New Print...

The hawk-eyed among you will recognise this as a re-working/edit of the old painting 'Hell is Heavenly'. I think this new version makes an even more powerful statement. It's available in a limited edition of 100 at the print shop over at my website.

Birdy Rappinghood

My favourite time of the year. The hedgerows are alive with the sound of proper tweeting. Not only are the family of Swallows (see Windowsill Bay passim) back in residence and chattering away to each other every evening but I seem to have had my deskspace colonised by these thumb-sized tweeters. Baby Robins taking their first tentative steps away from the nest. Don't worry, they're not orphans just curious to find out what I'm up to. I shepherded them together and back to the shrubbery where I know the nest usually is.

Art oder Kraft?

So Kraftwerk are back. Well, reformed for a series of showcase concerts at the Tate Modern. I haven't been given a ticket but they were once the subject of an important illustration I made many years ago - well, more important for me than them probably - my first full colour front cover. I would be disingenuous to say I don't keep my old work - much of it still lays a-moldering and gently foxing in a suitcase and various old portfolios in the loft - but I have a healthy disinclination to look at much of it. So it was a surprise when Detective Inspector DJ Food contacted me to say he'd found an old Record Mirror cover and thought it might be one of mine. Old pieces of work always prompt a mix of feelings - pleasure at seeing something long forgotten, but often tempered with slight embarrassment at noticing all the flaws and seeing how you would have done it so differently. But you can't re-write history, so here it is... http://www.djfood.org/djfood/kraftweek-5-by-andy-dog

Big Face and The Small Faces (Another Tale From The Two Puddings)

   

     One of the side effects of steroid treatment can be weight gain/water retention. I’ve put on over two stone in the last few months. Mainly around my stomach which feels like I’m wearing an inflatable corset most of the day. But also around my face and my jowels which is now quite moonlike. Sometimes known as ‘Cushing Syndrome’ (though I can’t see why as Peter Cushing had a rather slender, high cheekboned visage) and also the Hilary Mantel effect. But they say that it will all drop off when the medication ends so nothing but a temporary irritation. I have been determined not to let this blog slide into one of those 'woe-is-me' medical diaries but the titular link between the two subjects here seemed hard to resist...

     You may (or may not) be aware that my Father has recently published a book of reminiscences about his early days as a publican in the London in the 1960’s. ( http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tales-Two-Puddings-Stratford-Londons/dp/0957209002 ):

"I am a DJ...' : Dad and Mum (on right) in 'the Devil's Kitchen'.

      It’s an interesting and amusing nostalgic romp through a period that will never be seen again. It’s not so much about us as a family as about the various customers and characters that came and went in an otherwise poor and unprepossessing part of London that until this summer’s Olympic Festival, most people only knew as somewhere they drove through on their way to a destination a bit grander (Chigwell perhaps).

      The book is set in a time when I was just a small boy but it has dislodged many memories that have floated to the surface. The pub used to have bands playing on a regular basis. Some reasonably well known, many others were ‘cover’ groups who would do versions of current hits. If they were playing on consecutive nights they would leave their gear set up and I would love to tip-toe down in the afternoons, turn the switches on and the volume low (-ish) and strum my fingers across the guitar strings. These glossy brightly lacquered intruments seemed to possess their own built in glamour ("Sunburst Finish" anyone?).

If my description of "play, eat and bed" sounds somewhat austere and monastic then really it was great fun and a regime I still swear by (just add 'drink' after eat) - I couldn't wait to get home from school each afternoon...

     One day I came home from school and as I was trudging up the three flights of stairs to our living quarters dragging my duffel bag behind me I became aware of loud music coming from the first floor dancehall (known as 'the Devil's Kitchen' on account of the lurid fluorescent paintings of monsters all over the walls). “Go and have a look, but don’t disturb them” said my Mum. I opened the door carefully and saw a group of small young men in the hall surrounded by their large PA system. The evident leader calling the shots was wearing a cheesecloth shirt and a battered broad-brimmed straw hat. He was Steve Marriott and they were the Small Faces. To be honest, I’d never heard of them and I don’t think most of the world outside Manor Park had at that point. I watched discreetly for a few minutes but I’ve always found band rehearsals and recording a bit of a tedious procedure to sit through. Continual starts and stops going over the same piece endlessly. For some reason I really missed a trick here and neglected to do a sketch; the 1966 view of the pub exterior above is the best I can find.

