Whilst trying to tidy up the papers on my table this morning I came across a sheet that I had printed on with a view to typing over but somehow I had spilt water on it, creating lines where the liquid had coursed its way through the print, leaving yellow/greenish trails. After initially cursing the spoilt paper I decided to add to the effect by trailing more water over it. I was going to just type on that but hit on the idea of using a children's illustration from Mental and Scholastic Tests by Cyril Burt (yes, it's funny, the kinds of books I've collected). This naturally suggested a kind of joyful abandon, as children's drawings do; free from adult self-consciousness and restraint. I tried to type in the same spirit, allowing for the fact that I'm a long way from my childhood. Whilst doing so, it occurred to me that I nearly always type like that anyway!
Of course, being an adult who, by now, has typed many times in the name of visual poetry, I couldn't help but try to create some 'sense' to the picture, hence the pile of letters the figure stands on and the idea that they are dropping more letters at their feet. Oh well, it goes to show, you can never fully regain the child-mind.
Pale shades of evening...naïve, twitching, tottering citizens animated by the profound and the puerile...jerky shadows...the procession of twisted corpses...strange beings damned alive...all must endure in the grave city.
Tongues are heard far away in the universe...
Time and space devour the damned...cold stars flash mechanically...
From the shores of death....I am the dagger and the wound...
Abstract thoughts...turning the individual...influencing a person's behaviour.
Past forms are charged with madness, the poison flows...a sad tomorrow...perceptions of reality continue to influence a person's attitudes...victims and executioners meet memories of the past...
Feet scurried in the yard. I held my gun steady, barrel pointing up toward the sky. I could see a single star above. Suddenly a gaunt yellow face hid the star from my view. The face started to shout and I fired. The face disintegrated and I jumped straight up, put a foot on the edge of the can and vaulted over.
A chorus of shrill yells came from various parts of the yard. Flashlight beams flitted about. I stepped over the body of the Chinaman who lay alongside the garbage can and darted across the yard. From the window above, Foh Shen-Li shouted in shrill sing-song dialect, “Shoot! Shoot now! He must not escape!”
I swung my gun up and took a pot-shot at the sound of Shen-Li’s voice but missed because wood splintered the framework of the window up there.
Lead winged past me. One slug tore at my sleeve but I reached the fence unwounded.
A dark shape hurtled at me and I straight-armed that shape with the hand that held the gun. The shape yelped and collapsed.
I hoisted myself up on a garbage can alongside the fence and jumped. Shouts rose to a tumultuous crescendo behind me; a gun barked from the window above and just at that moment my foot caught on a projecting nail as I was clearing the fence. My arms went out wildly into the air and I hurtled over into the next yard. I landed heavily on concrete, the breath knocked out of me for the second. Then I got up and felt about for my gun which I had dropped when I fell, picked it up, and sped away through the yard, down an alley...
*
Spider-Man and Havoc 205, 1987
When I came across vibraphonist Freddie McCoy's Spider Man album from 1966 I thought it must have been to cash in on the TV series but that didn't debut until '67 so we can only assume that Freddie was simply a fan of Marvel comics and Spider Man in particular. Either way, arch publicist Stan Lee must have loved the fact that Spidey graced an album sleeve and a Jazz one at that. I wonder what the artist, Steve Ditko, thought. Not that Freddie exactly oozes Jazz chops on this album. It's a lightweight affair, aimed at who, I don't know. The tracks are all brief, having little space for anyone to do much more that briefly solo before returning to the tune. Bachelor pad music, perhaps.
I did warn you; Bobby Hutcherson, it isn't, although I could imagine it going down well in the kinds of Jazz clubs I went to in 80s Soho. This is Bobby Hutcherson...
The 'song in my blood' every morning says "Work, Robin! Work and be productive!" So I do, most mornings. Whether it's become just a habit or is an actual drive is debatable. Is it a drug? I need my fix! Like any addiction, I can get moody without having had the fix.
Now that I'm retired I have the luxury of being able to make art every day. Once upon a time I dreamt of not having to go to work. For a few years on the dole I didn't go to work. I did some DJ-ing, but can't remember how else I used all that time. Listening to music, making some art, I suppose.
Here's something I did this morning. Having done a couple from the same book and laid them on the actual book, opened, they looked good, as if the whole hardback book was filled with them. So that prompted me to consider actually making an 'altered' book by typing on enough pages to repaste them back in as a whole work. I might do that.
