sitting here thinking it’d be fun to begin a diary entry in a style that is sort of traditional or even hum drum … here goes.IMG_2211

an electrician came by last week to wire up two chandeliers in the kitchen..that sounds a lot more opulent than it’s meant to…for us it was in the spirit of fun..our kitchen is a play area. the acoustics are echoey, so i often play my guitar and bawl my head off in there… it’s where a lot of laughing and arguing occurs..there’s a load of tacky crap about the place and we thought a pair of chandeliers would whack it out even further.IMG_1523 - Version 2

so a handsome long haired hippy electrician comes by, and when i ask him how he gets his work, he put his power tool down for a moment and says, y’know most of it comes when i’m out having fun … i liked that..he didn’t get his work from hustling..it came about through play in the real world, and his diary would just fill itself.

about a month ago, a red headed surgeon came by to give our refrigerator a sex change … she’s now a telephone kiosk..it was all done with laminates ..a tough adhesive material that he usually uses to put signage on the side of white vans … one day he arrived home after a day of that, and had a brainwave, so he sat up all night doing a version of a doctor who tardis on his own fridge.. it worked a treat, and now he’s making extra dosh from that, which goes to show..money’s a thing, but ideas are the currency that precede the pounds.


now that our refrigerator is all gussied up in full drag, i figured it only right to be more mindful of it’s interior, therefore i’ve now installed a ceramic bust of clark gable’s head right in the middle of our groceries … i’m at a point in my life where i just want any remaining hours to be beautiful or fun or strange … just something…anything..oh god.IMG_1869 been reading all about tom waits lately … many find his voice awful hard to take, but his personality and musical vision draws me in. i won’t blether on about that, though one cool aside is how he’d sometimes instruct his musicians not to listen to any music in their cars on the way to recording sessions. he likes their heads clean on arrival. isn’t that fantastic … i mean…if you’re not at least attempting to be unique in some way, why bother?

i’ve discovered a terrific brand of toothpaste called ‘marvis’ that comes in liquorice flavour. even the box looks beautiful. they do a cinnamon flavour one…and ginger… or jasmine… IMG_0229

recently i’ve taken to eating thick sugary porridge in the morning. i like the box that the scotts porridge oats comes in…it has artwork of a handsome bare armed scotsman in a kilt on a hilltop, but thomas protested how the newer brands in the bland boring boxes are far better…he was right..that old muck in the nice box is like wallpaper paste….so now i empty the better oats into a used, but pretty scotts porridge oats box..there’s no reason why the pantry shelves shouldn’t look good.scotts-porage-oats-guy

another fun thing i read was a term in a newspaper ‘virtue signaller’… ‘virtue signallers’ are things we pepper our conversations with.. perhaps a current media or political pariah, in order to give the impression of our own moral cleanliness .. i know i’ve fallen for it.

yesterday while standing at the check out, it occurred to me how deeply i loath garden centres… they are the very agent of a certain paint by number lifestyle. however, the previous day i stumbled on a load of junk in a car park, and found this old wall boxing that maybe once housed a fire extinguisher or something…i took it home, got thomas to nail its balls to the garden wall, and it looks a million dollars better than any spendy crap from the prizzy garden centre..it cost nothing, also it felt a lot more satisfying since it was created freely out of a little imagination….such virtue.IMG_2437

i went out to a one off play in soho last week..a lady friend of mine who’s a barmaid there corralled all her friends into a studio space where we watched a story unfold about a young man coming undone in the grittiness of north london .. it was written by a man who does all the plumbing and odd jobs around soho…lovely man…everybody loves him…he sorts out the water for prostitutes…writers… he’s even unblocked norman tebbits pipes … one day he just decided to lock himself into a room for a month, and didn’t come out until he’d completed his play for the stage…he just knuckled down and puked it up…y’know for all the procrastinating that goes on,that’s what writing is in the end…you just go into a corner,get the fingers down the back of your throat, and you puke it up….. a glamorous life.

