WALLY'S BLOG 2016
Groans & Squeaks of a Square Peg
December 31
SHOCK & AWE
The year started really well, it certainly did. At the West Gallery residency, by all accounts very well received, I was in my element. As I mentioned at the time, golly, what a lot of work that was. Enjoyed every bit of it. But things went limp after that, on the arty side. Much momentum lost. Depression fogged the rest of the year, much of it spent on the sofa.
We happily moved from rubbish Ryde to sunny Sandown and the lovely flat where I happily made picture frame towers. But lost interest when they went precisely nowhere, just filled the place up. I'm a terrible salesman, couldn't shift a Penny Black at a stamp convention. They're packed away now, at least out of the damp, in huge tupperware boxes.
Did enjoy Alfonzo Attentat, but same again, didn't see the point after a while. Can't afford to have posters printed, don't know where to stick them anyway. Not under the bed again with those we made for Posters on Tour, dog-eared and unpresentable by now. Still, Alfonzo could yet go somewhere good.
Little internet hobby Shut Up & Make Some Art held back a bit the gathering fog. Elsewhere, some nice photo shoots (here's one) lead to some groovy ideas for something or other, sometime or other. But everything feels frozen until I find some inspiration, or energy, or drugs, or money, or whatever it is I lack.
Waves of other ideas, old ones and new, develop regardless, at least inside the groaning skull. Looking forward lots to moving into an empty space again, no matter what or where that might be. But let's be realistic, I, at least, ain't gonna do the paperwork, am I. Just keep dreaming, keep fishing, keep breathing.
What else was there...
Oh yes, marvellous wifey and fantastic little Matilda. Our pride and joy. First three months, sure, fucking nightmare most of it, let's be honest. I nearly lost it. But since then, since she fully landed, all glowing and intent - Matilda is what awesome actually meant before gods and then americans took over. She knocks all the above misenthroping and more besides into a cocked hat. So stop mooching around, couch potato, and take more photos.
SHOCK & AWE
The year started really well, it certainly did. At the West Gallery residency, by all accounts very well received, I was in my element. As I mentioned at the time, golly, what a lot of work that was. Enjoyed every bit of it. But things went limp after that, on the arty side. Much momentum lost. Depression fogged the rest of the year, much of it spent on the sofa.
We happily moved from rubbish Ryde to sunny Sandown and the lovely flat where I happily made picture frame towers. But lost interest when they went precisely nowhere, just filled the place up. I'm a terrible salesman, couldn't shift a Penny Black at a stamp convention. They're packed away now, at least out of the damp, in huge tupperware boxes.
Did enjoy Alfonzo Attentat, but same again, didn't see the point after a while. Can't afford to have posters printed, don't know where to stick them anyway. Not under the bed again with those we made for Posters on Tour, dog-eared and unpresentable by now. Still, Alfonzo could yet go somewhere good.
Little internet hobby Shut Up & Make Some Art held back a bit the gathering fog. Elsewhere, some nice photo shoots (here's one) lead to some groovy ideas for something or other, sometime or other. But everything feels frozen until I find some inspiration, or energy, or drugs, or money, or whatever it is I lack.
Waves of other ideas, old ones and new, develop regardless, at least inside the groaning skull. Looking forward lots to moving into an empty space again, no matter what or where that might be. But let's be realistic, I, at least, ain't gonna do the paperwork, am I. Just keep dreaming, keep fishing, keep breathing.
What else was there...
Oh yes, marvellous wifey and fantastic little Matilda. Our pride and joy. First three months, sure, fucking nightmare most of it, let's be honest. I nearly lost it. But since then, since she fully landed, all glowing and intent - Matilda is what awesome actually meant before gods and then americans took over. She knocks all the above misenthroping and more besides into a cocked hat. So stop mooching around, couch potato, and take more photos.
December 18
QUARTERLY REPORT
Matilda turned 3 months a couple of days ago. I've awaited that milestone with bated breath, as colic often declines around then, or even miraculously disappears. Fat chance, I thought. But, miraculously, a week ago she began to improve enormously. She still cries with nasty belly pains, but less intensely and less often, and she's much easier to bring down. So we have ourselves a normal baby girl, making strides in so many ways, praise after all to cruel old mother nature. Still bloody hard work, the energenic sensitive soul, around the clock for both of us. Next up, teething; in fact we think she's started already, strange new sobs eminating. But we'll handle it, veterans by now, all three of us. Anyway, when I say normal, I mean super, like superhuman. We've got ourselves a superbaby. Strong as a tiny ox, and brighter than some one-year-olds, we're sure of it.
The fact that so many people declare her the most beautiful and bright little thing they've ever encountered doesn't deter us from believing that she's the most beautiful and bright little thing we could ever have believed might spring from our ageing loins. We agree that it's a privilege waking up next to her. She cheers me up no end - yes, it appears that is possible. The parenthood clichés are all true. One day Maya asked which of them I love the most. Equally and differently, I answered diplomatically. Like amber nectar and liquid chocolate. Yum yum.
December 9
TOOK THE TOWERS
to the Xmas market at Quay. Not much point, but nice to be in the West Gallery again. Notwithstanding non-stop Xmas music. Keep forgetting to take cds. What's the word for self-inflicted shadenfreude? Beats the part-time driving job I start next week though. For peanuts, and perhaps my sanity. Don't even pay your petrol. Self-employed parcel courier covering Sandown, Lake, Shanklin, Ventnor. I'm lost already.
November 19
OPPOSITE OF CHATTY
I had forgotten what a chatterbox Chatty was. World class chatterbox. She's the most incessant world class chatterbox I've ever known. I can't imagine a more incessantly chatty world class 24/7 chatterbox has ever existed anywhere on this planet or any other planet outside a famous research institution. Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely girl. Not the brightest book in the cupboard, but supportive, considerate, and great friend to Maya, who like me doesn't have many great friends. Chatty just doesn't stop to inhale air from breakfast till bed. Perhaps I'm exaggerating, but so it seems. I assume she chats right through the night, too, in her dreams, probably into her pillow. As it happens Maya is her favoured vessel in the world into which she loves to pour her chat. Best mates since seven-year-olds, they haven't seen each other since the beginning of the year. Lots to catch up on then. Although, to be fair, Chatty could go at it equally well when she lived next door in Zurich and saw Maya every other day.