Perhaps imperfection is good even with respect to presenting artwork? Surely not. But yes, I have to convince myself it is so because my printer is kaput, which means no scanner either, which means you will have to make do with photos of my work for a while. So I look at a scanner, darkly, having shaken it about, sworn a lot and almost reached for the hammer.
Presenting my work as an imperfect photo takes some getting used to but there is something about it that's good in another way. It's more 'real', yes? You can see that it's not a digital creation. You can see how it almost becomes shaded in the lower third. The left side edge also has a clearly visible shadow where it rises from the paper it's laid on.
These days perhaps photographing work to put it online is the only way to prove it's physical existence, as opposed to it's digital one. Not that this should matter, really, yet the 'real' as it was before computers still has an allure, for me at least. Why? It's a very real memory, an attachment to times when everything was on paper. The other day as I walked through the very much developed King's Cross area I noted the very few old buildings left in tact near St Pancras Station. They sparked memories of going to the area to get my fanzine Xeroxed. It was a community facility, therefore very cheap. Sometimes Mark Pawson would be there. Or Stewart Home.
That was the early 90s. Feels like a lifetime ago. For you, perhaps it's more than an actual lifetime ago. Memories now don't so much stack up as form a misty whirlwind of images which come in and go out of focus. Attaching dates to them becomes almost impossible. I've often considered what it would be like to be a witness in a murder case and have to recall what I was doing on a certain day. We've all seen films where witnesses are regarded with suspicion when they can't exactly remember their actions. Trust me, as you age, you can sympathise. I would struggle to remember what I was doing last Tuesday, never mind months ago.
I deliberately made a smaller piece in the form of The Problems Investigated because I thought it would be easier to photograph. Tomorrow I may try A4 size. The issue is trying to avoid too much blurring from camera shake, of course.
Must go now because I'm still working on the poster for the upcoming William Burroughs 3-day event. I thought it was done but one of the organisers decided to make actual posters rather than just a image for online use, so problems ensued regarding the quality of the image for enlarging. Yes, sometimes work on paper can be a pain in the arse!
This piece is untitled because I couldn't actually engage my brain in order to create one - too hot - and the heat-induced lethargy strikes again, from the brain to the bottom of my body, to the end, the toes I think they're called. A long hot summer here in the UK. I played with carbon paper to get the blue letters in 'untitled'. It's a messy exercise since the thin paper easily crumples and catches when moving the carriage.
I don't know if I really like the result but...then again, being ambiguous about a creation is OK. Certainty is such a bore, darling! Sometimes I definitely do not like what I've done. In ambiguity there is...a mystery, in a way. The ambiguous zone is not clearly defined. It's the suburbs of creation, having no definite border. It's uncertainty which sparks not only doubts but questions regarding the very meaning of 'good' and 'bad', 'successful' and 'unsuccessful'. My 'good' may be one viewer's bad. My doubts may not exist in a viewer's mind. They clearly recognise it as either 'good' or'bad'.
There's always 'mediocre', of course. Perhaps mediocre is the worst of outcomes. It's related to bland and average and no-one wants to be associated with them. They're the dull kid at school who was neither hip nor totally square. They just were, with their harmless haircut and sensible shoes. One boy I remember at secondary school was supremely average. He never got told off. Never swore. Never dressed terribly, or very well. He was neat. He was bland.
No artist sets out to create the bland but they may aim for ambiguity. I confess I'm partial to ambiguity myself. That's very different from doing my best but feeling ambiguous about the result. I know full well that many texts I use in my vispo are ambiguous. Good. I like letting you, the viewer, interpret their meaning. I also like meaningless text which is still funny or potentially profound. One that could go either way is good as far as I'm concerned.
A piece such as the one above may be considered 'pure' vispo. No words. In that mode, to include an actual word would be a sell-out! Not that I'm normally 'puritanical' in my vispo, as you'll have noticed. I still have a great love for words, albeit in minimalist form, as opposed to actual poems (god forbid!) or fiction. Much vispo, especially in history, uses only words, but that is not my favourite style. I like the combination of legible text and abstract letter shapes, clusters, lines. Regarding that, I am definitely unambiguous.
That's a profound title. I must have got it from a book because I'm incapable of profound thoughts. I almost had some the other day whilst lying in bed. I was contemplating the impenetrability of another person's life with regards to accessing how they live, think, act and it struck me as a vast territory, them on the horizon and between us mountains, perhaps deserts, even oceans, all impossible to cross. That's as far as I got.
