crackers

Next Christmas I shall endeavour to make my own crackers; the ones we bought this year were, like every year's, terrible.
In place of jokes I've decided to insert Brian Sewell Riddles. Festive pullers will be prompted to guess the artist from the Evening Standard review clips.

Here's three examples for beta testing (hint: they're all British);

Now the Grand Old Man of British Painting, he is presented as a painter of an improbably gaudy Yorkshire landscape, his current obsession, with a handful of earlier works to support the general assumption that he has always been the Turner of his day (as well as the Michelangelo). 

Throughout his long life he observed the company he kept - in particular its underbelly - in largely informal portraits that often verged on ambiguous narrative. He seems to have liked, perhaps even loved, dogs, but to have cared little for human beings, apart from the cool curiosity with which he observed their genitals.

The once interesting and provocative multi-millionaire mass-production wide-boy of the Young British art world is Tate Modern's predictable choice for the Cultural Olympiad. With the spot and spin paintings, the shark and subsequent specimens in formaldehyde (the farmanimaldehides), the medicine and instrument cabinets and other installations, this will be more or less a retrospective exhibition of his various impertinences.

cat & bird

I've found it easier to 'get' poetry when it is spoken rather than on a page. I could recite it to my self but there's the distraction of self-awareness to deal with, not to mention the sound of my own voice, an acquired taste, possibly, but, generally, as a method it doesn't work for me. Other people reading it is much better. Providing they don't perform it. Of course - not naturally, which most find impossible to do. Only the poets should be allowed to do this, like Michael Donaghy reading his poem, Machines, in my first poetry post.

Unfortunately, the following poets passed before technology allowed their voices to be recorded. However, Zita Frith does quite a good reading of these. Not too act'tor-ish.

The Windhover, by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I think the kestrel was the first non-garden bird I came to recognise and know. Then, a few years ago, I noticed I hadn't been noticing them as often as I once had, maybe I had become bored with sighting them, moved on to other birds, then I came across one hovering just yards above me while walking the dog and I knew you couldn't fall out of love with the things. Some time afterwards I heard on the radio that their numbers had seriously declined in the UK. The usual suspect for this is human interference in the environment, destroying the habitat of their prey; small rodents and birds. Everything is so interconnected.

For I Will Consider My Cat, Jeoffry, a title that I doubt will ever fail to put a smile on my face. No doubt Christopher Smart was serious in his gratitude to God for having Jeoffry (this piece is an excerpt from his monumental work, Jubilate Agno, or Delight in The Lamb, though he was at the time confined in an asylum by his in-laws for mania). But still it makes me curl up because I've had a few cats in my time, and how often do you get the opportunity to delight in such expressions as ''gravity and waggery''? Not to mention the idea that any grown man should call his cat Jeoffry!

The percussion accompaniment is by Brendan Murphy, an untitled piece. Although, as a general rule, poetry needs no music, this time it doesn't distract from the words.

***

I'm trying out Wordpress for size. I'm not sure if it'll merely mirror some of the posts here or be a whole different set of posts. It may be more autobiographic. I don't know...

hiromi uehara

Strolling through a fine Esbjörn Svensson Trio mix on Youtube this morning I discovered, sandwiched within a tranche of Thelonius Monk tunes, this. At first glance it looks like a return to showy excess: six stringed bass, too many drums, a corral of keyboards, and not to mention two necks on a guitar... Hold on though, this is pretty funky jazz, and sounds exquisitely clean.

The pianist is Hiromi Uehara. Her band is called Sonicbloom. Well, I'm hooked...



Lots more on Youtube, check her out.

addendum: actually, if you follow the mix, there's a performance from Hiromi earlier on. I didn't notice it at the time as I was working and only listening.

sad to know you're leaving

Friday, being poets' day, I usually catch Last Word on the radio, driving home from work. What is our fascination with obituaries? Next to the puzzle page, they are, allegedly, the most read single page in any newspaper. On the radio, the form expands into a mini documentary featuring audio clips and talking heads. You begin to wonder why they don't put it on the telly!

A couple of Friday's ago there was a piece about the reggae star, Gregory Isaacs. Isaacs had played a small part in my improver's relationship experimentation - a sofa, a girl and a lovers album - around the early 80s. Then reggae seemed to change pace and I lost interest, so it was a jolt to hear his life celebrated on Last Word.

