The Letter


“Dear Alex (she had written) Sunday was so sad. It nearly broke my heart.
I don’t know how I walked away. I thought I was being strong.”
I look at the envelope, postmark London NW 2. I stare at the familiar looping script on the crisp white notepaper, and read on.
“I phoned you because I wanted very much to talk to you and find out your plans. I realise now that I shouldn’t have done. Just as I shouldn’t have sent the text or come to see you on Sunday. I thought it would help things, but I realise it was being very ,very selfish. All along I know I have been very, very selfish.”
I reach into the top cupboard and take down a bottle of Becks, holding the letter in my mouth as I open the beer and resume reading.
“I can only ask you to forgive me for the way I’ve behaved. I don’t deserve it. Believe me this really is all my fault. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to speak to me again. All along you have been so reasonable I can’t believe it. You really have been marvellous. A saint. This only made me feel worse, and behave more unreasonably myself. It is not your fault Alex. It isn’t. It’s me. I did it. I thought that by choosing Kevin I was doing the right thing for all sorts of reasons.”
I take a good slug from the beer. It tastes metallic in my mouth, but I can feel the familiar comfortable glow as it hits my empty stomach. I grab the bottle and with my free hand holding the letter now push open the door to the front room and walk in.
“The thing that really confuses me about all of this is that I don’t know what I want. The fact that I can’t make up my mind means I believe that something is wrong. I still don’t know what it is.”
I sit down in one of the chairs and take another swig of the beer.
“You were right when you said that you thought I had got myself in so deep I didn’t know what to do. Things happened so quickly that I lost control over events. Believe me I wanted to tell you so much, but I felt that there was so much else to sort out in our relationship that it would just be the final straw. I thought you would go mad, walk out. I misjudged you then and I know I did you a grave misservice; but can you understand that – thinking that way? I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t feel ready or prepared to lose you.”
I put my feet up on the table and light a cigarette. I take a deep pull on it and exhale the thick smoke through my nose and mouth.
“So many times I looked at you and thought ‘What am I doing? I can’t bear to lose you.’ I did think it might all blow over, but it didn’t. In a way it is because it was a less sure choice. I knew if we stayed together it would have top be 200% commitment and sureness. Compared with that Kevin was just a prospective relationship with all the usual sorts of reservations and uncertainties.Less demanding I suppose.”
Cigarette In hand, I pick a stray bit of tobacco from my tongue.
“He used to ask me what you had that he didn’t. I tried to explain how special it was, but I don’t think he realised. I know he’s never had a first love so I didn’t expect him to. You’ve still got a part of me that no-one will ever have.”
Smoke eddies from the tip of my cigarette.
“I did think that once I’d decided something I’d be happy. But I wasn’t and I’m not. I just feel lost and displaced. I suppose that this is a natural reaction when someone who has been there for so long suddenly isn’t.”
I take another long pull at the Becks and find myself snorting quietly
“I never expected Kevin to replace you though. I knew no-one else would. All the things I said on Sunday were true. I still love you very much. I miss you. Nothing is the same. Please forgive me Alex, I don’t trust myself any more, or anything I feel or decide. I am trying to do what’s for the best even if I’m wrong.
I will always love you.
Ruby XX”
I realise that it is starting to get dark, so I get up and turn the light on. I screw the letter up, take a last deep drag of my cigarette and stub it out on the ball of paper, I walk through to the kitchen, drain my Becks and throw everything into the bin.
Now the real question is do I have time for a soak in the bath before I go and pick up Juliette? We are going into town tonight to the cinema.
I think I can manage it.

© 2014 Andy Daly

(Another Story written for my Short Story Writing course)


What with all the furore over some baking programme, you may have missed this excellent series which tests the painting skills of its contestants with a series of challenges to find out who is the Master painter.

It all came to a head last week in the idyllic surroundings of the St Ives School of Painting; established by Leonard Fuller in the historic Porthmeor studios at the centre of St Ives’ artists’ quarter in 1938. Artists who have lived and worked in the town include Ben and Winifred Nicholson, Barbara Hepworth, Naum Gabo, Roger Hilton and Terry Frost  to name but a few. It makes a fine setting for  the grand finale.

And guess who is in the final?

That’s right. Your’s truly. Along with Peggy and Alison.

