Hommage to Morris Louis 2

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Hommage to Morris Louis 2, monotype, 50 x 64.5 cm, 2008

 
 

 

Hommage to Morris Louis 2- detail

The second in this set, showing the addition of reds and oranges

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Hommage to Morris Louis 1

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Hommage to Morris Louis 1, monotype, 50 x 64.5 cm, 2008

 

 

 

 

Hommage to Morris Louis 1 - detail

 

 

This was the first of a set of monotypes inspired by Morris Louis, the American Abstract Expressionist. There are four. They use this image as a base: it appears as a shadow in the subsequent three monotypes.

This was an attempt to make simple, overtly cheerful, work: my work is generally instrospective and somewhat sombre.

 

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Home

 

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House , acryllic on card,5.8 x 8.8 cm, c. 2000

 

Home

 

I hadn’t been living there long. Some things still confused me about the block, and the silent people with whose indifference I wasn’t entirely at ease. At times, I felt like an interloper. The building manager, Barry, was cordial enough, but I suppose for him I was just one of an endless stream of tenants, passing through to somewhere else, individually inconsequential so long as we broke none of the block rules and didn’t have rowdy parties. 

 But, already, my habits were being established. 

And I was on my way to buy chocolate.

I usually bought chocolate in a shop which is a few streets over. There’s nothing special about the shop except its location, which is just so, at the crux where two roads each running down either side of the hill above meet. It’s the perfect place to stop, to decide if one intends to ascend into suburbia, or curl back downwards into town. But, whatever decision one takes, a visit to the corner shop for some snack or other would seem essential.

Inside, is the predictable chaos of English corner stores, where a man, usually with south Asian features, wearing an expression of infinite boredom, leans on a worn counter messing with a cellphone - barricaded behind ranks of shelving containing mainly junk food, cheap sweets, potato crisps, cigarette lighters, batteries and grimy stationary. Guarding his front are a vast variety of chocolate bars arranged like regiments in a too-crowded parade ground on the national day of a banana republic. 

And all these condiments are a weird mixture of artificial syrups, milk fat solids- whatever they might be- tiny fragments of nuts, toffees or bits of wafer and almost no real chocolate instead some sort of cocoa powder substitute. It’s better not to read the ingredients on the labels, in truth.

 But I did read the labels and in an impulse abandoned my original plan and instead plucked from the shelf:

BASSETT’S LIQUORICE ALLSORTS

 

I took myself to a little park, so filled with joyful anticipation that I could not stop myself from singing out loud “Good old Bertie Bassett, he’s Britain’s greatest asset.”

  

In the park

 

Grey broken winter trees. That damp grass. 

A middle aged man with a miniscule dog, big pink bows between its ears. He carried it then put it onto the thin grass where it squatted. The owner held a bag close to the anus of the creature to receive the serpentine turd. “Oooh it’s a biggy! Good girl!” 

Relieved, the dog then stood on its tiny legs. It saw me. 

“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap,” echoing throughout the park.

“I think he wants one of your sweets.”

I watched the hairy, barking cockroach.

“Come along Sandra. Daddy’s got sweeties for you at home.” And he picked up the dog in one hand, turd swinging in a dainty bag from his wrist. And off he went.

Silence. A breeze rippled the grass.

A bench in a muddy patch beneath a leafless sycamore: I sat down. 

“Psst!” a loud whisper to my left.

A man had come and seated himself beside me with such stealth that I was taken by surprise.

He squinted at me.

“Hey!” 

“What?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“What?”

“Look.”

“What?” 

His face was thin and his hands were thin and his clothes were thin. “I’ll show you.” He pushed the box forwards. “Here, see.”

“Why?”

“Go on, have a look, it's for you.”

He gave a grin. His teeth were yellow stumps.

I looked down at the box.

“Closer.” said the man, pushing the box more towards me, his hands set to open it.

I looked down and he raised the lid.

“See!”

A dark coil.

He tapped the box.

“It’s sleeping.”

He tapped it again, It jerked forwards.

“Christ.”

“Python,” said the man. “It's yours.”

