The little crucified darlek who keeps us alive … here at the end of the line.
Twilit Men Omborth … another one to add to the 36.
Getting a bit 36 views of Penwith … hmmm …
OK, what do you do?
You don’t live in London any more.
So, what’s on my doorstep, round the corner, on the horizon?
It’s Romantic, New Age, holiday snap, tourist tat but it’s also quotidian, natural and normal, it’s my world, what’s real.
Unemployed, working in a shop or a school, this is the walk home from the bus. Embedded in this deep history, forgotten culture — industrial ruins and iron age homesteads, stone age monuments and microwave masts, hard farmed fields and high rough ground.
The Modern is made in cities and factories but so was this computer and my high tech bike, so was the tractor that just roared past and the helicopter that roared overhead … but we don’t all live there … we just use this shit to make our lives.
Are we as exotic to Shoreditch hipsters or city bankers as an African “witch doctor” was to Picasso or Breton?
I guess all you can do is just use the tools to hand (and mind) to share what it feels like being alive.
Oh … it’s Chûn Quoit. You trip over these things every day here — like a school gym in the 60’s.
The funny thing is I was thinking about Patrick Caulfield’s Parish Church and I was sure it was set in a purple field — it was one of the first paintings I fell in love with — but it’s actually all turquoisey greys … ach, to not be colour blind.
… of course it’s not — we stalked across the field … not sure what we could see — if it was a bird on a post; it was huge, vast, frightening … but it didn’t move … at all.
Perhaps it was just a dead, twisted remnant of gorse.
And then it did, of course, as we got too near.
It was a buzzard.
When it took flight and dipped and swooped to the nearest but safe vantage point, it diminished — it was still large … but quantifiable, conforming, believable.
And it left behind its shit. Accumulated crap. An archival ossuary.
And a beautiful still life.
Lost in the temperate cloud forests of West Cornwall — feels like the air and the ooze are allied in a bid to digest you before you can escape.
A colossal bull asleep in the dead bracken for a thousand years.
I know that Cornwall is basically one great big pebble, the Cornubian Batholith, but we’ve also got some incredible little pebbles scattered across the moor, dropped from the pockets of giants.
This fella is as big as a bus.
Three of the Nine Maidens at Boskednan … Carn Galva in the background.
There are actually eleven stones, two are fallen. Their even spacing suggests that the site was originally laid out as a perfect circle, about 22 metres in diameter, made up of 22 or 23 stones with smooth inner faces.
Just experimenting … hmmm …