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Untitled (Madman’s Head II) 2014 Oil, crayon on card 50 x 70 cm


ŠKoi Boamah all rights reserved.

site: koiboamah.com





DEATH NOTES. What draws me to Art is life, the essence of what it means to live on the edge of sanity, at the brink of joy and pain. I want to think, feel, experience. In the vein of Picasso, HervĂŠ Guibert, Jean-Michel Basquiat, George Condo and Dostoevsky I want to develop art through innovation. What draws me to this almost obsessive fascination with Art is an appreciation for the psychological aspects of the human psyche and the spiritual body also. My Art means freedom, creativity, darkness, light, and survival. 7


Over the course of ive years, the sullen girl was seen at varying degrees from the window of the mental hospital overlooking Hackney Park. Perhaps it was the fact that she was attractive that had Bobby and myself quite enamoured with the sullen girl in the window. She had a short pixie haircut, quite olive skin to maybe conirm an exoticness too. London at the time was not as in the throes of diversity, as if today, so colour was more noticeable then. I remember the irst time I noticed the sullen girl. The room was on the second loor of the hospital and she stood in the window half naked, looking as if into a void. Where was she looking into? I thought. What was she looking at? Although impressionable I could yield to the idea of privacy with it being a mental hospital and being aware of mental problems through Liza. Our parents were just against sending her away to a mental institution, in order to not get institutionalised. Though the climate of that situation had long been descending for Liza. Intensifying as time went on I told Bobby about the sullen girl in the window. Though Bobby didn’t understand initially the clamour of the situation as I watched him watch the sullen girl in silence, shaking his head and then asking: …So? Isn’t there something beautiful about the girl, I said, the way that she is mopping about the room seemingly always sad as if she were the pain of the world and she had experienced a multitude of universes? I thought Bobby, who too had also just inished reading To Kill a Mockingbird, would understand the sophistication of the situation, but he failed to see the point of it all. Deeming the sullen girl quite pointless and boring, initially. It wasn’t until two weeks later that Bobby had caught the bug. Apparently, he had watched the sullen girl in the window for two hours one day and she held the same expressionless face expression whilst mopping about her room. She would always pull the curtains. This continued for a while until it was Bobby that mentioned that he wanted to talk to her, I thought that Bobby was quite infatuated with her too. I agreed, being that it had been so many years of the watching who was only known as the sullen girl in the window. It was one Thursday that we decided that we would act as if we were visitors. But irst we would have to ask around and ind out her name, which was dificult, mostly because the sullen girl at the window never left the hospital, she would take leave only to the garden with the nurses and the unknown reasons why this was, stupeied us: What could she have done? Or what was she capable of doing? Our plan, in our infant minds, was to get to know the girl over a long period of time and perhaps for her to fall in love with one of us and joyfully take our hand in marriage. How naïve, as we couldn’t even get the girl’s name as the other patients, that had leave, that we asked couldn’t tell us her name, and there was no other way of inding out. So, we were stuck just watching the sullen girl in the window, like a lost passage of time or an episode unable to be duplicated. The Sex Addicted Virgin 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80cm


he brown bag sat on the edge of the counter, dripping with oil, the old man had placed it there. He stood there momentarily in silence before ordering. I’ll have a cappuccino, he said. No sugar, I don’t like sugar as they usually have enough sugar in them anyway. A waiter with ringlets responded irst, as the other waiter closest to him was shuling about not paying much attention. he old man then sat down in the corner of the café below a painting on the wall. Sir you’ve forgotten your bag sir, said the other waiter that had been shuling about. Without speaking the old man stood up and walked towards the paper bag and picked it up. he waiters then started whispering to each other, ater a few minutes of this the old man stood up and started waving at a passer-by on a bike. he passer-by fails to pay attention to the road ahead and is hit by an oncoming car. Everyone in the café, albeit the old man rushed outside to care for the passer-by. he ambulance soon came and picked up the passer-by, but not before one of the waiters (with ringlets) confronted the old man: Why did you distract this woman? Do you know her? And at irst the old man was quiet, and said nothing, merely looking outside the window at the antics. he old man then said: I didn’t know her, no. he waiters start feverishly talking, in their mother tongue, because both were from Bordeaux originally. he old man was then heard saying, rather quietly: un peu d’anarchie, brightens up the day. —2018 Screaming in the Park 2016 Acrylic & Pastels on card 60 x 80 cm Female Nudes II 2014 Oil on canvas 150 x 110 cm Pg. 10, 11

he artist is using darker tones with less deined lines and igurative shapes that allude to other painters, "I always look at Karel Appel, Picasso and Basquiat as the painters that most inspire dreams and these female nudes are a relection of my own ideas and those of the thought that, what if Picasso was inluenced by the night life of East London? Darker more melancholy, esoteric, in a way."




After Goya & Bernhard’s Glenn Gould Came Her On Wood Grain...(Music Be the song of life, so sing on?) 2014 Oil on canvas 125 cm x 75 cm

Anorexic Model with Blue Gloves 2017 Oil On card 50 x 70 cm



Hello Death 2014 Pencil, crayon on pastel paper 29 cm x 21 cm Pg. 16

Portrait of the Inner Turmoil of Her 2014 Oil on canvas 30 x 40 cm



Untitled (Murderer in blue suit on a blue bench at night) 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm There seems a loud serene atmosphere here. As on one hand the canvas only bares a single igure wearing a blue suit with red accents. He sits on a blue bench quite still. Though the loudness comes from the question of where the man has arrived from? Why is he wearing what he is wearing and why the red accents in the black expanse? A narrative painting that bares reminisces to Botero’s darker works.

INSPECTOR ULISES. It had been 72 hours since. He looked at his watch and then at his mother and shock his head. The realities of the situation seemed exhausted but nothing had been laid to rest, all that they knew was that Alfred had been seen in conlicting parts of the City at the same time, so either voluntarily disappeared or was kidnapped. The whole notion of kidnapping only arose by the sheer lucidity of a disappearance, for him and his mother. Although, it could be said, the writing was on the wall for the issue at hand : though nothing could be certiied, yet... thought Inspector Ulises. —2013


Untitled (Paid) 2014 Oil on canvas 150 x 110 cm


he Artist decided to perhaps reference Artist as Karel Appel and de Kooning as the painting is energetic in use of paint strokes and has an eclectic narrative, "I decided to utilise a more cut up technique having been reading my own writings along with those of Mario Vargas Llosa and William S. Burroughs."

Portrait 2017 Pencil on paper A3



Disembodied Youth (After Miró) 2016 Oil on Canvas 160 x 120 cm Pg. 22, 23

The Artist has, at once, demystiied the body, and on another turn shrouded it in darkness. The colours are dark, reminiscent of Miró’s darker works and the lines are too. The Artist comments on the work: ‘The body, its image, its form is very important, particularly now. I feel the youth are less knowledgeable of their own bodies and this in turn is effecting lifestyles and society at large. This work comments on this turn of events.”

Untitled (Paradoxical Reality) 2014 Oil, crayon on card 60 x 80cm

This enigmatic portrait is continuing along the theme of religion. The Artist comments: I wanted to just childishly illustrate my feelings using a number of paintings within one painting, having always loved Matisse’ use of this technique. And continuing to discuss topics I had been before.



Untitled (She Was a Little Upset) 2014 Oil on canvas 75 x 125 cm

The work, comments the Artist, is a portrait of wrath; the beauty of sauntering moods and a quiet scream. Research of contemporary painters may perhaps have been undertaken, including Alex Katz at the Tate Modern, into what is the Artist’s portrayal of what may soon become enveloped in the portfolio’s iconography, hysterical realism.


ORIGIN OF COTTON. [Derick Tony, stood outside 7th Avenue Manhattan New York, August 2012] Dude had it coming to him, he’s a jerk. And I can’t act like I didn’t buy it at irst, or that I didn’t think it was what I soon thought it was, because it all seemed legit. his is New York people are just all types of strange. Look at that guy over there, you see the one with the pink rain coat on, woolly hat mumbling. It’s god damn thirty degrees out here! But then again you’ll see a guy like that wearing a suit, that’s probably an Armani suit probably walking up to one of his many many bitches. And you know he’s got some, because this city is heaving with action, from the junkies, like our missing man, to the suits, every body is in on something. I tell you that much. But if you’re asking when I irst met him, fuck it I can’t remember. You journalists think like that I’m just out here trying to make a buck, I barely have time to think all analytically and as if there’s something stuck in my butt cheeks -- this isn’t a Sunday night and I don’t keep a diary. I've got work to do. —2014


FIGURES IN TANGIERS. hey had never heard so much silence in all their lives. he call to action beitted the day ahead, the leaves as they were yesterday, the day as it were for the tragic ambiance of death looming like Voltaire’s breath amongst rituals, happenings. Twisted foliage. In that the motion of action was one in which the triviality of adventure bore this reckoning as if Voltaire had arrived back like a thief in the night to derive concepts from gardens and so on. he day was very much catastrophic to the event of the very moments that just passed, as ambiguous as that could be it seemed as if the two were not coinciding with each other but rather senselessly wrestling: the moment was one thing, the day another. Lee loomed around the head of the bed consumed by a feeling of defeat. Pacing along the head of the bed shaking a head full of thoughts constipated about the day and the moment. Each cosignatory thought ofset by the call to prayer—the loud rapturous sounds of the exotic call to prayer. Festering around the rivalled altar of those moments for then, it seemed, the sun started to stream through the window into what appeared like that very same spot, as if cold exactitude sequenced in motion. he rain could fall. he drip of the water now louder and less beitting of its entitlement in life. A river now. he stairs creaked like memories. It was not as if the very memory of the moment consigned Lee to a dormant thought of abyss, it was that the moment had to be considered amongst the day, which was now torn, and blighted. he rigorous sounds of life all now fastening around a noose that harboured only one sensibility: the romance of death. Lee took two steps towards the edge of the bed, the voices seeping through the open window. he front door swung closed. he fruitless, but necessary, task of arranging thoughts conspired against the chaos of memories. he night time is the only time is it not? he richness of the sounds of the texture of life sprung into a sort of— Only a poet can upstage your own thoughts. No, no, I’m saying I agree with you. But did you have to say it with such panache? I guess not, but habits are exactly that are they not? he ornament of the African igure loomed a sense of feeling, just perched on the table. he beauty of abrupt witchery, she thought before pouring a glass of wine down the sink. —2016


Figures in Tangiers 2014 Acrylic, charcoal, pastel on canvas 60 x 80 cm

24 Hours Before The Murder 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm



Study of Valazquez’s Aesop 2013 Pastel on paper 29 cm x 21 cm

Existential Dickhead 2012 60 x 80cm Oil on Canvas



How I feel Hungry 2017 Crayon on paper A4

Riding Coattails 2013 Oil on canvas 80 x 100 cm

The concept of the powers that be and how they interact with one another was what the Artist called his muse for this particular painting. The feeling of this, perhaps, has elements of Basquiat and Dubuffet in tonality. Although the feeling is unique. “I wanted to discuss philosophy and I had this dream, where this picture kept coming to me, so I decided to try and interpret those visions onto canvas: duality is really the concept I went for as opposed to Basquait’s Ride with death, I went for his and Dubuffet’s tonality with my own modern edge.”