The snake looked up, opened its mouth, revealing razor fangs: a vicious, hissing sound.

“Are you crazy? Fuck.”

I picked up my sweets and scurried off. 

I got out of the park. I saw an underground sign and ran towards its chambers. I put coins in an automat and got a ticket and descended to the train. London’s austere tube system. Sad rounded tunnels and a yellowish light and old signs. 

Curving platform empty.

A train came.. Settled in the tiny chair, I tore the bag open: a variety of coloured sweets in geometric forms, some striped cubes, alternating liquorice layers with a white spongy matter, others flattened balls covered with tiny sweet pink or blue grains, or long long black writhing snakes.

I put into my mouth first a black cylinder, then another cubic Allsort. My mouth filled with liquorice juices then moulten sugar making  a thick liquid of my saliva. I begin to chew. Then another sweet, now with a slightly rough texture and glucose and aniseed flavourings flooded onto my tongue.

The rocking of the train, then a sudden jolt, then the lights went out. A loud creak and a shuddering halt.  A slow acceleration and the lights came back, but then we were stationary again. I became conscious of another man in the carriage. A bearded man. He came over and was now holding on to one of the bars with one  hand three feet away. The lights went off again. Then on, and in front stood the same man except now with  his penis, unusually large, exposed. 

“Jesus, I said. You’re disgusting”

He laughed, “Sorry you feel that way, mate.”

In a series of jerking movements we arrived at the next station. My station.

 

 

Home

 

 I got out. And made my way back home. Near the entrance was Barry, removing old notices from a board.

 “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” he replied. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Well,” I said, “not a ghost. A flasher. On the train.”

"A guy with a beard?"

"Yes" 

“Oh him,” said Barry. “He’s been around for years”. He continued tidying the board. “You could report it, I suppose. But I wouldn’t bother. Seems harmless enough. You know what they say. It takes all sorts.

And with that, I became part of the neighborhood.

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Read to: Sit down, shut up and write, 29 August, 2021  and Albuquerque Cyberscribes, 30 August, 2021

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Small brush

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small brush

 

 

 

 

 

 

The small brush was bought a few years back in one of the crappiest supermarkets here- Supermercado Rosa.
 

I love holding this brush. The handle is a clear, firm shape- decisive. But it isn't cold. I  like to feel the bristles , how they are almost sharp on my fingertips.

 

 

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Hallelujah!

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Hallelujah!, monotype, 55.5 x 65 cm, c. 2009

 

 

 

 

Hallelujah!- detail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dunes, grasses, bushes

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Dunes, grasses, bushes, oil on card, 26 x 28 cm - available

 

 

 

 

 

Dunes, grasses, bushes - detail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A very nice painting day. 

 

I work much better after an interval of a couple of days than when working on consecutive days. I paint with immense efficiency after a break. But the next day I'm more hesitant, uneasy. And the third will be quite impossible, with false starts, endless fussing and a cross mood.

 

 

 

 

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Yellow happy squareface

 

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Happy yellow squareface, Monotype,  65 x 54.5 cm,  c. 2009

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Happy yellow squareface- detail

 

 

 

 

Previously unshown here: a cheerful monotype. 

 

 

 

 

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Woodland, August

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Woodland, August, 2021, oil on card, 26 x 27.5 cm - available

 

 

 

Woodland, August, 2021- detail

 

 

 

 Painted about a week ago.

 

 

 

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Love is the Drug

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 Love is the drug

 

 

Painted c. 2001, oil on card, 6.5 x 9 cm

Wednesday: Office

I had been to the office just above Camden, a towering Deco edifice guarded by gigantic black cats. It was to discuss my work: I negotiated my way through the dismal grey labyrinth of plastic room dividers that led to the meeting room. 

At the large oval table sat my boss. There was also the team leader, an intern and another engineer.

“Ah! sit down, thanks for coming in. Don’t see you around much?”

“Well,” I said, “it’s easier just to work at home.”

“But you are missing out on our new intern.” The young woman laughed. She had unusually large teeth. "Yeah." she said.