"Don't be antisocial" someone once said to me. A girlfriend...when we were supposedly being sociable but I didn't find the company agreeable. Instead of being rude, I clammed up. Confronted with either blatant ignorance or plain stupidity I tend to clam up. Or I used to, back when I knew more than two people, socially.
I'm not inclined towards being rude...actively. But. Yes, being quiet can be rude. I'm a temperamental artist - ha-ha! That's my excuse. No. It's not. I don't have one other than the genes I was born with...if they determine character, which I think they...might?
It's not that I've ever felt a sense of superiority, you understand...except when in the company of common people who are not artists! Ha-ha! I must stop making those kinds of jokes...you'll take me seriously, perhaps. If anything I play my talents down. Arrogance is not a virtue, after all. Who is more annoying than the braggart blowing his (it's usually a 'him') own trumpet for all to hear. I wouldn't mind if that metaphorical trumpet signalled a talent on a par with Louis Armstrong, but it rarely does.
Yet bragging, I'm sure, gets people places. After all, who's going to buy a timid, insecure soul? What do they project? Weakness? A lack of self-belief? To sell oneself one must be in promotional mode! Yes, it's true. I have rarely been in a position of having to sell myself, unless you count job interviews and in those, I suppose I did try to be the 'right person for the job'. Unfortunately, most of those jobs were ones I didn't want in the first place.
How does an artist sell him/herself in a world where they feel they don't belong? By 'artist' I mean creatively inclined, which immediately places someone outside normality. Because society may only embrace the successful artist, ironically. The struggling one is of no use. He/she is unappealing! Look at them,trying to make a go of...what? Being an artist? The fool! Their chances of success are virtually zero! A mug's game! So my dear ol' dad would tell me regularly, without ever saying 'mug' because that wasn't in his vocabulary. Instead he offered what he considered to be sound advice, which was to get a trade. It probably was sound advice to a working class boy. Like all sound parental advice, I ignored it.
Who could resist a poetry party? I could, actually, except I was invited to take part by Jim Pennington - great interview with him on the Thomas Pynchon site here . He manned the mimeograph machine, running through stencils made by anyone who wanted to take part. Below is one example. I reversed the photo to make the thought bubble readable, although I'm sure, you being so smart, had I left it you'd be able to work out the reversed word. As usual with Jim's demos, people were thrilled to watch the magic happen as their work was rolled out. God knows why but a woman wanted to sketch me and that was mimeographed too. Christ! Do I really look like that? I fear the likeness was incredible.
The Beast was there for anyone to use and it proved popular with kids. Of course, they would love a weird machine that they'd never seen before; one which, by prodding a letter, it appeared on the paper as if by magic! I was there in a supervisory capacity rather than encouraging them to do anything creative. I could have done that, of course, but preferred to let them do their own thing.
Doing their own thing meant, for one girl, writing this...
...and so visual pooetry was born! I would use the term but it might tempt some people to suggest that, yes, my work is shit...
I was wondering if Taylor Swift liked visual poetry so I asked AI and here's what it said...
My private joke now exposed to the world! Have I no shame? I found the answer amusing; the way AI twisted the genre to fit Taylor Swift. Of course, yes, another medium can provide examples of 'visual poetry'. Tarkovsky in film, Van Morrison's Astral Weeks etc. To my surprise, the reference above to Swift's Tortured Poets Department lead me to the video for the single and her lyric captured below.
Who indeed. She's known some bohemians has Taylor. Well, the character in the song has. Perhaps her reference to and use of a typewriter in the video boosted the typewriter's popularity? Have sales rocketed worldwide now? Do Swifties plague their parents for a typewriter? Would they actually use it more than once? They do make nice home decorations, don't they? That is true. I don't blame anyone for succumbing to the lure of a lovely-looking machine just to put on top of their sideboard. Mine's a bit big, though, for a decorative object. And, let's be honest, too ugly.
*
I designed this poster for London Interzone. I'm not sure how many tickets are left for each day.
'Daily participation in the arts is as important to health as getting five-a-day or 10,000 steps, one of Britain’s most influential scientists has said.
Prof Daisy Fancourt, of University College London, recently became the first ever associate scientist for the Royal Albert Hall, and is determined to prove that the arts are vital for well-being.