Most prominent painters have made a signature Cruciixion and this is my impression, said the Artist. It is important to note this is smaller sketch for a larger painting that the Artist has highlighted as "Powerful and moving". Research had been done of Francis Bacon's colours, Karel Appel's power and Gauguin's supple strokes. A brilliant work. Apolitical and more inclined to call himself spiritual this religious work is a part of a series - another of Islam, for example - depicting the artist's thoughts on such themes. Sketch 1 of Cruciixion 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80cm 1016 mm X 1524 mm



he Artist has been inluenced heavily by de Kooning's Pink Angels. And has reconstructed his second Cruciixion painting to an even more Postmodern edge. he colours are wild, bright and salubrious. And considers a brighter side of the Artist's persona. (Jesus & Magdalene) ode to de Kooning [Hysterical Realism] 2016 Oil on Canvas 1016 mm X 1524 mm

MORELLI. he unfortunate aspect of an onion, as I have mentioned, is the lack of artiiciality: there is no diagnosis for artiiciality; there is only some elements of solutions that enable a space to achieve a sense of labyrinth and a simple confusion. Like Charles Mingus the sound of a simple confusion is the very basis of beauty but none more important than thinking and achieving thoughts on the banana. —2013

Average John at Stripclub (Hockney) 2017 Acrylic on Canvas 150 x 100 cm Pg. 40



UNDERWORLD. ‘A man cannot always be estimated by what he does. He may keep the law, and yet be worthless. He may break the law, and yet be ine. He may be bad, without ever doing anything bad.’ - Oscar Wilde, The Soul of a Man Under Socialism Romanian Argy Bargy This story was told from Daviid Orlansky to Speak McGee and then so on. And it goes as this: Sophie (or that’s the name we’re going to use for the story) manoeuvred through the, near empty, bar collecting pound coins in a plastic cup. She stumbled, or we can say stumbled, but momentarily transixed is perhaps the word that best described this—moving to the end of the bar with these thoughts as she continued to peer. Romanian Argy Bargy Continued 22:18 Friday, 16th September Apart from how much I want that, I don’t want that. What thingiemagidge? And before she could answer Paulai she had moved towards the pole to gyrate, swathe— Producing a holistic debauchery that organised itself as congenial amounts of lust—all in attendance parading around her antics; many in reverence to her and for one thing her … stringy red number, (said a corpulent man on the right hand corner of the bar of her attire.) And she aint half got an ass on her. The mirrors relected the mystique of the night time hysteria: the hosting of the variant degrees of miscreant. As Sophie had been distracted by Cardell Rose, a minor poet and vagabond from around the area, sitting in the left hand corner of the bar at the back, she had moved from the right hand side of the bar due to his presence. For one thing, though he called himself a poet this was to be considered a slight force of conciliatory factors—aiding and abetting in small movements ixated around a local squat sequenced such thoughts in him. We won’t partake in those issues right now but the consequence of socialism, anarchism and downright nihilism clearly betrothed the situation and an attitude that conspired against much and stood for even less. Sophie swung her hips, — Round round baby round round spend a night on me (her song)


— before the DJ asked the audience for a round of applause for her. Gathering her red spandex piece and her thoughts (her expression had taken on a frozen morgue inliction— tight cheeks and a prim lipped inish—not that many of her observers were looking at her face however though if they did they would have noticed this) she mumbled to herself as if a mantra, Diavoli vin ca ghicitorilor, which had in fact been passed down from her Grandmother (Ibel Ransky) who had died in her teenage years to leave her rather defenceless against a life she did not want to lead. Ransky This, Ransky That Ibel Ransky married young. At eighteen she was mature enough to fathom the consequence of marriage as not just one for love but of a sort of social trajectory. And she made it so she chose well, Adamiir Ransky’s family owned land in three separate places and they even owned a farm in Prague. From a social perspective she ascended the ranks of class, said members of her rather subordinate (to a different class) family. After they married they moved to Bucharest where Ibel became pregnant, not out of nowhere of course (Jesus wasn’t born), but she bore Coco Ransky. And from the beginning of Coco’s upbringing she wore clothes from stores bought in the best neighbourhoods in Bucharest. And was told stories based on Romanian proverbs made up by her mother, such as a burnt child being fearful of ire and one centring on Sophie’s mantra. Coco’s childhood was spared very little in terms of material things but her emotional state resided in a place relected through a different light—by the time she was nineteen she had been institutionalised on four different occasions at Bucharest’s mental sanatorium. Adamiir had no idea what to do, along with Ibel’s alcohol problem that amounted to Adamiir being restricted from certain parts of his own inheritance by way of stubbornness (the view of his family) to ascertain the reason to why he would fall in love with a person as Ibel. His Mother Palova Ransky sought reasons on plenty of occasions, but as if speaking through a veil both were plagued by their own perspectives of what they saw. Palova saw an alcoholic mystic and even used the word witch once to describe her daughter in law, but Adamiir saw, in Ibel, a subtle heart predisposed to life’s excitement and mystique. Both could have been right, but in the truer sense of the word Alcoholic was a word that could have been used, though there could be plenty more too—even a simpleton is multifaceted it should be said. But the sense of her irresponsibility should be gauged here. Examples are so plentiful that Ibel Ransky and Adamiir Ransky soon became a sovereign state in the affairs of the Ransky’s, Palova instead selling their land and distributing it to Casmina Ransky, Romina Ransky and Fydor Ransky. Adamiir’s brother, sister and cousin respectively. By the time years had passed the only thing remained was the name, but nothing of family value behaved itself in a fashion that illuminated strong ties. It was at one of these institutions that Coco Ransky met Dimitri. Dimitri was a poet of no known credit that had been suicidal for years before he met Coco. And their affair was rather short lived. He apparently was hurting (mentally in the form of depersonalisation manifesting in episodes of the sensibility that he was another person, namely a Scientist called Ramonov and physically by way of an impaired inger) from being usurped as a spy in Russia and was battered and bruised by the time he was forced back to Bucharest, apparently (like most stories are). Dimitri wrote one novelistic manuscript (called Sayova (a made up word)) which he carried around in a satchel as if the main character in Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. Coco Ransky, a gentle appreciative soul when not in the troughs of a manic incident, read this and felled or decided (which either way this can be conveyed impartially) that she loved Dimitri. Regardless of Dimitri’s stutter and badly dressed attire, Coco, one night, lirtatiously approached him when he was on one of his rounds pacing up

and down the hospital. The deed of conception was done in a laundry room. But what was most telling was that the day after this happened, as if post coital remorse Dimitri committed suicide by escaping and throwing himself off a seven storey building. That was him. The only thing of value maintained was this manuscript that Coco had stolen the night before. And due to the sensitive nature of the situation not even Dimitri’s surname was known by the services at which he was in the care of or to Coco, the night before they had been much too busy of course. It could even be said that Dimitri’s name was really Ramonov as he often professed. But this relationship (a word only used sparingly) caused the birth of Sophie-no-orthodox-last name. More so, Sophie emphasise on the use of no-orthodox-last-name as by the time she was birthed, Ibel Ransky had disdained the whole notion of the Ransky’s so much so that she disabled and controlled any thoughts or ideas of calling the young baby a Ransky via sheer mindfulness of violent tirades at the subject at large. It so concurred that at this time Ibel had also become bored with marriage—a conluence of alcohol and a mystic’s reading had mitigated its factors. Yes, Ibel had ventured to Moldova to ascertain a reading from an infamous mystic. The mystic, deprived of knowledge, told her that her husband would die and that she would encounter hardships. That year Adamiir in fact died in a car crash that also took Coco. With no leverage with the Ransky’s, albeit no child or husband, our widow’s life was led by the stringent task of Sophie’s upbringing. After Idel Ransky died abruptly of pneumonia Sophie moved around Europe. First to Italy, then Spain, Germany and then to London. In all these locations she had been in the deep recesses of a volume of inluences. She sequenced herself behind Paulai, touching the bare blue buttocks with both hands whilst giggling, before asking Antonia behind the bar for a Gin and Tonic, mentioning that it was on Eddie from earlier on. She then touched her face, mindful to not mess up her make-up. With bags under her eyes Sophie was clearly suffering from insomnia mostly due to the recurring nightmare that she had been having. Which she explained to Paulai the day before as so: There are three goats running in the world where my view looks blue tinted, and then next to these goats are ive igures. One igure is of a man, a body builder type, who is just stood completely still, naked. And the other four igures have been all female igures holding either babies or blue large melons. Maybe it means you want to sleep with your Father, said Paulai of her retelling the day before. She laughed at this but felt a gentle shiver offset by the money she had made that night: six private dances at £20 each. Look, melons. On his shirt?... I need Jack. Are you still having those dreams? Today she giggled at the thought of such a coincidence as seeing melons on a Hawaiian shirt, which added to the necessity of having to avoid Cardell, but the memories then orchestrated into a certain happening that amounted to her shivering and frightfully shaking convulsively, until she had reached the edge of the bar on the loor. —2015


Misklav aka Portrait of Yashu 2015 Oil on canvas 100 cm x 100 cm

MISKLAV. He poured some whiskey in his eye, then downed some milk. Misklav, he said without turning around—the whiskey dripping of his eyelid. —2014



Muse IV 2013 Oil on canvas 60 x 80 cm

Female After Currin 2016 Oil on canvas 100 x 150 cm


Hand study 2017 Pencil on paper A3

Self Portrait of the Poet facing the Lucidity of Life 2014 Oil on canvas 50 x 80 cm

