To like something and to talk about that like.......is discerningly private.

                                                                 P O E T R Y......of like.

                                                             
       Inherent from my ancestry.... shape and silhouette become my everyday observation.

                                                                       I Like.

   

She lived by what society through at her... as she aged her world became more and more eccentric.
                                                                           I Like.

 

Artisans create adornments for chances.... which by wearing will only signify undeniable importance.
                                                                            I Like.

     

Simple hand-made wooden Dachas houses where the owner grows the flowers and arranges and records in watercolour paintings......Russians are great nature lovers as am I.
                                                                           I Like.

I like many ideals of beauty.....from my family I inherited the rituals of process and placement. How watching my father make something out of discarded wood... only to have all who saw his creation want the same thing for themselves.
The gentle art of whitening linen in cold salted water through several stages of soaking.
Quiet crackling of wood burning under an old copper whilst persimmons fall from the laden back fence... in winter.

In a plane I like that moment before take off... seconds before the throttling sound of angular ascension into the sky.

Landing somewhere you've never been before....hearing the people in a desert land yell out their wares.
Smiling at majestic pyramids as you stand on the land of The Valley of The Kings.
                                                                         I Like.

                                                                          I Like.
I like to look at Le Eiffel Tour from many different view points in Paris. To walk the stairs to the very top and to hear your own footsteps....hold the rail and pace yourself...glance across at all of the city in front of you....stop and take in the ground area from above....always wear your most glamorous clothes and heal sounding shoes will echo and remind you that you are there....amidst the tower your final steps to the top......and it sways in the parisienne sky....with utter joy I adore the moment for all eternity.....I like a hundred moments all in a second.......a leisurely descent and evocative rumblings of motor vehicles and life and the heady smell of petroleum.


I  L I K E ........all my decisions in my observational world they belong to me... for to like is to see.


                                                                      P O E T R Y

                                                                   La Boudoir Dada.





                     

Napoleon's Eye.: What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artis...

Napoleon's Eye.: What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artis...: Walking rather slowly down a lane in Rushall......yesterday, I came across a piece of an old mantel clock....someone had thrown it ...

What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artistic Artillery"

Walking rather slowly down a lane in Rushall......yesterday, I came across a piece of an old mantel clock....someone had thrown it out as hard rubbish. I was amazed to find the mechanisms still dinking with sounds. As I held it in my hands and moved it back and forth......the chime of it instantly took me back to my childhood and my Grandfather's work shed in the country.

Leonard had boxes of parts from all kinds of things.....clocks

, cars, transistors, cutlery, electrical devices and many many screws and bolts.

Grandfather gladly went into his shed most mornings filled with discarded remnants of the past. He was an Artist of sorts. Combinations of rubber stamps and half full bottles of ink. watercolour tubes and old printers blocks.....detritus of the publishing trade.

I was fascinated. The shed represented a world I loved to be in.

He was a WW2 Veteran .....drove a water tank through Syria across deserts and blown up terrain.

I loved my Pa so much.....he showed me how to operate my first silver watch....."This is the mechanism"....he said.

He was an individual investigator.

Elaborated on....diversified Dada artillery.......for my eyes only.

All along my art school path....I was told endless stories about postwar Cologne.

What was it all about really....I thought. A new idiom. The Dadaists drew from the material world and psychological terrain. They would articulate their radically altered sense of self and society.

My Pa was a backyard Dadaist ...so to speak...always weaving the pictorial with his unique productive synergy.......I was there and very young....but somehow his shed and the memory of his bits and pieces ..... a strong hold is inherent.

My work is filled with a semblance of memory and desire to create my own eclectic placements and installations......contradictoriness of my own systems....I enjoy the absurd and the unconscious. When he passed away I received two very memorable pieces belonging to him......a silk dressing gown and a pair of metal cuff links.......so light was the metal you could have easily swallowed them whole.

I saw him wear them a couple of times and as a child was aware of his well groomed presence each and every morning.......they were his fathers.....my great grandfathers.....now placed in England whence they came from.........for safe keeping.

Cosmetic device.

I am a DAdA related collage artist.

Madam Dada belongs to the exterior world.