The Studio

The Studio


If you have no idea what I am babbling on about, The Great British Paint Off is the ultimate painting battle where passionate amateur painting fans compete to be crowned the UK’s Master Painter. Over the course of 10 hour-long episodes, the series follows the trials and tribulations of the competitors, young and old, from every background and every corner of Britain, as they attempt to prove their painting prowess, under the watchful eyes of our judges, ably assisted by random comedians. Each week the painters tackle a different skill, which become progressively more difficult as the competition unfolds. Their knowledge of the practical aspects of painting are thoroughly tested as is their nerve and ablity to cope with pressure.



Testing the painters’ personality, creative flair and painting ability, the main challenge here is to produce something robust and conceptually sound. It will show a mastery of technique as well as confidence with colour whether it be naturalistic, symbolic or expressive.


This challenge separates the wheat from the chaff. Take one basic genre, and with the same instructions, ask our painters to produce a finished product… sound easy? Well, any variation on the finished product will be a result of their own technical knowledge and experience – or lack of. Painters are laid bare in this task and this is where the pressure’s really on in the Paint-off.


The gloves are off in this final challenge where the painters are able to showcase their depth of skill and talent. The complexities of this task call for a professional standard in style AND substance. Are they up to it? The judges will be looking for the most impressive and creative creations.


The Chuckle Brothers. Paul and Barry Elliott found their first taste of success when they won the television talent show Opportunity Knocks in 1967 and since then have appeared in a number of TV and radio shows, the most memorable being their BAFTA nominated ‘Chucklevision’. Best known for their catchphrase ‘To Me … to You … to Me … to You … PAINT!’




Nicholas Serota and the grand old dame of British painting, David Hockney.

‘Nasty Nick’ is Director of the Tate and with it the country’s major collection of Modern/Contemporary Art at the Tate Modern and British Painting and sculpture at Tate Britain. Formerly in charge of the Whitechapel Gallery, he has also been chairperson of the Turner Prize Jury. It is widely rumoured that he doesn’t in fact like painting at all.



David Hockney is the nation’s favourite painter. After studying at the Royal College, she emerged into the London of the ‘Swinging Sixties’. It wasn’t long before LA called, and Hockney gained attention for her ‘Pop’ treatment of such subjects as portraits and swimming pools. Recently returned to live in Bridlington from where she has been producing landscape paintings with her i-pad.



So, how did I do? (If you don’t want to see the results till you’ve watched it on I Player, look away now)


Well, my initial happiness at being given the subject ‘An Andy Warhol Portrait’ for the Signature piece soon evaporates as I realise it is not as easy as it looks. I make the mistake of trying to be clever and do a modern take on the ‘Marilyn Diptych’, using Miley Cyrus as the subject. I’ve

Marilyn Diptych

Marilyn Diptych

had better ideas. Especially seeing as I didn’t check the composition of the photo emulsion you coat the silkscreen with in order to make the printed repeat heads.  It was  water-based and because I was using acrylic paint, the photo stencil started to break down after five or six prints. I managed to keep it together by plugging the holes with newsprint, but it still came out looking more like Simon Cowell than Miley.

I was dreading hearing Barry Chuckle announce ‘Painters put down your brushes, time’s up!’

Nick was particularly scathing, saying he’d never seen anything so … er I think the word was incompetent, in his life; and seemed to enjoy pointing out that where the failed stencil allowed the ink to run through and mix with the paint it left rather a soggy bottom.

David was much kinder. She thought my textures were ‘scrummy’ and that the painting as a whole had ‘lots of bite’.

However, I get the wooden spoon. Peggy wins this particlar challenge with a cunning portrait of David Cameron painted as though it was one of Warhol’s Death and Disaster series.


So on to the next test, the Technical Challenge.

Which is, explains Paul Chuckle, to produce an altar panel, that uses quatrocento icongraphy, space, colour, symbolism and media. Piece of cake. Now where’s my recipie for gesso and my Lapis Lazuli?

I decide to paint a Baptism of Christ on a poplar panel with egg tempera. Once I’m back from Poplar with the panel, I don’t have a lot of time left, but I‘m still feeling quietly confident. I am using a traditional gesso with a rabbit skin binder (phew!) chalk and some white pigment to create a suitable substrate on the poplar in order to use my egg tempera. It is a tricky business, but once all the layers are dry, I begin painting with the egg tempera; which is basically ground pigment mixed with egg yolk.

I work fast, using Piero Della Francesca as my model. I have Christ and his cousin in the foregound in naturalistic space with the landscape, more banks of the Arno than the banks of the Jordan, sweeping away into the distance. I even manage a bit of hidden geometry as I work in two circles of equal radius, centered on the Dove From Above and the water droplet as it falls onto Christ’s forehead. Adding faces to these circles to create happy and sad emoticons, in retrospect wasn’t a good idea.

