Despite the cold, it was a beautiful day. Gunnar had decided to take a walk to clear his head and thought that the lake on the other side of the clearing might be nice. Whilst walking he became distracted by his thoughts and by the time he realised he was striding out over the frozen lake he heard an ominous cracking noise from beneath his feet. And then he just froze and looked around with a somewhat desperate look in his eyes…
What happens to Gunnar? Is he swallowed by the icy lake or is it really all part of a complicated insurance fraud? I fear we’ll never know but I’ve been watching a few too many bleak Scandi TV shows as of late to know that it can’t have been anything good.
In another departure from our usual fayre but sticking with our new found love of stripes we’ve got ‘And then I just froze’ which is a surprising turn of events for id-iom in that it is somehow both minimalist and has a complementary palette. I’m sure stranger things have happened at sea but there it is. She’s available for sale if anyone cares to give her a home for £120 (plus P&P) and is on a 60 x 60cm square canvas.
When people think of ‘voguing’ most automatically think of the Madonna song ‘Vogue’. It’s not a bad reference but it all really started in Harlem. Michael had never been to Harlem however he had always wanted to visit – mainly due to it being the birthplace of his favourite dance. The main reason that he has never been is that It is quite hard to find the time when you run a large farm in rural Shropshire. He usually spends his days looking after the animals and fixing things that should have been replaced many moons ago.
This doesn’t mean that Michael never vogues however. Whilst tramping round the farm with his oversized headphones pumping out some beats he can vogue away to his heart’s content. Duckwalk to spins & dips followed by an energetic floor performance. The livestock don’t seem to mind. All so he can get himself ready for when Saturday comes…
It is A3 in size and made using ink, pastel and acrylic.
This morning i just couldn’t think of anything clever or amusing for the write up for this piece, so whilst racking my brain I thought i’d have a quick trawl of the interweb to see if i could find any inspiration. It wasn’t looking great until I came across an article about google’s new poetry AI and that’s when things started to fall into place. So instead of some well thought out prose I give you some poetry created by a computer after a little nudge in the right direction by myself. I hope you enjoy:
Psychology of Pink
First I fell into an idle bed;
Drowning all a feeling with a think
To breathe those flowers upon my head.
Psychology of blue
He knew that an artist, an marked school,
Brought on its heart, like the distant dew
As if a dog I might paint a fool?
Now if that doesn’t strike a chord i’m pretty sure you are dead inside…
There I was painting away and I thought I had it! Then I lost it. Then I managed to find it again before taking it too far and then suddenly I was looking at an absolute mess of a picture. Normally I would throw a big hissy fit and rip it up or scrawl over it like some scene out of soap when someone is going a little off the rails- but that wasn’t to be the case.
I made a post on social media about my situation and I got some words of encouragement which made me reassess the picture and carry on, although I thought it something of a loss leader at this point.
Anyway, I’m still not particularly happy with it but just because I painted something I didn’t like doesn’t mean its worthless. We all deserve a second chance. For one I’m learning and beginning to own my mistakes. I just hope the next one doesn’t make me pull what little hair remains…
We have previous with Martin here. Just the other day we told you about how he boarded a train to nowhere after complaining to Southwestern Rail when he missed the last train to Bristol (entirely his own fault). Perhaps you have been wondering whatever happened to that poor soul. Well, let me clear that up for you…
Martin was stuck on that train for what felt like an eternity to him but was, in fact, more like 3 days. Just long enough for people to start getting worried about him but not long enough for it to be an unsolved mystery.