“Sit down,” he said. “Actually, don't sit down.” He pointed to his laptop. “This is fine.  Suction power data graphs. We loved it. Keep it up.” 

“Really?” I said.

“Yes."  He addressed the team leader, a pallid man. "Do you have anything to add?”

“Caspasian, great stuff. Keep it up. But we still need the one on energy efficiency.”

“It’s on its way.”

“Can you get it in by Monday, first thing?”

“Monday? I thought I had two weeks.”

He fiddled with a pen. “You did. The schedules were changed. We now need it by Monday, at latest.”

He stood up. “I hope that’s ok.” And he escorted me out the room and, in the windowless corridor, continued, “Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry about the change. I only just heard about the deadlines myself this morning. You know how it is….”

 

Thursday afternoon

Tom had paid an impromptu visit and was drinking a cup of coffee while I, in my dressing gown, was trying to work, seated at the table in the kitchen in front of my laptop.

“Is this what you do all day?”

He bent across the table to see the screen.

It should be emphasised that this energy conversion efficiency has no relationship with cleaning efficiency or ability to pick up dirt where absolute levels of suction, airflow and suction power are more critical. 

“Jesus.  Now I know why you’re so weird. I see you don’t even bother getting dressed any more." 

“Come on,” I protested. “I'm not weird. I'm an engineer. And I have to earn a living. We weren't all born with silver spoons sticking in our arses.”

Tom brushed aside my protest with a wave of his hand.

“You can't carry on like this. You're like a nun. We’re going to a party.”

“What party?”

“On Saturday. Freddy’s.”

“Who’s Freddy?” 

“A friend. A normal person. Who loves life, and having fun."

“I can’t. I have to finish this.”

“ I thought you had until next month?”

“They changed it.”

“God. Well, bugger that. You’re coming anyway. No ifs, no buts.”

He took a slurp from his coffee, then began a lecture.

“You’re a disgrace to youth. And I deserve better. Britain deserves better. The women of north London deserve better.”

“I rather doubt Britain’s womanhood are desperate for vacuum cleaner engineers.”

Tom thought for a moment. “Probably one or two are, you know. The female mind is quite incomprehensible. Defeated Aristotle. And drove Nietszche insane. But I must admit engineer isn't perhaps the most glamorous of professions. Maybe we can call you a designer? Women seem to go for them rather.”

Saturday Night

 

We got quite late to the party. 

It was in one of the old Georgian blocks, round a square.

The door opened with the sound of disco and a gust of majiuana smoke. Two bearded men, one in a crimson ball dress and the other in a gold, welcomed us.

“Don’ you just love my dress?” said the first.

“Oooh god those tacky bows!” said the second! “Miner is diviner, I know you’ll agree.” 

 “Oooh bitch,” said the first. “And bullshit grammer.”

“Are you coming in?” said the second.

In the kitchen, a tall, waif-life figure in flowing pinks.

"Freddy!"

“Wonderful timing, my dears. Here, you open this.” He passed me a bottle of rose Champagne which I poured into wide glasses. 

There were perhaps two hundred there, cramming into the hall, kitchen and a large living room. Bizarrely, the intern was also there. She was wearing incredibly high heels.

 “Hi, how are you getting on in the office?“

“Yeah,” she said.

“I think you'll be fine. It can be a bit chaotic though.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“They'll love you. You have wonderful teeth, you'll go far. Just don't fall over.”

“Yeah.” And she started giggling uncontrollably.

Tom disappeared. 

A hippy couple stood in the kitchen entrance gazing at me and into nowhere, sharing a little red crystal bong.

“ Yeah man,” said the man, blurrily.

“ Positivity, right?” said the girl, in a fake cockney accent.

“Yes, indeed,” I said. “Definitely.”

“What are you into?” asked the man.

“Vacuum cleaners,” I replied.

“Wow man. Sucking.  Blowing. Inn-ess, out-ness.”

“Awesome,” said his girlfriend. “ That's sooo totally holistic. Want some?

I took a little smoke from the hubbly bubbly, just to be polite.