Meanwhile if I have a fragment of unimportant information to communicate to Maya, I must bluntly interrupt. There's no other way, no pause in the chat to diplomatically wait for. I have to barge head on into the lashing words, grab Maya with my smarting desperate eyes, relate my fragment while Chatty apparently patiently but actually impatiently waits a tick, hope she is able to digest my message, then leave her to the onslaught. Selber schuld, as the Germans say. She's almost immune by now, but I have a headache already, and she's been here a day. They went for a walk this afternoon and the house was silent for an hour and a half. I went around rustling tissue paper and dropping pins; what a glorious hour and a half! They just returned, since when this paragraphs have been interrupted half a dozen times. All she gets from me is, that's nice, yeah sure, ok then, all right, thanks. Which suits us both well, because she urgently needs to get back to her favourite vessel and fill it with 387, 443 more words before tea.
Meanwhile I'm at the Exchange this morning, picking up my failed SUGGESTION artwork from last night's Dereks show, and the marvellous Rachael Berry, who we hardly see because she's often unwell, comes over to give me a big hug, genuinely glad to see me, new father and all that... and I run completely dry after three sentences. In lieu of weed (horrifyingly scarce) I can't do a thing about it. Enormously frustrating, and the main reason I rarely socialise. Was always the case. Always been truly envious of masters like Chatty.
November 18
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUMMY MALFATTI
Knew you would understand!
Regarding last night's rose-tinted entry, spoke too soon. But what of it, you are improving. We are getting there. The flattery stands. Course it does!
Chatty arrives from Zurich this afternoon. Will pick her up at the pier.
November 17
HAPPY TWO MONTHS BIRTHDAY
Matilda Joy. I know it's not the 22nd yet, but it is exactly eight weeks. (I'll try to explain one day.) Glad you survived your first proper bath with mum in the tub. Sorry you hated getting out of it. You haven't screamed yourself purple like that for a day or two! Thanks for coming down so quickly with a feed. You're coming down better and better. And what a peaceful afternoon and evening this was, well done. So happy you enjoy the rocking chair now facing forwards. You fell asleep like that in my lap today for the first time. And in my arms, facing forwards as well, while I walked around, once or twice. You clever thing. After passing out on your belly a couple of times recently (hallelujah!) we're daring to think the worst time is over. Poor thing, it's been terrible for you too. All that nasty pain, all that horrid angst. Worrying, infuriating, exhausting. That's just the wind. The relief today has been enormous. Your mum and dad have been struggling a bit, we have to admit. But under that great big Super Moon (you saw it too) the biggest in 70 years they say, we've seen very rewarding changes in you. You're such a sweetheart when you're calm. I don't believe I've ever used the expression "disarming smile", until now. Yours is the most disarming I've ever seen. Even in great art. Not even in life insurance ads. Certainly not in real life. You could disarm a Cruise missile. Soothe its inner turmoils. End the war with a glance.
Oh, and soon I'll be feeding you myself with mum's milk, since we got that pumping system with all that packaging attached the other day from Mothercare over in Newport. You remember Newport don't you, that big scream we had in Tesco's car park? Jesus fucking H. Christ what a fucking palaver. I was inside shopping, quick as I could, but Maya couldn't get through on the mobile and nearly went potty trapped in the car with you... But all quiet on the Southern Front now, as I listen from the office, while you sleep soundly - again! - next door with your wonderful knackered mother.
That reminds me, it's your mother's birthday tomorrow. Fucking shit fuck shit fuck fuck. Nearly forgot it again. Your lanky new dad is a twat. Don't have a birthday card, let alone a present for the morning. Let alone money.... ("Let alone" list follows, the usual complaints, deleted next morning.)
But never mind all that, as you'll hear your neurotic but gold-hearted english gentleman granddad often say. We have you now.
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November 9
SIEG TRUMP
Worst part is, instead of fucking off at long last, that shit-stirring cretin is going to be in our faces every day for years to come, not only complaining and bullying, but telling us what to do.
I used to enjoy my daily clicking around the news, catching up on world events. But I've noticed already, he's soured it. Can't stand his voice, can't stand his punchable mug. Feel like giving up. Let the planet collapse.
So he's already having a detrimental effect on my personal existence. What else has this nuke loving environmental catastrophe in store for us.
November 4
November 3
LAST NIGHT'S GROAN
More déjà vu. I'm sure I've written that before somewhere. Might as well copy and paste it back into the blog at six month intervals, to the moment in history when I started typing blunders. Where would that be? When did I start typing? While I'm at it I'll copy and paste at monthly intervals the same old groans, squeaks and soup-of-the-day heartfelt complaints. Wally against the world. The world in his head.
Ruth arrived today to meet her first grandchild. (Radu met her, also his first grandchild, last week and left; Ruth and Radu never coincide.) A wonderful lady, Ruth, but she does like to fix things, whether they need it or not. She is a therapist after all. Which makes things tricky around the baby, who can't actually be fixed; we're merely biding the time til her guts have developed. I've explained this to Ruth, and will continue to do for the next five days. She is game for a laugh, though, and we do have fun. Like Radu, she's a great cook too.
That's three generations of Malfatti gals in da house. Scary stuff. We'll find out who can scream loudest. (My bet's on me.)
November 2
DISCLAIMER
The blog is getting boring. Partly because I'm going through recent years watering down or deleting flammable comments written after a beer and/or reading an important article on, well, anything from the Israeli government to Islamic extremism, the Pope, religion in general, absolutists, dictators, people who consume too much, bankers, the elite, working class slappers, thieves, art world bigots and all kinds of other bigots, most likely including myself, and come to think of it, practically everybody else as well, seeing as I adore humanity less and less the more and more I think about it.