     Later on The Faces and The Who became huge global names. But until Paul Weller and the nostalgia of Britpop came along The Small Faces remained something of a Mod connoisseurs band. Steve (Stevie) Marriott ended up marrying a schoolfriend of mine and seemed to be enjoying a few years of domestic bliss before tragically dying in a fire at his cottage in North Essex.

No Brainer...

A few months ago it was discovered that a particularly aggressive cancer tumour was blowing up a bit of a storm in the right sided frontal lobe of my mind. (The ‘drawing department’ according to some neurological theories (how ironic)). I’ve now had some big surgery to scoop most of it out and intensive radiotherapy to blast the residue (“some little tentacles reaching into the corpus callosum ... important to get them because that’s what makes you who you are as a person...” said one specialist). Not sure if it’s worked yet, but we’ll see.... I’m currently laying low full of unpleasant steroids and waiting to see what I’ll turn into... (When I lay in the machine being bombarded with radioactive beams all I could think about was applying to join the Fantastic Four). Thanks to all my family and friends for their staunch and unlimited support in recent months. The main effect so far seems to be a seeming limitless fatigue and an inability to spend more than thirty minutes a day on a computer (or with a sketchbook) but I hope to be back maintaining everything as usual on a regular and normal basis again v. soon. Love to one and all. X.

Out of the Euro's ....

... but we don't really mind.

Lateness...

Due to a little recent ill health, orders for prints, artwork, t-shirts etc and responses to e-mails are all running a tad late. But everything is being processed and service will return to normal as soon as possible. Some new designs too are on the way. Thanks for everyone's patience....

Towards Abstraction

Leap Day and it feels like spring is already here. Hope this mild weather continues. In the meantime, apart from the observational drawing that still keeps me occupied there's a whole load of other stuff bubbling just beneath the surface. It seems to be dictating it's own direction and despite still being rooted in the visible world it really appears to be straining towards a more abstracted view of things...

A Bit Sheepish

Ah.. the season of wooly jumpers. Alright, a complete break from footballers - here’s some sheep that graze a field not far from here: I was up there the other day and thought what a perfect subject to kick off the new year. Okay you see sheep everywhere, we take them completely for granted - little dots of cotton wool slowly working their way around a field. Are they really intrinsically comic? To me they are gentle, placid creatures happy to mind their own business and extremely restful to sit nearby and quietly observe.
These ones are Norfolk Horned - an ancient breed and apparent precursors of the Suffolk Black-Faced strain which are also popular around here -some of Suffolk’s finest medieval towns and villages were built on the back of the wool business.

Me and Bobby Moore...

I’m not a great lover of football anymore. I watch the occasional big game on tv and I still follow West Ham’s results in that Pavlovian saturday afternoon knee-jerk manner. And of course it remains a sort of lingua franca between men all around the world. But it’s changed a lot since I was a regular matchgoer. The strange middle-class-isation of the sport in the eighties and the influx of grotesque amounts of money (largely from Murdoch’s Sky project) have not been completely beneficial as far as I’m concerned. Last year I was saddened to read of the premature death of Bobby Moore’s son and it made me reflect on a little period of my life that once seemed so intense.

When I was small I would draw footballers incessantly. In fact for one phase that’s all I would draw. My Mum got a bit concerned I think and once said to me “I think you need a rest from footballers, draw something different”. But for 10 year old me there was nothing else ...

I suppose the brick reflects the new hooligan fashion of those days.

Oh look - it's the original Frank Lampard looking remarkably like his son!

More Violence! (Also note the careful observation of Puma and Adidas boots - v. important.)

