[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 9 February 2024].
artichoke
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 10 June 2022].
Once again, I'm reminded of why I love photography.
I love to eat artichoke, but it never occurred to me that's what I had photographed in a garden on Mersea Island until I popped the photo into a plant-identifying app.
It also never occurred to me that the artichoke is a flower. I knew we eat the "hearts". I didn't realise that they bloom and become inedible if left to their own devices.
When I saw them, these flowers reminded me of protea and some brassica species, which I love. I photographed them because they were eye-catching despite not recognising them.
Because I have such a massive backlog of photos to edit, sometimes it takes me years to learn from the photographs I've taken. But that doesn't make the learning any less enjoyable.
out of step
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 7 June 2022].
you've made your bed...
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 10 January 2022].
his end was peace
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 September 2021].
It's been a crazy busy few days.
I have so much to tell you.
New friends to introduce you to, as well.
And, hopefully, tomorrow I'll have a new self-portrait to share with you and can share a little of my new assignment with you!
jazz at 11 (accidental portrait of the artist’s parents)
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 September 2021].
untitled #140
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 July 2021].
In the wee hours of this morning, I had the chance to watch the final episode of Can't Get You Out of My Head: An Emotional History of the Modern World. I mentioned it in my post on Friday.
While there was a little cognitive dissonance for me in some of what Adam Curtis talked about in the closing section of the docuseries, I'm willing to look into that further. I think elements may not stand up given further information that has come to light between the series being released to BBC iPlayer on 11 February and now.
However, I was (pleasantly) surprised that the docuseries ended on a hopeful note.
It was not so much Curtis providing a 'solution'. But he quoted an American anthropologist and anarchist activist, David Graeber, who I'd not previously heard of. Based on the quote and the title of his books, I will definitely have to read up more on him and read his books.
About this time last year, I first heard about Doughnut Economics. And in September last year, I wrote a rant titled Fuck capitalism! What's next? I spewed out ideas that had been whirling around my head since close to the beginning of the pandemic.
I haven't re-read my rant since I wrote it, so I'm not sure it's worth sharing, and it wasn't complete. But around the same time, I was having conversations with anyone who would listen about how we needed to take this opportunity to do things differently going forward.
Some people were open to what I had to say. But a lot - including many close to me - responded with statements like "That won't happen in my lifetime". Or "That's a pipedream". Or (in respect to discussions about Universal Basic Income) "But how would we pay for it?"
Graeber's quote from The Utopia of Rules: On Technology, Stupidity, and the Secret Joys of Bureaucracy neatly encapsulates my response to most of those naysayers:
The ultimate, hidden truth of the world is that it is something that we make, and could just as easily make differently.
At the time of these discussions, I didn't claim to have all of the answers. Or even any of them. And I still don't. But I didn't (and don't) see why we couldn't (and can't) be asking the questions and completely changing things up.
People before us came up with capitalism, communism, socialism, dictatorships, and on and on. Why can't we create something new that works for everyone? That may include the best elements of the above and/or completely new ideas?
And yes, I know I sound blindly optimistic about this. But why not? What is actually stopping us?
I have learned so much in the past year or so. Predominantly through listening to others and being more open-minded about how we could improve. And how we can move forward with greater equality as a global society.
Sure, there are likely to be few "quick wins", and there are plenty of right-wing folks scaremongering and creating division to protect "the old ways" that favour them.
But there is so much to gain if we can make the world differently.
windmills of your mind
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 28 June 2021].
Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never-ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind!
Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind!
Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that you said?
Lovers walking along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song
Half remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over you were suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of her hair!
Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never-ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel
As the images unwind, like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
- Marilyn Bergman / Michel Legrand / Alan Bergman
Original recording by Noel Harrison
A more irreverent version from The Muppet Show. This was probably where I first heard the song and why I always think it speeds up when the original doesn't.
039 lamp post
Day thirty-nine of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
I finished drawing this just before midnight yesterday. But then I got engaged in another discussion about current affairs with one of my patrons and good friends, Chris.
Chris seems to have his sleeping patterns under better control than me now. We were previously exchanging messages about politics and current affairs at 4:00 most mornings. But it doesn't stop us from starting conversations about the deeper issues at midnight!
Meanwhile, today's sketch was inspired by a photo I took at Ongar Railway Station in Chipping Ongar, Essex, back in April 2019.
Simon and I caught the Real Ale Train on the Epping-Ongar Railway that day. Unfortunately, it was cold and rainy and, once the weather cleared a bit, I was feeling nauseous (not because of the cider!)
Consequently, I took literally one photograph with my DSLR and a small smattering of photos from the train with my iPhone.
