The lights have gone out.

The lights have gone out. Actually, the internet went off first of all. I was watching “Of Mice and Men” when the screen went dead. I thought it was because I’d hit the cable with my foot but then I found the lights out too.

An hour later I’m stalking myself in the apartment: quiet. There are no lights in the corridors of the block. I go downstairs negotiating the blackened steps to see if there was a notice about the electricity being shut off for maintenance, but nothing. Near the notice board I see the electo-magnetic closer that holds the block’s front door shut has stopped working- the door swings, to and fro, an inch or two from a breeze outside.

I feel this sadness about everything. I make some coffee. The stove is a gas stove: I light it with a match. Everything happens very slowly. The kettle heats the water; the coffee percolates with a faint bubbling sound, I stand around. I dd milk. I don’t want coffee but I can’t think of anything left to do. It’s 5pm.

It’s not a great feeling, that listlessness, like a sort of Richard Brautigan feeling, like in “Trout Fishing in America”.

I’m not fed up enough to do anything radical, that’s part of the problem I guess.

The trees in the distance from the balcony are softly green in the drizzle that everywhere outside smothers. I shuffle from the kitchen to the balcony an back again holding my cup. For a moment I think of listening to some music but then I remember about the electricity. It’s sort of not quite raining. I lack the will to go out.

A girl with big boobs comes to the window of a flat in the block opposite. I watch her for a moment, then creep back into the flat. I know if she caught me looking she’d know I was looking would be just because of her boobs. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing the most diminutive vest-top imaginable. I guess her boobs are her main thing. I peer from within the room and see that’s she’s gone.

*

It’s spitting with rain now and I stand on the balcony again hearing the birds chirp and the workmen on the site across the road. They’re banging on something. The sound echoes between the blocks. The light in the flat is wan.

*

I have a feeling that now is a very bad time to be alive. Everything seems to be going wrong.

*

Illustration: "Unknown Feelings", Monotype, 2009

Betty's Cat

What splendid, aristocratic beasts: I'm not in the least surprised the Egyptians worshipped them.

Indeed, what is more astonishing is that these fine creatures haven't been adopted by other religions. I suppose the cat is too independent, too elegant and too self- contained a beast to satisfy Christians, who instead went for the lamb as a symbol. I understand why: it is because Christians believe, or hope "the meek shall inherit the earth", and those little white lambs seem so well to convey that quality, existing just to be turned into cutlets by Welshmen.

Myself, I'd rather live under the jurisdiction of cats (not that it's likely they'd want the administrative bother!). I've never seen much virtue in meekness, a mousey quality at best.

Trees

The paper was rather small, barely much larger than A4, so next time I'll get a bigger piece, probably A1. I felt cramped when working so small and I feat the image seems cramped too.

I really need a little table too: it's uncomfortable supporting the board on ones knees.

The thing is to be to know which elements to exclude: to aim for simplicity and concision: you have to take your time, to have a plan, so as not to be overwhelmed by nature's abundance. It takes enormous concentration and I'm not surprised the Chinese masters would pray before working.

Evidence of the gesture lends energy, but shouldn't obscure description- there has to be a tension between illustration and abstraction.

It's important not to panic when things don't quite go right, but almost impossible not to.

Ink Tools, perversity

I've unearthed these- some were inherited from kind Dr Bednarowski- they are at least 50 years old and reassuringly weighty.

I have to get a board to affix the paper to so it doesn't buckle. Ink is very high risk: potentially any slip can lead to a wasted piece of paper. But I tend to think best when I think quickly.

The longer I take to decide something the worse it is for me, but the perversity of my nature is such that I have always yearned to make art that represents not flux and fluency but the opposite- stasis, authority, tradition: the art of the imperium.

Buenos Aires: some photos, some thoughts.

Perhaps it was the time of year -the Christmas week always being an odd time to visit places- but I found Buenos Aires a strangely unenjoyable place.

Architecturally, it's a grid plan, and the grid is pursued with a heartlessness- extending relentlessly for miles- in a way that I've only seen before in mid-western US cities: the effect on the walker is quite alarmingly tedious. The city turns away from the seafront, moreover, and is fairly flat so one feels bored, as if stuck in the middle of the sort of huge, worthy, but dull nineteenth century "classic" novel used to torture sixth form pupils in the better schools everywhere.



There is a good lot of grand but somehow joyless 19th century and equally doctrinaire modernist architecture. I felt at times, indeed, that the place was a composite of the dullest parts of Barcelona, New York or Paris. As so often is the case with 19th century building, the individual details (carvings, scrolls, ironwork, sculptures) detail are better than the sum of the parts- hence, Buenos Aires' cemetery cities are more delightful than the streets surrounding them (Recoleta comparing well to the best of the London seven, but less happily to leafier , more generously spaced Pere Lachaise, Paris). *



I visited a modern art museum, and although there was a permanent collection of Latin American pre-war modernism- Botero, Kahlo, Cavalcanti- the main draw of the place, supposedly, was a show of late Warhol, and this seems to confirm the lack of individuality of Buenos Aires - for it is as if every city must have a large white museum of modern art and in it a Warhol collection, an obligatory genuflection to that least lovable US artist.