I was actually born nearer to White Hart Lane than Upton Park (I only realised this when it was far too late), but we moved to Stratford in 1962. WHU won the F.A. Cup in '64, the European Cup Winners Cup in '65 and, as everybody knows, the 1966 World Cup. How could any little boy not want to grow up to be Bobby Moore?I was going to say I saw him play hundreds of times but that can’t be true. But it must have been scores and scores of games. In truth, he’d often have an indifferent match. He had a relaxed, nonchalent way with him but also some sort of star charisma that made him stand out from his team-mates (younger readers: think Beckham). When he ran from the tunnel (strolled would perhaps be more apt), he somehow appeared luminescent, the vibrant claret and blue and his blond curly hair catching the light. Six feet tall but he seemed bigger and had a natural authority that couldn’t help but reassure you. His play was always graceful, at times almost without effort. He never had the volatile saturnine edge of George Best, Bobby seemed more wholesome, but also good and kind and you instinctively felt that with Bob in charge of defence everything would turn out okay.

My Dad got to meet him a couple of times and said he appeared almost shy and lacking in confidence in real life. He certainly liked a drink. And he had an eye for the girls. And if he’d had the freedom of contract of today’s players he'd probably never have stayed at Upton Park (He wanted to go to Spurs at one point, but the old WH board wouldn’t wear it - instead they brought his mate Jimmy Greaves to UP).

Although I have photos inscribed to me from Bob I never did meet him face to face. The photo below is the closest I got...


This remarkable image appears in Bobby’s first ‘autobiography’ (Bobby Moore - My Soccer Story). It’s taken in Stratford Broadway, E.15, from outside Newham Town Hall. It’s 1964. Bob himself is holding the cup aloft on the coach, but... wait for it... below him in the crowd is ME (very blonde hair) on the shoulders of my uncle Kenny. Also there is my younger brother Matthew (pea jacket) astride my Dad and also my Grandad Charlie and Great Uncle John. I had been watching from the roof of The Puddings for hours waiting for the coach to arrive. Then when it did, my Dad and Kenny grabbed me and my brother and waded into the crowd to get us a closer look.

It remains quite clear as a memory. I remember how bizarre it seemed that grown men were sitting on top of traffic lights. Normal rules seemed suspended and anything appeared suddenly permissible. West Ham were on top of the world and everyone seemed so happy. And that’s how you begin a lifetime of footballing disappointment....

Come on Big Sam!

Owl Service

There's no doubt that owls are special.

Catch a barn owl in your headlights and you think you've seen a ghost or an angel.

The classic owl hoot or t-wit-t-woo is the call of the tawny owl and there are few sounds more guaranteed to send a tingle down the spine.

This little sketch, a humble offering for the winter solstice, is probably a cross between the two. A tarn owl perhaps. Happy Yuletide.

Electrickery

Inasmuch as I thought about them at all I used to dislike pylons. A chain of blots besmirching a much loved landscape. Etc. And I would happily put my name to any petition that sought to discourage their relentless march.

But a while ago drawing one made me look at them afresh.

And I realised I actually quite like their extraordinary height, their slowly tapering perpendiculars and intricate geometric symmetries.

And just as with weeds, once you've learned the name of something it’s harder to hate it. Pylons are officially called ‘transmission towers’ and they come in a multitude of styles and permutations. The most common are L2s and L6s but just when you think you have their measure you’ll spot one that doesn’t conform to anything you’ve previously seen.

Wouldn’t this look just dandy in the Turbine Hall ?....

(And as it turns out I'm not the only one: they even have their own Pylon Appreciation Society. Check it out.)

William S. Burroughs and These Paranoid Times

Bill Burroughs was an early literary hero of mine, mainly because he was so far out there. I read - or struggled through - The Naked Lunch just for respite from the Eng Lit A Level novels I was studying at school. I really had never read anything quite like it. A comic strip adaptation of the Mugwump sequence I attempted was soon discarded: I realised it would just be impossible.

I worked behind the bar in my parents' pub at the weekend for a bit of pocket money. A regular customer was Robert, a small middle-aged man of Indian origin who spent lengthy periods of the year abroad doing some unspecified job for Texas Instruments. With his hare-lip and mildly scarred face Robert had the slightly sinister air of a Peter Lorre-ish outsider figure, but he was well travelled and had a good knowledge of literature. If he’d been in the Middle East, as he often was, by the time he got back to the UK he had worked up quite a thirst and we always held a case of Jack Daniels bourbon just for him. On quiet Saturday lunchtimes after he’d knocked back a few he would tell me stories of his travels and one of these was of the time he lived in the same hotel in Paris as the writer William Burroughs. In suburban Essex I had scarcely met anyone who’d even heard of Burroughs at this point. “A strange man” Robert said, “I would look into his room occasionally and he’d just be sitting there staring out of the window....”