She recently published a paper showing that reading, listening to music or visiting a gallery or museum may slow the pace of ageing, but the effects of art engagement are vast, ranging from boosting mental health to lowering blood pressure.
“The message is that we need do something artistic or creative every day, even it’s only for a few minutes,” she told The Telegraph.
“When we regularly engage in the arts it’s actually a low-intensity psychological therapy, it increases neurotransmitters like dopamine that are involved in happiness, and reduces stress hormones like cortisol. Whilst we treat them like a luxury, my research over the last 15 years has just been consistently showing me that they are much more than that – it’s a human necessity. We’ve seen the effects of big campaigns like your five-a-day of fruit and veg and get your 30 minutes of activity and your 10,000 steps, but we’ve not had those same conversations about art. There’s not been the same idea that actually 15 or 20 minutes a day of doing something creative and artistic has benefits.” '
- The Telegraph, 04/7/2026
Nice idea, Daisy; trouble is...most folk can eat fruit or veg easily but doing something 'artistic' or 'creative'? That could be asking too much of people. Even eating the supposed 5-a-day fruit'n'veg can be a challenge. Do bike couriers deliver fruit 'n' veg? Can I get it on an app? Does a pizza topped with pineapple on a tomato sauce base count for anything?
According to Prof Fancourt I should be psychologically very sound - but - um - I wonder...and dopamine? They say social media addiction is related to dopamine hits, don't they? Trouble is, it's also responsible for rage and stress. Also disappointment for the artist when his/her latest masterpiece posted for the world to admire only gets two likes, one from the partner/husband/wife and the other from that serial liker who does it only to get attention themselves - huh!
In theory the art every day idea is good, but in practice, is that full-time worker going to manage it? No time before going to work and too knackered in the evening. OK, I managed it when I worked full-time as a hospital porter, most nights, but that was due to my fantasy/belief that I was a character in Pull My Daisy. In other words, I was still a beat rebel poet/painter/writer even with an ordinary job. My mate Chris would come round and we'd be crazy beatniks for the evening. Here we are in the hospital accommodation, my little room. No cooker. A sink in the corner and a bed. You could barely swing a cat but, hey, us cats sure did swing! Ha-ha!
Joking aside, I would also recommend little creative acts every day. Use a pen/pencil and pad. Set up pages on the computer to write on. Write a poem! Draw a stupid animal. I mean, it doesn't matter if it looks stupid! Draw abstract shapes! Just be wary of posting them online because the reaction might put you off or, to be positive, be inspiring.
Here I am, talking like a friggin' life coach when I have more important things to consider like how to watch the England vs Mexico game which starts at 1am tomorrow morning. Kerouac never had such problems...
We're having a heatwave in the UK - cue the collapse of schools, rail networks...and the current political leadership - ha-ha! Combine that with England playing in the World Cup tonight and it's a safe bet that there will be much booze consumed and probably a few very sick people later.
I had no intention of creating anything to do with heat when I made Meltdown this morning but as I played around with the components they took on the impression of flames. Only the impression, mind. In abstract works people naturally want to find recognisable elements. Visual poetry can be purely abstract. Much of mine tends towards it. The use of legible words contrasted with the totally illegible is a tension I like to create. In some cases, even making the letters illegible to the point where they become solely marks. In that form, is it really 'poetry' of any kind? Like art, if the maker wishes to say it is, I suppose.
Visual poetry has always sat on the margins of art and literature. Less so in its earlier forms when wordplay was prominent, but that form evolved into a myriad of experiments with what a typewriter could produce, from dense clusters of letters to mark-making. I have my preferences when it comes to being a viewer. You can guess what they are.
Meltdown comes from this piece:
Once the main shape was finished I felt it needed something else, but had no ideas. LJ suggested the red lines. I wasn't sure. She offered to draw them so I let her. I should have warned her that the pens meet some resistance from a page that's already been printed on but instead I watched as she did her best. I could have strengthened to lines afterwards but decided that their frailty, in places, was a pleasing sign of the imperfect human hand sometimes. In the age of AI, imperfection is a precious thing. TTFN!
As I said to LJ the other day whilst sitting in the garden, what people get with my art is not just the art itself but the whole history of my creative experience and, even, my life. That sounds pretentious as I write it, but I stand by it. What do I mean?
I mean...ingrained in every mark are the molecules of my life? Is that what I mean? Perhaps.