So, last Friday I spent an afternoon listening to a Gregory Isaacs mix on Youtube. This is the first time I've used a youtube playlist. It was really quite good. I don't know why I'm surprised, Youtube is, surely, one of the finest websites on the wobbly web; precisely what the internet was made for.

But this video wasn't in the mix. I post it because it looked like a good gig: a veritable reggae gang show with an extensive, and casual, house band, and Isaacs, smooth and sartorial.

rhyme & reason

Despite the duff ear, my love of Radio 3 is waxing. I may even have to get a t-shirt made.

Recently, the Beeb have improved their iPlayer site and now users can select their favourite shows so these shows are ready and waiting as soon as you enter the site. (Unfortunately, my overseas buddies might not be able to access the shows - which is a pity - but fair, I suppose, as BBC content is funded by UK taxpayers).

I have discovered another gem of theirs, Words & Music. I've avoided it until now because it sounded dry and up itself. Basically, it's a mix of spoken word and music selected for a theme. I feel a bit short changed on the music, it's often only a clip, but the words are the thing, a reading from a novel, or a piece of poetry. It's a wonderful way for a relative illiterate like me to hear poetry and I wonder how it would work on my mp3 player, randomly selected in shuffle mode. I might acquire a few clips and find out.

I was quite taken by the poem, Machines, by Michael Donaghy. It was read on the show by an actor from the Archers (a chronic radio soap where nothing discernible happens to a community of farrrmers) but I discovered that Donaghy was happy to perform his own work in his time and so here he is performing Machines.

My Ear Deceives Me

I've got this ear. Recently, it's developed a condition which I believe falls into the ETD category. Eustachian tube disorder, which sounds like something the transport workers' trade union might organise for commutors north of Watford. It's also given me glue ear which I can't shift.

Googling for remedies, I read that dairy products may make matters worse by increasing mucus output so in an effort to reduce dairy I thought I'd try substituting rice milk. On its own, I found it tastes like regular milk that's ever so slightly on the turn and with a spoonful of sugar added. It's not too bad if you like yoghurt and stuff, which I do.

However, it doesn't really mix with other foods like milk does. First, I tried making porridge. The result neither looked like porridge nor tasted at all pleasant. Secondly, I added it to my morning coffee. This proved worse: it totally failed to complement the bitterness with the usual creamy smoothness I look for, but it did give it added sweetness. That would be fine if I took sugar in my coffee - I could add fewer spoonfuls - but I don't.

Luckily, I've been taking my Redbush tea black for some time. I'll try the soya milk next but I won't get my hopes up.

Tony Meeuwissen

It's easy to overlook the exhibition space in our small town museum. In a modest room tucked around the back of the museum gift shop, I found a small exhibition by local artist and illustrator, Tony Meeuwissen. I say local because I see he lives in the county, but as an artist he's certainly global. His portfolio includes book covers for Penguin paperbacks, record covers, and postage stamps. It was really delightful work; deep, rich and colourful.

I could have bought a framed limited edition print, one of a series of illustrated playing cards, but every one I picked had a tiny red dot underneath - I presumed this meant he'd sold the lot. I could have asked, I think he was there, at least there was a man being pressed to sign a book for a customer, I didn't know what he looked like and, anyway, when I next looked the man was no where to be seen.

On a table were three books of original sketches for sale, real doodle stuff but nicely done. In the front was a few words describing his way of coming up with an idea, basically throwing doodles down, all the time thinking outside the box and letting his imagination run riot until a germ of an idea presented itself. It's consoling news for compulsive doodlers like myself; all I need now is to give up the day job. Or first find the courage to do so.

street photographer

Had this little beauty in my inbox this morning, an invitation to join a community, the Street Photography Now Project, in association with The Photographer's Gallery, London, and Sophie Howarth and Stephen McLaren, authors of Street Photography Now. (Unfortunately, it involves posting our efforts on Flickr - why they didn't set up their own unique platform, I really don't know.) The gist is, they'll post a weekly instruction for you to take to the street, make an image, and upload it to their Flickr group. You don't need a squirrel monkey; just a camera, a town, and a lot of brass neck.