One rant began I'M NOT RACIST BUT... Not that I don't stand by my opinions. But I'm often reminded that words are not an obvious talent, especially concerning world affairs, much of which I understand little about in reality. Nor is the media to be trusted, very little of it anyway. The only thing to be trusted is stuff within the realm of your own experience, and even then beware. Hence the best advice a youngster can get: go travel! So I should stick to art and its hit and miss diplomacy, its jagged speechless protest, its... whatever. Blah blap blah blap blah blah blah.
Bits of ill-manners will slip through the net though, like this bit, which started life as a Facebook post. I think I want it on my gravestone.
RELIGION IS BRAINWASHING
October 31
UNDER SANDOWN PIER
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October 22
ART-ATHON
Organised by artist Penelope Walford & friends the 24 hour event "Art-Athon" raised money for medicines for hospitals in Syria at Holly Maslen's new Little Big Art space in Bembridge, Isle of Wight. Featuring tea, cake, music and live art makers, my contribution REVEAL THE FACE OF IGNORANCE was the mannequin I picked up cheap at the British Heart Foundation recently and a bucket. The event raised over £700 (the bucket £20) so well done everyone. (Clickable.)
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October 17
"MIGHTY IN BATTLE"
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October 16
EAR OF THE STORM
Spoke too soon. Hardly a pause since 6am. Forecast a rough night. Unhappy little baby. Swinging hardly working today. Back and arms aching anyway (no longer a Spring chicken). More research needs doing on this, if it really does affect a quarter of all babies. There cannot be "no cure" for constant crying, apparent constant bellyache, awful trouble pooing. Gripe water type oral intake, the only approved treatment, may or may not help and/or is unproven. Must be ways to determine the various causes. Could it be unrelated to the guts? I expect there are specialists, but not with the NHS. Sadly we're not wealthy.
Wish we could exchange our cardboard flat and unfortunate neighbours for a detached house for a month or two. Anywhere we could make a racket. My paranoia about the noise, especially at night, is as bad as the noise itself. If I lived up or downstairs I would be fuming. As I suspect they are.
Reached a point on Matilda's page of boredom with cute baby photos. (Next year funny cats?) So homing in on details. Done the beautiful feet and a stumpy hand. Could use a macro lens, but at least know our trusty Nikon DX VR well by now. Tomorrow an ear...
October 15
SWINGERS
Seem to be over the worst, touch wood, especially mentally, and especially having discovered the pacifying and frankly amazing effect on Matilda of swinging her, belly down, briskly in our arms until she drops off (not literally). With my long arms I start off with quite an action, practically launching her into space, which can immediately quell a tantrum. She will stare at a particular spot, a light or a window, peaceful as can be, until her eyelids begin to droop. She loves it, whatever the reason. (There wasn't that much action in Maya's womb! I put it down to near total sensory occupation.) It's exhausting - fine exercise for all of us - but coming down in steps, through swivelling at the hips, ending up in the rocking chair, also at decreasing speeds, before at last laying her down to sleep, or at least feed, it's the best we've got and a great relief. Learning by doing.
October 13
THREE WEEKS ON
Matilda has colic, or something very close to it, has had since near the beginning. Apparently not a disease, nothing much to worry about, normal for up to 25% of all babies. It just means she screams and cries and cries and screams for most of the time she's awake. Off and on, all day and all night. There is no cure, in fact the condition is hardly understood. There are different opinions and some quite interesting theories, one connected to brain chemicals. But nothing will alleviate her constant discomfort and regular hysterical outbursts. Gosh, she can be piercing. The ceilings and floors of this house have no sound proofing, meaning the neighbours get much of the effect. I hear them shifting at night and wait for them to come knocking, adding to my constant nervous stress. In comparison Maya is level-headed - most of the time. Already a pro. The perfect Mum, as I knew she would be.
On the bright side, the phenomenon often subsides at 3 to 4 months of it's own accord. Although it can last a year. (WHAT?) In any case, by that time the tiny intestinal organs have sorted themselves out and the baby has learned how to poo properly. (One theory suggests this is a "fourth trimester" period, meaning when a foetus emerges, it is still not ready for the world, therefore must endure these last major growing pains in "real time".)
At least we have the five "s" words for reference. (These thanks not to the many professionals we've consulted, all of whom professionally empathise while unable to do a thing, but to good old Google.) No, the "s" words are not Shit! Scheisse! Shut up! Five minute's Silence PLEASE GOD! and Sanctuary on a Faraway Mountain. They are Swaddling (which we won't take to, least of all Matilda), Swinging around in your arms (all night, sure thing), Sucking on a dummy (hates it so far), Shooshing loudly in the ear (Darth Vader heavy breathing works well enough in spells) and holding her in your arms on her Stomach, a.k.a. the "tiger position". That's works for a while too.
But nothing works for long.
And months of it to come, possibly a year, possibly more. Trapped in the house, our nerves are frayed, we argue, blame, weep and walk around like zombies. And that's to be expected too. Post natal depression on both sides is common, partners split up, then there's Shake Baby To Death Syndrome (the sixth "s"?). As one GP told us, straight faced, "Calm down. You have a perfectly healthy baby. She's just a bit screamy."
I should add that the other consolation is Matilda, second name Joy, at the times we can enjoy her. A more gorgeous perfect little Human Being neither of us could have imagined. What a treasure. Delicate beyond words, utterly fascinating. We almost get religion just observing her.
October 8
STEVE, RUSSELL, JULIE & JAKES PLACE
End of Summer tidy up. (Clickable.)
September 27
GRAFFITI IN SANDOWN
Documenting public art around our sadly dilapidated sea-side town. May get around to Holly Maslen's nice black and white murals outside Sandown Animal Prison and shall keep an eye out. Until then I'm afraid this is it. (Clickable.)
