'Apologies for faking my death so badly'

That's a great line. I will have to use it. Thanks to Le Coprophile for giving me this gem in response to my letter. Good to find you again. It's time for you to pay the insurance premium.

A passing thought

Blindness: a person looking no further than their immediate self - and their objects, possessions and desires, oblivious to all around.

EAT Cafe, South Bank, 28th July '007 (the soup was good)

Links for today

Skittles adverts (you can cycle through them - look at the bottom at the beginning of each clip) and the gorgeous Webbliworld - a networking site for little kids. Both courtesy of the Creative Review magazine blog. Also, Design by Accident from Johnson Banks.

Carmen Jones, Royal Festival Hall

Crap acoustics, but what a production! As Carmen, Tsakane Valentine Maswanganyi sure knows how to move - and sing.

If you like a more dance-orientated version of Bizet's Carmen, check out the 'Car Man' at Sadler's Wells.

Antony Gormley's 'Blind Light' on & around the South Bank

Earlier today I had the genuine pleasure to check out Antony Gormley's 'Blind Light' at the Hayward Gallery. This post isn't intended to be a review or a piece of inspired prose. What follows are simply my impressions, my jottings.

Title: perhaps an alternative title would be 'Voids'

Space Station (2007): this strikes me as the sum of the urbanised masses. It resonates with me, perhaps because I am currently reading Zamyatin's 'We' - all sharp edges and straight lines - no circles, no possibility of infinity, making you wonder is there is anything within - a dystopia. It looks like its aimed in all directions, as if hostile to all around, yet somehow, looks as if tipped on one side, half-mockingly.

Habitat (2005): the fact that it is sneakily hidden down a stairwell, behind a wall (the guides point it out), makes it out to be Hades, an underworld.

Still Feeling (1993): perhaps the one that made the greatest impression on me. The position of the down-and-out, ashamed, unseen, neglected, hiding (sadly, many attendees did indeed walk past without giving it/'him' a second look), yet at peace. To disturb him would somehow make him feel he is inconveniencing you.

Blind Light (2007): as if you are walking into a cloud, lost to those on the outside. Not sure if it is a dream or nightmare - solitude with other voices. It reminds me of detention centre 125 in Iran, which uses extreme sensory deprivation - inmates are kept in white, eat white rice on white paper plates, are forbidden to speak, and can only communicate with guards through slips of white paper. Here's the poem I wrote about it a few years back:

'White Room'

5th March 2004

White walls
white floors.
No windows -
no need for
a light external.
White clothes
and paper plates.
Plain paper messages,
bright white perfection awaits.
Deafening silence...
Grates.

White room,
white times,
is this a heavenly creation?
No,
it's extreme
sensory deprivation.

I saw a toddler in a pushchair enter the 'whiteness'; she came out after a couple of minutes completely unfazed (unlike older children and adults). Why was this? Was this state familiar to her, something that we have all experienced but long since forgotten?

Critical Mass II (1995): it appeared that the highest iron figure suspended looked dead. When turning to look at those iron figures suspended somewhat lower, I noticed that the lower down you went, the more life was in the figure - perhaps this was a factor of the angle of the neck, symbolising various states (death, meditation, exercise, struggle)?

Chair (1987-1988): a lead chair with two alabaster forms resting on it, reminded me (being close to 'Critical Mass II') of the dispossessed as witness.

Event Horizon (2007): this consisted of 27 fibreglass and 4 cast iron figures placed on rooftops and walkways both north and south of the Thames, spreading outwards from The Hayward in all directions over a 1.5 sq. km area. All the figures looked the same and therefore anonymous, expressionless in the distance, but still appearing to watch over you. This reminded me of the 'guardians' in Zamyatin's novel 'We'. If the younger Woz was in attendance, he would have stolen one of the figures. I couldn't count all the figures, but made a pretty goood fist, catching those in the far distance, perched on rooftops. But in the end, in your bid to count all 24 + 7, do you invent some, your eyes tricked by your desires?

Positioning, lighting and other environmental subtleties made it hard to distinguish between a figure in the distance and a large antenna.

So is one's view shaped (by the angle) of one's perspective?

Athanasius Kircher - the last renaissance man?

I was reading about this chap (1602-1680) in an article from a back issue of The Believer mag. There is even a 'society' devoted to him, or rather, unusual ephemera that sometimes relates back to him.

Worth a visit.

I'm off for a wank, see ya.

Death of a Great Actor

Ulrich Müehe 1953-2007

Ulrich Muehe, star of 'The Lives of Others' has passed away, a result of stomach cancer.

