Another mugshot from Least Wanted: A Century of American Mugshots used, along with altered vispo, print and marker pen. This is the book. It's pricey now but I was lucky enough to find it in a charity shop for a fiver and since it's such a brilliant publication it is definitely in my Top Ten Bargains chart.
I was once accused of being a criminal...by the police! They got out of their car and approached me as I walked across Aylesbury Market square during my lunch break in the late-70s.
"You're out then," one said, smiling slightly.
"Pardon?"
"How long have you been out?"
"Out of where?"
They laughed. It turned out I looked like a criminal they knew to be doing time. As hard as I tried to convince them otherwise I was left with the impression that they still didn't believe me. My doppelganger must be really accurate, I thought, for the police not to be able to tell the difference.
This period of trying to combat RSI by not typing sees me using printer and pen instead. Here's the second made in two days. I've used ink pens for years but have been trying new ways recently. Adrift combines printed layers of old typed vispo pieces, inked according to whichever parts I was to highlight or cover completely.
I've been inspired by a recent dive into the world of comics, specifically the Atomic Age (roughly 1946–1956). Not that I dare compare my efforts to the great inkers of those days. Flicking through PS Artbooks' Outer Space Vol 1 the other day I was struck by this Steve Ditko panel. I have a friend who's been collecting comics and comic books for decades; he's a very useful guide through what is a vast world and a challenging one regarding reprints (digital recolouring or not? Black and white purity for the artist's work? etc). Through his enthusiasm he's also doing his best to tally bankrupt me...and is almost succeeding...
I kept myself amused for a few hours yesterday by doing some drawing. It's a doodle, of sorts, despite the apparently rigid structure. By which I mean it began simply with a triangle and other shapes were added and so on. The dark outer edges were a last minute addition. I think they lend the inner part more oomph.
I don't even like the term 'visual poetry' but a label that differentiates what I do from Fine Art is needed and you know how broad the Church of Visual Poetry is - so it can take one more member.
Aside from more text-heavy pieces which bare obvious comparison to historical examples I do go elsewhere, visually. The piece above is one example. I made it this afternoon having tried another and abandoned it. The inked shapes came first, of course, then the question: What's the name of this game? It seemed apt. I found it randomly in a short story.
I'll tell you this but please keep it to yourself: none of the text I use is 'original'. I like chance encounters with sentences, dialogue or phrases. In that respect, perhaps it is 'found poetry'. Ask John Cage. I ask you to keep this secret because some people may be under the impression that I think up texts and base the visuals around them. Whether that would be considered more admirable, I don't know. I'm a literary magpie.
Once upon a time I aspired to make up my own sentences and put loads of them together. I still have them, in batches of around 70,000 words, each trying to be a novel; a good novel. They failed. That was about 30 years ago. I found writing poetry easier, which is not to say the poems were better than those novels. I even read them in public and survived. The poetry audience is very polite. I think if I'd simply read out 'You lot are a bunch of cunts!' over and over, they still would have applauded. Someone once suggested I read my visual poetry, but it would have sounded a) terrible and b) like sound poetry, which I don't like.
I don't even know if I like the piece above. I don't know what it is or where it came from. Making art is an invasion in reverse. It doesn't enter, it leaves. But like a virus, or actual invader, it can be quite unpleasant. It can be unnerving. I don't mind not knowing. There's too much knowing amongst artists. They get too cosy with their creativity, to the point where it's more like craft. Each thing they make is neat, tidy, and made from their formula. At least craft workshops are unpretentious.
Last time out I denied any comparison in terms of greatness to the dub producer King Tubby. Today I deny any likeness to Miles Davis whilst thinking about 'grey areas' in art and creativity 'outside' boxes. Davis made some messy sounds during his 'electric' period, didn't he? Did he know what it was, that sound he cultivated by enlisting great musicians and prompting them to play beyond their comfort zones? It was no longer Jazz, was it? It was never straight Funk, or Noise. His bands created some ugly, misshapen, awkward things.
Miles Davis: 'If you understood everything I said, you'd be me.' But did he understand everything his music 'said'? Perhaps. Many didn't understand it, that's for sure. I can't claim to understand a lot of what I make under the name of 'visual poetry'. Like an impulsive run of notes during free improvisation, the pieces appear, recorded on paper. You, the audience, will decide how 'good' or 'bad' they sound.
Fans of John Waters will recognise the quote in the piece above - paraphrasing, to be precise. Come on, Robin, that's a bit harsh...just because someone doesn't think like you doesn't make them an 'asshole'! No, no, it doesn't, you're right. Be nice. Be tolerant. Be Zen. I'm only playing with the idea. It may be something we all think sometimes. Sometimes we think terrible things...unkind things. Social media is ablaze with disagreements and abusive comments...don't join in...even when you read a comment by someone and think 'You asshole!!!' (In the UK, it would be 'arsehole', of course.)