I never met Burroughs but I did see him read at an event in London once. And I made many drawings inspired by his writings. I haven't read him for a long time but I’ve been thinking about him again recently because one of his themes was the paranoia that begins to seep when big business and the machinery of state become too closely entwined.


I was observing this gorgeous dragonfly in my garden yesterday when I was startled by a loud thrashing engine noise above my head. I swung my lens upwards and framed this Apache Gunship circling and hovering around my patch. From one bug to another. I assume they’re practicing for some deployment in Afghanistan or somewhere. This is not so unusual. The Colchester Airborne Garrison is not that far away to the south and there are still USAF bases up in Lakenheath and Mildenhall. As a small boy I found soldiers thrilling. Watching the changing of the Horseguards at Whitehall, I felt proud and reassured to think that they were there to protect us. But now ...? I know they’re there to protect something, but I’m pretty certain it’s not my interests they care about....


This morning an unsolicited email from Amazon headed ‘Tilt’, informing me of some discounted Scott Walker albums. Firstly, I’ve never ever purchased an album from Amazon and secondly, how the hell do they know I like Scott Walker? Maybe that's what that helicopter was finding out? The Soviet Bloc was notorious for keeping it’s citizens under constant surveillance lest they think an ideologically unsound thought. We appear to be adopting similar if more advanced techniques in order to monitor and encourage the public's spending habits. Is there a future just around the corner where we’ll be arrested and taken for questioning for simply not buying enough? “Tell me, Meester Johnson, vhen vas ze last time you were in Next? And vere are ze receipts? And ve can find no ZZTV records of you in Westfield at all!”

Paranoia.... just paranoia....

Pushing The Envelope

Some of my new envelope drawings can be seen (and even purchased) alongside many other nice bijou pieces by talented local artists as part of Gallery Q's 'Small is Beautiful' currently showing at Quay Theatre and Arts, Sudbury, Suffolk CO10 2AN. Until December 2.

In The Land of Grey and Pink....

Today I'm looking through the ... bay window. And what do I see? The faces below are from my local town and although they look made up they are in fact all from real life - can you recognise someone you know? Or perhaps yourself....?


And to go with: a little helping of classic English whimsy-rock for no other reason than that the girl above and the grey and pink and it all sort of you get the picture...

The Road To Ruin

What is it that draws many of us to old abandoned buildings? For many years I thought it was just my own personal quirk but now there’s a whole internet subculture of ‘Urban Exploration’ dedicated to finding and documenting obscure and disused buildings and structures.

When I was a child, my corner of London still had plenty of WWII bombsites along with derelict and deserted warehouses. That’s all gone now (see Ghost Milk entry). But perhaps it gave me a hankering curiosity. Some need to always want to look inside. Just to see. Usually, what one finds is always the same detritus. But the aura of mystery and the small frisson of trespass remains.

Here’s a place I used to visit in Essex. A classic ruined 18th Century 'haunted' mansion - at the time it had become almost completely overgrown with creeper and bramble; every crevice sprouting with elder and buddleia. The only people that seemed to know about it were thieves and vandals. And me. I spent many afternoons up there hacking through the undergrowth to find a stone face staring blankly back at me. I felt as though I were discovering some lost Incan city.






Since that time, the house and it’s gardens have been rescued from decay by a Trust who are diligently restoring it to it’s former grandeur. Finally safe from the depradations of the antiquity raiders and the tendrils of nature, it can be visited on several open days each year when you will be guided around the good works.

Here’s a ruin from another age. This place can be found, almost incongruously, hidden tree-deep in otherwise bucolic Suffolk countryside. It’s a former chemical factory. I stumbled on it almost by accident and was suddenly transported back to ‘the Zone’ in Tarkovsky’s ‘Stalker’. Even the weedlife looks oddly mutated. Hope I don’t grow any extra fingers....