Also bizarre, to me, were glimpses of Argentineans dressing with hilarious accuracy in English styles (or more precisely, given that they were generally Ralph Lauren clothes, American interpretations of them). And it was not just the clothing, but the way women had a horsey masculinity, and the men a cultivated insouciance (with jackets deliberately crumpled, I’m sure) that was so amazingly English: indeed so uncannily did their faces resemble faces I'd seen in Kensington or Fulham that I had to go up close to listen to confirm that they were indeed Argentineans- they even had the same craggy, excentric faces of the British patrician classes. I saw such types crossing on the ferry and in Palermo, very self-satisfied and grumpy looking.



In other aspects, the place has a gloomy air- the closed shops (including Harrods!), the old, battered cars, and grilled meat meat meat- that least imaginative of diets- everywhere (it convincing me of the value of vegetarianism for at least it inspires the imagination, and reinforces the truism that good cuisine comes not from an abundance of available good natural produce, but the opposite- its scarcity- so that cooks are forced to think imaginatively about how to make the few available things as tasty as possible).

The decline was particularly apparent around La Boca, where women walk up and down the filthy streets with their unwashed brats past smashed cars and bunches of shirtless men playing loud ugly music; youths shout at strangers and flinging fireworks at the hapless tourists who are effectively confined to a few metres of "tango heritage" restaurants. There is some wonderful graffiti among all this, however.



I regret to be so negative about Buenos Aires- I know that Portenos have not had an easy last half-century- and I'd emphasize how pleasant they were to deal with.

*The comparasion of cemeteries deserves a blog to itself- if readers know of one, please let me know.

Some recent photos from Montevideo and Colonia de Sacramento, Uruguay

The fantastic old cars and buildings makes wandering round these wonderful Uruguayan cities feels like being in a Tintin book (say "The Broken Ear").

Montevideo is especially charming, with a fine selection of art noveau and deco buildings. The streets are well planted with mature trees and the cty is beautifully located with ready views of the sea. There are pleasant street fairs selling old books, bric-a-brac, paintings and jewellery. The atmosphere is unhurried and feels somehow like an English seaside town, and like many English seaside towns is rather in need of renovation in parts.

One of the things which is especially delightful about it is that tourism- which must constitute a major part of their economy- is so lightly mediated. In the UK, for instance, anything old has a little sign attached to it "teaching" the passerby all about it; nothing is left to chance, and before leaving any designated "tourist" premises, you are fed through some tiresome gift shop or other.

Service in Uruguay is generally good, in an old fashioned, unobtrusive way: the waters wear black and white uniforms as they should and don't attempt to make friends with you. The food is excellent too, and these things are very cheap.

Annual Review: Flickr, Blogger, Twitter.

As promised back in August, here is a review of my activities on the Internet.

Flickr

Flickr now contains almost a complete catalogue of images (monoprints, drawings and paintings) by me. There remain to be photographed pictures which are in the UK, and some others of questionable merit in folios here.

Flickr has proven to be the most valuable of Internet resources for making sustained contacts. In August I had abour 200 contacts: now I can boast 380, a considerable increase. A handful of these contacts post encouraging critical commentary, and I can sense the slow beginnings of Internet friendships there. This is in stark contrast to the superficiality of Twitter (see below).

Blogger

There are now eight followers on Blogger plus, judging from the counters, two or three other regular visitors.

I believe that changing the tone of the Blogger entries, making them more based on direct personal experience would increase the number of followers. I don't feel any enthusiasm for this as I find the idea tasteless and intrusive. I shall continue the mix of entries as figure in the last 6 months- i.e. short stories and bits and pieces about art and techniques, and observations about Brazil and her culture. There are other blogs offering more obviously biographocal content if that is what readers are after.

There is something apparantly unsystematic about the course the entries follow. However, forcing a more deliberate structure on the blog would, I fear, rob it of spontanaity and I therefore request readers to show patience with the occasionally haphazard nature of entries.

Twitter

I posted, using a variety of keywords, 381 "Tweets" (revoltingly twee language).

Any item posted on Twitter gets immediately between 10 and 15 "hits". the number of "followers" on Twitter increased to 42,an increase of 20.

However, this did not seem to result in a corresponding increase in Blogger or Flickr followers, and never in feedback, as if the Twitter effect is rapid and superficial- in contrast to postings on Flickr (which generate responses). But Twitter takes up little time, so it seems worth continuing with despite my reservations.

2010?

The following year is largely an open book- I shall finish the oil paintings that are underway, then start working with ink- I miss its starkness and decisiveness.

I will continue to show work on the three above sites as in the last half year, and report again in August.

If readers have suggestions / feedback, please let me know.

Happy New Year!