Here's a brief slideshow promoting Howarth and McLaren's new book which contains some fun, funny, and inspirational photos, and the kind of thing I imagine they're looking for;

Street Photography Now from Johanna on Vimeo.

Addendum: Seems to be a bit confusing over at SPNP's Flickr page. I've found this which seems to be where the prompts are. Then you have to marry it up to the right Flickr group. Why, oh why, oh why et cetera et ad infinitum....

sirkka-liisa konttinen and the north

BBC Four is back on form this month with a series on The North [of England]. As a ''Southerner'', I have to be careful what I say about The North. I mean, I don't actually get up there much but, from what I know, it's all right. Largely my experience of it has been through the media of film, predominantly black and white ones, and books. I'm pretty sure both of these skew the true nature of The North, and its folk, but, to its advantage, gives it an extra sense of romanticism and strength; it makes for good art.

The series introduced me to the work of Finnish photographer and film-maker, Sirkka-Liisa Konttinen. This is a photographer to know as he obviously knows about photography, its potential and its purpose. In the 60s she came to Byker, a working class area of Newcastle on the verge of being pulled down to make way for improved housing. The young Konttinen fell in love with the community she found living in the terraces and moved in. Then she began photographing her neighbours and their neighbourhood. Then last year she returned to make portraits of newer residents of Byker Wall, the estate which replaced the condemned Byker, this time in colour.

Her portraiture is a work of genius; she manages to capture the finest of lines between the formal pose and the candid. Only the genuine expressions of the ordinary people in her images give away the unstaged nature at that moment of capture, and what Cartier-Bresson must have meant by the ''decisive moment''. Have a look at the family portrait with their bull terrier, above. It featured very briefly in the programme, and it turns out to be her own favourite.

I love the structure of this composition, the way the subjects are placed in the room as if she was setting out to paint the scene, not merely snap them. Yet they seem, at that moment, to be totally unconscious of the artist: the playful interaction between dog and master, the open wonder in the upturned face of the young daughter set against the knowing gaze of her older sister. Perfect.

manu delago & the hang

If you liked the sound of Toumani Diabaté's kora, I'm sure you'll like the sound of the hang, played here by Manu Delagu. Not actually a drum as suggested by the title of the video, but an idiophonic instrument of serious complexity (I'll stop here because I'm well out of my depth). Designed in Switzerland, it's a long way from putting holes in cheese and the cuckoo clock. However, I'd be happy to have a hang on my wall though it'd be too tempting to stay there for long.

September

I've taken to walking at lunchtime, even though there's nowhere interesting to go in an hour and not much else to see apart from other offices and office workers. It's like Clonesville, but at least the weather is good; the slightest covering of cloud and a strong, fresh breeze.

In Ealing, West London, there are two great recreation parks separated by a crossroad in a quiet residential street. They are two of the largest, and oldest, municipal parks I'd known anywhere in suburbia. I used to work nearby and most lunch hours would complete a figure of eight around both parks by the perimeter paths, a walk which would take almost exactly the whole hour. It was a fine walk, especially if the weather was good.

A short time later, an old work-mate joined the firm. He was Polish and he came to England, via France, at a time when Poland was under communism. His command of English was really good though he still had an accent which added charm to his words and gave the simplest of statements an air of gravitas and wisdom. And he was slightly older than me, possibly by as much as ten years.

Our paths crossed in the park one day. It was mid-Summer. I'd made some remark about how good it would be to holiday in Britain, if the weather was as good as it was that day.
I remember he said immediately how, in England, in September and, sometimes, October, it could be good, also.

I wasn't aware of this at the time, in fact I was a bit dubious. I was young enough still to associate September as the month for going back to school at the end of a long Summer break. But in passing years I found my Polish friend was right. September is a fine month, also. In fact, I'm not certain it isn't my favourite month of the year.

inconsequential truths

I. The hazelnut doesn't do much for me. It's taste is vaguely reminiscent of the end of a pencil, and I don't expect it has as much nutritional clout. In order of preference in my daily nut mix;

• Brazil nuts - generally uncultivated, mostly gathered from the rainforest floor. A satisfying bite with plenty of flesh.
• Walnut - Californian (though I don't know why they couldn't be English). Slight resemblance to ossified brains of small critters so may improve mental health or the ability to climb trees. A difficult nut to extract (though in this case I didn't have to).
• Almond - a taste sensation, though thin on flesh.
• Hazelnut - mere ballast.