A fat Japanese woman in a pink jumpsuit joined our group. “Instagrammable moments. Love it.” She took a photo with her phone.

“Yeah man,” said the hippy, nodding slowly. “Yeah.”

“I'm launching a new range of clothes. They’re going to say “Instagram = life on them.”

“Amazing,” I replied. “Such profundity and concision.”

She beamed, “yeah, right? Positivity.”

“Open wide,” said a man in a cowboy hat. “Tic tacs.” “I opened and he popped something in my mouth. That'll get you going.” It had no effect  at all. 

A girl had entered the kitchen and found the champagne. She  slurped greedily from a goblet  with one hand.  She held a snow-white chinchilla in the other.  

“What's his name?”

“My names Bill and I'm an alcoholic,'' said the chinchilla. 

“He always gets out of his face at parties,” said the girl, taking a long slurp, then adding, mysteriously, “I’m a Catholic”. The chinchilla farted loudly.

Guests packed the hall and kitchen, drunk, high or both, laughter and chatter filled the apartment. A woman appeared wearing nothing but balloons, which I found a little distracting. “Don't you dare pop them. Mr Naughty.”

I backed off, bumping into someone. His eyebrows were low and his moustache gigantic. 

I said, “I'm sorry, I didn't see you behind that huge moustache”.

“I am Turkish.”

“That's wonderful. I love pide.”

“Oh God, yes, pide, pide, pide!” he cried.

“Are you Kemel?”

“No.”

“Deniz?”

“No.”

“Suleyman?”

“Yes! Yes! I am Suleyman,” and he embraced me with tremendous force.

We did not talk much about vacuum cleaners. I was very very drunk. 

 So was everyone else.

Tom reappeared with two girls, one under each arm.

“Look what I found! One for me, one for you.”

“You are completely crazy!” said the girls in unison.

“Hello,'' I said “Who are you?”

“I’m Gabriella”

 “I’m Isabella.” 

Isabella looked at me quizzically. Tom said “His name’s Caspasian and he's a designer.” 

“Really?” said Isabella.

 “Yes, exactly.”

“Like a fashion designer ?” she asked suspiciously.

“Electricals,” I said quietly.

A pause. Her brow creased. 

“Oh. Like... an engineer?

“Yes,” I said, “like that. Domestic appliance engineering”

“Oh, God! How wonderful! I love engineers. They are so so sexy. Especially if they do stuff with vacuum cleaners.”

“I do!” I cried, grateful for recognition, "I'm an expert on suction."

“Jesus, how amazing. I can’t believe it. And I just adore suction.” 

 She hesitated for a second. “I was worried for a moment that you might really be a designer…..my ex was a  designer and he was a complete creep...Anyway, I’m Isabella.”

“I know, you already told me”. She was really very drunk. “I’m Caspasian.” 

Tom was plying Gabriella with more wine and she wasn’t putting up much resistance. “We’re off to the lounge,” he said, “see you later.”

The two transvestites appeared in the hallway where they’d found a mirror.

“Who are those transvestites?” I asked Isabella.

“They aren't transvestites. They're my brothers.”

“Does that prevent them from being transvestites,” I asked, as we observed the pair fussing with a powder compact. 

 

But Isabella ignored my question. 

"Let’s go through there", and she took my arm and we squeezed our way through the guests to the half darkness of the lounge where there were several sofas.  Tom and Gabriella reclined on one, he offering her more wine, which he poured so it splashed onto her arms and breasts, and which he then licked. 

A dj played tracks, twenty or so moved with the beats.

“Let’s dance,” said Isabella. 

And so:

Face to face, toe to toe

Heart to heart as we hit the floor

Lumbered up, limbo down

The locked embrace, stumble round

I say go, she says yes

Dim the lights, you can guess the rest

 

Sunday Morning

 

I woke up.

“I’ve got to go.”

“God.”

“No really, I do. I have to.”

“Christ,” said Isabella. “You're so weird”

“I’m not weird,” I said, “I’m an engineer. And I have a deadline.”

She laughed.

And I went back to complete my report.

 

 

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Read to: Cyberstrobes, 23 August, 2021