This morning the washing line reminded me of Dylan Thomas:
The force that through the green fuse dri(v)es the flower…
A Line Of Dylan Thomas
Category: Poetry
Gnawa Studies
The 16th Gnawa Festival in Essaouira on Morocco’s Atlantic coast is a largely free four-day celebration of the music of the Gnawa, what is perhaps the oldest trance music in the world, the root note of inner transportation and sufi trance that attracts hundreds of thousands of Moroccans and intrepid international visitors to Essaouira each June, over the weekend of the full moon. Continue reading “Gnawa Studies”
Half Way
Half Way – Port Meadow project with David Attwooll.
Fog. Snow. Flood. Wind. Rain. We have been through all. It makes outside work difficult if not impossible. Pen clogs with ice. Watercolour freezes and gets spattered with rain. Continue reading “Half Way”
The Magnet
This painting by David Hollington was for me the highlight of his recent exhibition, Apocalypse Of Love, at Lauderdale House. I suspect it is a self-portrait; he’s not drowning like Ophelia but enjoying a moment of rejuvenating hydrotherapy amongst his friends and familiars. The painting takes its title from a poem by Thomas Stanley, one of the English metaphysical poets; another, Andrew Marvell, is commemorated with a nearby plaque on the wall of Waterlow Park. Continue reading “The Magnet”
The Vision Thing
What first strikes you about these Ice Age objects, suspended on transparent plastic stands in glass cases amidst crowds of 21st-century humans, is that they are absolutely tiny. The largest works are approximately the span of a man’s hand, the smallest the size of a child’s fingernail. For a big show it’s an intimate experience. There’s a lot of squeezing about, bending down and peering in, the peculiar sensation of having to adjust your perception to match their scale, as if squeezing yourself down through the same narrow aperture that leads to the wonders of Chauvet and Lascaux. What you’re experiencing is time travel. You adjust yourself to the conditions, and when you become accustomed to what you see, it’s as if you’re looking back to your own time through the wrong end of a telescope, the one that makes everything far away but pin-sharp. Continue reading “The Vision Thing”
Pelmeni Poetry
The Pelmeni Poets (named after a favourite Siberian dumpling) are hosting an evening of readings at The Duke of Wellington in Islington on 8th May featuring work by Tim Cumming, Natan Barreto, Anne-Marie Fyfe, Katha Pollitt, Rosie Shepperd and Liane Strauss. More information here – Pelmeni
Schwittering
I walk through the back streets of Pimlico. Old buildings remodelled, roads resurfaced. Signs changed, decayed. The city is in flux. Its natural state. Each time I walk this route old things have gone. New things arrive only to become worn, textured, old in turn. Continue reading “Schwittering”
Beautiful Cosmos
This is for Ivor Cutler, in performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane with The Roches, in the next seat at a Dollar Brand concert at Camden Town Hall, in the same train carriage from Hampstead Heath to Gospel Oak, now sadly departed. Also for Cosmo the cat, Beautiful Cosmo. These colour photographs are 100 years old from Russia. Cosmo is 15 years old from a cat shelter in Haringey.
Radio Carbon
When cosmic rays strike the atmosphere they create the radioactive isotope carbon 14, which can be detected in living matter and decays at a fixed rate over many millennia. Radiocarbon dating is the method by which we measure prehistoric time, and with which our own detritus will one day be measured. The filmpoem Radio Carbon takes this transient yet permanent record of time as a personal metaphor, fashioning a hypnotic journey into the human past, from the neolithic to the present moment. It’s a film with eternity at its centre, the vastness of space at its core, and a reverie of images clustering to the lens like the flashing in a stranger’s eye. Continue reading “Radio Carbon”
Port Meadow
Dear Chris, As mentioned here are a couple or so photos and two sketchbook pages of bird images. I could write for a thousand pages about Port Meadow. I’ve been there ever since I was six years old. It floods in winter, gathers over wintering migrant wild fowl. In the summer it’s a place people swim, sail, walk, make love, do archaeology etc. If you want I can get David to send his poem about the meadow which refers to a drawing of mine. Best wishes to all, love, Andy. Continue reading “Port Meadow”