Piero Della Francesca Baptism of Christ

Piero Della Francesca Baptism of Christ

The wheels begin to come off, or rather the paint begins to come off as I make my way to the judging table. Bugger! My gesso is lifting off the panel and taking the paint with it.

Nick: ‘This one is a clumsy and crass collision between the traditional and the contemporary’ (See? I knew the emoticons were a bad idea)

‘So it’s Post-Modern then?’ I suggest helpfully.

‘What we’re trying to say’ adds Hockney ‘is that when you do a pain’ing like this, (She doesn’t pronounce the ‘t’) at this level you’ve got to get everything right. I mean this pain’ing would look fine in a little gallery in Harrogate as a Renaissance pastiche, but not really here.’

‘No not really here’ echoes Nick.

I am beginning to wish he would shut his cakehole.

Alison takes the Technical with her paintings of scenes from the life of St. Peter done as pradella panels.

I am beginning to get a bad feeling about this.


And so, onto the final test, the Showstopper Challenge. Barry and Paul send the judges out of the studio and I close my eyes as they announce our final test: ‘Domestic Interior’ and ‘No slacking’. That’s all they say. Oh crikey! I wasn’t expecting this.  Alison has made a flying start and is working on a still life on a table in front of a window, showing the flowers from the cottage garden outside.

Eggs, bacon and a slice. Do you want anything else with that love?

Eggs, bacon and a slice. Do you want anything else with that love?

Peggy goes for an ambitious composition, loosely based on Velazquez’s ‘Old Woman Cooking Eggs’ – ‘Old Woman Making Sushi’ while I go for a Georges Braque/Patrick Caulfield-inspired kind of Synthetic  Cubism Still Life with collaged real objects. What could go wrong?

Patrick Caulfield

Patrick Caulfield


Well. Quite a lot as it happens.

I tackle a canvas which is way too big in the time allowed and I don’t fully resolve the rich textured surfaces of Braque with the flat minimalist colour areas lifted from Caulfield. ‘Oh dear oh dear’ says Paul as he looks from my painting to the clock and back again. I scratch some scraffito passages down the left hand side which look OK. The paint looks lovely and buttery but it is obvious I have bitten off more than I can chew, even if it is al dente (or do I mean impasto?) Anyway, the result is more ‘Dog’s Breakfast’ than idyllic interior scene.

Finally, the Chuckle Brothers put me out of my misery and we are banished from the studio as the judges deliberate.

It doesn’t take them long. They emerge from the studio and Barry makes the announcement.

‘It has been a hard-fought contest, hasn’t it Paul? But there can be only one Master Painter, so without further ado, the winner of The Great British Paint Off 2013 is …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. Alison!’

Well I could see it coming frankly. Alison gets the trophy and I get to clean the brushes.

I’m done with painting. I reckon I’m going to dust of my Mum’s old cookery books and have a go at some baking.

©Andy Daly 2013..

Unfortunately it has not been possible to show any of the paintings produced in the competition due to copyright issues (Phew!) Thanks to all the Veroccio Gang Summer 2013, The St. Ives Gang Autumn 2013, Maggie, Rob, Pat, Gary, Alice and Marion.


Warning. May not be suitable for persons of a nervous disposition.

Those that know me will understand that I can’t shy away from tackling difficult subjects head-on. It may make me seem brusque, forthright even, but I am always to be relied upon to call a spade a you-know-what, especially if I am using it to beat the bushes round the houses where we live.

With this in mind, I am musing about the idiosyncracies of a product which can be found, in luxuriously quilted form all the way down the quality spectrum to something known as Izal: a name to strike fear into the hearts of stout men and women.

That’s right: it’s the thorny issue of toilet tissue: Bog Roll, Bum Fodder*, Daily Mail –call it what you will

Did you know that the use of toilet paper was apparently first recorded in 6th century China, while specifically manufactured toilet paper began to be mass-produced in the 14th century? I didn’t either, but I didn’t allow it to disturb my reverie, during which I was reminded of the stuff they made us use at school; the aforementioned Izal.

To be fair, it made great tracing paper

To be fair, it made great tracing paper

In fact, now I think about it, Izal should have made more of the ‘message to user’ concept. Instead of the ‘Now Please Wash Your Hands’ reminder on every sheet, they could have been much more imaginative and exploited the opportunities for sponsorship. Something like very 50 sheets: ‘This sheet entitles the bearer to sex at dinner time’ (Sex was our shorthand for ‘seconds’ –  don’t get excited) Or  ‘Rush to your local corner shop where this voucher may be exchanged  for ten Benson and Hedges  Soveriegn.’