me and thomas will be into our twenty eighth year next week. last week we were driving round south kensington where he told me to jump out at the conran shop while he parked the car…so i’m drifting around the furniture, when about fifty yards away i could see thomas ambling in through the door … my first impulse was to try and catch his eye, but then i held back and just decided to watch him like a stalker. it was nice … he looks so great to me… he’s fond of wearing a hat these days, and he’s grown a bushy beard..many hinted that it made him look old or scruffy or the usual stuff, but he wants it, so he’s for wearing it, and that i like..he is his own man.

folk are often surprised when they realise we’ve been together for so long … so am i … how on earth did love rain down so kindly on a trainwreck like me !@£$%^&* IMG_2249 IMG_2406 - Version 2

i’ve taken to placing a jar of fresh flowers in thomas’s bathroom .. i like that he sees them early morning when he’s in the shower or brushing his teeth.. i’ve also jazzed it up with colourful swag commissioned by the mondrian trust. what a frigging homeboy?!IMG_2451

dear reader… i’ll leave now with a film recommendation .. called ‘lambert and stamp’. it’s about the chaotic management behind ‘the who’… if you love your rock and roll, you’ll surely love this … it hits the cinemas this wednesday… harry krishna …mary fairy liquid.

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the royal family as your emotional toilet

spitting_image_puppets_po-466387 one of them’s in the throws of dropping one today, and all i can think of is a hair conditioner i once used..made from animal afterbirth placenta. oh days of long long hair..    so long ago.

i’m now thinking how the deal between the royals and the public is extremely perverse.

in old days of henry the eighth,they were something to be very scared of, but in the 21st century they’re set up as something to collectively worship or snarl at, and in exchange for this gimp/master game, they get to live in full luxury.  i am not a royalist, but having lived for big chunks of time outside of the united kingdom, i’m very aware of a cachet they bring to the country, that curiously translates on to the stockmarket…they are the very essence of clever marketing…..the marketing of a country.

while we’re no empire anymore, it became apparent to me in america how those bucktoothed royals still swing some serious weight outside the village .. now i’d be happy to see the royals evaporate, simply cause i like the idea of nearly everything in the 21st century downsizing, but that’s not really what i want to write about here ..

the thing that intrigues me is this weird dynamic between the royals and us… not all folk, but a lot of sparky folk seem emotionally invested in the sly limitations that’ve hijacked their lives….it’s like some sort of stockholm syndrome..or even like the warm piss,when we wet the bed…one could almost lay still in it, just to stay warm. no one easily admits how we do glorify our hardships..they get worn like badges of honour, while the buckteeth royals play out a role that says that even if you did try harder, it wouldn’t be enough…you’re either born into wealth like us or you’re not, so why even bother trying to be remarkable..it’ll only be like flogging a dead horse.. and this construct created out of the dynamic between ourselves and royal blood, galvanises a lazy comfortable pessimism. the price for those leading an extraordinary life is a license for many of us to loath them … we enjoy that. it’s the luxury of disgust…our own stench of virtue backfiring on us.

am i talking bollox? … possibly .. they do say i’m wired to a mars bar.

i often think mick hucknall is a good downscale example of the same thing … i dinnae give a hoot what anyone says, but that boy has the most gorgeous tone to his voice…it really is exquisite…it reminds me of esther phillips..the lady who sang ‘what a difference a day makes’ .. now mick hucknall didn’t make many great records, and i for one own none of them, but that vocal on ‘holding back the years’ is a thing of beauty….so here’s a guy with all the right social credentials…northern….working class..ginger…raised by his single parent father…no relationship with his mother…was very very poor…… speaks FOUR languages fluently… and yet somehow everyone laughs at the very mention of his name…especially working class scenesters … and i’m left wondering, who’s side is anyone on anyway.. it seems to me we’re more loyal to our false constructs than our own possibilities as people….i mean…if there’s one thing the likes of mick hucknall spell out loud, it’s that if you’re hearts into it, and you go the extra mile, good things can happen…most of us don’t have to stay in that hole we’re in………..not unless we want to….but we just can’t handle the truth, can we….and i’m sure the royals can’t either.

