David Shrigley, Brain Activity, Hayward Gallery

At first I thought it was a mistake, it was a great surprise when the team at the Southbank Centre invited me to the Press Viewing of David Shrigley’s Brain Activity exhibition at the Hayward Gallery. But it turns out they read my blog and enjoyed it. I was most flattered and grateful!
So, David Shrigley. Let me begin by sharing an anecdote with you, how I first got introduced to his work. Well, like many other people, it was through a greetings card. Here is the image.

I bought it as a birthday card for a friend of mine a few years ago, she now has it pinned to her desk at work, she loves it. The birthday message squashed inside now meaningless compared to the fun moral conundrum of the drawing itself. It certainly talked to me.
Look at the decisive strength and self assurance of both the dignified Paladin and the monstrous attractive power of the horned Devil person.  The “Good” figure is righteous, unflinching in his belief, honourable, the guy (or girl) you want on your team. I just imagine his (or her) face is equally expressionless as the helmet which covers it. He/She hands out loaves of bread to the poor and fights dragons. Perhaps a bit boring, but utterly reliable. The “Evil” figure is a tower of naughtiness, the guy you want to go drinking with, he just exudes self indulgence. A night out with him would be dangerous, but great fun, assuming you don’t lose a limb or your soul along the way. He’s thrusting his hips in your general direction, he’s saying “Raaaar! I’m full of sex!”
What does that leave? At the end of the line is the figure who represents those who aren’t sure, who are hedging their bets. The mournful sagging hairy tits of the undecided. Neither terrifying or worthy of respect.
My other blog has a Haiku about this very piece of work.
I accept that this might not be a proper arts critics interpretation. I quite liked this soundbite from Nicholas Lezard in the Guardian “Shrigley is having a go at the infantilising anthropomorphism currently sloshing around daily culture”. What?! I have to say that made me laugh almost as much as Shrigley’s brilliant, darkly fun, creative art. It’s something to do with chimps dressed as babies right?
I’ve said it before in other posts, but art (for me) should provoke a reaction. Should draw you in. Enjoying it is then a bonus. And Shrigley’s art is most definitely enjoyable, captivating, clever and silly. It made me smile and laugh aplenty too.
The idea of taxidermy is something that puts me off usually, but Shrigley pulls off a gentle take on it. Even when confronted with a squirrel holding its own severed head, a cute dog holding up a sign reminding people that he’s dead or a headless ostrich, you can’t help but go “awwwwwww”. The work, even if you miss any irony, is great fun. Do you need to intellectualise it? Of course not. You can just take it at face value and get that childlike rush of enjoyment when confronted with something cheeky or silly or most wonderfully… secret! Like the stuffed snake like fabric creatures wedged in the cavity between two walls and only visible through a tiny peephole in the plaster board. (Sorry I spoilt the fun of you discovering that for yourself).

Nutless, 2002, Taxidermy Squirrel and Tree Stump.

I’m Dead, 2010. Taxidermy Puppy, Wooden Sign and Acrylic Paint
The exhibition follows 4 themes. Death, Misery, Characters and Misshapen Things. Which is in itself and without any explanation needed, awesome.
The exhibition showcases Shrigley’s diversity of skills, whether it be sculpture, taxidermy, paintings, photography, animation or his ubiquitous drawings with their laconic funny narrative.
This one made me chuckle – lots. It’s taken from a funny angle as it was high up and I’m only little.

And it’s a treat to get a whole gallery room of them. Here is a small selection, I particularly liked “Too many humans, not enough robots” and “Shot for wearing shorts”

Oh, and this one, this one is fab! And ever so slightly unnerving.

The exhibition meanders around the gallery and even outside it. I felt like my cat does when she explores a new space (usually a box, a superb box with turny bits and other rooms), that sense of big eyed, forward pointing eared wonder that only a cat can really do a good impression of. (human’s just shouldn’t).

and

The exhibition is also a sensory treat, with aural stimulus, even in the lift; and from various animations. One, of a sleeping man twitching and breathing uncomfortably is projected over a stairwell in what looks like the fire exit. My favourite however is this one. Try not to smile at the marching squares!