The portrait was painted by the Artist at a time in his life in which he calls “traumatic”. This painting then is a cornerstone of the Artist’s portfolio and one detailing the philosophy of Lucid Documentary more closely. Picasso’s ‘Self portrait facing Death’ was a reference point used by the Artist to illustrate the witty turn between life and death and a proile of the artist as a young man struggling with “awakening” / “lucidness”. 48



THE AGNOSTIC PRIEST. "[The Man] This immense silhouette hides most of the bare lesh..." Alain Robbe-Grillet, The Secret Room A simmering of a realisation: a fatal wound in the vigour and guile of any given day, perhaps brought on by the dead bird that had fallen, to now sit amongst the soils, that sadly claim so many, along with uplifting spirits too— vegetating lowers, and also the wine that after a bottle of has bred questions unanswered—provided in drunken slurs of ‘agnosticism’ that enliven Nun Berry, the new recruit, who looked at the eyes speak before leaving the wine-dark room excited, where, alone now, the dog collar becomes too tight; claustrophobic as the rain falls, the walls feel as if closing in on a psyche at odds with this heavenly pursuit towards: You’ll ind out later… as he looks around for something… —2010

In Lieu of Goya - A Nouveau Roman 2013 Oil on Canvas 60 x 80 cm

The Artist has referenced an Old Master here, Goya, and discusses subjects related to religion: “Yes, I heard this lyric in an Artist called Blu’s music and I started to think about the concept of Agnosticism and a priest: a paradox in a sense and I meditated on this, along with Goya as I still want to illustrate ability in an old school fashion. I can paint.” 51

Study For Theatre Of The Mind 2014 Oil on canvas 150 x 110 cm


THE POET. His wife left him and left a note on the table: I’m leaving, there’s nothing to be done, my heart is just not in the right place, but I’ve left an address at the bottom. But in reality she was just hiding, she explained to her best friend Misklav. Why? He asked her. Because he has never written a poem for me, and we’ve been together for long enough, this way I get one of his poems, plus I can see him through your bathroom window, you see… And so after he read the letter he put the note down back on the table, and she watched him go into the fridge, pour himself a glass of milk and more milk than he would drink when she was around; a full glass full! He’ll get to the letter later, after he has called around maybe. Though the evening came with little happening as she peered through the cramped bathroom window and saw that he had just put the house phone down from a call, she assumed, was either her Aunt or Sister, either way, neither knew her whereabouts and the address was just a post ofice box of her Aunt’s nail shop. His face took on a frown. And he then hobbled towards the living room couch and sat down, before long; maybe an hour or so, he had fallen asleep. No note, she said to Misklav, nothing, he’s snoring on the couch. What’s his problem? I expected at least a short paragraph, but nothing… The morning sunrise came and after waking up she quickly ran towards the bathroom, as she suspected he would wake around this time, in order to paint or read the newspapers, but he was seemingly out of the house and she saw that the shoes he would wear were not by the door but gone. She sighed and went back to the living room. A week has passed and he has not even bothered to write a single letter, having just been eating, painting and doing his usual everyday regime, she complained to Misklav. And so another week then passed.The same, she said. So she waltzed towards the house to confront him. But before she got there, she died. —2011


Plight of Black Man (Hands Up) 2017 Oil & Acrylic On Canvas 150x110cm


ESTRELLA. 1. Distillations of existence seemed to confer a rigmarole at the time: Days seeped into nights and a feeling of nothingness percolated. As if the air felt stif, movements were jaded and trite. 2. I went into work and realized that many papers were unmarked. It’s lucky these students mostly consisted of the lazy ones, I thought along with the notion that I was a running cliché: a depressed French Literature Teacher compiling dusty lampshades, of date cheese, of date condoms. So, I told this class that they would have an extra week to inish their mid-term papers as I hadn’t marked the papers I had promised. heir faces were gleeful and told me everything about the oily stains of happiness, in that it promises much, persists, but in eventuality it fails to truly perform. As I couldn’t tell them that I barely rose from my slumber the days before to read their ramblings of Rimbaud. I always preferred Baudelaire myself but had to play into the façade. 3. At Lunch I met with Daryl Lemar and we went over issues relating to my paper. He said that the paper, based on Depression and French Literature was not up to par. I acted as if I was ofended, but in actuality I knew it was a shitty paper, or at least a fairly shitty paper. And Lunch tasted the way lunch tastes when your taste buds can’t function without a regularity: I ate a tuna ish sandwich. I let half of it in the canteen and walked to my oice to watch Porn. 4. he evening was met with the sinking feeling of having to attend a work do. A colleague’s leaving do. hey got a job at Cambridge and everybody had to act as if they were not at all feeling that it was all quite dubious. Nonetheless, I went along and tried to think up conversations I could have: — How ugly babies were — Why the students were marked for failure, or most of them — How nice the food was, knowing that the food was most probably disgusting — A ballet in Ho Chi Minh — he weather I thought conversations on the weather were the last refuge of the bored. So, in my head, I marked this topic as sceptical. When I arrived ater spending another hour in my oice looking at Milf Porn, the party was quite busy. Earl was even there to my surprise, as he seemed the least able to function in a social environment, most-


ly by the way he would speak to people; eyes lowered, even cowered it could be said and voice masking a slight stutter. I made a b-line for Earl, just to have someone in my corner at a function as this, I thought. But on my way to where he stood I felt pathetic. By the time I made it to his side I was angry with myself. I said hello to him before picking up a bottle of beer. I drank that irst beer down rather quickly and smiled at Earl when I placed the bottle down. I then asked Earl how his life was going, expecting a simple ok, or even a negative shrug. I have a Chinese girlfriend now, he said as I took a few sausage rolls from the table and started to eat them. It would have to be the Chinese wouldn’t it? I thought. he Chinese that would ind room for a man such as Earl, as if they hadn’t taken over already now they had governed a colleague. I imagined that she would boss a man such Earl around easily and call the shots. I also imagined a mail order bride with gangster ailiations. I wanted to know more about Earl’s Chinese girlfriend but before I could get the scoop, per se, Moreen interrupted us. I don’t suppose you have a cigarette? I only had menthols, which prompts me to only smoke a certain amount a day, I said. I’ll take one of those, she said as if I was truly ofering. I pulled out my pack and gave her one. 5. By ten O Clock the party had gotten busy. And I was hovering around the table drinking my forth or ith, I had forgotten by that time. Moreen was back talking with Cathleen. I always thought Cathleen to be one of the ugliest but the only one that would pay much attention to me. Horses for courses. She came over ater inishing with Moreen and started lirting with me. I noticed her large thighs at this point and did admittedly become rather excited. hough her snaggle tooth didn’t help her face. Neither did the mild acne, but she did have decent brown hair. It was down to her shoulders. So I was a little receptive towards her lirting, prodding me and asking me if I was a French spy (an inside joke that had run its course but continued). I kept saying Oui Oui as it was the only French she knew. If I had spoken full out French I think she would have given me this silly innocent and vacant look that she once gave me when I tried. One thing lead to another and by eleven O clock we, myself and Cathleen, were getting quite close: she was


touching my right arm and laughing hysterically at what could merely be meaningless ramblings. She kept using the word Estrella. I assumed she had a Spanish student or something and they used the word around her and now she was consumed by the word. Isn’t it a beautiful word, said Cathleen. I nodded in agreement whilst staring at her thighs. I think it was her that suggested the broom cupboard, as it was the closest room away from the party. She said meet me there in ive and by the time I knew it we were straddling each other in the broom cupboard, her on top of my lap, my hands on her thick thighs, her oily acned face kissing mine. And as she was mounted and straddling she seemed to be jumping ater a few minutes. I noticed jumping. But only felt it when my penis decided that it couldn’t sustain all that pressure. A broken penis. I cried out, Arrgggghh! You’re loving it? said Cathleen. No you’ve broken my penis you pig! And by now she was upset at the words I had used and stood up angrily. I could barely move as she merely walked out of the broom cupboard leaving me alone. 6. he bus to the hospital took about half an hour and when I arrived I contemplated not having a penis forever. he world seemed a diferent hue, as if the only colour it had let was seeping out. I remember walking through the party with a hunch back drunk, feeling all eyes were on me. I wondered whether to ask for help or call an ambulance but I thought that this would cause a scene. I didn’t feel like causing a scene: it doesn’t help in the monotonous endeavour of the working environment, I thought. —2017



The Beauty of Woman - Through Carolina Housani 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80cm

A closer depiction of a character within a longer prose novel: Vanity. L'eveil and a character within called 'Carolina'. This painting is a metaphor trying to convey the feeling - using Kafka's dictum: 'I am a cage in search of a bird.' - and is developing the theme of which the Artist comments: "This painting illustrates that Woman will always be the most interesting thing to me, and perhaps always a mystery - Aren't they?" A narrative painting of Vanity. L'eveil, the series.

NAILA. We met outside Casta del bay. Venezuela was up in arms and everything was going to shit. Caracas was riotous and the whole situation was making me nauseous. It was during this time that Raul decided to intercede, if this is appropriate to say, but intercede for some higher motive that was mostly distant at that time. "Why write when people are hungry?" He said as I sat and a few others sat at Casta del bay listening to him ridicule our existence: what do you mean why write? I thought, now is the time to be a writer, if there was ever a time. But I stood accused because mostly my mind was stuck on the issue of pussy. I tried to apprehend this thought by acknowledging the need for other aspects in a person’s life but could not see the wood for the trees or I could only see the wood. She said her name was Naila after I forcibly said hello. And the way she spoke I could tell she was strange: her disposition 59