September 27
GRAFFITI IN SANDOWN
Documenting public art around our sadly dilapidated sea-side town. May get around to Holly Maslen's nice black and white murals outside Sandown Animal Prison and shall keep an eye out. Until then I'm afraid this is it. (Clickable.)
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September 22
HAPPY BIRTH DAY MATILDA
And well done Mum. (What a day.)
September 22
HAPPY BIRTH DAY MATILDA
And well done Mum. (What a day.)
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September 12 TROUBLE WITH ALFONZO Big kerfuffle avoiding the reflection. Required MM and lots of black plastic. |
September 15 NO TROUBLE WITH ALFONZO Polishing off the Old Speckled Hen on the last of the series (for now). |
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September 4
MOTHER TERESA DECLARED SANTA BY POPE FRANK
She may have swindled huge amounts of money and flown around in a jet making friends with dictators, but she seems to have truly believed. She believed that suffering was a gift from god, that progress was unnecessary, that women could not rule over their own bodies, that without priests to lead them women could do nothing. She encouraged members of her order to secretly baptize dying patients, their care of which was haphazard at best. She was a devout medievalist. And now she is Santa Claus.
Unconnected to the above yet inevitably bound up with it and much else, here's my latest Big Head
September 3
UPDATED THE STATEMENT AGAIN
as the actress said to the copper. This time with tips from KK, mostly omissions. Here's the old version, including "negative sounding" bits:
I was born in London, where I dropped out of art school to become an architectural model-maker. Later I travelled, landing for 18 years in Berlin to live an alternative life - as far as possible within modern society. My interests and practice are broad, so it's difficult to describe my work in a nutshell. I once considered myself a poet, later a painter, other times a sculptor. Now I am arguably a conceptual artist, someone to whom ideas and process are as important as finished artworks.
Subversion connects most things I do. If it's not in some way subversive, it's decoration. Art is not always about communication. It can have much to do with deficit of communication, awkwardness; instinctual reflex against overwhelming odds. Police singer Sting sang of poets, priests and politicians:
"And when (words) eloquence escapes me
Their logic ties me up and rapes me
De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do, de da da da
Their innocence will pull me through."
I tend to mix disciplines and blur boundaries. Some of my work is discomforting, some deceptively pretty. A lot of it is story-telling, however opaque the story may be. Visually, I will never leave behind my childhood fascination with the surreal and the fantastic. Making art is always an exploration. If one loses the buzz connected to discovery, let's say through manufacture of work because it is popular, then one cannot be making significant art.
I've followed various themes over the years, returning to key ones at intervals, but am also inclined at times to completely change direction and/or method. This is because I am still learning, still growing. Which makes me, for better or worse, unpredictable. Perhaps I'm easily bored. In a brighter light, my mind constantly seeks challenge.
Puzzle-solving has been an underlying factor in the making process since a 1999 painting series called Learning Games For Babies. I would spend as long studying a canvas in progress as I would work on it. Now, because I juggle with various ideas at the same time, some of these project pages are not complete. Some never will be. Nothing is ever really finished - everything I do, in whatever format, is a sketch, a work in progress. A puzzle yet to be conquered. Which is how I see life, I suppose.
This year I completed a two month solo exhibition & residency at the West Gallery on the Isle of Wight. It was recycling art, involving lots of woodwork, integrating rotted or broken parts, assembled with hand tools. Grandly presented rubbish, one could say. (In my model-making days, working with plastics to fractions of millimetres, we would have used engineering machinery. My former colleagues would be aghast at this shoddiness.)
I am not an artist who flourishes in solitary confinement. I enjoy collaborations with all kinds of people. My wife MM and I have been working for some years on what we call Temporary Human Installations, plotting a new course I could not have taken alone. We have lately collaborated with artist Karen Karen, who's interest in film has encouraged me to take up again a media I have long neglected.
As well as making art and occasionally performing, I have also set up and run off-spaces in Berlin and Zurich, so I've experience as a curator, specialising in exhibition & events design. These days I'm looking for galleries in which to exhibit, especially in the UK, and am always interested in residencies and competitions to enter.
Oh, and I'm looking for partners with whom to open an alternative high-street gallery, supporting itself through workshops, sales of quality works made on and off site, and donations. (Get in touch to find out more.)
September 2
TWO WEEKS TO GO
Although could be two weeks before or after that. Like right now.
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September 1
PLINTH PRODUCTION
One meter high, multi-purpose, five in all. They fit inside one another like Russian dolls. The largest (60x60x100) just fits in the Polo.
First job, new sculptures project: Alfonzo Attentat
August 29
SUFFERING OVER
What can you say. Rest in peace Auntie Pat.
August 27
PICKED UP A BOOK FOR £5
at a charity shop in Newport, next to our favourite greasy spoon. First I've spent money on for years. Maurizio Cattelan. Donkey on the front sleeve with a tv on its back. That, through the window, was the clincher. The lady serving, one of armies of volunteers in battalions of charity shops across the Island, was a bit strange, bless her. Bit posh, bit dog-eared. The book, that is. And nope, I hadn't heard of him, though the donkey rang a bell. I've left the £5 sticker on the dog-eared cover. (Trigger goes here......)
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
Page after page of déjà vu.
August 26
BANK HOLIDAY MODS
in swarms across the Island.
August 25
CAME OVER
all funny again today. Had to stop the Polo and eat something. Dad's new Polo that is, there are two now. Dad has a constant stash of Polo mints in his, always been his favourite. Pure coincidence. That's three Polos (cars) with Louise and Paul's. Family of Polo drivers. Impressive. (I sometimes steal one from Dad's stash, immediately crunching it between not-very-good-any-more teeth, much to Maya's chagrin. If that's the right word. If I'm in the right Polo.)
