

I am the Great North Sea.

2.

 I am the Great North Sea,

Awash with the primal note,

The note of eternity

That God on the waters wrote. 

Bound by the rocks and islets,

Yet restlessly wearing them down,

Full of original silence, 

In which all the doubters drown. 

I am the Great North Sea,

I encompass the world around.

The Importance of Trees in Landscape Art

The importance of trees in Landscape art.

The smudged and shadowy trees you see in baroque paintings, in any old paintings from the 16th century on, in whatever context, have become that way over time, where the oils have darkened from their original luminosity and freshness, becoming sombre. This sombreness and shadowiness only serves to enhance them, however, or reveal an aesthetic quality the painters did not guess at. The shadows depicted are strangely like the shadows seen on a slightly out-of-focus camera obscura, an upside-down image projected into a closed room from the world outside. The camera obscura images in turn are oddly like the shadows that haunt the fringes of memory itself, and distant childhood memories in particular.
Man first saw the trees as spiritual things or abodes of spirits, in his early animist days which were like his early infancy. Trees seemed to move with the wind but also independently of it, and in the wind-swept leaves of a summer tree were born eddies and counter-eddies which seemed like the nodding of wise heads and sounded like the crashing of the sea.
This was the tree as distinct from the forest, the tree on its own, on a hill, exposed, but in the summer given the right conditions blooming to fullness and presenting a picture of multiplicity in unity, each leaf tribally attached to a stem from a branch or sub-branch of the main trunk, and this tree of life functioning together, though individual leaves may fall, and branches may weaken and wither.
This idea which always appeared awesome to man led him to conquer the tree, to enter the forest and to clear it, to burn the branches and use the wood to build gates, fences, tracks, roads and posts. But in his symbology he still had names and spirits and characteristics which he attributed to each tree, trees of the woods and riverbanks and now trees planted by meadows and on lone hills.
This tree planted on a lone hill took on significance as unencumbered by neighbours it spread wider and freer. It is the large spreading oak which can be seen in neoclassical landscapes, surmounting some tragic or decorous scene, serenely surveying some battle or surrender or siege, always with the stern browns, now turned dark, and the dark clusters of leaves, impassive and harmonious.
It was in fact this same ancestral tree growing decoratively above a scene, which later was depicted on its own and for its own sake, giving life to an otherwise flat landscape, and with the wind animating it also imparting movement, beside a meadow, a cultivated field, or an old farmhouse, granting both multiplicity, graceful movement, harmonious colour, and vertical structure to a scene. This tree even shorn of symbolism remained a tree of life, if only because it was a token of one's earliest childhood, almost of an eternal time before consciousness, in that its shadows, tones and chiaroscuros so clearly recalled an antedeluvian realm before knowledge, and its sound and movement, the relentless crashing of the waves on the first shore. Thus it its that the trees in the old paintings are so easy to recognise, though the passing scenes below them may seem foreign and strange to us, or obscure, the old symbols enduring when all else is subject to gradual change.

The Case Against Summer

Now it gets dark at 10 o'clock, technically, though the sky is still blueish thereafter for a while, strewn with great dark clouds.
Alone I must be the only one who sees the beauty of lamplight on trees, the trees that in the afternoon are shimmering, every leaf like a little hand applauding.
In the afternoon the heat is like a physical force you struggle against, the hissing in the long grass grown wild.
In late June and early July the grass pollen releases, and I become a victim of the pollen scattered on the breeze, swelling my eyes and irritating my nose. At first it used to affect my throat, and I'd wake up with an itchy throat only five cups of hot tea could soothe. Sometimes my eyes would swell up. Then the sneezing; the relentless flow of mucus trickling inside the sinuses, the peculiar irritated tickle bordering on pain, and then becoming pain.
The head under the shower method. Back home, change all clothes and flush the pollen out of your sinuses. Anti-histamines make one drowsy, in the new sheets I fall asleep and dream of a serial killer who has posted a series of videos on Youtube, lined-up grey from his prison cell..
My dad told me that in the 80's he was in Muswell Hill, he and a friend were looking for a place to park one night. They noticed that up one street there was a large gap in the cars, so they parked there. They came back the next night, and the following nights, and the large space was still there, and they parked there again, wondering why no-one was using it. Eventually someone told them they had been parking right outside the flat of Dennis Nilsen, the serial killer...

Plus points for summer: The landscapes are full and look nice to draw from, the colours are vivid, though the blossom is long since gone from the apple trees and they're given over to a uniform dark green. Purists say the winter tree has more character, and that the summer trees "look like brocolli". So what, I replied, people like brocolli, brocolli is delicious. Brocolli trees in a painting will remind them of food. I recalled the early Edward Hopper I had seen, a lady by a window, the paint looked strangely delicious, like food. The browns looked like chocolate and the reds, like candy.

Bad points for summer: Hayfever and psoriasis flare-up. Emptiness. You are meant to be on holiday, the offices are abandoned, even when occupied they feel empty. In the old days they'd abandon the television schedules even.

People gets seasonal affective disorder in the autumn/winter, but not me. I think there's something depressing about summer, and I prefer the winter.

Down by the Burn Part 2, First Day of Spring Edition

Down by the burn, 17th of March

Sketch from January