a development of Cortazar's La Maga's in Hopscotch. It's not cliche because it's true. In a sense that maybe it was the way her eyes beadily stared from side to side or the slow way in which she spoke or the dishevelled look on her face when I spoke. In fact, I think I had seen her before a week before but I wasn't so sure, due to my libido I was confusing things: days were longer and more distorted since Malia had left, which I blamed on myself, mostly being that I added so much impetus to her life with all the talk that at irst she found ambitious. By the time the relationship had ended with Malia she was no more that meek girl I had been introduced to by Raul and Fernandez. But something altogether different. I asked Naila if she was protesting that day too, and she said no. I assumed she was just apolitical and moved the subject on. The crevice between her thigh and pussy may have been irritating her as she kept scratching as if for a wan. Her jeans were tight. This was when Raul came outside and the situation became muddled. I lost sight of Naila but not before I heard her voice say: a Mousse only wants to be a cow if the cow is fed. That day I kept thinking about these words and about Naila even when Fernandez mentioned that a nurse in the red zone was apparently looking for a group of men to "show her a good time", said Fernandez using air quotes. I knew what that meant but I was so taken by Naila I failed to even desire a turn to join such a fraction or even become annoyed at Raul and what he said about writing and the political landscape. Though like osmosis I knew all these things were impending and pressing on my psyche. That day I was still to do my rounds: irstly, to see Ravel at the psychiatric hospital and then to Paul just around the corner at Casta del bay for his notes on Professor Gianni. Both things were important but I hung around Casta del bay into late into the evening hoping that Naila would pop up again and apologise for going missing. This was, for me, better than seeing Ravel not only slightly manic but also hungrier, as hospitals were struggling just as much or even more than the everyday person. I paced about just outside Casta del Bay and bumped into some protestors still riling from a fracas that apparently saw two Mexicans arrested according to the state funded news. I knew this was propaganda but decided not to tire myself with such thoughts as I was not a journalist at the time nor did I ind the situation of inlation and the economy particularly interesting: politicians were corrupt and we were the purveyors of their handy work. I don't believe in God but if there is one the


stench of this would reach high heaven, I remember thinking just as I passed the protestors and decided to just go and see Paul. When I arrived at Paul's studio I could tell he was frantically painting as there was sweat all over his head and his overalls were smeared with fresh paint. Fresh paint that Raul was waiting to belittle, I thought. Paul let me in and quickly walked back towards a large red canvas. I could hear Raul's words whisper: How is this helping Venezuela? Just as I looked at the canvas. I didn't try and pretend an interest until Paul kept repeating: Of them is born the rainbow. And I distinctly knew these words were of Paul Gauguins Noa Noa. But they were not beautiful at this moment; no, the words echoed a dirty sentiment that lacked true meaning beside that which Paul was giving them. I then asked him about the notes after noticing what looked like them on a table in the corner but Paul was so consumed by this painting that I pretended I was having a conversation with him. There was no response but the repetition of Paul Gauguin's words. By this time, I didn't know what to do but kept thinking that I should do something. But what? Paul was clearly having some sort of breakdown in his studio. Eventually after trying and failing to calm him down by mentioning that he would inish the painting and all would be ine, I decided to call Clara. She is nosey, I thought and likes to put two and two together. I waited half an hour and she arrived and did just as I had thought from the irst thing she said when walking in: "This is due to the political upheaval," she said. "And look at this painting too." I took the notes and left Clara with Paul hoping that if things were to escalate Clara would have the answers that I failed to see as I took one last look at the painting and saw nothing but my failure to meet Naila again. That night I dreamt of Naila. —2017



Portrait 2012 Oil on Canvas 60 x 80cm

(Detail) Disembodied Youth (After Mirรณ) 2016 Oil on Canvas 160 x 120 cm


Playing An Invisible Piano Naked 2014 Oil on canvas 75 x 125 cm

Perhaps inspired by George Condo's series entitled Manic Society this work is inluenced by this and a recent trip.


illuminatus 2014 Pastel on Card 50 x 70 cm

The work is clearly inluenced by Picasso’s ‘Nude Woman with Necklace’

Woman's Neck Extending (After Guston) 2017 Oil & Acrylic On Canvas 160 x 120 cm

This painting has a pastiche that seems to borrow from Guston and its composition is made of a variety of forms that look otherworldly but at the same time look grounded. A masterpiece.

Untitled (Intelligent African Man) 2014 Oil & crayon on card 50 x 70 cm Cy Twombly's use of words and Gottlieb's lines can perhaps be an inluence here. In the perspective of the Artist: "I create Lucid Documents and work such as this is discussing the depth of character and worldliness." Left


in Scotland. This is one of a trip the Artist had taken and is collecting painstaking data of in numerous places.

Ode to Rembrandt 2016 Oil on canvas 18 x 24 inch



Priest at Psychiatric Ward 2017 Acrylic on canvas 150 x 120 cm

Frolicking in a Blue Room 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm


I asked Professor Carlos to read me a passage from the poem that he said he was working on. But Professor Carlos refused. He said that it wasn’t ready and that the opening line was a mess. I remember him using the words a mess, quite vividly. So, it occurred that I was offended by this, I thought ater


we had drunk cognac together and I let to my studio. At my studio I started to think about our relationship, Professor Carlos and me. here was nothing remarkable about our relationship: it was wholly taken by what I perceived as respect, but in hindsight things were not the way things seemed. Put aside his refusal to share his poem and take February of the previous year when I asked Professor Carlos if it would be possible to take Judith, his daughter, on a date when she returned from University. He read me certain passages of Kaka as if to distract me from the question at hand. Out of respect I did not continue to pursue his daughter, but the thought kept coming to mind, especially when she had those problems with Horha and the abuse. I didn’t say anything, just the thought that perhaps I went to him at the wrong time. I clearly had a few choices in the matter. A. I could not say a word to Professor Carlos and just continue to receive his mentorship. Or B. I could tell Professor Carlos that I was ofended. I thought hard about this, and only came to a conclusion one day when I received a call from Professor Carlos. He was clearly sounding in a hurry, as his voice was loud and pacey when he was explaining that someone had stolen a poem of his and clearly ripped it of in an Anthology called Apricot. I was still hurting from all the ofense I had taken, so I spoke dryly. I said that these things are very subjective and quite diicult to ascertain. But he was not really listening to my words or reaction as he asked if he could meet me in the City in order to go to the Author’s house, of which he received an address from a little detective work and the help of his literary agent. I wanted to say no, the same way he would have said no. But I didn’t, out of respect. Of I went into the City to meet Professor Carlos. He looked angry, his right eye was lickering, and he held a scowl. I asked if I could see the poem in question, and he handed me an A4 magazine before telling me to read page 18. I read the poem and thought that it was a terrible poem, and that driving all the way to the Poets house was a terrible idea, but I didn’t

say this. Instead I sat in a silence as he kept going over the ofence he had taken. It made me tremble, the amount of passion he had, but at the same time I also felt that none of that passion was present in the poem. I asked him how long it would be till we arrived there and he said it would be a few hours without a blink of an eye. I dared not ask him what he would do when he arrived there, I just hoped that he would see that I was loyal to him. About halfway there he asked what I thought of the poem, and I felt disingenuous when I said that I thought the poem was pretty good. I remember using the words pretty good as if to see if he would detect a certain sentiment, though he didn’t as he continued to rant about the way in which he established a certain literary responsibility. I remember looking through the window of the car as I received eye contact from another female driver with beach blonde hair. She was just staring as if I was a soap opera, and so I stared back. his went on for a least ive minutes before she started to mouth something. I could barely make out what she was mouthing, but it seemed to be something along the lines of: You fool or You inished. I couldn’t work out which, so I pulled my arm from my side to swear at her, but as I did this I accidently pushed the gear stick into one and caused Professor Carlos to swerve. I profusely apologised but by now he was angry at the whole world: swearing belligerently now. He eventually calmed down, and by the time we reached the Poet’s house he was as calm as when I irst met him, so still angry in a translucent way. He parked the car and we both walked towards this door. It was a mango green door with gold handles and a gold letter box. he professor knocked the letter box quite loudly three or four times, and before long a woman was at the door. he professor asked if the Poet was home and she said that he was in the other room. We waited. he Poet came to the door quite jovially with a smile. A long story short, the professor ends up punching the poet in the face, which caused myself and him to eventually beat the Poet up, quite badly. I didn’t intend to so, but I was forced to do so. His wife called the police, but before they could show up, we were gone. Driving back to the City, in silence. A few days passed and I saw he Professor’s wife at a Market close to the City Centre. She was with another young woman, I initially thought was her daughter but on closer inspection was someone new. I approached them, tapping her back, and she turned around with a distinct look of disgust of a scolded frown. I tried to ignore this, perhaps with the intention of not coming across absurd, or ridiculous. As it seemed absurd to help a grown Professor beat a poet up. Besides I had no idea what she could be upset about. It could have simply been the rainy weather that day, I told myself. I asked her about Pinochet and the whole afair in London, and she seemed unfazed, which was unlike her, as any talk of Pinochet could be met with a range of obscenities, according to Professor Carlos. She then said that she was in a hurry and that she needed to go. I obliged and of she went. It was a week later that I needed a reference. I had just inished my debut novel, and it was always the plan to ask the Professor that I was closest to for a blurb. I called his oice, but the secretary said that he wasn’t

in, which surprised me as usually he would pick up around the time I called. I then started to wonder if this was all the doing of the Poet. I wondered if there were any repercussions for the Professor, but I had not heard anything. Fortunately, I was able to get my book published by a publisher in Valencia, which meant that for six months I lived there. Valencia was beautiful, and I eventually met a girl called Christina, that actually reminded me of he Professor’s daughter somewhat. But she had issues relating to my aggressiveness and we eventually split up and I moved to Malaga in order to write my second novel. It was in the dead of the night that I received the call. It was he Professor’s daughter. She was quiet on the phone, as if not to scare a mouse. We exchanged pleasantries, all under the guise of me wanting to fuck her, but that was neither here nor there. She then said that he Professor had died of pneumonia and that he let me a letter she wanted to me to have. She asked for my address and I gave it to her. A week passed and I continued to struggle with the novel I was writing: the middle part contained too many longueurs for my liking. hough I had time, due to a long contract with the publisher in Valencia. hen there was a knock at my door, of which I thought it was the neighbour at 86 with more complaints about walking and loorboards. But it was he Professor’s Daughter. She looked a bit older, more developed in her thighs and hips. I let her in, and wondered why she would have gone to all the trouble of travelling such a long distance. She said that she had the letter that her Father intended me to have and that it was important to see that I receive it. But I was still angry that he had avoided me, and then there was the weird exchange with his

wife. Regardless, we ended up talking for hours about everything. She said that she had a two-year old with Horha and I told her that I was writing novels, and so on. To consummate such an enjoyable conversation would you like…, I started to say and before I could complete my sentence with the word wine. She said: We could have sex, but what would that solve? Sex is very much a problem solver, I remember thinking and moved my hand to her thighs. We fucked for about an hour, before she commented that she had actually read my irst novel. I found this rather strange that she would say this. hough like the letter I didn’t think I wanted to know what it all really meant. he letter just sat there unopened. She asked if I would open it before she let that night and I said no, perhaps later. It wasn’t until I moved back to the City that I thought to call the Professor’s daughter. I was reminded of her when I saw red haired girl with similar features walking the street. I called her and she asked who I was. I told her, but she said nothing as if she had amnesia or something. I then reminded her about the letter, of which I still hadn’t opened. And she still couldn’t remember. It was beginning to get ofensive so I slammed the phone down ater saying a few swear words. I then began to dread what this letter could say and what this family could to me next. Untitled (Face) 2014 Crayon on paper 100 cm x 80 cm


A Study of The Human Head 2016 Oil on Canvas 100 x 100 cm

A wine-dark background syncopates a vague facial igure and abstract features all aligning similarities between Goya’s igures. A great painting, a masterpiece.