Told Mum immediately after spaghetti bolognese the latest we've learned about the little one. How the "waters" she's floating in (upside-down since months now) are filled with skin tissue, hair, pee, poo, bits of womb... And how they are filtered, regularly cleaned by the clever little one herself. Squeamish at the best of times, Mum's face was incredulous. "She's very innocent", Dad said (of Mum), as if I hadn't expected just that reaction. She really is.
What's-Her-Name is going to love a drop of milk.
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August 23
MAYA HAD A STITCH OUT
which means What's-Her-Name can join us any time now. We think two to three weeks should do it. Then we have six more weeks to come up with a name before we are fined for not coming up with a name. The last outstanding challenge. Until I'm forced to learn how to deal with Victorian gentlefolk complaining about our feeding What's-Her-Name in public. (Hoping for polite averting of eyes.)
Found a completely forgotten note on the lappy desktop telling me "MIX REAL WITH UNREAL". I vaguely remember precisely what I meant.
I feel like an office worker, beavering away in a solitary office, rarely visited. When someone does visit, the room is neat and the desk clear but for one item, a photograph or a little model. "Pretty", they say, and happily leave. I had quickly tidied up. Between visits the office is packed with so much stuff, half-emptied boxes, half-written manuscripts, half-assembled masterworks, half-baked ideas, that I can barely see out the window.
And the shed is falling down. My only issue with our idyllic new home apart from the obvious one. The fucking shed, damp and stinking and falling down. I have permission from the landlord's estate agents to remove, replace or fix it. God bless them. Spent a hundred quid on the stupid roof alone, but it's rotting from the floor up... Why the cuss words? Well, it's not the shed. It's what's in it, this year's "body of work", wrapped lumps and boxed body parts, recycled sculptures, ones I haven't dumped yet. Irreplaceable in their sodding ways. So pleaded on Facebook for some dry shelter, like Yosser Hughes, humiliated.
"Go on, gizza shed."
August 17
WITH MR DICKSON
on excursion to Freshwater and, previous to the stony beach, KK's lovely home and garden to work on Plinth People 2. (Yes, I call that work.)
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August 16 IF YOU CAN'T BE ARSED WITH PHOTOGRAPHY an enormously striking moon illuminating a lovely wife looks like this. |
August 15 RECOVERING FROM THE HIKE |
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August 14
GARLIC FARM
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August 11
VENTNOR
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August 9 ALMOST OUR VERY OWN BEACH Eight minutes away. Bit of a hike but you can't have everything. |
August 6 MOTHER-IN-LAW Ruth arrives for 10 day stay. Two blokes appear agitated. |
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August 5
GLASS ON GRASS
Retook those photos for the Picture Frame Towers page. Left the glass on the grass too long. Killed the grass beneath, burning a neat square of straw. Cool.
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August 4
TOOK SOME PHOTOS
of low storey picture frame models in the garden, now the exhibition is over and they're sitting around in boxes and bags. They look pretty on grass, but refuse to stand up, but a sheet of glass under them does the trick. Glass on grass in itself yields lovely things. But on uploading all the pics are over-exposed, don't know why. Possibly because I have no patience any more with cameras. But before deleting them, according to the Wallywoods principle Turn the negative into the positive, I mucked them about in Photoshop to make these. A hark back to digital experimentation of 12 years ago. (Clickable.)
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July 30
ULTIMATE PROJECT AT DEPOZITORY
Ciao Chris and Jo and co. It's been groovy.
(Happily remaining associated artists. All three of us.)
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July 29
FLO STOFFNER ON A HUT ON A VISIT
If you say to someone, jump over that wall, ignore the sign and loiter illegally while I take a photo, and they do it without a second's thought... I love those people. Miss them immensely. Still starting from scratch here after two years. (At least the Island has Cousin Russell and Mark Dickson.)
Oh, and a brilliant Thing-of-some-kind next to the hut. Had the idea to reproduce more of the Things, small and huge, lightweight but robust, and scatter them around in sympathy. Then I thought, quite a lot of work really. A lot of work in fact. Can't afford the materials, no-one gonna help, hard to transport, nowhere to make or store them anyway. So fuck 'em.
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July 24
MAYA'S MUTANTS AT DEPOZITORY
during the Island wide Open Studios 2016. Well done my dear, they are magnificent. Let's take them on tour. (Clickable.)
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Meanwhile, collected a rocking chair from a lady in Cowes at no little cost, dropping in first at Northwood Park to accidentally discover more wandering bagpipers than I've ever had the fortune to witness. The first ones literally came out of the woods at us. They were doing an annual Scottish thing and Scottish accents abounded. Plenty of others too, from all over the country. Sadly there was a competition, meaning a whole gaggle of disappointed pipers went all the way home classed as losers. (I dislike competitions. There are many other ways to show off talents without creating losers.) When they all piped up together it was glorious, a rare feast for the ears. But Maya hated it and wouldn't come closer. It's the hormones, she said, tears literally rolling down her face. (Clickable.)
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July 20 PENULTIMATE PROJECT AT DEPOZITORY before parting from it. "Picture Frame City" at the Open Studios, 22 - 25 July. Light goes inside, glass on top. If all goes to plan I'll be out by then. |
July 18 |
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July 17
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July 16
PAIR SHAPED SHOW
Joined Karen Karen's group show at her new garden workshop-stroke-exhibition space in Freshwater. The other artists and photographers are Derek Barran, Jo Hummel- Newell, Julian Winslow, Bob Cotton, Zoe Barker, Nikki Brown, Paul Windridge & the excellent Karen Karen herself. (Photos: KK / Facebook / Website)
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July 14 |
July 12 |
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July 10
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July 9 |
July 7 |
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July 5
FATHER-IN-LAW
Don't ask.
July 3
BIGGEST CABBAGE I EVER SAW
today at Arreton Barns crafts village, where you can buy lots of crap, I mean crafts. (Right-hand picture, obviously.)
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July 2
CLOSING PARTY
for "Seeds" at the Depozitory with a concert in the coolest basement around.