II. Buddhism is a religion least likely to be practiced by aspiring time-travellers. However, for actual time-travellers it could be the most likely followed.

toumani diabaté

Despite doodling on acoustic guitar in rare moments, I'm not a musician. It takes more dedication, over many years, than I could tolerate and I wouldn't be happy with just being a doodler. And then there's the instrument; what would I choose? The guitar is an easy choice but then you hear Miles and you wish it was the trumpet, or with Joe Morello, the drums! Each instrument has its own beauty.

In this short film, Toumani Diabaté introduces the kora. Can you imagine a sweeter sound coming from an instrument made from a vegetable? No.

a borrower be

Support your local library. Before they cut it.

Even though our numbers are falling, I'm proud to be in that number. I've found a new use for my membership - CD rentals(and I've also spied some interesting foreign films on the racks). For £1 a week (or just 50p if returned within 24hours) I borrowed a copy of Tuesday Wonderland, by Esbjorn Svensson Trio. I've been listening to it at work. Wonderful, even though it's not Tuesday. This band has often been cited as the future of Jazz, or Europe's best Jazz group. But I'm sad that I shall never get to see them when I consumate my new found love affair with Scandinavia. Esbjorn died in 2008, aged 44, whilst scuba diving.

Also from the library, I'm currently into the Best of McSweeney's Vol. 2. A collection of modern American short stories. So far these have been fabulous little gems; some mysterious (think Twilight Zone) and some very funny. The McSweeney's website also looks fun, but not intuitively explorable. At least I'm struggling, but I'm specifically trying to find the stories and there's nothing to say there are any. There's a page of lists though, some of which are quite funny.

Also this week, and not a long bus ride from the spirit of McSweeney's is the brand new culture superblog, The Dabbler. Today's post is from Frank Keys, (Hooting Yard) on the poem, Jubilate Agno, by Christopher Smart (1722-1771 ). Essentially it's a list pairing a biblical hero with a named critter, some familiar, some absurd, so that hero can praise God with said beast. It's a shocking three hours long but you can hear it all here. It's worth at least a quarter of an hour. I put in about 20 minutes and then fast-forwarded - I think it's safe to say the best bit is at the beginning.

I think that's all. Back to E.S.T....

Mrs. Schrödinger goes for a stroll

The video says it all.



Or does it?

It's disturbing the amount of CCTV there is about. Now I don't wish to draw fatuous comparison's with Orwell's 1984 but when I read that book in my youth, and got to the part where the sweethearts thought they'd escaped the prying eyes of state only to find microphones hidden in the hedgerows, I thought, how awful! And all the things I got up to as a kid, unobserved.

tick-tock

For about a couple of years between my late teens and mid twenties I never carried a watch. I don't remember whether my old watch broke or was lost but I didn't have enough enthusiasm to shop for a replacement. Then I found I could get along fine without one. Generally, I'd work out the time to the nearest hour intuitively, and if on rarer occasions I needed more accurate time I'd simply seek out a clock or the kindness of strangers.

The reason I think of this now is because I've just read an article in response to old news that using technology makes you stupid. The article refutes the claim though I wasn't convinced, and I wonder how my life would be without media technology (gratuitous use thereof, obviously. I'm not suggesting that if ever I should face a life-threatening situation where safety required the assistance of technology, I should decline it on principle). It's safe to say, I think, that certain tasks seemed more meaningful before technology saved time and labour. And made us stupid because now any fool can do it, can't they?

These days I'm a watch wearing conformist, but every once in a while, I try to tell, not guess, the time of day intuitively. Rarely am I out by more than half an hour, more frequently correct within a quarter of an hour. I ask you, how accurate do we need to be?

stickmen at atom

Over at the opposite end of the spectrum from BFI resides Atom Films. I'm not sure where Atom Films' films come from - country of origin, pro or am, small or big time - but they're certainly and consistently well-polished works; a cut above average youtube fare. Having said that, I remember them when they used to be better. Oh well, I expect someone at Atom had to do a necessary exercise in ''progress''.