It was the evening of Olof Palme’s death and I was losing my mind. Surely. I am usually quite even when it comes to death, the optimal time is never perhaps as optimal as it seems, and besides death is sort of like a transference; into it goes one form of energy and out


of it comes another, in a way. The time in between is fascinating in that it purposes faith in something; vices, religion, etcetera, but it rarely sacriices its secrets, I thought whilst gnawing away at my inger in the living room. It had to be this way. In the summer of 1986, after I had gnawed away at my inger, Gerard Audine appeared on the television. He was reciting a poem on the BBC. If I can remember the poem, entitled: Fools Pride, was an epic poem in the mould of Rimbaud’s earlier works or Bauldelaire’s Flowers of Evil. This poem had immense power and it apparently provoked disparate consequences throughout Britain with 81 complaints to Ofcom. After he inished reading the poem I had a surge of adrenaline one would usually reserve for Sport of sex, even. There was something kinetic about this poem. It was the mention of Abao Censay that had the poem purchase a sense of mystique. I then tried to ind all the information I could on Abao Censay but could not ind anything. Not a single thing. I had it in mind to join the complainers, but I soon relented. Though so stirred I really wanted to get to the bottom of this poem’s mystery. It kept hitting me like a caustic drum, the words, the rhythm, the cadence. So much so that by the end of the summer I had had enough of wondering about the poem and I wrote a letter to Gerard 77

Audine. According to a little detective work Audine was living in Paris at the time and had said in an interview in French that he wanted his poem, that he read on the BBC, to cause Anarchy. This explained a lot, I thought. Besides it wasn’t as if the poem was so beautiful that it simply reminded me of Rimbaud or Bauldelaire it was the ight in the poem that struck me most. And I said this in the letter along with enquiring about the mention of Abao Censay. Who Abao Censay? What Abao Censay? Like a child being refused cake I was taken by the fact that I received no reply. Though it was until the winter of 1986 that the news reached: Gerard Audine had gone missing. It was noted that he could possibly be in an array of places; Cuba, America, Burma. No one truly knew, it was just mentioned, in the article written by Floyd Mensair in The Times, that he had an uninished contract with Gallimard. I called around, a few contacts in France and they backed up these claims that Audine had in fact decided that he did not want to be a part of the glitterati as he had become but perhaps something altogether different. I searched and searched and found no headway in where he could be, until I stumbled across a man simply known as Jones. Jones was said to be a friend of Audine’s and the last person to see Audine before his departure.


I went to Paris and tracked down Jones, with the thought that if I had so wanted to know about the origins of Fools Pride I shouldn’t have written a letter to Audine, but instead made my way to Paris. Regardless of rueing and misjudging the situation I, along with my gnawed inger, made my way to Paris and found Jones in a beat-up Hotel William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg would have been happy to stay in amongst the heyday of The Beats. Jones, an old wily cat, looked me up and down after I had knocked on his door. And you are? he asked in French. And I gave him some rubbish about being a friend of Audine’s. Anything to get the facts, as this poem had gnawed at me heavier than my cut-off inger, I thought. I don’t know nothing about all of that, he then said. So, I bribed him, asking if ifty Francs knew, and then sixty and then seventy. Finally, a hundred Francs and I had another address to where Audine could possibly be. It was an address in Berlin, according to Jones Audine had decided that he could disappear to Berlin in order to spite the publisher Gallimard out of the books that they had given him a lucrative contract for. I soon arrived, Berlin was in throes of political engagement, but I was not there for that, so I made a beeline for the address Jones had given me under very little duress, I must say. I arrived at the address and lo and behold Audine answered the door quite anti-dramatically. There was something twitchy about his eye that came across as absurd. And he looked a shadow of the man that appeared on the BBC. It was quite clear that something was not quite right with him. I quickly realised that he was drunk too, standing there in a white vest and quite dirty underwear swaying side to side. Just one look at him told me that I wouldn’t get any type of answer out of him. Who Abao Censay? What Abao Censay?


A Deathly Serenade 1 2014 Oil on canvas 150 x 110 cm

The irst of a series of larger paintings - with this work depicting the concept that is the most prominent in the Artist work: Separate states. These three states here depict the poet, painter and prose stylist and how they interact with one another; the 80

conlict and poetry of the excitement and depression - Manic but calm with an edge of wanting to be alone and solace in people. The work is considered by the Artist as a "masterpiece" similar to “Dustheads” by Basquiat. Detail - (Teeth with Cross) The Artist has many intricacies within these paintings and this is perhaps an important one. “Yes, the consequence of enlightenment can be as rewarding as it can be dificult, this is a comment that any religion, here as example the cross, can come with a need to understand that it can take effort, that’s all I was really saying here.” 81

Pascal's Wager Sketch 2014 Oil on canvas 70 x 100 cm

A work detailing the concept of Pascal's Wager. Perhaps commenting that whatever one's belief (one must wager) a single Karmic power is in control. The work is relating to Philip Guston at the Moma. The work was a sketch for a much larger work in progress. 82

A Brothel in Ghent Damntor 2016 Pencil on Paper 50 x 70 cm


Teeth 2016 Oil on Canvas 1016 mm X 1524 mm

Tellingly the Artist has decided to use words in paint and sparing lines. All this is orchestrated in a deep Rothko like blue. The igure is alone screaming and foretelling the lines written. A great painting.

Untitled 2016 Pastel & Pencil on Pastel Paper 40 x 60 cm



Portrait 2016 Oil on canvas 24 x 30 cm


A Lucid Dream 2014 Pastel & Acrylic on card 60 x 80 cm



Floating Sand 2016 Oil & Acrylic on canvas 11.8 inch x 16 inch

Loco Sane 2016 Pencil on Paper A4


THE SPANISH DIRECTOR. “Art like life is an open secret.” — Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet The Spanish Director kept talking about symmetry and lines, and colours. And I listened without thinking much, I kept thinking about how conident he was and that K. was listening even more attentively than me. K., a Phd Philosophy student was always interested in conversation, regardless of whom was talking. We had met at a park bench. I never had the faculty of the desire to hear everything, or if I did it had waned over the years and was in particular decline that day, as I was in Barcelona because I needed to take a break from the lab and all that serious talk of cells, atoms and modulating sound. The Spanish Director then mentioned that he lived close by and that we could go there for another drink, and K. immediately said yes, perhaps taken by the opportunity to spend time with an Artist, a societal persuasion that I am inclined to feel cold by. As most Artist’s, I knew from a former German girlfriend, were selish, narcissistic and cliché. The true Artist’s, for me, were those enthralled or entrenched in a madness of which they were too busy with to work as professional anythings. So, in a way, I had it in mind that I had only met one true Artist and she had killed herself years before in a sanatorium in Mexico. But as I was K.’s guest here in Barcelona I took it that I should go along with his desires. The Spanish Director orders two vegetarian burrito’s. I found this rather absurd, after I asked him if he were vegetarian and him saying no. There came no explanation and so I wondered if he would be as cliché as I imagined him to be. The bar was busy and there was a lot of noise coming from the restaurant area, which meant that we had to speak rather loudly. This was ine by me, as that is what one would come to expect but K. and The Spanish Director were in cahoots on the matter: it was just too loud. We soon left. On the walk to the Spanish Director’s apartment I noticed the opulence of the evening was very much enchanted by a calm balmy night. I lagged behind somewhat, as it seemed to me that K. was interested in this Spanish Director in more ways than one. His eye contact was too irm, and this made me wonder about his sexuality, especially in lieu of a joke he made later before we reached the apartment. Something about a lieutenant, a gynaecologist and a dildo. I didn’t hear the punchline, but sparsely the joke being to do with the dildo being inserted into the male gynaecologist. I knew something was up, especially when upon arrival a woman opened the door and K. looked perplexed. But I was the only one that knew this look. It was the same look he gave me when trying to explain Heidegger’s phenomenological theory earlier in the day, at breakfast. I had a 90

premonition that K. wanted The Spanish Director to suck his cock, but I dismissed this as K. had had many girlfriends, of which I knew of at least two. And, I thought, it shouldn’t bother me that K. was gay, if he was, but that he was keeping it a secret would be bothersome. We entered a lounge area and The Spanish Director brought us some mimosas. I thought how extravagant to be drinking champagne talking to a Spanish Director about his ilms—Of which I had never seen any, regardless of there being at least two I would have been able to get my hands on. It was opulent but at the same time I wasn’t allowing myself to get swept up in all this whole love affair. We all take a seat, with our mimosas in hand, and I can hear the woman that answered the door shufling around the kitchen—the thought occurs that the woman was being mistreated by The Spanish Director and that she was using white witchery to punish him, this occurred as on the coffee table was a book entitled, The White Witch. I noted that it would have been funny if it said The White Witch, a Basic Guide, and laughed to myself, a vacant laugh that only consumed me and had K. and the Spanish Director looking at me as if I was a pig in a library. Oinking around Animal Farm and the rest of the books. The Spanish Director then mentions that he was very inluenced by Almodóvar, which is a point in the conversation that I interceded in as I had watched nearly all Almodóvar ilms, even Pepi, Luci, Bom which I knew was originally titled Pepi, Luci, Bom y otras chicas del montón. He then said he is working on a ilm and asks if we wanted to watch it. It was apparently a short ilm not inluenced by anyone, he said. Not inluenced by anything, just my own original thinking. And, so we start to watch the ilm, which was called Entropy Over Eggs in English. I could still hear the woman in the kitchen shufling about as the ilm played and laughed again at the thought of the made-up name of the book. The ilm lasted twenty minutes and was about a woman suffering a nervous breakdown shot in similar fashion to the ilms of Almodóvar, I thought rip off right off the top. For me, it was clearly as I assumed, an Artist deep in throes of arrogantly copying. I wanted to remain quiet as it wasn’t me that wanted their cock sucked, if that is the way K. was inclined, but I just wanted to spend the night perhaps in a bar and then perhaps some dancing. But The Spanish Director, as If he could smell disdain, looked at me and asked: What did you think of the ilm? And I think he even used the word amigo. It’s a bit like Almodóvar, I said quite bluntly. I think this made him feel inadequate as he started to turn from speaking to K. and started to address me and those Potent Existentialists. He kept using the word Potent Existentialist and I did not know what he could mean nor did he explain. Anyway, K. somewhat pushes for the night to continue, and we end up on the balcony overlooking Barcelona. I remember I noticed a few stray cats and moped riders screaming along the narrow streets. 91