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June 30
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June 28
HOME
(Not all of it.)
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June 25
MAYA EXHIBITS
some of her "Mutants" at group exhibition "Seeds", part of Ryde Arts Festival, upstairs at the Depozitory.
June 22
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June 18
I COLLECT MEMORIALS
This is one of my favourites on the Island. (Never noticed it looks like a duck.) Corinne will remember it from her visit (how many?) years ago. We would have chuckled, cynical buggers, but also appreciated the paradox, the terrible shame. While taking this picture Auntie Pat who lives nearby passed us in a car. Perhaps returning from the hospital. I caught a glimpse, but at least Maya responded and waved hello. (That would be the last time I saw her.)
June 17
THE DOUBTING DEREKS' CALAMITOUS CABARET
monthly shenanigans at Ventnor Exchange. Fun fun fun, plus some art. Do drop in. (Clickable.)
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June 14 GESTASTIONAL DIABETES Expected to vanish again after the Day. |
June 11 |
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June 8 |
June 5 |
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June 3
TOOK A BREAK
from making Towers, lost interest. What's the point and all that. Had some for a while in shop windows, others still at Holly Maslen's "Big Art" pop-up bazaar in Bembridge. Sold one and felt dizzy. Have now come back to them though, because they're easy to make. Correction, because they're really very good.
Maya is 25 weeks pregnant. That's really very good too. Her overriding wish finally come true. Properly this time.
Have been working on something called Derek's Calamitous Cabaret, invented by John Armstrong (fitted last week with a cool new pacemaker - him, that is, not Derek's Calamitous Cabaret) and Ian Boyd, master of various trades and talents. Thinking up fun things to do for the next one, now, in front of a small audience of mostly other performers in Ventnor. Small, but growing, it is hoped. Been searching around for people up to whacky stuff. Not many around. Still, grand old Mark Dickson finally agreed to be mummified while playing guitar.
Oh, didn't get the jobs. Thank fuck, a little bit.
May 31
DILEMMA
I've been making buildings out of picture frame wood. I asked Maya, should I make some boats and lighthouses. "No that's stupid", she rightly retorted. (For artists on the Isle of Wight boats and lighthouses are bread and butter.) Yet I'm perversely inclined to some boats and lighthouses.
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May 26
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May 23 |
May 13 |
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May 9
TWO DADS & A MUM
Radu & Ken are passionate about music, formidable experts in their fields. Miles apart in other ways too.
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May 8
APPLIED
this week for a couple of jobs in the local council. Museum assistant at a Roman Villa near Newport, and attendant at the cliff lift in Shanklin. Don't know which I would prefer. Have a feeling the council would suit me. Relatively speaking.
May 7
ADJUSTED
this white metal kit, made as a teenager, photographed in the garden. Don't know where to put it now. It's a Faceless Portrait, I suppose.
May 6
RADU MALFATTI CONCERT
featuring John Armstrong, at Silver Mist in Ventnor. Text extracted from John Trotman's review
"Many religions and indeed secular pursuits of wisdom have valued silence and absence. Tibetan monasteries, trappist communities, Quaker meeting halls and yoga studios, amongst many others, routinely engage in periods of constructive silence. But a concert is a different and more challenging environment, with the inevitable pressure to entertain or engage. In a performance like this, much depends on an audience's readiness to accept the unusual and challenging. Such audiences perhaps tend to be self selecting unless they have come with no notion of what is in store, but performers must routinely brace themselves for the possible snorts of indignation or impatience. Here though, in a living room beside the sea, with the evening light fading, a calm and acceptance settled in a powerful and even moving way..."
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April 28
MADE A BUNCH OF TOWERS
which I like quite a lot, out of picture frame wood, with the odd bit of picture frame metal in there too. I think they're sellable. Especially when I turn them into lamps. Which means flipping the art on its face into something someone might buy. Until I despise them, potentially. That's how arty crafty people make it work all over the world. But what the heck, gotta do something, anything to make ends meet.
Looking through local jobs is like studying for an inglorious death.
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April 22 |
April 16 |
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April 13
STUFF
aka art collected from the West Gallery awaiting delivery to Workshop 97 in Ventnor or storage in the leaky garden shed. (Clickable.)
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April 12 |
April 3 |
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April 1
EVERYTHING GOING WELL
Not jesting.
March 19
COLLECTED THE MRS
from the cleanest, wealthiest, safest capital city in the world. Back to our dodgy little island and an uncertain future. Uncertain present, uncertain past. At the train station Ruth said, "that's Bruno Ganz", and it was. One tries not to stare, or even look. But (not being one) at a meter away I looked him deep in the eyes and genuinely smiled. What a great person. Historic, from other worlds. And I was right, I thought, as he held my gaze and kindly, very quietly, smiled back. As he does a hundred times a day, I suppose. Touched, never-the-less. Caught up with Maya who had found our seats. Together again. Stowaway apparently intact.
The most horrible change of trains, as usual, at the Paris metro. A shit-hole every time. Seem to remember Paris as nicer. So glad to get home.
March 16
BACK IN ZURICH FOR A FEW DAYS REST
What a lot of work that was. "Elevation" was elevating, yes, and exhausting, and real learning curve. No pay, nothing sold, but that wasn't the point was it. Great art accomplished (visitors book testifies), more fodder for the website, good for the c.v. Another stepping stone, then, towards... Towards what?
No idea. Keep calm and carry on.
All that art is now in my shed. Yes, first time I've ever had a shed. In a garden. The flat is super, and I have an idea how to keep it. A final solution - since Citizen's Advice advised me I'm entitled to ZERO benefits of any kind.
Returning this weekend with Maya, plus our accessory, all fingers crossed again.
March 8
KING X
on the Winged Throne, still growing. (Clickable.)
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March 5
MARK DICKSON
on the Winged Throne. (Clickable.)