george michael is another…though he’s popular now, having gone through a certain rites of passage…humilation in a public urinal…dwugs…dead lover from aids.. so now we warm to him more freely…he’s the kid who you hated until you found him beat up in the cruel playground of life, and now you love him…but it wasn’t always that way, was it …

george, in good greek cypriot fashion, was raised to have an unpretentious honest attitude towards making money…he was unabashed about his aspirations, and your average brit at the new musical express hated him for it…there really is nothing like success to make the knives come out…just like they never said a good word about the now vindicated led zeppelin….but poor old mick hucknall ..he just refuses to have a bad time…he gets laid by tennis players who can jump like gazelles..he doesn’t boast.. he just won’t lie to you…i guess it all looks a little bit too self satisfied for most of us…but to play down obvious good fortune is plain creepy…i like it that he doesn’t want to insult our intelligence. it’s like that line leonard cohen wrote in a song to joni mitchell “don’t wear those rags for me, i know you’re not poor”

i myself was fairly ambitious as a young man, clearly not ambitious enough, but i remember the ridicule i got from pub rock musicians, as i guiltlessly attempted to navigate towards some sort of higher ground…they were so snide…drinking and sniding, and now i realise that it’s all part of the deal…if you want an extraordinary life, the unwritten deal is you also become an emotional toilet for those left at the bar …. which brings me back up to the royals…that’s their role in the early 21st century … emotional toilets…we shit on them when they’re flouncing around, and then we cry and weep on that very same toilet seat when one of them gets killed by paparazzi.

happy bank holiday to all lovely bleeders living in england today… with red leicester cheese sandwiches, grilled on a breville toasting machine … mary fairy liquid

p.s dear reader … if there’s one thing i wish for us all after next weeks election is that we bear in mind all those other currencies above money… the currency of our own personalities..the currency of TIME … to be fun company for the ones we live around … to drive our senses of humour to new levels ….to be a good ride…all that stuff…no one can confiscate those things.

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the walkie talkie


you can’t just walk in .. oh god no … you got to book a darn table, even if only for alcohol. on the ground floor before riding the elevator, there’s a similar search system that happens at airports..the emptying of pockets..walking through detectors..an underwhelming feel up from a security man .. the whole bit.

once you’re up there, you get a sensation that fizzes out pretty fast. the view is tremendous, but for how long can you look down at a river and a bridge before feeling a little removed? it occurred to me the richest views are on the ground at street level.

a thing that intrigued me was how young some of the folk are up there. maybe i’m just old, but there’s no way this scene was so casually accessible when i was of twenty seven years. here’s a pretty girl taking her selfie.   IMG_1693 - Version 2IMG_1669 - Version 2IMG_1655

my curiosity is now well and truly quenched ….i need never go up there again.. the pricey food was bland, and because restaurant and bar sort of overlap, several sources of music clash and merge while you eat…pure noise pollution .. like having yer grub in a sodding airport… the toilets were real nice though…no urinals .. just little private cabins .. i went in one for an executive wee wee, and while checking my thick lustrous hair in the looking glass,i imagined hard men doing krafty lines of coke off the chic darkly lit surfaces.