Child's Play - Ode to Appel 2014 Marker, Oil, Crayon on Card 60 x 80cm


Molloy (Up Spine, Tip of The Mouth) 2014 Pastel on paper 50 x 70 cm

Dostoevsky's Gnashing 2014 Pencil on paper 29 cm x 21 cm



Portrait of Joyce After Motherwell 2014 House Paint on canvas 50 x 50 cm

A portrait of James Joyce was inished after the Artist said: "I kept on repeatedly visiting the Tate Modern in London just to see this primitive painting by Robert Motherwell called 'Ulysses' and for me it became a huge inluence in feeling - I wanted to capture the essence of how I felt about James Joyce as an inluence." The Artist then decided to do this by use of house paint "In order to capture the sophisticated primitivism of Joyce and the childlike playfulness having just inished reading Dubliners."

SAUDADE. She had it in mind that things should start to go well now, she thought as she unpacked. She didn’t like to think much about what had happened and took it as a sign that she was moving on so soon after it happened. It’s not that she was volatile, her Father warned her about volatility, no it was just that she knew that it would be useless to brood over what had happened. The day after she moved in, she bumps into the neighbour who is chatty and cordial. They chat about the safety of the area and she inds his words calming. Though he then starts to talk about Mandy a girl that had died at the age of nine up on Pownall Street. She was probably the most beautiful girl you’d ever see, he said. She wondered why this beauty made the death worse but didn’t want to get into what could be referred to as semantics. It came to mind to ask her how Mandy died, and this neighbour told her before saying the words: It’s as if her beauty had rendered her futile.



2 states after study of the base of the Cruxiixction 2016 Oil on Canvas 1016 mm X 1524 mm

The Artist has reinterpreted Francis Bacon's 'Three Studies for Figures at the base of a Cruciixion'. The work now considers the motif of the Artist's states of being. Two states and develops the painting through a pastel coffee colour, and details the base with small bits of blood. A Masterpiece.



Hotel Lucid Documentary 2014 Oil on canvas 80 x 100 cm

Considered a masterpiece, the Artist comments, "this is seen as the most complex of all the work - It has inluences far and wide: de Chirico, Gauguin, to name a few, and amounts to the largest comment on the manifesto of lucid documentary. The work details the concept of severed heads poetically sitting with the body of the painting as the focus, which deals with the relationship between the three states and the mind, body and soul. Numbers are

important as they are discussing biblical and Quran elements. Plus, I was reading Ann Quin, my favourite writer, at the time of painting this and had an epiphany dealing with the number three and one hundred and forty four thousand. A feeling of being awake is saturated in mood. Which is inluenced by Matisse's 'Red Studio'. The painting is my favourite and close to my heart, but rarely appreciated by others." 98

Kidnapping God 2014 Crayon on paper 100 cm x 80 cm

Joke Out a Sick Society (Grandma Wisdom) 2014 Acrylic, Pastel on Card 60 x 80 cm


The Artist has utilised bolder colours to depict this portrait. Perhaps Paul Klee is an inluence here, along with Dubuffet again, and maybe even it's completion in the summer.






1. Untitled (Pablo in Orange Hat) 2014 Crayon & oil on paper 29 cm x 21 cm Pg. 102

2. Two Nakiid Women & A Third 2016 Oil on canvas 100 x 150 cm Pg. 103

3. After Matisse' La Danse 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm Pg. 104

The painting has been applied in a manner very similar to Karel Appel but it has its own technique that destroys the conventions of painting: the element of empty canvas space, for example, and therefore conveys a myriad of thoughts rolled into one painting. The scream, as if hysterical realism has taken hold, and is evident of whats seems louder amongst a very moving image. 4. Beauty Will Be Convulsive or not at all - Sketch 2013 Oil on canvas 60 X 80 cm Pg. 105

This painting is a smaller sketch of a work in progress inspired by Andre Breton’s Nadja and the quote within: ‘Beauty will be convulsive or not at all.’ The work has a manic edge and is a somewhat ode to one of the Artist’s favourite painters: Francis Bacon. 5. Howl II 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm Pg. 106







1. Portrait of Dois (After Sylvia Plath) 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80 cm Pg. 108

A painting by the Artist depicting a character within the prose / poem of the Artist entitled: ‘A Deathly Serenade’. The work was inluenced by this work and has a ‘Matisse-esque’ feeling that the Artist said: “Aims to depict the sensual nature of oneself and of poetry within this character.” 2. After Modigliani 2016 Oil on canvas 40 x 40 cm Pg. 109

3. Portrait after Basquiat 2017 Pencil on paper A3 Pg, 110 4. Untitled (Big Face) 2018 Oil on Canvas 1016 mm X 1524 mm Pg. 111

5. My Magnum Opus The Cow 2014 Oil on Canvas 40 x 40cm Pg. 112 6. Face 2016 Oil on card 40 x 60 cm Pg. 113 7. Man And Woman's Body 2016 Oil on Canvas 40 x 40cm Pg. 113 8. Dali, Dostoevsky, Dizzee 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80 cm Pg. 115


Figures in a Room 2014 Oil on canvas 100 cm x 100 cm

There seems a strange mesh of igures here, and ones maybe illustrating a weird collective. Maybe Egon Schiele could be an inluence here, along with Francis Bacon, of this the artist says,"That imperfect look is always one I think is beautiful and that feeling is one of the reasons I love my own work and this painting in particular."

GERARD AUDINE: THE COLLECTED POEMS. Gerard Audine, an Artist like no other: A bull in China shop: A wired mad man with distinct notions of what it is to be an Artist. He lived a life that simultaneously negates the position outsider but strived to constantly be “Alone”, referencing the name of one of his most illustrious poem’s. From this perspective then, it can be asked; Whether Gerard Audine came to prominence in a vacuum? To answer this question, it is indeed sensible to investigate where in fact Gerard Audine came from in relation to a literary lineage. He read Borges in his youth along with Cortazar and said once in an interview that Rayuela had the biggest literary efect on him than anything else. I quote: “[Cortazar]…had the biggest inluence on my world, the spectacular perspective is all visions and fragments quantiied in vast amounts of beautiful poetic prose. 117 Plus, reading him is like an investigation into the hearts and minds of the human species.”

Audine started his life in Bogota, but his Father, a trucker, soon relocated to Buenos Aries in 1962, this meant that the six-year old Audine had to change schools and manufacture a diferent life with the help of his “promiscuous” mother. With one eye on other situations, perhaps it could be said that the mothering that Audine needed was not available and this efected his ability to concentrate at school, which was further inluenced by his Dyslexia. At nine he took to painting to avoid reading, but found that he was more interested in books than he imagined, so he decided to concentrate on reading the books he wanted to enjoy. Reading more carefully. his introduced him to Ursula Le Guin amongst others, which arrested his imagination and subjected it to worlds within worlds, phantasmagoria. At the age of sixteen ater a tumultuous few years, Gerard Audine decided that he wanted to go into the world and be amongst it. his meant that he moved out of his parent’s home in Buenos Aries and moved in with Cecily Augustina, a young woman he had met at a cofee shop. hey had a love afair that injected his young mind with new ideas, new colours, new experiences. Distillations of ‘he Graduate’ (the experience of an older lover) could have perhaps sped up his mind frame, from a boy to a man rather switly. As he failed to graduate but always held words in high esteem, that proposed a certain challenge for him in the coming years, that had him working in a variety of jobs: Radio assistant, Postman, shop assistant, hotel clerk and a newspaper Editor’s assistant. he last job gave him the space he intellectually needed to grasp a new reality for himself, and he began to see himself more and more as a thinker and an intellectual. He had a huge inluence in the coming years on the political hemisphere of Argentina, culminating in the Riots of the Falklands War. But this was ater all the years of writing had prevailed. He drew connections and by the time he was in his mid-twenties he had gotten to know many of the wellknown luminaries of Latin American letters. hough he had only upgraded to columnist at this time, his columns, usually politically charged, were said to be funny, dry and acerbic. his promoted Jose Gonzalez, a publisher living in Buenos Aries, to contact Audine. Gonzalez wanted a politically charged novel that he could sell amongst much Latina American political turmoil. It could be said that Cecily Augustina, a shrewd ballet dancer, renowned in Buenos Aries for strict discipline gave Audine the incentive to negotiate with Gonzalez on a two-book contract and small advance. his allowed Audine time, and time is something he had never had before. Within six months he produced Cuentas Pobres translated as Meagre Accounts, a polemic about the weakness of the Latina American glitterati, and one that particularly attacked Gabriel García Márquez as “ just a power hungry old man”. Cuentas Pobres had a relatively small efect on the literary scene but those that read it were said to have noted a new Artist on the scene. An arrival. A review at the time gave it 3 out for 4 stars. Gonzalez was enthused as he got what he had wanted: a politically charged novel with touches of humour. So, Gonzalez wanted to give Audine an even longer contract than he had before, but Audine had smelt a little bit of success and wanted more than the small impact his debut had made. Enter Carmen Balcells, the Spanish heavy weight literary agent. She contacted Audine and wanted to help him buy out his contract with Gonzalez. But, Gonzalez was angry now, being that he had “taken a chance” with a young writer and deserved his share, he thought. his led to a six months stand-of, hilariously written about in his column in the newspaper, where he compared himself to a political prisoner as if a writer living in Chile under Pinochet. He was noted at this time to steal in order to eat, in particularly he was said