Or perhaps they could have done something in the style of appropriate  Love Hearts’ messages ‘Big Boy’ or  Squeeze me’ for instance.


At school in lessons, we not only had to ask for permission to go, (fair enough) but then the teacher, Mrs. Haight-Childe would count out in front of the class the number of sheets felt appropriate for the job (so to speak) I remember a lad called Paddy McDaid returning from the toilet, and walking up to the teacher’s desk and putting down ten sheets of Izal, for all the world like some Kansas City high roller laying down 10Gs at the card table and saying:

‘It’s OK Miss. I only farted.’

(*Fodder bum of course. I attended the same Upper School my Dad taught at. Although our paths rarely crossed he did cover one of our Geography lessons. We were doing some tosh about types of farming. At one point my mate Huggis put his hand up and with a frown said ‘Sir, what’s fodder?’ Without batting an eye my Dad said ‘Fodder Cows’)

A Birthday Poem



It is strange: knowing you are there, nearer home than here, which is after all home, but almost a world away. In point of fact, here you’re definitely not there, but sometimes you’re not really here either. Not in your heart of hearts. Mind you, I can understand why. I suppose there are many many times that you are there when you are here. And it doesn’t help when people go ‘there there’, because you might not want to be there there, you might want to be here here or you might want to be a bit there or a bit here: a kind of cosmopolitan here there. The main thing is that no-one is nowhere, you’re always somewhere. Here, there … or thereabouts.


Andy Daly 2013

In Conversation. Is Iconic a much over-used word?

The first in a new series in which leading academics in their field discuss contemporary cultural issues. To start us off we are joined by Stephen Paul Murphy, Emeritus Professor in the Faculty of Design, University of South East Manchester. (Formerly Altrincham College) A man of many parts Murphy held the British Wrestling Board’s Welterweight crown two years in succession, and still wrestles under the name ‘Skull Murphy’. Joining him in conversation today is Andy Daly, PHD, reader in Semiotics, Department of Visual Language, University College Stratford. (Formerly Hackney Technical College) By coincidence, also a wrestler,  he held the European Light and Light Middleweight belts before hanging up his leotard in 2008. He still does the occasional demonstration bout under his ‘nom de guerre’ Scrubber Daly.

Welcome, gentlemen the floor is yours.

Andy Daly I’m sick of hearing the word ‘Iconic’ used to describe everything. I swear if I hear it one more time, I’m gonna lose it.

Stephen Murphy Chillax, man.

Andy Daly Well, it does my frigging head in. Three times on one item on Breakfast TV this morning.

Stephen Murphy You need to get out more.

Andy Daly Yeah, but where? If I go into London, I go to the tube station, an iconic example of 1930’s Modernism. Look at the tube map, Harry Beck’s iconic solution to the non-topographical representation of the tube layout. Get on the train, look down at my Air Wair boots, an iconic British design classic. Go to Trafalgar Square, home of the iconic statue … See what I mean?

Stephen Murphy So you get out but you can’t help yourself from seeing the iconic, that’s the problem with the artistic mind. You just need to walk around looking at your feet, then there’s only one iconic to think about – unless your socks are iconic as well, then you’re goosed. Oh! and I bet the jeans are Levis. Shit I see the problem.

Andy Daly Exactly! … Not as simple as it seems is it? I even went to the quack. He said I had a classic case of one of the 21st century’s iconic complaints …

Stephen Murphy What does it mean anyway?

Andy Daly Well, its epistemology clearly relates to the word Icon which …

Stephen Murphy Never mind all that bullshit Daly, what does Wikipedia say?

Andy Daly It says, and I quote: “A cultural icon can be a symbol, logo, picture, name, face, person, building or other image that is readily recognized and generally represents an object or concept with great cultural significance to a wide cultural group.” I guess you could say it sort of means ‘a classic case’

Stephen Murphy Damn. Wait a minute, so your doctor was telling you you had a classic case of a classic case?

Andy Daly And it also says (get this) “In the media, many well-known manifestations of popular culture have been described as “iconic”. Some writers say that the word is overused”

Stephen Murphy Hot damn.

Andy Daly I know what! Let’s get everybody to substitute an ‘R’ for the ‘C’ – Then it becomes ‘Ironic’. That’s better. Everything can be ironic instead: that will be much more Post-Modern and fun … and ironic!

