'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Monday, October 31, 2005


Oil on canvas 130x130cm

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


During the time of a singular page of foolishly led sketches and grasping notes the idea of an ultimate anti-war machine fertilized in my mind. I gave birth to an impotent soldier.

Tuesday afternoon

The top

has a note of autobiography and the bottom has a sense of resolve, a sense of some reversal of an expected perspective, an allegory of perception as it were and I see huge explosions that I feel impelled to trace. I wonder what good it would do, what good it does?

Last night, during a mantra of self deprecation I thought I might up the ante a little and cracked myself over the head with a wooden spoon. Afterwards, after a little while burrowing in the corner of the basement at four in the morning I found an old diary written by my mother from 1979. In its pages I found specific, seminal points, sleep overs and fights after school, the merest of entries to mark days that she lost or gained a lover, lists, appointments with dentists and all of this time framed in the architecture of the diary like wires pulled across a frame.

Spent some time at the shop

and found this way to keep still by pressing myself close to the shelves. I find peace in some newsagents. When I go in, when I'm the only one in there, in a shop that has those thin and almost impenetrable isles, when I can ignore that sense of guilt one can't help feeling when out of sight of the shops keeper, there is this serenity. I'm speaking of that stillness that one feels in a London park or inside a church or cathedral perhaps.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

The Blindman

Tuesday, October 18, 2005




These hills