True or not (I've never researched it), a friend once told us that Picasso said something extraordinary when asked to make some art, instantly, by a TV presenter. He made one crude squiggle. When the presenter expressed mild disappointment, saying it only took him a few seconds, Picasso replied "No, it took me twenty-five years."
That is what I'm saying. Anything I do now is the result of, in my case, over 50 years of making art. "So what?", you may ask. So what indeed, except that it is worth remembering that art does not really spring newborn but comes from many days/years spent thinking, imagining and creating. I don't mean to sound pompous and my claim does not mean I demand to be treated as special. I'm the last person to elevate the artist. I've no romantic notion of the artist as demi-god in a society of mere uncreative mortals.
Punk tried to destroy the gods. It failed. Its exponents became gods themselves. But...for a while...it felt as if it was destroying all the old gods. Likewise Dada in the early-20th century. It, too, came to be worshipped and preserved as something sacred in museums around the world.
If I cite Punk and Dada as key influences I refer as much to their attitude as their creations... perhaps...since in saying that I fall into the trap of attaching a general attitude to the exponents of both whilst knowing that many individuals with varying attitudes made up both movements. Yet when looking at history we tend to simplify everything with common labels and definitions...because the reality is too complex.
The artist in the art is different from an artist supposedly pouring his/her heart and soul into their art. I've no doubt it's been done by many if, for a minute, we accept the possibility. It's a romantic notion from another age (18th/19th century?), one of the tortured, starving artist. Can there be such an artist today? There are enough tortured people, some of whom might be artists, I suppose. Jean Dubuffet famously coined the term 'art brut' for the work of patients in psychiatric hospitals. I wonder if such hospitals encourage creativity today? It might be a good idea.
You may not see 'me' in my art or, perhaps, I am there in ways less obvious than self-portraiture or expressionism. I may be there in quotes I choose. My thinking is there...my thoughts...my taste...and so on. All that aside, everything I've ever done shapes the art.
Can you be too bookish? I dunno. I found the quote 'too bookish, too literary' in a book (ha-ha!) about Ezra Pound. I haven't read the book; not more than a few lines. It's one of those books...you know, so cheap you can't resist and you really think you'll get something out of it - I'm not even that interested in Ezra Pound other than his current (?) outsider status, cancellation by the Common Sense police? Well, he did propagandise for the Italian fascist party, didn't he? Yes, he did. he was also a key figure in...the...modernist movement? Was he?
I wasn't a bookish child but I loved books. Tom Swift...Stig of the Dump...The Borrowers...I borrowed them all from the library in my village. Actually, I was given the Tom Swift book as a prize for English at school and, you know what? I don't even think I have it anymore, which I really regret because it was one of the few actual documents testifying that I could achieve something at school.
School's out! Alice Cooper playing on the 8-track cassette player in my friend's older brother's Volkswagen. He drove us around in that. One day we came across a gang from another village and drove past, close to the kerb, with the passenger side door open. I can't remember if we hit anyone. Ah the good ol' days of mindless violence!
1972. Discos. Birds. Clothes. Music. Punch-ups (not me). What more could anyone want from their early teenage years? I wasn't very bookish then. One of my abiding memories of books at secondary school is of the Great Book Battle that took place in the annex on the fourth floor before the History teacher came in. I don't know how it started, but when it was at it's peak the fluttering pages as their covers became wings was a site to behold. Some went out of the window. There were a few casualties from heavy hits by hardbacks. What fun!
'I wanna see everybody get your boots on - everybody, everywhere!'
Slade used to be skinheads, for five minutes when their manager suggested the jump on the bandwagon in the late-60s. But even after they'd gone full Glam they were still the band for ex-skinhead yobbos like us with our hair grown out (feather cut or just touching your collar) and baggies replacing Levis. Slade and Gary Glitter made the best foot-stomping gang anthems. It was us vs the greasers at the disco and we had the best tunes. They had Silver Machine by Hawkwind and Spirit In The Sky by Norman Greenbaum (the latter I now recognise as a classic, of course, but back then it was their music).
Fast forward 54 (!!!) years and I'm referencing Slade in an email to someone about the artwork I'm creating for a forthcoming William Burroughs event later this year (I'll keep you posted). 'We're all crazy now!' I quote Noddy Holder. Thankfully he's old enough to get the joke. In reference to what? Another joke I'd made earlier about not wanting to be driven crazy by constant reworkings of the art.
