Tuesday, 29 March 2011
There’s a photograph (a not-wanted poster?) attached to the tree. The photograph depicts the very same tree it’s on/of, except, in the photograph there are two blue bags parked on the grass beneath the tree. The bags are the blue of the parking-space markings – the blue I’m searching for in a car – and they have a red cross through them, banning blue bag parking in blue parking spaces. First they ban hot water bottles in doorways, now this! What is it with the Swiss?
Saturday, 26 March 2011
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Thursday, 17 March 2011
I continue with a bounce in my step. I’ve been destructive, now let’s be constructive, and in no time at all I spy another blue car parked in a blue spot. But (yet again) it’s the wrong kind of blue... it's almost green, but the wrong kind of green, too.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
In the time between these two photographs – four hours, on a blue afternoon in Basel – 44 blue cars, each parked in a bluely defined parking space, were photographed. The photographer was searching for a blue car that’s shade of blue matched the blue of the rectangle enclosing it.
To be continued...
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
The thing to do is facilitate collaboration between Jonathan Swan’s jewelry workshop in Lewis and the Her Majesty's Prison, Lewes, towards the mass-production of swan key rings. Blue-Sky thinking. Keynote thinking: Swans belong to Her Majesty, and prisoners are locked-up at Her Majesty’s pleasure: swan key-chains, why not? Unless all the prisoners really have taken flight…
Saturday, 5 March 2011
So I traced M’s key - her front-door key (I still have it after all these years) – instead. M being someone I’ve closed the door on – no longer see; M’s a distant memory. But the tracing turned out to be the key to a swan’s head.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
As a child Roussel lived at 25 boulevard Malesherbes, a near neighbour of Marcel Proust - author of Swann’s Way and Swann In Love -, who occupied number 9. Roussel, like Proust, had an overbearing mother who insisted that her son underwent a medical examination every day! In later life when holidaying abroad, Roussel always carried a coffin among his luggage, so as not to inconvenience other travellers in case he passed away.
Marcel Proust on his deathbed
For both authors daily contact with reality seemed strewn with pitfalls, and their writings (or 'excavations', as Roussel put it) - written albeit through the employment very different procedures - were a search for lost time. Cocteau (who met Roussel in what would now be known as a rehab clinic) called Roussel ‘the Proust of dreams’. Independent of one another (for it is uncertain that they ever met) Proust and Roussel fasted for days on end then indulged on childish foods: marshmallows, brioche bread pudding – devoured a vast quantity of cakes.