Yesterday, I saw a clip for a programme which featured an aged writer who I didn't recognise saying something about all stories being essentially about death. That's funny, and very reassuring, because up until then I thought I must be developing a peculiar taste in literature - everyone seemed to be, whether literally or metaphorically, dying.

Is animation dead, and the wonder of it dying? Technology guilty, murder one? Here's a ghost of cartoon past,

Stickman Exodus
Tags: Atom.com,Atom Originals,Atom Blog,Upload Videos

monday morning blue

A week off work starts today and by 9 o'clock I've had a run, walked the dog, cut my hair, shit, shaved and showered, and fit to go. And the sun is shining in a pale blue sky. The forecast said rain all week, but it also said sunshine yesterday which we didn't get. It's not that you can't trust British weather, you just can't trust Britain's weather forecasters. Speaking for myself, the weather's okay. Elsewhere it can be tragic or very boring.

At the time of the badgers incident I was being played a tape of the Jersey Boys, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Now, I'm not a fan of all that high-pitched harmony but this one song shone through. It sounded familiar, like all good songs do even if you haven't heard them before. I didn't catch the name so I had an awful time on Youtube looking for it amongst the squeals. Here it is, Beggin', and it includes a video-edit by a fine-looking gentleman called pilooski, and an animator by the name of Cyriak. There's a touch of the Gilliams about it, and there's nothing wrong with that.




Now, it's a curious fact that Scandinavians speak better English than anyone else - including the English. It's also possible that they're creating the best music for the 21st century only we're not noticing it yet. Look around. Anyway, if you quite liked Beggin' but felt it could've been somewhat earthier, try Madcon - Europe's biggest hip-hop duo. From Norway. Theirs comes with a blaxploitation parody which is both funny and sexy, if that's your bag, man. Why not?

Momo Wandel Soumah and Jason Bua

Hey, it's time to listen to some laid back and rolling Guinea blues.



I love this sound but really it was the slideshow of art that caught my attention. I think, mostly if not all, by Jason Bua. Anyone know anything about him?

old fart-lek

Following what seemed at the time like an interminable series of illnesses and injuries I’m glad to be back on track, running. It might be early days but I’m pleased to be able to say I run again, and this time I have the dog as my jogging buddy. Though it might not feel it at the time when I’m bowling along, afterwards, having run, and retaining the confidence that you really can run, it gives me a great sense of being and achievement; it’s liberating, both physically and mentally. Thinking about it, I do get it when I’m actually running, providing the humidity and the sun aren’t too high. Fleet of foot, the wind in the hair (some chance), that kind of thing. Superb.

To ease myself back in I’ve adopted my own interpretation of Fartlek which I’ll probably call old fart-lek. Basically, this is a Swedish training method and simply translates as Speed-Play. In practice in involves breaking up a long run into a series of shorter ones varying in effort, anything from, say, walking fast to sprinting flat out. The pace and duration of each leg designed to suit the individual and to allow for brief periods of stress followed by recovery while continuously moving. I’m sure there’s more to the science than I’ve explained but it’s a fun way, and a good way, to run. Blinding.

Running with the dog can be a bit comical. A comfortable pace for me is a tad too quick for the dog to walk normally but way too slow for her to trot, so we begin with her walking increasingly fast in a similar way to a cartoon dog, her legs speeding up to a blur until the lead gets tight and she has to give in and break into a casual trot whereby, soon after, the lead gets yanked in the opposite direction and I, with arm stretched out of its socket, get pulled along the road. When we get to the cross-country part, I’ll let her off the lead but this has its funny moments too. A narrow cut in a field of tall grass means we must go single-file but who goes first is a bone of contention. With dog out front, she seems gradually to slow down so I’m constantly worried she’ll just stop to smell something over ripe on the path and I’ll go arse over tit over a sniffing dog. However, if I get in front I feel her wet snout nudging the back of my calves all the way as if she’s telling me to get a bloody shift on, dawg, or move over. But mostly it’s the open lane, with me hacking up sputum owing to a juvenile tonsillectomy, and her panting due to an absence of sweat glands and making it sound like I’m running alongside Thomas the tank engine. Excellent.

I guess that’s f-fa-f-fa-f-fart-lek, folks!