Stephen Murphy Sounds like a plan!

Andy Daly Fancy a beer?

Stephen Murphy Is  grass ironic?

Andy Daly Errr.. I don’t think … Never mind.

Next week Melvyn Bragg and Joan Bakewell, and the topic under the microscope is ‘Why don’t you seem to see white dogshit around these days?’

© Andy Daly 2012

Waste Of Ink

I can’t help help feeling partly responsible for this. As those who know me will attest, many is the time I have droned on to anyone who will listen extolling the virtues of tattoos and tattooing – particularly since having mine done on October 14th 1983, by Ossie ‘The Wizard’ at his studio on Byker Bridge, Newcastle Upon Tyne. I don’t know about ‘The Wizard’ bit: he looked more like a washed-up darts player. It cost £5.00. It should have been £7.50 but ‘The Wizard’ didn’t have change.

What is it? Well, it is a rose on my left shoulder. Not terribly good really, but it strikes a nice balance between the raffish old-fashioned Portsmouth back-street style of tatoo, and a more modern sensibility in which my rose (or red cabbage – it depends on how I’m holding my arm) becomes symbolic: of fidelity and honour – my talisman.

Which brings me back to my point. Why are there so many crap tattoos around? These days it is rare to see an untarnished body, one without some dreadful scrawl on it: dainty risqué  scars on female ankles, hips and shoulders. Lads with tribal black patterns, they have no understanding of but which seem to hint at “I went to Tahiti, and all I got was this stupid tattoo”or” I’m with dickhead”.

When you see real tattoo mastery, the Japanese Irezumi, for instance, where the tattoo, its imagery and execution over musculature are ineluctably bound with the social and political stance of its wearer – or at least it was during its heyday of the 1850s and 60s. Much of today’s ‘flash’ (pre-prepared designs which usually decorate a studio walls, and which the client selects, usually by number) pales into insignificance.

I am reminded of a lachrymose Scot who happened to be in the bed next to me when I was in hospital for my last bunch of surgery. As he tearfully explained to the surgeon. His main concern, despite the severity of the operation was not haemorrhage, infection, or possible paralysis, but the thought that the scarring would ruin the tattoo on his neck. He was delighted to find on regaining consciousness and his subsequent return to the ward from the recovery room that his fears had been unfounded.

His tattoo? It was a series of dashes which formed a line around his neck, a small image of a pair of scissors and the legend “Cut Here”.

Cut here

Cuando calienta el sol aqui en la playa

Remember that?

Great song; possibly The Fania All Stars or Celia Cruz. You might recall it  issuing from a dreadful ’60s or ’70s radiogram in some distant relative’s front room, or if you were unlucky, your own. Sunday afternoon Family Favourites.

Well the sol had caliented quite enough on the beach this morning, when for the umpteenth day in succession there were The Phantom Chairs. No, not a Post Punk group in the mould of The Psychadelic Furs or The Thirteenth Floor Elevators, but six beach chairs arranged in “primer fila” or front row taking up some three metres of prime beach space – and as ever, uninhabited, which is how they  remain every day. That’s it! Enough is enough. I scurried up to the flat and dug out a piece of hardboard and a crayon, with which I fashioned a sign “Alquiler sillas €2” (chairs for hire 2€) On return to the beach, I propped it up in front of the chairs

Business was brisk, and within twenty minutes, I had them all rented to the tune of 12€ – more than enough for a couple of beers and some tapas. So we skipped off for same, only stopping  to listen in to the growing hubbub which was developing twixt the chairs’ owners and their ‘sitting tenants’ (so to speak) before turning the corner.

However, before I get too self-congratulatory over this victory over breach of beach protocol, etiquette and bad manners, I ought to admit only half of this story is true. I’ll leave it to you to work out which…


Home from Spain.

Oh how nice it is to be back on English soil. Well, runway asphalt at the moment, as we wait to be transported from Gatwick’s South terminal to the North terminal.

And how wonderful to hear English spoken again;

‘Alright, can you make sure you all got your hand luggage. If you leave something I can’t come back for it, isn’t it?’

Ah! a good cup of tea. Even if it does cost the equivalent of a medium sized African state’s GDP at the North Terminal Starbucks.

Meanwhile those nutty Spaniards are tying rags to bull’s horns, which they then douse in petrol, set alight and let them and bull loose into the barricaded streets of a village, where dozens of mainly young men wait to torment the bull further while trying to evade collecting a wound that might see them bleed to death. They lost one this year!  A bull. True! It was somewhere like Fuente Espalda de los Cojones in Castilla La Mancha. One of these bulls went missing. I mean how can a 1,800 lb bull go missing for … well it was three days by the time we came home – they still hadn’t found it! – in a village of 1600 people with sealed roads? They say it’s a centuries-old tradition; so is Morris Dancing.