Last Tango in London

So I finally managed to watch Brando in 'Last Tango in Paris'. It was pretty good, although the ending was over the top. I can see why Maria Schneider was unhappy about the butter scene. I wouldn't want Brando's butter up my jacksy either. It ultimately led to a temporary decline in her career, facilitated in part by a heroin addiction. Her career was marked by one other notable film - 'The Passenger' by Antonioni.

Also caught the Zaha Hadid exhibition at the Design Museum - can't wait to check out the opera house in Guangzhou as well as MAXXI in Rome. It was interesting to take look at her sketchbooks, as they were as scruffy as mine.

Jonathan Barnbrook's exhibition of graphic design confections was a blast, with great takes on propaganda. Check out Adbusters if you have a chance.

Weekend fidget

OK, so it pissed down, but I got to catch the latest Alain 'Hiroshima Mon Amour' Resnais film, 'Private Fears in Public Places', based on the play by Alan Ayckbourn (Resnais is a big fans of his, travelling to Scarborough to see the plays). Excellent production - I especially liked the shots of snow to frame the opening and closing of each major scene - that reminds me a bit of Nuri Bilge Ceylan's use of snow in his classic films 'Uzak' and 'Iklimler'.

Before that I caught 'The Seventh Seal' by Bergman for the first time. Quite different to what I had long imagined it to be like.

OK, now the food. I tried Mr. Jerk in Wardour Street, Soho. I can recommend the curried mutton with rice and peas - big, hearty portions, and the mutton was just right. I also tried the meatballs at Gaby's on Charing X Road - lovely taste.

Stationery. Yep, paper (Clairefontaine, Rhodia, Moleskine) and pens (Lamy and others) at Bureau (my new suppliers) on Great Newport Street, just yards aay from the Photographer's Gallery - home of the Keith Arnatt exhibition (even the photos of dog turds were interesting).

Writing: a poem about viral meningitis. A total rewrite, this time from the virus' point of view.

Reading: 'River Town'

Imagining: Herve Villechaize as Him and Gary Coleman as Satan (it's for a new poem, honest)

Listening to: early Funkadelic (again)

No sign of 'Squinty' in WH Smiths

But his place at the end of the magazine shelf was taken by 'BeardedBoxyButt', who was also perusing the chatline adverts.

Now some Chernomyrdinisms.

Shame

No sign of SquintySpurtWorx in WH Smith's today. I found this guy in there last week in the magazine section, looking at the 'personal ads' and 'chatline ads', squinting away - and using a magnifying glass, then noting down telephone numbers and names. While Doris perused car porn, I stood idly by, watching this gift. Yes, he is destined for a poem.

Something for Kris & D

Cooking for Engineers.

How not to start a conversation with a friend

'How's the homosexuality going? Found any cracking cock recently?'

Note: he is not gay. I know this, he knows this. I just thought it might be time to try a different kind of ice breaker. Well, you live and you learn. Or in my case, not.

Back (sort of)

I am slowly recovering from my latest tour. I always like spending time in Beijing, Shanghai and Shenzhen - and was pleased to be able to spend the weekend in Qingdao for the first time - but it was a bitch to have no free time, with every moment spent working, weekends included. The end result was worth it, but -

The high point was dinner with Martin, his wife Lynne and son Samuel, who should be more appropriately named 'WriggleFidget' - a perpetually curious, sociable young boy with a fascination for fans.

Books read (the only benefit of flying long-haul - well, that and listening to the Afro-Blues Quintet and early Funkadelic): 'Slaughterhouse Five' by the late, great, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. & 'Serve the People' by Yan Lianke.

Pining for: Rhodia pads (they're cheap, have brilliant paper for fountain pens...and could be my chosen alternative to Moleskine notebooks)

That record deal...

...here is Chapman's promo on YouTube. Watch it, rate it (please, pretty please). I liked the way it was shot - he was out and about in public, yet in complete solitude. The song is also one of my favourites off the album (did I tell you he had an album? It's stonkingly good - click on the link to the right for his site, and then head off to CD Baby or iTunes for a further fix).

Now onto the next topic. I want to cut a record with my mate Doris. I want to call it 'Uncle Fucker - Upright Cottaging Club Classics' on the Polari record label. I figure that as we can't sing, can't play instruments, it would hold us in good stead against Lily Allen, Kate Nash, and all the others who will, in 9 months time, appear on the compilation CD 'Slap My Fiesta Kevin - Chav Club Classics Vol. 1' on the Argos Bling label. The lyrics are painful to hear on the radio. Mind you, all power to them - enough people like their stuff.

It's funny. I am writing this post from Chaoyang district in Beijing, and while I can access the blogger.com site and type a post, I can't actually view my blog - despite using a VPN. That's censorship for you. Who said the Great Wall was dead, an ancient relic of the past? It reinvented itself baby.