I know they've been suffering because of all the lockdowns. To support them, and because of the issues on our last journey, I'd like to join the train another time soon. Once the lockdowns have eased. To enjoy the train trip, hop off and have a nose around Chipping Ongar, and then enjoy some cider properly on the way back.
Back to my sketch, though.
I started this sketch intending to capture the whole scene. I quickly realised my ability to condense this much image into an A4 page of sketching in square format was just not going to happen.
So for today's sketch, I settled for capturing the lamp post. And adding the roof of the building behind it.
The lamp post in my sketch looks like someone kicked a football at it. Rather than the perfectly vertical lamp post in the photo. And my perspective is off generally.
I suspect I would do better:
a) Using an A3 piece of paper, rather than A4.
b) Not using a notebook or any other drawing surface that creates a curve or has edges raised too much off the desk.
c) Using a larger space to draw in, rather than my overcluttered desk (though I do love having my plants by my side!)
I suspect there's also something to be said for using a surface that allows my eye line to be at the same point for looking at the source image and the image I'm drawing at the same time.
I'm trying to stick to what I have and the parameters I've set, though.
This was initially a 4H pencil sketch. As has become my wont. I accentuated it with an HB pencil outline. Then a heavier 4H pencil on the lightbulb and other elements.
black river
One of my photographs taken on Mersea Island last year (cropped to square)
is in issue 1 of black river journal.
The first issue garnered submissions from over 200 photographers and is well worth a browse.
squid pro quo
Day eighty-five of The 100 Day Project.
Illustrations:
Clubhook squid, umbrella squid and European squid (loligo vulgaris) by an unknown artist from Mollusques vivants et fossiles
broodiness
skeleton key
Day sixty-nine of The 100 Day Project.
Illustrations:
Skeletal ghost by Édouard de Beaumont from Le diable amoureux
the inside of her elbow
Day sixty-six of The 100 Day Project.
Illustrations:
Couple by Gustave Staal from Œuvres illustrées de Balzac, volume 1-2
new york, new york
She'd walked these streets so many times.
Sometimes slowly, taking in the apartments along each block as they moved from utilitarian buildings to grand terraces. Sometimes quickly, dodging and weaving between the other pedestrians on the sidewalk; looking mostly at the concrete, or dashing out in front of yellow cabs, but not taking in her surrounds.
The sounds of the city washing over her. The various vehicles and people clamouring to be heard, but all of the sounds merging into a cacophonous melody that threatened to overwhelm her.
She'd meandered down long avenues of brownstones, wondering about the people who lived within their walls. Coveting their homes, their lives. She strolled through the Park watching the couples. Some engaged in affectionate banter, some in excessive displays of public affection, others bickering and verging on violence, if only in words.
She walked rapidly along the back streets at night, neon lighting up the rain-soaked streets; her head down, but her senses charged and alert for any potential threats.
She'd skipped quickly down the Subway stairs, making a beeline to the platform. Careful not to brush against others if she could avoid it. Focussed on where she was going and avoiding all eye contact.
Her lips and tongue competed with the sun to consume ice creams in the sweltering summer. If the sun won, she would only get the benefit of half of the icy treat. If she won, it would be some insurance against the fatigue the heat brought with it, but it would be scarce protection against the trickle of sweat that would wend its way down her spine, and no protection at all against the cling of her blouse to her skin.
She would gaze up at the skyscrapers, marvelling at the engineering. Admire their sparkle and shimmer in the sunlight, despite despising the ostentation and arrogance of their blocking out the sun.
She watched diners in the prestigious restaurants self-consciously ensuring they were being watched behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pinched women with tiny fluffy dogs on the end of leads or stowed in their handbags.
She circled the Square. Watched the advertisements a storey and more tall attempt to sell her a lifestyle she could never afford and probably didn't want anyway.
She visited with Travis, Susan, Patti and Carrie.
She absorbed the art oozing from the streets. Lurked in underpasses. Experienced clubs and bars and cafes, and listened to the music pour out of every orifice. Out of a basement record store. A passing car. A strip club. A busker on a street corner singing Simon and Garfunkel off-key.
She counted her way across intersections. Marking city blocks until she reached the intersection of First Avenue and 42nd Street. She only knew which way the sun would set by the Es and Ws on the street signs; and how far north or south she was by the number of the street.
As she walked through the streets taking in the modern buildings and street scenes, her mind flashed back to the 1970s and ‘80s. The memories of these places stowed deep in her mind from so much exposure. She heard the echos of stock market crashes and organised crime.
All of these visions and sounds washed over her. She lost herself in the moment completely.
For a moment she lost herself so completely that she forgot where she was. And then she remembered.
She remembered that she wasn't where she thought she was. In fact, she had never been there. She had never walked those streets. She had never smelled those smells; heard those sounds; seen that flash of yellow as the cab passed by. Never done her duck-and-weave trick through a sidewalk of people ten-deep between the shopfronts and the kerb.