Again, let’s not over analyse the message about belonging and fitting in here, or something. Just enjoy it!
The photography I also thoroughly enjoyed. “River for Sale”, a photo of a sign placed in a body of water was great as were others in the series.
And a set of black and white photographs, 20 of them, which when displayed together made a big impact. I haven’t shared images of these, you’ll just have to go to the exhibition and see how flippin’ brilliant it all is!
A big chunk of a gallery room is taken over by an insectoid alien landscape. It’s very compelling, looking at all the little embellishments and details, twisted and formed in metal.

And this giant, specially created for the exhibition, he’s probably 12 – 15 feet tall. I love his labels! Anatomically accurate.

I found the detail in the next piece quite fascinating. The little Edward Munch scream face was a great touch too. The title made you think too, what’s in those spaces where we don’t often look? “The Contents of the Gap between the Refrigerator and the Cooker, 1995”

Shrigley himself was present, to do a little talk with the curator Cliff Lauson and pose for pics with his creations. I felt so sorry for him as the photographers made him stand next to his headless ostrich. He’s tall, so cruelly and not even subliminally they made him stand next to it. “That’s right, crane your neck, be more ostrich like, go on!… Lovely!” click click click. “Smile… bit more leg, that’s it” click click click “hands on hips, turn round” click click “coy look over the shoulder” click click, I could go on embellishing this scenario but I fear where my imagination will take me. But they did treat him like he was in a glamour shoot… a little tiny bit. It wasn’t something that came naturally to him. He was kind of awkward, like some of the elongated characters in his drawings, an eyebrow slightly raised in tolerant annoyance.
The talk itself was very interesting (the Q&A was sadly too short and he was mobbed by proper journalists afterwards so I couldn’t ask him any questions). What I found fascinating was his description of the creative process, how his paintings, specially made for the exhibition and occupying a whole wall, were many more in number, he disposed of three quarters of them before putting up the rest for selection. Which meant he made 150 paintings of which over 100 were disposed, ending up with only perhaps 30 on show. He was also (good naturedly) annoyed with the curator that his painting “shit” didn’t make the cut. I would have certainly like to have seen it. But what was interesting is he wouldn’t let anyone into his own criteria for selection, those that were disposed, would stay disposed. He couldn’t let anyone else into the editing process. “I don’t want to go there” he said decisively.

He described his artistic process as having something in common with Beckett (who he admires) “Tell people less than what they need to know”. The economy of narrative is important to him. He talked of his time at University (he got a 2:2, just like me) and how he was fortunate in that he is from a generation (in his early 40s) where he got a grant and had their fees paid without the huge debt students rack up now. And how, as a poor grad on the dole, he pushed forward his drawing as in the absence of a studio this was the easiest way he could work his art. I also liked his humility, he bears no grudges to anyone who judges the quality of his art, but he appreciates the great honour of showcasing his work at somewhere as prestigious as the Hayward. He’s a quiet likeable man, but you can see he’s got a mischief about him too (threatening to hack the hacks with his bronze swords on the wall in the adjoining gallery room if they were mean about him) and of course this humour pours out of him into his work.

The Bell, 2007.
With regard to the humour, the piece of work I enjoyed most was the gravestone (2008). In itself it is funny, but I imagined the process of commissioning  a gravestone carver to make this work for him (I assume he conceptualised it and asked someone to make it). Of course funerals and all the bureaucracy and business dealings around them is quite a sobering experience. Those who work in the trade could be blasé about it all, it’s their job after all, but I respect that they always appear to be “in the zone” to offer the utmost respect to the grieving relatives they deal with every day. I imagined the conversation.. “You want WHAT on the gravestone?” this made me feel happy, the absurdity in this symbol of death. I hope whoever carved it saw the funny side too. Life’s too short right?

David Shrigley, Brian Activity is on at the Hayward Gallery until 13th May 2012.

The Wallace Collection, Arms and Armour

Just a couple of minutes walk from my work’s London offices is the Wallace collection. One of the things I love about London is that a gallery of this significance can end up little known amongst Londoners and tourists. London is teeming with galleries and museums, it’s a hotbed of culture and learning. This is why it’s my favourite city in the world.