10415610_802638823088361_4903162479257973608_nwhen me and thomas left to go home, we passed the bridge bar on kingsland road, with both of us resolving to be far far happier in there…it’s a gorgeous little snug right by the living pavement. we love that place..here’s some pictures … for me, skyscrapers are fun from a distance or in a dream, but it’s ironic how a view is more satisfying right down on street level. london’s a curious city to witness right now.. as it morphs it’s way into something new,you can sense a force from folk who do not want to see their baby thrown out with the bathwater. i think it’ll be good…all that bladerunner chrome and glass, creates a desire for grittier places that are small and warm. all my loving dear reader .. mary fairy liquid.10363825_805448456140731_6684867584294007063_n10336720_805448526140724_8439286238089257629_nIMG_1726

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one afternoon in tijuana


in 1990, i was just at the end of a summer long stay at the riot house hotel on sunset strip. my favourite place to hang at the time was a leather bar on santa monica boulevard called the spike.. i’d got to know vincent the owner real well…a fierce new yorker who’d came out to los angeles as a young man with only his street smarts and a roll of dollars in his pocket. he’d been a good friend to freddie mercury … freddie wanted him to sell up his bar and travel the world with him while he sang, but vincent isn’t a man who could be hijacked so easily..still.. it only made freddie and his close knit circle like him even more. when my daily recording sessions ended, i’d make a beeline for this bar to hang with him and all his bar tenders after closing time.. they’d talk and do shots of tequila while counting out jars of tips from an evenings work, which in reality paid rent more than any wage.

in those days it was legal to ride motorbikes round california without a helmet on, and one night, when he’d locked up, vincent decided to take me a run out on his harley at four in the morning on the wide empty hollywood freeway. my hair had grown all the way down my back, and it was a good feeling as we revved along with the warm california night blowing hard in my curly locks… when i returned for recording sessions the next day, enthusiastically recounting the thrill of this scenario, the producer and musicians went quiet…they were a talented and worldly bunch of men who worried for my safety, but because no harm came to me, i’m forever grateful for the experience. wild to think it was actually legal to ride around california with no crash helmet on though.

the barmen in the spike were rollicking company. in the summer they all worked their night shifts with shirts off in tight denim or leather jeans, and cause of that, many were serious gym-rats. a few of them took muscle steroids which isn’t a great idea, cause one of the side effects can a be temper if the dosage is high…there was one big blonde waspy chap called baron who got pulled to the side of the road on his way from work by a cop for bad driving. he got stroppy with the officer,and earned the nik-name ‘zsa zsa’, after zsa zsa gabor, who’d recently been arrested for slapping a policeman across the face in a queeny fit of rage…..there was the quiet older barman in a leather waistcoat called chopper. while barmen got hired and fired, chopper had been a constant in the place for years, but then one day he didn’t turn up for work anymore…it turned out A.I.D.S was on his horizon, so rather than fight the arduous battle that it surely was in those days, he quietly left the bar with a bottle of jack daniels, went back to his apartment and shot himself.Colorful-Colonia-300dpi
there’s more … it’s the end of the summer, and i’ve got a week or so before heading back to northern ireland. i don’t have much money,so two of the barmen from the spike called larry and joe invite me on a drive down to tijuana…right on the border of california / mexico… joe was a young butch looking new york italian, but slightly camp when he talked. he had a big heart..he made authentic lasagne for vincent who ran the leather bar…then there’s larry.. a very horny looking chap who knows it..shaved head.. does anything he can to not appear camp. he’s what they call in gay-speak, ‘straight acting’. larry’s the reason we’re heading to tijuana, cause they sell muscle steroids over the counter in chemists. he’s done this trip many times before.  avenida-revolucion

when we get to tijuana, i’m struck by the charming colourful shambolic nature of the place, but there’s drama right at the border…helicopters overhead and cops on the ground, keeping an eye out for poor mexicans trying to smuggle their way over, for a new life in california…there was a street market, selling these gorgeous massive hand carved chess sets..the pieces sat about ten inches high off the board, and they were only a hundred dollars….to this day i deeply regret not buying one of them handsome chess sets, but i was worried about running out of money far away from home.