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Here's one from later on, by Laura Clare Reid, which better captures the scale of the thing than other photos. (Yes that's Mark again, in a box.)
February 29
LEAP YEAR
In various ways already.
But fabulously broke, like every year.
Boom boom.
(Too lazy to write a poem.)
February 26
MESSAGE FROM ZURICH
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February 22
LOVE MOVING STUFF AROUND
Plays a key role in much of my art making. Moving stuff around. Since as long as I can remember. Applies to almost everything. Might as well rewrite my statement. "I move stuff around." One could, and would, put it more eloquently no doubt. "I arrange and rearrange corresponding or conflicting objects and ideas in order to juxtapose something or other and demonstrate something or other else." (Clickable.)
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February 20
SANDOWN PIER & THE ROUNDABOUT OF HELL
You've know them both. Naughty rubbish on the pier, albeit remarkably free of charge and remarkably well painted, compared to that awful facade of that advertising company on the Roundabout of Hell opposite the Church on the Roundabout (must feature that) coming into Newport. I've seen the bloke at work, miserable fellow, wouldn't want to cross him, repainting every couple of months the latest ad blurb rubbish, albeit remarkable on the Island for being, art(ish) in a public place at least. Oh, and that's Maya's arm and these are my murals. (Gizza job!)
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February 6
A VERY BIG STORM
a-blowin' across the Island. And other items going on, good, bad, and new.
Maya needs to stay on another month in Zurich. Near her specialist, Dr Strange Name.
Skyping in the evenings. Holding our breaths together.
Strange times. Rattling around in a big old flat all this time. It is big; memories of rattling around the Kulturhaus through long silent nights. Three years of it. Miss Berlin but more productive here. Things going well at the gallery. My best exhibition (or have I already said that?). Must take photos. The Mrs demands it.
Phrases recently overheard: "Inspiring"; "Genius"; "Should be in the Tate Modern". Thanks guys, say it to someone important.
(If the Tate, then surely with "Twelve Thrones". At long last.)
Besides that, drove the new car for the first time, to Ventnor and back. Had to pick up Maya's Mutant exhibits, beautiful things they are. But there was someone there I don't want to meet and I didn't go in. Walked around the lovely slopey gusty old town, and boy-raced off again. What a tank. I mean heavy clutch. Did most of the stretch in 3rd. My first diesel Rover with a BMW engine and fake wood dash. Come to think of it probably real wood. Near top of its range, it was, stylish, oomph, ect. (Sound like Top Gear. How I detest Top Gear.) But some bits falling off. No rear wiper. Had a flat a couple of weeks ago. Done almost 300,000 miles, I jest not. I never-the-less washed it today and discovered a classic. I've only ever driven boys cars and lady's cars. This is a man's car. Kindly donated to The Cause by big sis Lou and bro-in-law Paul Ison, painter and decorator extraordinaire, now based (and busy) on the Island too.
Maya will be impressed. (By the car I mean.) Hope she's not frightened of driving it.
Good night, my love.
(Cratchings and crabbles.)
January 30
A VERY BIG THRONE
stands naked in its early stages at the residency rooms while I work on finishing the other big throne, the Sedan Throne, and smaller works scattered around the West Gallery. I'll tackle the Mother of all Thrones when everything else is ship-shape. A few people pop in and some small groups, possibly having seen the latest IOW County Press mini-article with corresponding pictures of "the artist at work". Pleased to report encouraging comments all round, with people especially supportive of recycling, apart from one or two local yokels who don't know or care what a residency actually is. Remarked in the comments book; "Hard to find the art among all them piles of wood". One group of ladies make a courteous round and leaves, apparently contented, but one lingers a little. She admires the Very Big Throne (working title) as I explain that the wings will be enormous, made from that pile of picture framing wood over there, generously donated by two remarkably accommodating framing shops on the Island (I really must get credits up as I promised them.) The lady now goes bashful and smiles a secret, tickled pink kind of a smile. "You know who could sit there, don't you?" she asks. Well, no, I say, and she points upwards with a dainty, secrety finger. I think of Georgia in the office above, or her boss Jackie, or general manager Ian, or a member of the board of good-willed supporters perhaps. "Our Lord Jesus Christ" she whispers excitedly. I am dumbstruck, of course, and suddenly need her to leave, but before she does so I hear myself saying, "Well, he can sit anywhere he likes, can't he."
Idiot.
January 29
SO, ANYWAY...
Palin and the Pythons just got a first proper mention on page 350 of J.C.'s 400 page book, leading one to one of two conclusions; that J.C is planning to live long enough to bequeath to the world a Part II; or that he considers so much stuff post that momentous TV watershed (which I remember myself) already out there that he'll leave it in a nutshell, nudge nudge, say no more etc. Which I would tend to agree with. Altogether enjoyable and informative, but the front cover's boast "Ridiculously entertaining, explosively funny" is a fib so far fetched we must assume he wrote that himself as a final momentous joke worthy of etching on a gravestone or two.
Maya still in Zurich attempting to deal with, among other things, that complete wanker, so-called friend of a friend, who wants to sue us for sub-letting our flat to a friend of ours (a real one) instead of his poor, soon to be homeless self. What a wuss. We never even met him, let alone agree he take on the lease; just some friendly correspondence suggesting he was in with a good chance. As indeed he was. Not any more though. What a wuss. If ever I wanted to knock someone's teeth out. But I would never do that; I've never properly hit someone in my life. I would prefer to take my good yellow-handled pliers to those teeth, one after the other...
The experienced has underlined our feelings towards Zurich. We started there together in 2010 with the best will in the world, and in the end just had to get out. Fuck Zurich and its wankers; and those wankers are miriad. Whereas we, ordinary beings, open, polite, generous, a little naïve, never stood a chance.
January 24
OR IN THE WORDS OF JOHN CLEESE
"I used to think that the world was basically sane with patches of madness here and there which would recede as rationality and good jokes pushed their boundaries ever inwards. Now I have the opposite view entirely."