I wasn’t aware of it until I started walking past it, on my walks two and from work. Marylebone with it’s quirky shops and great pubs is a wonderful part of our capital and the Wallace collection, in the relative quiet of Manchester Square is a little serene part of it. Like most museums and galleries in London, it’s free, which is brilliant of course.

Although it houses sculpture, ceramics, furniture and paintings; including work by Frans Hals “Laughing Cavalier”, Rubens, Gainsborough, as well as a number of Venice paintings by Canaletto, what I enjoy most about the exhibition space is the Arms and Armour, especially the Oriental gallery, these exotic curved swords, tulwars, scimitars, katanas. Some of them seem very top heavy, with the blade getting progressively wider towards the point, then tapering to a deadly sharpness at the tip. It makes me wonder how they could possibly be wielded.

I always had it in my head that a good sword should be able to balance on the hilt, so the weight was equally distributed between the handle and blade respectively. I think I heard it in something like Time Team, where a modern smith shows us how a sword was made Mediaeval style. Of course this would have been in the European tradition. I may have made that up of course, but it seems sensible. Having a top heavy sword would be difficult to swing and recover, you’d need exceptionally strong wrists (ahem), otherwise you’d have to use it more like an axe, where you are relying on strength of swing and impact to keep the initiative as opposed to a flurry of accurate attacks from a more balanced blade. Anyway, I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about… so I’ll shut up and share a pic of a cool display of eastern weaponry.

And a suit of armour. Indian I believe. Some helmets had a little fine and light chainmail veil. Probably not for any defensive reason, but merely to hide the face of your assailant. Is fighting someone faceless more sinister? Or is it so the attacker can hide his own fear, to not give the game away that he is utterly terrified?

Quick geek observation : This armour looks a little like one of the Ring Wraiths duds in Lord of the Rings (the movie)

A samurai sword, a katana, displayed in the traditional style, to honour it. The inscription says the scabbard is 19th century, but the blade itself (recently) repolished is from the early 15th centure, of the Mihara school, Bingo province, South West Japan.

Samurai sword steel can be folded around 200 times in the making of the blade. I always thought it was because it somehow made it sharper, but it seems it was because the steel was full of impurities and the incessant and continued folding removed those impurities and porous qualities, making it immensely strong. Seeing something of this age always makes me think of its story, how many souls had it stolen? Who owned it? From century to century? What they were like?

And the workmanship can sometimes be of incredible quality. Some weapons were of course ceremonial, but others I’m sure were owned by powerful men, to draw blood, to maim and kill. You can imagine how in ages past, beautiful swords and weapons could be thought of as imbued with magical powers.

Another interesting aspect of the museum is you can look into the history and composition of every piece of weaponry, no matter how small. There are catalogues along the walls which you can reference. I picked a dagger at random to demonstrate, this dagger in isolation is course beautiful, but in terms of the collection itself, it is a relatively unremarkable item.

So… this savage but beautiful dagger for instance is Moghul Indian 17th century (ref 1384 in pic), with a jade, gold and agate hilt. The scabbard however is Turkish from the 19th century, the original scabbard seemingly lost. Note how even though the scabbard was made approximately 200 years after the dagger itself, whoever owned it commissioned that they should use the same white jade designs on the scabbard, to make it in keeping with the hilt. This was clearly a treasured item, worked and reworked, repaired and passed down. Perhaps it was a war trophy, from a defeated foe? An Ottoman general’s booty? Once again, I’m making it all up, so I’ll shut up. But it does make you think, every item in the collection has a story. Was the Ottoman general himself defeated, hence his dagger ended up auctioned and displayed in London?

As well as the Oriental and Eastern galleries, there are European arms and armour, equally savage. This fine fellow stands tall and imposing in one of the rooms, I felt sorry for the horses, I’m sure they had no concept of the aesthetic coolness of their armour. Poor beasts! In the cabinet behind him, you can see some evil looking polearms.