to stolen Lemons from Market stalls, which inluenced his coining of the aphorism, ‘God? Wash a Lemon’. It is also of note that at this time writer Francois Regal got his hands on a copy of Cuentas Pobres and was said to have loved every word of it. Which led Regal to inviting Audine to Barcelona. Now international, new horizons, smells, and lavours began to inluence his thinking. European cinema (Wim Wenders) along with the writings of Karl Marx began efect his thinking. He also began to associate with Socialists and Anarchists of Europe. And when his second book (Entropía sobre huevos trans. Entropy Over Eggs) was published, ater a long fought out legal battle between Gonzalez and Balcells, where Balcells won the rights to Audine’s next ive books with Gonzalez receiving half the rights to Audine’s next two, Audine was able to concentrate on just writing. hough it was in Barcelona that he started to have problems, perhaps with now a steady inlux of monies he started to drink. Detailed in the poem “Bottle” he had a distinct love afair with alcohol, whiskey in particular. his efected his relationship with Cecily Augustina, with her leaving Barcelona to go back to Buenos Aries ive months ater they had arrived. Now single and perhaps lonely he is said to have produced what he became famed for. Síntesis de belleza translated as ‘Synthesis of Beauty’ was published and instantly ridiculed by other Latin American writers, as Roberto Bolaño deeming it “a denouncement of sorts, like a spit in the face of Cuentas Pobres he has written a scribbly book about beauty for the sake of art, how lucky for him.” Audine was said to be confused by the event of this book, and this amounted to him leaving Barcelona for London, where he was relatively unknown. In London he decided to concentrate on poetry, citing politically infused works as “a waste of time”. his led to him producing his most purple pieces of work including Dónde están los huevos? translated as ‘Where are the Eggs?’ And then the rather inlammatory Comedores de coños translated as ‘Pussy Eaters’. Comedores de coños written in 1990 was perhaps inluenced by Noveau Romain and retained the mysery of the novel by leaving the protagonist K. unnamed, unsexed and typically ambigiously “unburdened”, he said in an interview with the BBC that year. Ater writing Comedores de coños Audine, aged just thirty four, decided that he wanted a change. He was married at the time to a Spanish Literature teacher called Fantasia, but he was said to be in boughs of “black moods” that efected his ability to write, up until his death in 1991. At the time of his suicide he was writing a book of poems entitled Disgusto y salchichas translated as Disgust and Sausages and a novel entitled Chocolate en Mi Polla translated as ‘Chocolate on my Dick’, a satire of the bourgeois society that governs Art and a polemic against the establishment. It is noted that his last venture into the world of letters had to be so funny, so absurd and so ridicolous. It amounts to the thought that Audine was very much a clown, even at his darkest moments, his antics consisted of behaviours sophisticated and silly at the same time. — Sadie West, he Life of Salads

Foreword Digusto y Salchichas, a book consisting of exactly one hundred poems was composed by Gerard Audine (born February 28, 1956, died August 22nd 1991) throughout his life. he structure of most of the poems was said, (according to Biographer Augustine James) to be loosely based on the structures of surrealist Poets as André Breton. Heavily inluenced by the work of Cantos Albarn’s Infra sex the work takes on a rhtymic and highly lyrical approach, which meant that none of the poems have other names, they are all under the one title of Digusto y Salchichas, though in some places it has been of note to decipher that the irst word of the poem, such as “Alone” were the secondary names of the poems, therefore producing a cultured world within a world that only the reined reader can understand. It is said, according to an interview by Ralph Burns in 1987 that Audine sought out paraphernalia as toy birds, African masks, Voodoo dolls, and taxidermy in order to inspire his poems throughout the years, which is perhaps why the poems are riled with disparate attempts to break free from convention. One of the best poems, in the mid-section of the book is one that fragments reality by exposing himself as a drag queen. his started an investigation into the underbelly of Audine’s life. On the face of it, Audine lived a very austere life, very much considered in the way he approached things in regards to literature and politics. His let-wing politics, with an Anarchist twist, could have been more exposed if his life was looked at more closely. For example, in 1990 he was secretly arrested in London, Hackney for indecently exposing himself, apparently. But the story goes, according to the concealed police report, that he was dressed in drag at the time. Horses for courses. So immediately ater his death I sought out his widowed wife Fantasia Audine in order to gather information on who I regard as one of the best writers of the 20th Century. And it did amount to more information being garnered. Correspondence with Fantasia Audine established the methodical process in which Gerard Audine created his poems, and the “frightful” and intense periods of dark relection it took to create his works. he earliest start date we have for Digusto y Salchichas in reference to his papers all stacked up loosely conined to a category as Poetry was September, 1971 (written in the margins) when Gerard Audine was only iteen years old and amounts to the thought that he was always a poet irst, a novelist second. Prof. Sakal of Cambridge University refers to the structure of Digusto y Salchichas as conforming to Iambic Pentameter in the beginning and then “loosening” out towards the end. It is also of note to mention that Pro. Sakal stated that Gerard Audine was very much a closeted homosexual. hough his wife did not concur she did in fact privately state that her husband kept many secrets and led a life of much disorder and chaos. his can be referenced in the line: ‘Two dicks, both unalike in disgust’. Disgust for what? he life they led, it could be said. hough little ceremony was made in this regard, it is a cause for concern for Academics of Audine’s work that much of his life was disguised by political turmoil and formal constraints. Lines later on the poem mirror a complete disregard for conventional politics and realign himself with anarchy: Semantics of words, led by stray dogs of Politics Murder, push, provoke, pillar, renounce saints!

he batch of poems in the middle section were in a folder under the words: Big Sausages. For what reason I do not know but the thought occurs that these were works a little more risqué than usual, and perhaps most organic in form and composition. hey struggle and ight each other, the words, and gain no established boundaries in terms of style or relationship to even style. Perhaps Walt Whitman would be proud, borrowing lines from Leaves of Grass here too: Out of the dimness always sex, Out of dimness always life It could be said that Ketamine could have an efect, as it was not just alcohol as mentioned that Audine had a problem with, but with drugs too. London was a formal constraint against the bohemian life he was leading in Barcelona, amongst Francois Regal. Whom it was suggested amongst the Latin American press to have had more than a plutonic relationship with, but that is neither here nor there. But to this poem we must return, it is of note that the structure of the poem was established very much in London ater our irst meeting and our subsequent friendship. So, there were many incidents that occurred that helped to establish the ceremony of the poem and also the happenings of the untimely death. It can be noted that, amongst being a tremendous writer, he was also an amazing raconteur and would oten tell the most fabulous stories mired in the usual drugs, alcohol and debauched sex. he last lines of the poem circumvent that position of libertine and anarchist more than any other words with what can be considered a poem very much inluenced by beauty and his work Síntesis de belleza. It is then to be noted the territory of this death, is very much a privileged position I had garnered from close contact, that had me as the person that found his body unresponsive. His life like his death was marred in tragedy: tragedy that he did not live on to produce more work, tragedy that his life ended in such a state as suicide. — Ken Boat James, I Love Dogs — 2009



Alcoholic in the Park [Ode to Condo] 2016 Oil on card 60 x 80 cm

Untitled 2011 Oil on canvas 60 x 80c m


RADIANT HUES. “The anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was still in full swing...” — George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia y The room smelt of blood, or that smell you get when you run out of breath running. On the walls there were three blood stains that had dripped onto the loorboards. Coming into the room Inspector Beresi was walking backwards, talking to a Detective about an old Pornography with a star neither can remember. He starts to laugh, perhaps at something the Detective is saying, or perhaps at the lucidity of the situation at hand as simultaneously he turns to look at the blood stain whilst continuing to listen to the Detective speak. Everywhere was changing, the City was awash with a spirit that one could never have imagined. It was December 1936 and we are in the room overlooking the cathedral, as the blood smell constipates a feeling of nostalgia or forgotten tales. The cause of war is one thing, but its consequence is very much death, amongst other things, including hoardings of wealth, arms deals and such. The cost of life was at an all time low here, as according to eye witnesses the blood on the wall was that of a man that now sits somewhere in water or soils about a portion of bread, either way the man is very much history, losing this much blood. And it feels historic everything that is happening but at the same time all the hammers and sickles amount to what? The concept of Anarchy only shrouds the humanistic needs: I think people need policing or else there are blood stains dripping onto loorboards that amount to nothing. x Overlooking the balcony I am stood watching a man get leeced for apparently being an enemy to the state. And things seem exactly the way I imagine they should once Anarchy has taken over: translucent energy of peoples working together. The concepts are very much simple, I think, whilst the man is bleeding from his head. Justice prevails and is considered more noteworthy this way. Though it doesn’t dismantle the tropisms of the human soul, no nothing can account for that!


y The second call of the day amounts to nothing: an argument between two women about a man. One of the women, a petite blonde woman with ringlets, asks us to arrest the woman but we don’t as there is a feeling in Catalonia that I can’t pin point—it is one that arrests the mouth, and has given me the feeling that people are very much more acclimatised to violence than they can imagine...



Lonesome eccentric aka Alfred Jarry's green face 2013 Oil on canvas 30 x 40 cm

Researching of Ubu Roi, pataphysics and what the Artist refers to as: "A search for a higher motif of knowledge and concepts other Artist's haven't a clue of is my goal and this painting is discussing the story of eccentricity and Alfred Jarry's infamous green face paint and horizontal lat." The work seems particularly still, and was perhaps very referenced by Picasso's simplicity of paintings such as 'Head of a Woman'. (Pataphysics series)

Three Faces 2016 Pencil on Paper A4


Coarse pieces of glass are strewn along a mahogany table, along with photographs of Winona Ryder, a pair of horn rimmed glasses, plastic igurines and at the edge of the table a human eye that belonged to a cadaver long dead, and decomposing in a cofin just off Mare Street, Hackney, funnily enough. The remnants of blood long since dry. And there was something joyous about it, the prevalence of dealing in the dead. As if to make use of the commodity of the body. 2. The heap of lesh responsible picks up the Radio, and toys with it for a time, before placing it back on the table right next to the eye. Through the window a breeze pushes an old man along as if a baby in a push chair. Next to the big backed television are scattered pieces of paper, a large amount of tangled wires and other miscellaneous items too numerous to truly consider, though there remains an air of calm to this chaos. As if the room’s spirit is at peace with all the mess.