She'd simply shared a collective dream. Tasted the concoctions and potions of the City mixed together by some of the best filmmakers and writers over the years.
Her memories were poor imitations of their realities. Their stories of a city that never sleeps. Of a city on the edge. Of people on mean streets on a dog day afternoon. Of a Broadway, a Manhattan, a Central Park and a Brooklyn she'd never stepped foot in.
She'd never smelled the Subway on a sweltering hot day. She'd never raised her voice to be heard over the clamour of car horns in the centre of the city at peak hour. She'd never stood on the 102nd floor and gazed out over the city.
She'd never climbed out an apartment window to sit on the landing of a fire escape and swung her legs back and forth whilst indulging in witty repartee with a friend over a bottle of fine wine or a cheap bottle of beer.
The sign above her, not yet illuminated in the afternoon haze of a warm spring day, spelling out the name of a place everyone dreamed of going to 'make it', was about as close to the Big Apple as she had ever managed to be.
Her eyes swept down from the sign to take in the flashing lights and squawking sounds of the arcade behind it. The children attempting to claw soft toys from the machines, and buffeting a puck back and forth in air hockey.
The sign overhead and the ‘Zoltar’ machine spitting out fortunes for a pound were about as close as she would get to New York for now.
[This project is being published as early access on my Patreon. If you want to enjoy new instalments a week before everyone else, become a patron].
fairy stories
As she flicked through the brightly coloured pages, the smell of the paper, the ink on paper, wafted into her nostrils in great waves. It drew her back. Back to the sunny front room of her family's home in Aspley. The sun falling on the pages of the book of fairy stories her grandparents had given her for her sixth birthday. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows on the green and black mattress of the stacked beds in her mother's sewing room. She was utterly engrossed by the tales of witches, evil stepmothers, princesses, princes, cats, wolves, frogs, soldiers, giants, pigs, bears, genies, elves, dwarves and birds of many varieties.
Since learning to read she had devoured books. She completely lost herself in the worlds they created. Even when there were no pictures to accompany the words she could see the imaginary worlds in her mind's eye. The faces of the characters, the houses they resided in, the cities they inhabited.
At six years of age, of course the concept of princes and princesses was alluring. She asked her mother how you became a princess. Her mother told her you had to have blue blood. She pressed her fingertips against the veins in her arms and swore the rivers that flowed below the skin were blue, but whenever she grazed her knee in the yard or the doctor took blood it was always, disappointingly, a deep crimson colour. Not blue at all. She had not been born to be a princess.
As she grew older she learned more about fairy stories. Their origins as warnings to children about the dangers of nature, of predatory adults, of greed, sin, pride and such. She learned the stories she grew up with were sanitised, censored, made palatable for consumption before bed without driving small children to nightmares, though originally they were intended to strike fear to the very heart of children to keep them close to home and out of danger. The darkness that inhabited the original fairy stories was muted to a dark grey, instead of a deep, deep black. Gruesome endings became happy. Good conquered evil, always.
As she grew older she grew to prefer the darkness of the original stories. There was more reality in the original stories, though they were often heartbreaking. The darkness of the stories drew her in much more than the saccharine, over-bright palate of the stories she read as a child.
She wanted less and less to be saved by a handsome prince, and more and more to save herself. Or be an intelligent woman and avoid any of the traps that befell those princesses in the first place.
She grew up to learn the reality of princes and princesses was one of decisions made for them by others. Everything was strategy and allegiances; not love. For all the romantic stories she grew up on, history told her those were just stories. The realities were about diplomacy, alliances, war, peace, and cold, hard cash. Most princes and princesses were puppets without the free will to choose their love, to choose their lovers.
And yet, the myth of the perfect, all-encompassing love continued to endure in her mind. It pervaded everything, blinding her to the realities of this imperfect world she inhabited. A world that shared more in common with the original brutal fairy tales of the Grimm Brothers and their compatriots. A world not easily drawn into the whims of a ceaseless romantic who truly should have outgrown this fantasy world well before now.
And yet. And yet she grasped onto this ideal with white knuckles.
She built a castle around herself. She secured the moat, drew up the drawbridge, surrounded herself with soldiers to keep this ideal safe away from the bruising realities of life. Perched on a mountain top, she surveyed the lands around and wondered from which direction this one true love would emerge. She gazed across the lands around her, wondering when it would emerge. She waited. And waited.
And still, somehow, the cynicism that drew her away from dreams of princes and princesses and fortunes and kingdoms and all of that pomp and circumstance didn't seem to dim her belief in something she had still yet to see or to have known to even be sure that it existed. Her belief in logic, in fact, in truth; that all took a back seat to her undying belief in something more when it came to love. Despite her better judgement.