A monstrous gargoyle mask, used as a visor on a european helmet. Totally shit inducing. (I’ll get the reference next time I pop in, for now make do with “totally shit inducing” – which I’m sure is not the description in the catalogue)

And a beautiful mace head, I believe forged in Milan. Look at that work, it would almost be a privilege to have your bonce stoved in by it. *clump!* “Thank you sir!” *falls over*

Anyway, I’m digressing into farcical nonsense, can’t wait to go back, apparently (because I’m a numpty and didn’t realise there was a lower ground floor) there is another gallery of further Eastern arms and armour in the basement. This is a temporary exhibition and it’s only on until 26th March 2012, so get your skates on if you want to look at curvy swords and daggers and imagine yourself as a powerful sultan, draped in silks and fine ladies whilst whimsically sipping tea and writing poetry as your eunuch Oud player plucks out another classic ditty in your court.

Russian Pizza

I don’t remember my dreams, not usually. But when I do, they are usually utterly warped and insane, i.e befitting of my character.

Let me regale you with one particularly vivid one. It’s about 20 years old now and I feel I must capture it for posterity, else it may be lost forever.

Me and one of my oldest and dearest friends Sal were on Wood Green high road. A new shop seemed to have sprung up, a restaurant of some kind, called “Russian Pizza”. We decided to try it out.

When we got in we witnessed a really bizarre scene. Ladies and gentlemen, seemingly from the Edwardian era were dining there. In fact the entire clientele of the restaurant was solely comprised of these old fashioned types. Men - in their waistcoats, top hats, monocles, pocket watches and formal coats. Women, with their whale bone skirts, tight at the waist, and frilly high collared blouses. Anyway, they were eating spaghetti, directly off the table, with their hands. They were troughing it like troopers, bits of tomato sauce were splatting all over the gaffe and it was dripping from their slobbery chops. The messy buggers.

We approached the greasy aproned proprietor at the far end of the restaurant, trying to avoid stray splashes of ferociously consumed pasta sauce along the way. We asked what was on the menu. As he stirred his huge cauldron he nonchalantly announced “you can have spaghetti like all these people or you can have Russian Pizza, but I warn you if you have Russian Pizza it will turn you into a werewolf”

And instantly I said “Yep! Russian Pizza for me!”. Now Sal was the voice of reason, he tried to talk me out of it in a shaggy from scooby doo voice all lily-ish and wavering. “Did you hear what he said? Don’t have Russian Pizza man, you’ll turn into a werewolf!”

But I ordered it anyway, after a few bites, I felt myself transform, my body break and realign itself, my muscles tightening and strengthening. I felt all powerful and yes, I was a werewolf. I was a machine built for speed and killing. I ran out of the shop (on all fours of course) and Wood Green had melted away, we weren’t in suburban north london, I was in a forest, at night, moonlight streaming through the leaves. I charged through the trees at lightning pace, barely avoiding them, weaving in and out. It felt incredible. Even better than the few times I was lucky to fly in my dreams (flying felt like swimming through treacle for me, nothing like superman).

I had the scent of something, I homed in and alone in a clearing was a sheep. I tore it to pieces and scoffed it. All went red. Then I woke up confused yet exhilarated.

I rang Sal the next day and told him about the dream, asked him what he thought it meant.. “What do you think it means Sal?” I said.

There was a moments silence, he contemplated an answer. And I’ll never forget what he said.

“It means you are a greedy fat bastard, as no one has lamb after eating pizza.”

Pegsdon Hills

As a Londoner by birth and background, I have to say I would probably find it quite difficult to move back to London. I’m a country lad now. All wearing my waxed jacket, flat cap, monocle, plus fours, land rover and shooting serfs, whilst throttling quails with my bare hands and making blood offerings to angry harvest gods who look like the hairy bikers. (not really, I don’t own a gas guzzling land rover!)

One of my favourite places in my adopted home of Bedfordshire is Pegsdon Hills. On the edge of the Chilterns it gives rewarding views after an exerting walk up. We drove past the Hills today, so it inspired us both to write our Haiku’s (check today’s “A Haiku a day”) and I dug through the photos we took of the area over the last couple of summers and in the last Spring just gone (it is obvious these are not January skies in the photos!)

Pegsdon Hills were forged by glaciers in the last ice age and you can see it in the contours of the land. Hills have been shoved up as the edge of the glacier pushed southwards, the power of the cold and ice testing the limits of the temperate world.