Given that they were well aware of the size, strength and general demeanour of their opponent you tend to feel they could have chosen garments which offered a teeny bit more protection than Shorts, vests, trainers, neckerchiefs and wristbands.

Ahhhhh! Cosy Eastenders, Corrie and X factor. Like a comfy pair of slippers.

The banter with chirpy, colourful Cockney Cab Drivers, after you ask them to take you to Ruislip from Heathrow. Now that’s entertainment.

Sensible drivers.

What about parking in Spain? Unbelievable… and when there’s a football match they park anywhere they want: on roundabouts, bus lanes, pavement corners. The police seem to do nothing. Most irresponsible.

And that’s the Old Bill themselves on a traffic island

Traffic chaos on match day Valencia

A curry!


The Queuing! There wasn’t  decent queue the whole fortnight (Apart from the one above). And what good is arriving in a shop and asking ‘Ultima Por Favour?’ Ultimate what? Hits of the eighties? TV Cops shows? How are we supposed to know?

Sainsburys/CO-OP/Morrisons/Tesco/Budgens their appetising and rich collection of produce. Food treated respectfully.

Whereas in Spain they have that stupid excuse for a  festival where all they do is throw tomatoes at each other! I ask you. With all the hunger and need on the planet; what a waste. And dangerous too. There are literally hundreds of Japanese tourists injured every year because inconsiderate participants – probably drunk – have thrown their tomatoes without even openening the tin first!

Yes, how nice it is to be back on English soil.

And the rain! God it’s good to see some rain.

And some more rain … and more: drip drip, drop drop …

Oh how nice it is to be back on ….

© Andy Daly 2011

Art Attack


Finally! Today I get round to E Mailing my tutor with the outline plan for my dissertation. I’m studying Fine Art at University and typically, like all Art students, can’t string a written sentence together and resolutely leave any written work until the very, very very last minute. So, anyway I finally send the wretched thing off as an attachment to a grovelling E Mail in which I plead forgiveness for the lateness of my proposal. It is still a long way from being finished (The Plan that is) but I am pleased with my morning’s efforts and satisfied that it is just enough to keep her off my back, treat myself to a lazy lunch of fish and chips and a couple of beers.

Unable to open this

The reply from my tutor is terse.

“My dear Andrew, thank you for taking the time to send me your proposal. I read your letter” (at arm’s length holding my nose” – she might have added) “However, I was unable to open this.” Referring to the attachment. “Unless of course you actually meant to send me a line of tiny grey boxes, surrounded by the letter a.”

Bugger it! 

Bugger it! The file must have corrupted. A bit of quick thinking needed here:


“But Miss Bliss” I reply. “I am surprised you didn’t spot the fact that it was  a reproduction of Ephraim J. Goodenough’s entry for the Turner Prize “Opus 32”, which is (and I quote) “A clinical, objective/ introspective examination of the Post-Modern dilemma which faces us all: Concrete or concept?”

I am beginning to warm to my theme.

“As sophisticated viewers – or consumers of visual statements: both contemporary and historical (once known as ‘Art’) Are we more likely to respond to the concrete (ie. a physical entity which exists in this world or any other, including – but not exclusively the mind of their makers)  Or do statements which exist wholly and totally in the cerebellum and visual cortex of the visual entrepreneur (once known as ‘Artist’) meet our dietary aesthetic needs?”

“In short,”  I gather myself triumphantly, “Are we to find visual/intellectual sustenance in the form of objects or ideas?”

And now the weather: It’s looking decidedly wintry as gales (some gusts reaching up to 70 mph)  together with sleet, snow and now horseshit begin to spread across the country.

© Andy Daly 2010

(Please note the author takes no responsibility for pandering to any form of stereotype. In addition,  the characters in  this story bear no relation to anyone living or dead, and especially not the author) (Nor any of his Tutorial staff: University of Newcastle Upon Tyne 1979-83, University of London Goldsmiths College (1984-5) University of London Institute of Education 1995-6)

The Big I Am

A month in the life of Yours Truly (June/July 2008) as seen through ‘Facebook’ status posts.

(Click and then use magnifying glass to enlarge if needed: See if you can spot the joins! I’ve been very lazy – should be easy!)

© Andy Daly 2010