(Came across it in "So Anyway...", Maya's signed copy and first book I've picked up in 12 years, give or take. Not always this hilarious, but recommended.)
January 22
FOR MOST OF MY LIFE
I've believed we live in a nearly civilized world. Optimist to the bone, I believed those unfortunate regions overwhelmed with poverty, war and other abominations would catch up sooner or later with us, here in the modern world. The very nearly peaceful, admirable modern world. I was convinced that reason and empathy and other good stuff would prevail. That human-beings would evolve just a little bit more and everything would just settle down. People would stop bickering and bullying and learn to appreciate a democratic (yes, it really should be democratic) and fulfilling existence without trolls and morons and general mother-fuckers lurking on corners whose highest ambition it is to rape, rob and/or stab you or your mother to death.
But things are not going to settle down, are they.
Hatred, selfishness, the urge to break bones and to decimate... Exactly the tendencies which have insured our unstoppable success as a species. Absolute success. We are Mother Nature's finest work. Survival of the most brutal. And that's it. She, Mother Nature (not a god, stop blaming gods) has no interest in niceties or justice or peace, as she has none in individuals, or peculiar things of little real use which some individuals refer to as values.
Sure, there will always be some decent people. Not just a bit decent when it suits us, there are plenty of those around, always have been. I mean very decent ones, who strive, risk and sacrifice, and with intelligence and eloquence initiate enlightenment inside the collective consciousness. But these beings will always fall short. By a very long way. (Exaggerating slightly, I propose we need a billion of them.)
In a thousand years time our descendants, if there are any left, will look back in horror and lump this third millennium in with the few before it. Contemporary times are anchored in the middle ages, mixed with the blood of countless conflicts, poisoned with oppression, genocide, delusion, fanaticism, bigotry. Technical innovations aside, we've made no progress at all. Technical innovations included, they are playing a large part in our misery and demise.
As for those descendants, if there are any, looking back in horror at our woes and shite and chaos; as they look around themselves, and into the future, and in any direction they are able to turn, let's not be fooled. Woes and shite and chaos will surround them too.
January 20
IN ZURICH
for a week. Odd to walk in snow, it's been so mild on the Island. That place which very slowly feels like home. Or as close to one as I'm able to get.
Odd to pass through Paris, too, after recent attacks. But not very odd. Life goes on, it always does. People are grasping the grave new world.
Set up the Elevation stuff in a bit of a hurry before we left, mainly piles of wood, at the West Gallery. The residency was brought forward a month due to something else being cancelled. Sorry for that, but my good fortune. Let's see what comes out of it.
Maya is coping well with some surprising news. Let's see what comes out of that too. Will be aweful to see her let down again.
Been in touch with a lady, Patsy, who worked at P.U., way back before the Morris brothers split up. She had a dust allergy. Odd coincidence considering I've been thinking about but putting off contacting the guys. She found me by Googling Presentation Unit, who never had a website I could find. Wonder who's dead and who's still swearing.
Louise and Paul are giving us a car. It will be the first I've owned since early sports car years. Can't afford insurance or fuel, but couldn't say no, could I.
Oh yes, we moved out of the Ryde flat (those barking fucking dogs, those miserable fucking locals) and into a veritable palace in Sandown, garden and all. We're vaguely planning a series of harmless events there (in the massive hallway), alternating exhibitions with cocktails and a few invited friends. Why not.
Keeping positive, then, while much looking forward to getting into the residency. Have cut out an enormous amount for myself to try to complete, especially in light of creeping age syndrome and their early closing hours. Thinking of which (creeping age) I really ought to get my teeth sorted out before they fall out.
That's the guts of it. There's more besides, just don't enjoy writing any more. Enjoying the woodwork best of all. Wonder how long that will last. Already have the title of a next undertaking, wherever that might happen: "Human". Don't know much about it, except that it must be time soon to get figurative. To bare myself, at least my lack of skills (drawing skills, people skills...) and go among the Humans.
January 15
"DEAR PAUL
Thank you for your recent application for admission to the Postgraduate Programme at the Royal Academy Schools. After careful consideration, we regret to tell you that you have not been shortlisted for interview on this occasion. Due to the volume of applications we received, we are unable to provide individual feedback. We appreciate you taking the time to apply and we would like to wish you every success with your practice.
Yours sincerely,
Eileen Cooper.
Keeper of the Royal Academy and Cunt."
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January 10
ARRIVING VIEW FROM A WINDOW in a flat we quickly love in Sandown. That's Culver Cliff beyond the church. 
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January 8
PARTING VIEW FROM A WINDOW from a flat in the Strand, Ryde, I grew to dislike intensely. Good riddance. 
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January 7
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January 4
SUBMERGED
in wood and other junk collected over the last few months, crammed into the Ryde studio. Frantically and casually turning it into art for the approaching residency. Bigger stuff to be assembled on site at West Gallery. Along with the junk, Maya's three large plaster & wire "Mutants" well under way. She took it to heart when I told her if I organise a group show on the Island sometime, I'll be looking for people doing Big Things.
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January 1
COMING OUT
One of my therapists suggested coming clean with my problem. My thing. My life-long, at times debilitating depression. Why I've hardly worked in years. Why I'm so bad at paperwork, appointments and bills. Why I leave everything to the last minute, unless it can be avoided completely. Why disappointments hit me so hard. Why it took me so long to grow up. Why I attended special needs schools. Why I dropped out of art school on the first day after working so hard to get in. Why I've never found a job I enjoy. Why I've always been the outsider. Why I drink more than I should. Why pot does me so much good. Why, whilst setting up our design company in Zurich, I spent all my time decorating the showroom and none on finding clients. Why it has been so important to find ways, against ceaseless existential tsunamis and infuriating daily hurdles, to make some art. Why just about the only thing that gets me out of bed at midday is the will to make some art. My self-researched, self-prescribed, self-sponsored, self-administered therapy.