It’s amazing to think the ice cap covered most of the UK back then. It feels magical standing up on the ridge and looking down into the valleys and onwards to the beautiful patchwork fields which define southern England. It’s easy to imagine a sheet of ice extending way out in front of you, like a Neolithic pioneer eking out a living skirting the boundaries of their territory.

The ridge at the top of the hills is an old trail, which can be traced all the way to the South-West, dating back to pre-historic times, so I’m sure they are probably some flint tools secreted away somewhere. I haven’t found any yet, but sometimes there is a little sharp glint in the chalky soil, I pick it up excitedly, but it isn’t a tool, just a flint chipped naturally. One day.

The wildlife and nature is incredible, buzzards and red kites circle. A parliament (what a cool collective noun – I had to look it up) of Rooks, murders of crows all lie on the sunny hill banks, floating up in the air like a black cloud when disturbed.

Lapwings nest in a protected field too, beautiful birds.

But the most fun thing we’ve seen is two stoats, playing. We were downwind of them, so they didn’t see or smell us, we stood completely still and watched them play for several minutes. I managed to get a short film, only one of them stars in this clip I’m afraid, it’s a shame as they were chasing each other and rolling around, having great fun. But it’s still a decent clip involving some impressive gymnastics.

And the sunsets. The first pic is a tree that stands alone and defiant on the top of the ridge. It’s bent in the wind, but it stands strong. We’re very fond of this tree.

You can see the same tree in this next photo…. if you follow the line of the fence post upwards, it hits a bushy tree on the skyline… well look right of that, there is a skinny little tree, in fact it doesn’t even look like a tree, it just looks like two tiny dots on top of each other… that’s the tree in the photo above!

Another sunset shot.

* – No serfs were harmed in the writing of this blog.

** – All of the photos (and the film) are mine, all mine and you should ask permission if you wish to reproduce, on pain of having me invoke a harvest god come round your house and beat seven shades of shit out of you with his threshing stick.

Tips for avoiding gallery rage (Leonardo, National Gallery)

Me and D visited the National Gallery to check out the Leonardo exhibition a few weeks ago. We bought the tickets early, as in when they went on sale over the internet, so we didn’t have to queue up like the plebs, shuffling along, one metre every minute. I detest queuing, not having to queue is one of my favourite hobbies, although I did have to queue in the Next Sale yesterday and that was shit. So it was marvellous to glide through the magnificent doors, with the sweaty masses to our right… and be directed… to another queue! A shorter one however, just for our ticket time slot. So that was cool. It was only 5 minutes waiting.

That morning we also went to the Wolseley for Eggs Benedict and a fruit salad containing the most endangered fruits known to mankind, killed, skinned and diced in a silver bowl and splurged with an agreeable jus. We also saw Marc Almond in there, buttering his toast. But I have no further anecdotes about him or the Wolseley. It’s just to set the scene that it was a lovely day out, sort of a late birthday celebration for me (even though my birthday was months before).

So Leonardo and his exhibition. It was hyped to the max, a once in a lifetime. And yes, it was impressive. Here was an artist, a scientist, a draughtsman, an inventor and a genius. They’d gathered his work and work of his contemporaries from all around the world. We’ll probably never see the light of it again, certainly not in that magnitude. What impressed me as well was that the National Gallery had reduced the amount of people that could enter per timed slot. The Guardian paints a picture of serenity and calm, of some chim-chimeny love in where everyone is considerate. And to some degree, this was true… as we hate getting jostled by wankers. You need time to get close and study as a lot of his work on show was of small size and incredible detail. For example, two works owned by the Queen and lent to the exhibition :

A Man Tricked by Gypsies (c1493), Pen and ink, 26.0 x 20.5 cm – (i.e Small!). Look at the detail in their expressions, the grotesques leers and snarls.

Studies of the human skull, 1489, Pen and ink on paper, 29 x 20 cm

Which leads me onto Gallery Rage. How to turn situations which would otherwise be irritating, to your advantage.

You are always going to get people with no sense of spacial awareness or respect for their fellow human beings. People who blunder around a gallery space, shoving their bag or backside into you, or just keep standing in the way with a dopey bollocks expression plastered over their faces.

Therefore, two handy tips. It really is quite fun and you should test yourself to see how far you can push it. Don’t do anything to spoil your enjoyment of the art however, just so your nemesis knows that they are an annoyingly ignorant or selfish shit.