I joked but...really...are we ALL crazy now? It's tempting to think so, largely because, courtesy of the internet, we're allowed access to the inner workings of maniacs all around the world. Not just maniacs, but nut jobs, political nut jobs...and those with 'mental health' issues (shucks, who ain't?). When online make sure you're wearing your (mental) crash helmet. It's best to actively work at avoiding falling into anyone's mentally disturbed 'rabbit hole'. Namely: don't follow them! Online lunacy is hard to avoid, I know. That person you befriended on Facebook out of the kindness of your heart is now filling your head with crap! Unfriend.
A friend admitted recently that by backing away from politics I was probably doing the right thing. He's still trying to shake off the addiction that gripped a lot of us around 2020 in the lockdown days when we had nothing better to do (it seemed) but read/listen to Politics online. Thank god I got that out of my system, eventually. Nowadays I only read the headlines. That's enough to tell me what's going on. I'm not even tempted to watch footage of recent horrors in the UK. They used to call it 'car crash TV'. Today we all have endless channels of disturbing footage at the tap of a finger. What good does it do us? I'm not saying ignorance is bliss but it can be better for your mental health.
Here's a print from a typed original which has been typed over again. Sorry if that sounds confusing but I'm half-awake. I typed the face then printed on a copy of that piece and typed on it again. Is that any clearer? Do I know what I'm talking about...?...ha-ha-ha!
It's June and I have my winter jumper on because here in London the maximum temperature today is predicted to be 16c dropping to 14 this afternoon...FFS! Two weeks ago we were in the middle of a heatwave! Do such swings in the weather affect one's state of mind? What do you think? Everyone perks up when we get the first warm, sunny Spring days. Then extreme (for the UK) heat can confine you to the flat (it does me anyway...I mean...have you tried being on the 390 bus in the Summer? Of course you haven't, but suffice to say it's illegal to transport animals in those temperatures. So now we get cosy in the evening...under blankets...in June!
Sadly, Sonny Rollins passed away recently (well, we all gotta go sometime - except Marshall Allen, who's 102!). Sonny was one of the big hitters in Jazz, in case you didn't know. He played tenor saxophone. Getting into Jazz in the early 80s as I did his muscular tone would boom and bounce around my bedsit, filling the tiny space with fluid sonic contortions, the likes of which were still fairly new to me. This was one of the first albums of his that I bought.
I probably got it from Ray's Jazz Shop on Shaftsbury Avenue. Here I am looking in the window circa '81.
Well, you know, we thought Jazz was the coolest thing in the world...which it was...therefore full engagement with it made us the members of the Coolest Gang in the World! (heh-heh).
Twenty years later I got around to writing a book about Jazz. Or to be more precise, my experience of Jazz. It's called Points of Departure and there's a review here. Despite learning a lot from the expert writers and even some academics I could never profess to be either so my writings had to come from a purely personal perspective, in the tradition of fanzines. Jazz is, after all, like all artforms, about our subjective interpretation...as we see and hear it.
It's been said by others and even myself, that my visual poetry often feels like an extension of all that Jazz..it's influence and inspiration if not exactly the improvisational technique. If I had the typewriter equivalent of Sonny Rollins' chops...I'd be a master of the art!
Yes, I know some things. At times I think I know less now than I did twenty years ago. Funny that, ain't it? Perhaps knowledge is overrated and ignorance really is bliss. I've met a few Clever People. They never impressed me. Knowledge can be intimidating, can't it? Anyway, like the supposedly fastest gun in the West, there's always someone who's actually faster or, in relation to knowledge, more knowledgeable.
Men love to brandish knowledge as a weapon to 'defeat' other men. It's all we have instead of clubs. Some men still use clubs. Or their fists. We're always trying to outdo each other. Even the meekest of us take pleasure in Knowing More about something. To do this, you have to find someone who wants to discuss a subject but doesn't know much. You can then assume the role of 'teacher' and feel good about it.
There isn't much I can claim to know a lot about except, perhaps, Jazz. My position in this area though is not in the premier league...more third division. That said, knowing quite a bit about Jazz puts me in a specialist league anyway, so in relation to the average person I'm very knowledgeable. It would be more impressive to most people to demonstrate great knowledge of...biology? At least everyone can relate to the body. Most of us have one, except inhabitants of the spirit world.