THE EXUBERANCES. In a province of Oman, Al Wusta, villagers were apparently sent two dozen macaws from an anonymous Russian Oligarch, that signed the card 'Russian Oligarch with love'. Most of the villagers were mystiied at the sight of these talkative macaws, of which some were red with yellow throats, a few others had purple throats and red bodies, another two were burgundy with blue throats. One in particular, (a purple throated macaw) was most intriguing, by the way in which the macaw would sprout poems. The lagrant lamingo Fires through with The beauty of the moment And breads sensuously. Said the macaw on his irst day of arrival to Al Wusta, surprising villagers to such an extent that a villager called Ahmed Ahmed came over in hives, by the shock of seeing these talkative birds. 128

The macaw would just repeat his name and continue on the day. But, by this Ahmed Ahmed had to go to the closest hospital, which he did. And there it became apparent to him that he had in fact contracted an illness, with the symptoms being vomiting, sweating, and the aforementioned hives. The Doctor, one Al Saed, failed to ascertain the route cause of this rather "exotic illness" he said of it. But diagnosed it as "near fatal". Though due to the excited spectacle of the macaws no connection was made between Ahmed Ahmed's sickness and the birds, initially, let alone the Russian Oligarch. In the same week as this happening a villager called Miriam Mousa caused even more hysteria when she apparently, due to years of being wife beaten, killed her husband in front of one of the macaws.

THE PRAGUE LETTERS - Part 1. On the matter at hand of the man from the small province of Slovakia, this is what we knew before the date in question: he would usually wake at 3am and jog for an hour or two, before arriving back to his home, where he would then eat breakfast before seeing to his ablutions. And as the windows into his living room were not curtained his neighbours were always able to be aware of what he did next, usually he would begin to write until late afternoon: everyday like clock work. Though the body was found on the 18th of May no suspects were initially found. It was very much noted that the body had been there for a while, but we'll get to the forensic study later. What concerns the matter most is this change in behaviour of this man many neighbours simply called Misklav. He acquired this nickname two years prior to all these happenings when out of the blue, said a neighbour, the man was said to have stripped naked and run around the village shouting: Misklav.


And so let us call the man Misklav for now, though it compels the truth to recognise the mystique of the man in question. As for example this rather insane naked episode was what a neighbour deemed an alien episode. Yes apart from this, said an anonymous neighbour, he was totally into his schedule, and sometimes if I am honest I would watch him for ive or ten minutes just to enjoy my day, and all I noticed was that he was very forgetful, up and down the stairs and then back up as he had forgotten why he went down or up. It is of note to recognise here that before Misklav arrived to this province his whereabouts were unknown until the dates in question. Though about the body: a branding iron had been cast on the subjects neck and there were signs of strangulation. Though the body had yet to be identiied, none of the villagers knew this person found in a ditch in the outskirts of the city. It is wholly notable to mention that as Misklav had afirmed upon questioning that he did not know the person deceased, that his actions after this point proved contradictory. Misklav's routine drastically changed for one thing. He started to become more reclusive, and he would start to walk around the house naked sporadically shouting random words at spaced out and sporadic intervals. One may inquire about his guilt here at this point. And all this was offset by the forensic case. The body was found to have the inger prints of another, a man named Donstal Kayata whom had died a year previous in another incident in Prague. This commenced the Prague Letters. Apparently Misklav, after much probing under questioning he remained stoic to the point of frustration, just like his life he remained secretive.

Proverbs On Ice - Portrait of Catherine 2014 Oil on canvas 60 x 80 cm



Muse V - (Obsession About YOU) 2014 Oil on canvas 100 cm x 100 cm


The Artist wanted to capture a beauty in absurdity or what can be referred to as "the music of the lucid living". Continuing to comment, of this work, the Artist said: "I have been reading a lot of my own work, ...a deathly serenade being the most disturbingly beautiful in relation to elucidating my inspirations. Particularly in the schizoid area of my character that I try not to avoid; there's a lot of detail in the face." The work is very contemporary for a portrait and full of hysterical realism perhaps.

Nephilim 2016 Pastel & Pencil on Card 60 x 80 cm


Priesty Diseasy 2016 Pastel on Card 40 x 60 cm


Portrait of Artist as Nutcase with Lady in back 2014 Crayon on paper 29 cm x 21

Stomach Churning 2016 Pastel on Card 60 x 80 cm


Untitled (Three States After The Confederacy of Dunces) 2016 Oil on Canvas 40 x 40cm



Ode to Picasso's Nude Girl With Necklace 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm

Poet On Shoreditch 2014 Oil, pastel, crayon on canvas 29 cm x 21 cm

Calcium, Mouth Full of TEETH 2016 Oil on Canvas 40 x 40cm


Agnostic Priest after Francis Bacon 2013 Oil on canvas 70 cm x 90 cm



Study for Condo’s Memories of Rembrandt, 1994 - with the three states at 7 years old 2016 Oil on canvas 150 x 120 cm

BAUDELAIRE. 1. The song, by Serge Gainsbourg, played throughout the night and it was only on second thought that something may be happening, said Frank whilst drinking a glass of red wine. But maybe my Grandma might know more because she is the one that said she saw the smoke coming from there, I saw nothing and more importantly I was seeing to Candela in our living room. He moved from the door towards the living room as if to shake the feeling of being questioned, which he was not, merely queried, if anything. The kettle sounded boiling point, before his Grandma came out of the kitchen talking:...smoke smoke everywhere, and then a peacock came into 143

our balcony. Yes a peacock... As she spoke I got up and moved towards the edge of the living room to the records piled up on the loor and shelves. I didn't want to impose any more than I had done already and besides, I thought, I had heard such stories a thousand times before—it was no secret that Frank's Grandma used every opportunity to authenticate magical happenings by way of tying them into the fabric of other stories and every day life, as by peacock she really meant a bird, I thought, and as for the smoke who really knows? 2. At the expanse of time I duly obliged to the low of chance: Tuesday was to be my last night, I said to myself as I was taken in under strange circumstances that ultimately led me to think and feel that I should be elsewhere—At Ravel's for one thing as the disturbance of a slight can alter a person's reasoning. And Alfredo may not have meant to offend me too but he did. 3. It was only three weeks that Ravel had been dead. And his sister was still sifting through his belongings when I arrived. And Alfredo was sitting on the couch in silence. It was actually strange to see Alfredo without Ravel as usually it would be the three of us but now that it was just Alfredo I begun to feel a certain level of discomfort. Our initial response to one another told me that the feeling was not mutual—It is a shame that we are brought together like this only in a situation like this, he said quite brightly with a somewhat smile. Ravel's sister then sighed aloud a sigh that sounded constipated with thoughts: such as why Ravel was such a recluse? What exactly happened? And what to do with the rest of his belongings? I for one said that I would help and had made provisions to stay the weekend, I said at irst. After Alfredo continued to break the silence with questions. After I answered I looked at Ravel's sister. I examined the wrinkles on her face, the crumples on her blouse and the Un-ironed trousers that she wore.


THE REVERIES. 1. The reality of the situation precipitated, at this moment, from a simmer towards boiling point, as Jordan made mention of money—the frugal strains of his usual enterprising self beguiled an intriguing collision, the backdrop; inancial strife, Morly’s situation and most importantly inancial gain. He moved his hand against the dusty lampshade and held it there momentarily—the single most illuminating light in the room now cast a shadow of his impaired right hand. And pressed his left hand’s index inger against his temple. A masquerade of sorts, he said. Oliver just bare with me here, replied Jordan. The dust billowing into the air like a caustic drum; the light’s ilament obscured by his hand, I just want to get this over with. And it was said with a broad sense of fatigue as priesthood had become bothersome to him. He moved away from the light now. He was in fact inding the whole concept of Priesthood tiresome in the sense that solace considers only itself as rightful gain; the bearing of its fruit are rarely translucent; in the sense that the loneliness it took to become was suspended somewhere between his past life and now. 2. The day before this saw him reminisce over his time in Tangiers, Rabat and Marrakech. Oily dusk, calls to prayer, he thought before he called out for Marialyn. A few minutes later she arrived to his study. As was often the case for her she spoke gingerly like a wounded animal befalling to an animal of an otherwise larger pedigree—though her desire was clearer and clearer to him, though he distanced himself from this by way of sheer concentration on the subjects at hand—at that moment verses from Ezekiel. The study laid bare strewn papers across a mahogany desk and one that had been passed down from at least two generations, like most furniture in the house. After their exchange she left and he sat back down at his study: the work wouldn’t do itself, he thought. 3. Subject to conditions, said Jordan moving towards the light. Well...And it was, to him, unclear baring his response of what to do. The ramiications of paper money always stipulates a certain system and this was the case here.


ORIGIN OF COTTON. [Candela French, New Mexico, January 2014] We saw Rosa in this old 1980’s blue movie where she held spoons into her vagina, and he kept speaking about how legendary the movie was because of this whole spoon incident. It was called Busto de Mujer. And so that’s when we decided to try and ind her as we heard from Blowback Jones that a friend of a friend of Rosa’s had said that she only had one breast after an accident with cutlery on the shoot of Busto de Mujer two. He was obsessed with Rosa after that, and so we ended up going to Texas; we had to take Greyhounds and it was on this long journey that I really got to know him. But we inally met Rosa, Blowback Jones eventually got us an address. And he coerced me along to this small house in the middle of nowhere. We arrived and knocked on this rickety door and a woman with purple hair answered the door like a living ghost, all timid and gingerly. But it was actually Rosa with the purple hair now and she was surprised to see us. He kept talking about his friend that had committed suicide and she, funnily enough, listened and tried giving him advice. We ended up eating Lunch and when she picked up a spoon to eat the croutons, who eats croutons with a spoon? I don’t know, but she started to cry and I had to get him to leave.


A Voyeuristic Supper 2014 Oil, pastel, crayon on canvas 60 x 80cm



UNIT 5. GALLERY - 2017 148




MORE DEATH NOTES. his is a photograph of the hotel I stayed in when I went to Marrakesh to work on this book and a few screenplays. It was like an epiphany: the colours, the smells, the world seemed anew and so vibrant. he next years will be very interesting to see where I end up!


AN AMAZING WORLD. I lie in an early grave, besides the grievous attempts, the delay at which life exudes, itself commits a sort of vestige, opaque, “pull you to the edge” the sound of the music, now louder than thoughts. (corrected) sombre movements— in an early grave.


Profile for A Purple Pig Production.

Fuego by Kofi Boamah  

A monograph of paintings by Artist Kofi Boamah

Fuego by Kofi Boamah  

A monograph of paintings by Artist Kofi Boamah