1) When someone walks right in front of you and blocks your view of the art, blow gently on their ear. This really works. They usually move as I can imagine this would be really uncomfortable.

2) If someone shoves past you without saying “excuse me” or if they stand in your way and option 1) doesn’t work. Then you should adopt their methods against them. Immediately shove past them and stand right in front of them obscuring their view of whatever they are looking at.

3) If you are brave, do it wherever they move to. They’ll get the message and leave you alone.

4) You could just ask them to politely move of course (tut optional), but this isn’t as much fun.

Now use your loaf, if you see someone is 95 and clearly isn’t the most lucid, then don’t just start shoving over pensioners, then piledriving them, because of some perceived slight. And please do not throw any children out of the window. Pick your targets appropriately. Just cause a little bit of annoyance, don’t earn yourself a criminal record for knocking out an old man, then finding out it’s Brian Sewell.

And whatever you do, don’t smash a priceless painting over the head of someone who has annoyed you.

Finally, one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen (So I don’t leave you with any hint of bitterness).

Lady With An Ermine

It’s worth going to the exhibition just for this. I’ve been to the Louvre and I’ve never understood the fuss over the Mona Lisa, it’s small, she’s a bit of a sourpuss (to me anyway, enigmatic my arse!) so Lady With An Ermine is a far superior work. She is just beautiful.

Forkbeard Fantasy

I never win anything, this is a fact.

Therefore, I was delighted to break this curse, when I was fortunate enough to win a twitter competition which got me a guided tour of Forkbeard Fantasy’s exhibition on the South Bank, as well as four tickets to their theatre production “The Colour of Nonsense” in the Purcell Rooms.

So yesterday, me, Debbie, my sister Helen and my bro-in-law Mike rolled up at 5pm and were greeted by the gracious, exuberant and highly talented Tim Britton, one of the founder members, performers and artists of Forkbeard Fantasy.

The exhibition itself covers their 30+ years of performance art and theatre. Their costumes, props, gadgets, mechanical peepshows (including the smallest cinema in the world), films, animations, puppets and mannequins were all on display and (mostly) interactive. This was quite trusting of them considering some of the robust assaults on them, not just by the children, but over-enthusiastic dads who were treating them like wrestling partners in some circumstances.

It seemed there was a team of good natured repair-folk everywhere, patching, sewing, twiddling and tweaking to ensure things didn’t get shorn or split or smashed. In some circumstances though, exhibits, some of them of venerable age, needed to be roped off to save them the indignity of utter destruction.

Making the imagination real is a conundrum that has foiled many an artist throughout history, but what impressed me most was how they’ve managed to achieve it, on limited budget.

Take the Unicorn for instance, this is a triumph of Art, Engineering and Anatomy, combining these disciplines they’ve managed to create something unique, fun and genuinely beautiful. It was also tough enough to be able to withstand being ridden in a theatre production. It’s jointed and moves just like a real Horse (unicorn!). Had the exhibition not been so busy, we’d have been allowed a go on it. Now I’ve only ever ridden a donkey before, when I was six in Cyprus. Not many people could say that they’d ridden a Unicorn. Perhaps it was for the best though as my fulsome backside may have crushed and damaged something so magnificent. I would not want to be responsible for the extinction of such a beautiful and endangered creature. So we had to make do with controlling its movements through a system of ropes and pulleys.

(photos from BBC Website)

The productions themselves are surreal, darkly amusing and very much centred on fun. The special effects are mischievously ingenious and enhance the experience. And the knowledge that goes behind making and maintaining them is impressive.

They are a multi-talented and multi-disciplined bunch, I imagine them working away like Gnomish tinkers, in a dark little cave, giggling, working with outrageous looking tools, hammers and sparks flying and consuming copious amounts of tea and cake all day. And combined with performing such that the finished article, i.e their productions are masterfully executed on stage.

As for the play, The Colour of Nonsense was compelling and very funny. It poked gentle fun at the trend in the arts to discover “the next big thing”. And the next big thing in this case was “Invisibilism”. It paid a respectful nod (with a wink) towards the Emperors New Clothes.