while larry went off and got his steroids, me and joe sat outside a ramshackle street bar drinking the most delicious strawberry margaritas. when larry returns he has all these tiny bottle type things in boxes…he’s wearing baggy trousers with deep pockets for a reason, and he asks me and joe if we’d carry some through the border control for him…joe obliges,but gets firm with larry when he says“gregory carries nothing,he’s still got a life”…this dear reader, is the main part of this anecdote….what sweet joe was referring to was how they,he and larry, were both h.i.v positive,and felt that they’d no future, but that i had…this is a powerful heartbreaking moment. i will never forget it. a sweet guy being mindful of my life,while at the same time feeling the game was up for himself…so many of their friends were dying you see.. it knocked me off my feet.. i never did find out what happened to larry, but when i got back to northern ireland i’d send postcards to joe, and within the next eighteen months he’d died…he wasn’t even thirty. y’know he trimmed my long hair of the dry dead ends once on the bedroom balcony of the riot house hotel and uncovered my first pure grey hair….i’m now completely grey..funny the little things you remember so well. i smile when i think of joe driving around hollywood with his disco cassette playing loud with the window down..it was that donna summer record produced by those english chaps, stock aitken and waterman… ‘this time i know it’s for real’

west hollywood and santa monica boulevard has all been cleaned up now … gone are all the hustlers.. there’s only one real leather bar left in the whole of los angeles..out on silverlake…a fun friendly place called the eagle.

vincent the fierce new yorker who owned the spike, moved away from hollywood, and is now happy living in new mexico where he makes jewelry in stones and metals. i met the cherokee indian who mentored him in the craft …his name was danny, a giant of a man with long black flaxen hair…he’d travel up to los angeles and sell his produce to buyers in high end stores around beverly hills…he died of dementia cause he slowly poisoned his blood by filing the metals in running water without wearing safety gloves…  before i left northern ireland, vincent would occasionally visit me there. one of my funniest memories of that is walking him to my grocery store out in the countryside…the only shop for six miles. here’s the thing…he was brought up to call any older lady ‘ma’am’ ….. so we go into this store ran by what you might call church goers….and in their innocence,they laid out the most disparate of products side by side…so on a shelf there were clothes pegs displayed right beside these big nylon ladies underpants…big ole pants ..right there by clothes pegs near the bars of soap …well.. vincent the big hairy swaggering yankee that he is, just lifted these big nylon bloomers up hollering..”oh i’m sorry ma’am,but this is just too funny”.    i was quaking in my boots dragging him out of there as fast as i could. what a character.

i kick myself for not taking more photographs in those days ….. even had one of those easy canon sure-shots, but was lazy in using it…i remember these folk so well though…               it feels good writing it down.

all my loving… mary of the wilderness.

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making music videos with an iPhone

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i’ve just shot a music video on my bloody iPhone, so i figured i might try and write something around all of that….. so here goes, dollies.

in olden days when i was young enough to get signed to record labels, they’d occasionally commission promotional videos for singles or albums…these three minute clips would hover around a cost of forty thousand pounds..in 1985 … it was madness on many levels.

francisbacon3the first mad thing is my only calling card was as a singer/songwriter…stick a camera in front of that,and it’s like rabbits frozen in the headlights…quite funny really…. it amazes me how no one at those record labels ever came up with the bright idea of arming their artists with cheap portable video cameras beforehand, so they could just shoot and shoot and shoot themselves for a season .. that way so many of us might have been better prepared for those sudden afternoons of expensive video production…twenty years later when i got my first little video-cam, it was such a revelation.. only then did i begin to get a sense of my own essence, and how to put it over…….but by that time i was an old banger, so it was all a bit late…..hahaha

another mad issue was how money could spiral out of control….if you had a hit, record labels would be instantly keen to spend even more money on video, but it’s the artist who had to pay all that back if any dosh ever rolled in..so say if you made three videos for three hit singles off one album,there’s a fair chance the video costs would be somewhere around one hundred and twenty thousand pounds…this happened all the time. the cost of videos could easily exceed the cost of recording actual music.