Why make art? Why argue? Why go for a walk? Why anything? Another erasure piece below. I like to 'draw' (although LJ challenges me when I say I'm 'drawing'. But I am, aren't I? I'm just not drawing anything other than lines and shapes.
Why Anything, RTomens, 2025
Love letters...once upon a time we wrote them. I suppose newer generations write 'love emails'? It doesn't have the same romantic ring to it, does it? Actual letters on paper could be felt...the indentations of a pen on paper...a smell, perhaps, like some I received from a girl who doused the pages in perfume. Your lover handled the paper...perhaps they creased a top corner by mistake...their hand is evident...oh poor modern generation...you will never know the pleasure of a letter from a lover! When one affair ended, I burnt all her letters. I wish I hadn't but at the time I needed to perform that drastic action, that symbolic (?) torching of words she wrote. Our love affair was never destined to rise from those ashes!
It's conceivable that even the youngest (adult) mind may grow tired...tired of constantly scrolling, perhaps...tired of thinking about life - even as a teenager!
Meanwhile, at the other end of life, I have a good excuse - the accumulation of years can weigh heavy - memories are a burden! Carrying this mind and these bones around for almost 70 years!
In Tired, The Walking Man (featured in previous pieces) has given up walking. He has laid himself down for a rest, trying to blank out the chatter of text, of people. He wants peace. He should visit the countryside, where the only sounds are those of the birds.
Are the drawn lines too thick? Do they overwhelm the typing?
I started a series called How To Write Poetry, based on the AI answer from a Google search. Perhaps I'll make enough of them to create a book. Imagining having done that, I then like to imagine some poor soul buying the book thinking they will learn how to write poetry. As long as they didn't buy it directly from me, otherwise they'd want their money back.
I'm not saying it's impossible for a How To text on writing poetry to succeed in helping to create the next ------ ------ (insert a great poet) but what does that even matter so long as whoever starts writing enjoys it? Don't be a snob! As long as I don't have to read the results...
How To Write Visual Poetry? Perhaps I should have asked that - damn! You can. See what 'it' says. 'It' knowing everything. AI can write Visual Poetry, I'm sure. Hold on, isn't half the fancy digital Text Art I see on X written by some kind of programming anyway? You know, the whizzy, pulsating, shimmering stuff you see. I blame Kenneth Goldsmith.
So I printed part of the answer on paper that had already been treated then proceeded to type, first the vertical bank of lines running through it, then the double-typed angular lines and some wavy lines at the bottom. It wasn't enough.
That noise you heard was me thinking (sounds like the rusty cogs of a knackered machine slowly turning).
Pens! Yes, grab a pen and draw - that's what it needs. I picked out the Pentel N850 permanent marker and started. Minutes later I thought 'Fuck, that's too thick!'. But having started, what could I do? Abandon it? I very rarely abandon work. Carry on. Use some red. It was starting to look a right mess.
Help!
There's no-one to help you but yourself!
Spaces filled in on the right-hand side...yes...leaving holes through which some type is visible; I'm sure you noticed.
How's it looking? Unusually, I couldn't tell. Is it total crap? OK? Good?
Finally, black down the left-hand side to frame the typed section.
Put it to one side.
Get on with important stuff, such as listening to Venom...
As well as being addicted to typing Visual Poetry, I'm now addicted to Metal. It's never been fashionable. Never 'cool'. Now I like the fact that's it's neither. It was always there, since the 80s, being ignored by me. Gradually though, over the last year or so, I've been seduced by it (Metallica first, then Pantera and others). A few weeks back I bought A History of Heavy Metal by Andrew O'Neill in a charity shop. That did it. It's a humorous take but for a novice like me, informative too regarding bands I'd never heard of before. After all these years of listening to music, it's great to start enjoying a new (old) genre.
Back to the drawing board because using the typewriter is tricky since the physical 'event'. I'm unable to actually lift the Olympia Beast. I can move a stool to where it sits but...
Making any form of art is a challenge now - oh no - the psycho drama...
Drawing 364 was done using carbon paper, as you can probably tell. I like the texture carbon paper creates. I like to think it's somewhere between Cy Twombly and El Lissitzky - it isn't, but you don't mind me fantasising, do you?
I came across these whilst rooting around, back in time, in my files. Not sure if I've shown them before. Comic strip romance erased with heavy black pen.
I've never known 'a large lady poet'...or any lady poets, for that matter. I was once a member of a writers group in Aylesbury that was run by a woman and a man who had studied English at university but didn't write in the creative sense, instead they encouraged me and others to write. At the time, I also wrote poetry and even performed it on stage a few times. I found it easy. Too easy, probably; composing poems in my girlfriend's flat on the morning of the day I was due to read. She was first attracted to me because I told a group she was sat with in The Green Man that I'd just written a new short story since they asked when I approached the table, drink in hand and I noted the look on her face at the news I was a writer. I'll never forget that look. It came from me being impressive to a woman. That's probably the only time I've said anything so impressive to a woman. She wasn't a poet. In the end, she wasn't a lady either and treated me like dirt - huh! Well, we were both having affairs with others.