Martin’s memory of the whole thing was hazy at best and the little he could remember couldn’t be explained without him sounding like a madman. He didn’t want that, he had responsibilities, and so he kept schtum about the whole matter. He never again sent a moody message to Southwestern Rail though. Or anyone else for that matter. What’s the moral of this story? You’ll just have to work it out for yourself…
Now we haven’t had an instalment of Other People’s Graffiti for a while so we thought we’d best rectify this. I was strutting around the local hood and I happened to come across this exceptional piece of graffiti which also included another writer’s thoughts on said graffiti emblazoned over the top. Now if you don’t know what a toy is here’s an explanation:
“A Toy is an unskilled, new or inexperienced graffiti artist or writer.Toy tags or pieces are usually crossed out with the word toy or the crossers tag around it. Having a tag crossed out is considered a very deep insult and the writer of the crossed-out tag will be likely to start a “war” or beef with the crosser, resulting in a series of crossed out tags. In some areas, they seek revenge by less peaceful means.
Toys can also be classified as one who does not know the scene around them, one who does not have knowledge of local graffiti, or one whose style isn’t too good, or is still developing”
Eeek! Not a nice sentiment at all, especially when you are tagging over someone’s admittedly less than stellar work. That said the person who wrote ‘Toy’ could go back to the Academy of Jack the Lademy and practise his handstyles as well in my opinion. Maybe I’ll go back and leave a note for both of them…
Not sure what to do with himself now that he had missed the last train to Bristol, Martin had been sitting on the platform for a while when he came up with the idea to tweet Southwestern rail to see if there’s anything to be done in order to rectify his problem. He was a little angry so perhaps his tweet was not as cordial as it could have been.
To his absolute astonishment, they sent him a message almost immediately stating that another train would pull up in about a minute to pick him up. The trouble was Martin was staring at the departures board and there was nothing going to Bristol – or anywhere else for that matter – but before he could really think about it a train pulled in to the platform and he thought he’d better board before he was stuck for the night.
As he sat down he noticed the train had lavish curtains and a general air of sophistication that hadn’t been seen on this line for at least a century. Not sure what to do Martin was looking at the doors and thinking about getting off when they silently slid shut.
As the train pulled away from the station and around a curve Martin could see the rest of the train behind him. He saw a desperate ghostly face pressed up against each and every window he could see. Shaken, Martin sat down. He was thinking this must be the fate that awaits anyone who complains about Southwestern Rail. And do you know what? He was right.
The bird-like nest on top of Diane’s head is actually her hair after just 2 sips of white wine after work on a Thursday. She intends on doing the whole bottle. She knows she has work again tomorrow but she just doesn’t care. That’s working from home for you. She read online that she can now change her hairstyle digitally using the magical power of her computer. If she can only work out how it all works then her next Zoom call should prove a little more interesting and perhaps Phillip from Marketing might finally take some notice. If not she’s going to send him a virus from a made-up but believable email address and see how he likes that instead…
When someone asks you whether you want to pop out for a pint in these weird and testing times what is your answer? Judy here is trying her best to stick to government guidelines but she just doesn’t know anymore and that’s about pretty much everything.
What is the colour of your eyes? I don’t know. When is your birthday? Not sure. What is the colour of an orange? Pink? It’s all just a little too much for poor Judy. Her eyes are now just hollowed out depressions in the front of her face, her nose is as red as Rudolph’s and she hasn’t even had a drink in the last few weeks or at least she doesn’t think she has.
Judy has found the easiest way to answer questions nowadays is to just start replying with affirmative and negative interjections and other assorted phrases until people either get the answer they are looking for or they think she is mad. Either method seems to work. I haven’t tried this technique yet but it looks like there might be some merit to it…
Gather round for I have a tale to tell. I was on holiday when I thought I’d go for an afternoon stroll into the hills behind where I was staying. As I was wandering along the path I knocked a stone which started a small rockslide that seemed to terminate with a deep groan. Having watched too much Murder She Wrote I decided to put on my Jessica Fletcher hat and began an investigation.
After clambering down the small incline I was surprised to find a large head peeking out of the ground and grumbling to itself. To my shock he started shouting at me about being careful about where I was going and to watch my step in a deeply toned accent that I just couldn’t place. I apologised profusely and said I would be more careful in the future and he grumbled something unintelligible and seemingly went back to sleep. Now, what the moral is I’m not entirely sure but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.