Francis Bacon's triptych Three Studies For A Self-Portraita truly perverse joke was how a load of lolly could be spent making a video that no one could be sure would even get broadcast… i remember even when michael jackson delivered billie jean to MTV, they refused to play it…that classic performance only got initial play because a man called walter yetnikof from the record label raged into the MTV offices and told them if they didn’t play that michael jackson video,he’d pull the bruce springsteen ones off the air. a very ballsy man… prior to that, MTV wouldn’t play black videos…it was all white stuff, but that scenario opened the door for prince’s ‘little red corvette’…so at least the video era brought about some fair play for black artists.

628x471if you were in a band, it was easier making video..you’d somehow be visually supported by each other..you’d have gang charisma … but when i gave up playing in bands to go solo, i had no idea what making videos were about to tell me about myself..like..hello fucker…you have absolutely no style. i’d stand there alone..exposed…..just me and the fake scenery, waving my sodding arms around like a total minge. hahaha.. i laugh about it now, but i didn’t at the time.

that’s when you learn why david bowie’s a star.he knows how to engage with a camera lens … style gives a player wheels and wings to enjoy the ride through those situations … bowie, and many other last names may have had their own rocky road towards self discovery, but if you don’t find your own essential style before twenty four years of age, yer buggered…     i say twenty four,cause that’s the age james dean died… a perfect rock n roll deadline ….hahahahahahahaha…actually i’m suddenly thinking of a newly born 45 year old star called john grant, so he blows my daft theory right out of the water..maybe.

BaconSID48917_770x314pxtalking of style,i can’t round this off without mentioning the stylists. when you’d make those puffed out videos in the eighties,they’d often send a so called future star off down the kings road or south molten street with a stylist,who was usually just some uppish airhead….some london scenester on the hustle … you’d be given daft amounts of money to buy designer clothes that just didn’t become you…but hey…it’s expensive, so it must look ace..but when the chips came down on screen, you looked lost…you have to find yourself first,and then the clothes somehow just take care of themselves…..the ramones are a perfect example.

bacon2i suppose style is born out of whatever you’ve got passion for..it’s reflected in the way you talk..the shape of your day..and sooner or later in the clothes you wear. the trouble with dolls who hanker to
be rock stars, is they often have no other interests…guitars players talk about guitars and amplifiers…drummers talk about drums…singers talk to the mirror….that’s why iggy pop and lou reed stood out….they’d read a load of books..they had other interests to give them some building bricks for a personality…i just read john lydon’s autobiography…at sixteen he was working on building sites to pay for himself to continue in education which had always been rotten to him anyway.malcolm mclaren did not create him.he created himself.

three-studies-of-herietta-moraes-1so here am i at 55 making videos for my dear little songs…how pointlessly hilarious is this? many would say there’s no point at all.  no one cares a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut if i do or i don’t.. but i’m as happy as a pig in shit anyway. i still love all the palaver of carving out a lyric around a melody … such a luxury just as it stands. hit records or no hit records,at least i’m invested in my interests.

i still take this far too seriously,but now it’s all about the joy.if in 1975 anyone said we’d all be shooting little movies on gadgets the size of our palms, i would have laddered my tights.

anyway dolls..here’s my latest video offering.visually it’s a love letter to francis bacon, as it gradually morphs into something of his mindbendy portrait triptychs that are peppered throughout this post………………….all my loving…mary of the wilderness.