There was a great narration through projected comic strip (graphic novel don’t you know!) film as well as other very funny effects. There was a fell villain, the slurpy Angstrom and the three heroes Line, Splash and Scuro overcome the adversity of feeling isolated and out of touch with the art world, to become the leading lights.

It’s only on for two more days, so it’s well worth checking out if you have time.

Otherwise, go to the exhibition, that’s on till the 8th January 2012. If you have kids, or if you just like great art and interactive fun exhibits, then go! Have a blast! Tug and pull! Just not too hard!

A Haiku a day

Went on a run earlier, through the chilly moors / nature reserve near my house. We’ve had an exceptionally dry Autumn, normally by this time of year I’d need my wellies it’s that muddy and running would be near impossible without sinking ankle deep in peaty mud. But other than a few particularly boggy areas (and being the excellent pathfinder that I am, I can avoid them, like some sort of native American tracker) it was a relatively dry run.

It’s only a 5.5k run, over both Flitton and Flitwick moors. I always find running is a good time to think and being unfit means a longer run and therefore longer to think. Not only do I work the body harder, but also the mind.

I thought about the plot to my novel, I’ve reached an impasse, I’ve got an ending (a fine tip, thankyou Mr Pink – know your ending, this sounds simple, but it’s so true, I’ve just meandered into blah blah bollocks land previously), it’s just I’m just stuck at a particularly shitty bit somewhere in the middle, which by even my own standards of suspending disbelief, seems beyond ridiculous.

But it’s ok, momentum and inspiration will come back. I’m not getting bogged down about it, so I play out little heroic fantasy scenarios in my head instead, whilst running. Nothing too heroic mind, things like walking around in a Barbour jacket as a gentleman farmer and delivering a foal for one of my serfs workhorses and being toasted by the peasantry in the moonshine barn (the moonshine barn doesn’t exist by the way). Or saving a baby Owl whose parents were savaged by fell beasts and bringing it up to be my familiar, things like that.

I’ve stopped listening to music while running now. The psychological effect of music is that it makes me run faster. It shows that athleticism is not just the body, but the mind. And yes, I use the term “athleticism” reservedly. But Debbie always said to me I was missing out, it’s a form of sensory deprivation and by depriving myself of one of my senses, I might as well just be on a running machine. So now, I try to absorb as much as possible, not just listening, but watching, smelling, touching and when I swallow a moth, tasting. The sixth sense, this so called ESP, I haven’t found to be possible to experience yet. Sometimes I attempt to bore into the darkest thoughts and desires of the people I cross paths with solely using the power of my untapped mind, but I just look like a staring freakface, so I don’t do it anymore.

Anyway… The sound of my own breathing (normally huge rasping gasps to be fair) and the stomp of feet into the soft muddy earth. It’s somehow satisfying. As well as that I listen out for nature, try to identify bird song, look out for nature as well. Today for instance I saw a Muntjac deer, with their weird little vampire tusks, normally shy creatures, but this one just watched me suspiciously through the Ash trees.

But before that, I was running along the River Flit and there was a little group of Greenfinches calling out to each other, or probably warning each other about the lumbering oaf running alongside the river towards them, and every time I got near them, they’d all fly off and settle in the next tree with a gentle hubbub of pissed off calling, only for me to get near them again and then into the next tree… and so on. You get it. I know you do. The point was it was one of those little poignant moments that might otherwise be instantly forgotten. So I made up a little Haiku whilst I was running and repeated it to myself again and again, so I wouldn’t forget it.

Greenfinches disturbed

Little flock over the Flit

Disgruntled chirping

And then I thought… hey, why don’t I write a Haiku, for every day of the year, starting January 1st. It wont all be about nature, some will be funny (I hope), silly, serious.. whatever. It will be significant to the day it was written however. It could be accompanied by a photo or picture, or some words to give it context as to what it meant to me. Or I could just leave the words to speak for themselves. The beauty of the Haiku is you are only restricted by the syllable structure and that is no hardship. There is a power in the economy of words. It distils the starkness and the beauty of it and it leaves ghostly hints at the authors inner meaning.

So that’s my plan. I’ll set up a new blog for my Haikus and it will rock and roll come January.