Art knowledge is useless, unless engaged in conversation with an art student, in which case I might say that having looked at and read hundreds of Art books I could teach them a thing or two. There I go, falling into a trap. They would shrug and make noises like a young person, totally dismissing my knowledge as old-fashioned nonsense because you don't need to know Art history to make art. You don't need to know Art to make art! Just make stuff! Or don't. Just think up stuff and present yourself, saying "All my Art is in my head." You'd get a top grade, I think.
Regulars will know I've been looking at a lot of comic books recently. Reading the stories isn't necessary. The great art in some of them is enough to more than satisfy...it actually thrills! It thrills me, anyway. The snobbery about comic art still prevails, I think. Not that it should be taken seriously either, necessarily. Considering the deadline pressure comic book artists were under in their heyday, what some of them drew is incredible. Here's a double page by one of the best, Jim Steranko, for Captain America (1969).
I don't know much about comics...but I know what I like!
Hey, kids, there's going to be nothing left unsaid here! Nothing! Nothing, that is, except what I don't want to say...or can't think of saying...and..OK, OK...that may not leave much.
First a word (or two) about the piece above. You'll be THRILLED to hear that I'm back on The Beast (or Olympia typewriter, as it's commonly known). Which is different from a beast with two backs, as you know. I don't know why I thought that (yes, I do; I combined 'beast' with being 'back'). It's my back that's been the problem, caused, I think, by too much typing. So I gave it a rest and...guess what? It didn't seem to help. It may have improved things but the proof of that particular pudding will come after a few weeks spent typing again. I'll let you know...because I know you're concerned about my wellbeing.
You like music? Of course you do! But what kinds of music you like I can't second guess so I can only say I'm enjoying this series IMMENSELY. You might not even think it's 'music' but what the hell it's good to expand your horizon, sonically. The Murmure Intemporel page contains lots of great music, including a bunch of recordings by Conrad Schnitzler. Try it. Put it on whilst you're...doing the dishes? Reading?
Blame Savoy Books and Lord Horror comics, blame The Cramps and their Goo Goo Muck, blame Destroy All Monsters and their B-Movie monster music...blame my misspent youth drawing comic book style because I couldn't be bothered to study anatomy (at the age of eleven? Are you kidding?) but don't blame Whizzer and Chips. Of course I read comics as a kid. Wasn't the Beano Summer annual the most thrilling publication of the year (1970)? Wasn't 2000 AD a real kick?
I wasn't living in 50s America otherwise I might have indulged in the four colour grime and gore that caused panic amongst parents and finally created the comics code which crushed the genre. So fast forward 50 years and I'm enjoying my own personal comic craze. As you can see by the photos, I've bought a few books. I haven't mentioned Jack Kirby yet, specifically, because I might write just about him in another post.
Who mentioned Pop Art? Oh, Lichtenstein...him. He 'did no more or less for comics than Andy Warhol did for soup', Art Spiegelman said. Loathed or loved by comic fans? The former, probably. I don't know many comic fans, except the friend I've previously mentioned; the one doing his best to reduce my bank account to zeros with what he laughingly calls his 'advice', which I suspect is actually his vicarious thrill of reliving his own voyage of comic discovery years ago, via me.
I didn't buy a motorbike in my 'mid-life crisis' - ha-ha! I haven't had one. Or did I? What well-off boomers spend their money on is their business. I'm not well-off. Yes, it's all relative, wealth. Can I afford to buy books? How much can I afford to spend of my pension? What is money? Is a £60 Captain American omnibus really a 'good deal'? My friend says it is compared to buying the individual issues. Well yes, obviously, but it's still £60.
Roy Thomas' The Marvel Age of Comics - 1961-1978 is the latest arrival. That's the big (size) one. I bought the smaller version a few weeks ago and love it so much that I had to go big...the artwork included is so...gorgeous? Sexy? (ha-ha). Exciting? Phenomenal? Because Taschen use the actual original comics as their source. They don't mess around. No digital recolouring for them! That's one of the controversial issues with comic collections. I'll discuss that in another post. Suffice to say, for now, that it's having the artwork in it's original printed form that makes this book such a thrill...the paper tones, the inking...the colours!
Naturally(?) my comic craze has inspired me to create some art influenced by comics. Here's two of them. I'm pleased with the results and will probably make more. I have others ideas for exploring comics as a basis for art but for now, visual poetry is the main element. In a way, great comic strips were a form of visual poetry to begin with...the idea of storytelling in pictures...where the text is almost secondary to the visual ideas.