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the viv albertine book

one summer around five years ago, i arrived in san francisco on a warm balmy evening.
with suitcase tossed into and around a hotel room, i then ran out into the city night,       like a rat up a drainpipe.
down round folsom way i ventured into a fabby shabby dive of a gay bar,where on entry,    the disc jockey was spinning the one and only slits record i know.
it was their version of ‘i heard it through the grapevine’                                                           this minor classic, aired on a perfect night out, made me love those girls forever,            even though i hardly knew anything else of their music.

dear book reader..if yer a young girl starting out with a guitar, or if yer one of them there old beatniks,who grew up round the 1960’s or 70’s, you’ll be licking the print off the pages. you’ll race through it .. especially if you know swingin london. it starts out round highgate .. then art college.. and before lunchtime, she’s there, right at the very first hours of punk rock..

a close friend of sid vicious .. all of those bleeders.. well before any of them rag dolls had crystalised into groups or pop stars,
but there’s two hearty things that lift this book above many other music autobiographies.
the first is how she gives a compelling account of a comedown when her band breaks up,
but the main appeal of her storytelling is how she doesn’t just tell the truth about others, she lets rip equally on herself…
now there’s a few ways of dishing out truth about oneself ..
you can do it in a cute way .. a disingenuous stroke where you’d merely manipulate the reader into sympathising from your position,
or you can take fearless inventory on your own flaws .. this alone makes her book rise.

if you want to know what it was like for a girl with a guitar, who had her feet firmly on the dirty streets of 1970’s london town, then i highly recommend this easy to read book.
she writes in straight talking language… a london girl of true grit … great fun too.
best music book i’ve read all year.

love you love you love you viv albertine

i’m leaving one of my own songs at the end here in a vague hope that viv might find this. i’m hoping that she might like the lyric….a far cry…but there y’go… 

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allen jones and clockwork orange

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that photograph above is mary in the mens toilets at the royal academy of arts.
the lighting in this wonderfully well considered interior is so dramatic,it felt wrong not to take a picture of her in there for sharing with you.

we were having soup with sandwich over the road in a converted wolseley car showroom,
and while surveying tables, i saw peter blake sitting ten yards away.
yep,the very one..that chappy who did the artwork for sgt peppers lonely hearts club band.
this got my feet wondering if he’d just been to the allen jones exhibition at the academy.

do you know who allen jones is?
well he’s of the same english generation of pop artists as peter blake,and caused a right hoo haa when he unveiled new sculptures to an easily shockable public in 1960’s britain.
the feminists were furious..their beef was how allen’s provocative pieces of art objectify woman. i personally have no problem with objects objectifying…these are forays into art. they’re not living breathing humans.
from what i can tell, anything beautiful runs risk of becoming objectified anyway … moreover, it’s pretty much a form of flattery.
a thing i really like about those sculptures is how they raise a sparky conversation which rapidly gets round to the power of women, the power of men..and just who’s serving who?
the power the female form has over most men is hardwired into their nature, and of course vice versa …
in the fullness of time, we’re now witnessing woman objectify men in return.
it’s still a fascinating area for artists to explore.
allen recently did some female sculptures using kate moss.
i do love kate moss in this white stripes music video where she pole dances.
ye gods, that bright fun lovin working class girl sure knows how to rake in her cash.

you’ll probably know that great scene from clockwork orange in the milk bar with those female sculptures as drink dispensers and tables. they were very much determined by allen jones. what happened was stanley kubrick called allen on the phone and told him he’d seen his work, then asked if he’d create the sculptures for the milk bar. allen was yeah cool…   but then after coming up with strong ideas on paper, the topic of money came around. stanley kubrick said…“oooh but i’m a famous film director..it’ll be so great for your career. do it for free. allen replied “it takes months..i can’t work for free..i’m no prop designer… but take the ideas anyway…yawn…whatever”…and kubrick bloody well did.

here’s the scene from the milk bar in clockwork orange. allen didn’t make those particular sculptures,but they’re his ideas..and ideas are everything.the rest is hammers and chisels.    toodle pip sweet reader..can’t believe January’s nearly nearly nearly tick tock tick tock xxx

Chair 1969 by Allen Jones born 1937IMG_0531 - Version 2IMG_0529 - Version 23b25e1ee-799d-4629-8f07-a3c93b253478-620x372

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