Wouldn’t it be good to make a painting that covered every wall and ceiling of a house? To create a sculpture emerged from the sea that defeated all council regulations? To write a novel that described the reader’s life in precise detail? To make a poem that is frontpage news? To design clothing that puts an end to the fashion industry? To build a church that everyone wants to go into? To plant tree gardens on all available vacant lots? To produce letter graffiti that emulates seedpod galaxies, not city blocks of squareness? To compose music that eloquently explains January?
Monday, 16 January 2017
The streets are alive with the sight of hacked pines. Sharp and resinous forms, glossy as gossip, turn inward and auburn in January heat. They lounge on the lawn between footpath and gutter, nowhere to go. Their pinnacle hosted an angel, their base was once well-rooted. Leaving behind needled neutralised soil, they have little to celebrate now, shook out as Binsey poplars, their moment of incarnation used-by, their core interest destined for the woodheap. What did their buyers see in them that wasn’t glistered with tinsel? Dead, as said, will someone come to end their disintegration? Their soon-to-be swift drift.
Sunday, 15 January 2017
Not Yorkshire: green clouds, magenta lanes, vermilion creeper, azure mud, pink pasture, purple saplings, yellow shadows. But yet Yorkshire: spindled treetops, jumping raindrops, daffodil parties, horse crossings, white birdcalls, parked cars, red-bluff buildings, glass ashtrays. Yorkshire via California: LSD buses, orange groves, coasting freeways, surf sunlight, technology plug-ins, loudest cactus, mass deluxe production seduction, silicon schmilicon Spike Milligan! Yorkshire of desire: that lane travelled so often through woods, where now you sit down by, old man, to paint and contemplate. Yorkshire in memoriam: ipad drawing printed on sheets of paper mounted by Dibond Hockney circa after January sometime twenty eleven.