An appropriate title since this blog is teetering on the edge of extinction - but not quite so dramatic are the circumstances that it's near 'death' - I've just been busy doing other things, like...
...you know...
...and drawing...
RTomens, 2023
...for now I must draw this post to a close because the chicken is nearly cooked.
Tom Phillips passed away recently so I thought I'd post a few pics of pages from his legendary A Humument project. These are my copies, obviously. There's one that I don't have and a couple more on the way. He always added to each new version so they're all worth getting. You can read all about the project on his site so I won't say much more.
You can find better images on the web...so I don't know why I posted these....except as an acknowledgment, I suppose....that and the fact that I wanted something easy to do whilst my brain is slowly awakened by a coffee before I start making my own art. Here's an altered page I made a couple of days ago...
I had a kind of madeleine moment this afternoon when biting into a McVitie's Milk Chocolate Digestive biscuit - something I haven't eaten for so many years, decades, even. The crumbly biscuit...milky chocolate...the satisfying yet unfulfilling experience which makes you want to eat more and more and more...deluding yourself that you will be totally satisfied the way you are when you eat something heavier, more wholesome...but no...you just start to feel a bit sick...
I lazily refer to Proust, not really knowing what I mean, except to say that the taste instantly took me back - but when I went 'there', I found nothing but a blank, a ghostly presence (me) in a misty past; time compressed to a single point, a nostalgic dot...
Talking of nostalgia (for times never lived in), we went to see Living the other day. It's directed by Oliver Hermanus from a screenplay by Kazuo Ishiguro and between them, a South African and someone born in Japan (although he moved to England when he was five), they've created a quintessentially English film. By which I mean they've captured the restraint and repressed emotions of 50s English life as we imagine it; in the office, at least, but also in society, best expressed here at the funeral. Jamie D. Ramsay's cinematography is sumptuous, using a rich colour palette straight from the era. The script is spot on and the story of small triumphs perfectly told. Mr. Williams' (Bill Nighy) delight in discovering the 'thrill' of an arcade game encapsulates the smallness of a life lived within constant self-imposed constraints. A beautiful film.
Oscar Wilde quipped that the only thing he couldn't resist was temptation but I do resist quite a few books in the shop unless something exceptional comes in and Max Ernst by Edward Quinn (pub 1984) was one such exception. It had been sitting there, an art mono-lith atop several other books, for a few weeks. Perhaps the £40 price tag proved especially resistible to potential buyers. With energy bills set to soar now is not the time to indulge in such luxuries! That said, it's not uncommon for someone to spend around £40 on various books, such as a man who bought some the other day, my vispo book included! Turned out it was for his son, who was standing with him and whose face lit up when I said I was the creator. Now that's the correct way to respond (ha-ha!). Don't give me a shrug of indifference because my ego is that fragile. Then, not satisfied with the signature inside, he wanted it dedicated to him, so I obliged, feeling, for a few seconds, like a Proper Artist/Author.
Back to the Ernst book. It was only when I decided to flick through it that I realised it was something special, more than just another artist monograph. The reproductions are exceptional and large (the book's massive) but more than that Quinn adopted a 'collage' style in the way the texts from various sources are included...and it features texts by Ernst himself. He also personally oversaw the content selection. Yes, finally, it's the Max Ernst book to end cravings for Max Ernst books.
RTomens, 2022
Something I made in the shop a few days ago. Such activity keeps me occupied when it's quiet. Yesterday and man bought a Sickert monograph, asking me if I'd hold it for him whilst he walked around town. He came back and pulled a bottle of whisky out of his bag, saying he was going to enjoy it and the book in his back garden. Then he offered me a sip. I refused. He insisted. I gave in to temptation and poured a glug in my flask full of coffee. That's the kind of customer I like!
Picked up The Wicked Ways of Malcolm McLaren by Craig Bomberg in the Oxfam shop this morning. At £2.95, it was another thing I couldn't resist.
Inside it was a little card flyer for RAW. It clinched the deal when I found it whilst flicking through the book in the shop. Not that I know anything about RAW. Having done a bit of research it looks like the same club that got big during the, er, New Rave. Good job the date was written on by someone, later presumably. I was never raving, I was too busy Rare Groovin' and even Hip-Hoppin' about as well as Jazz Jivin' around in my own basement club, Giant Steps on Frith Street, Soho. As the new Summer of Love got under way a bit earlier a friend who did 'rave' would turn up at our club, out of his bonce of chemicals. Luckily he actually was training to be a chemist (or something) so he knew what he was 'doing'.
