Fritz.

Maestro Kreisler with Wire hair fox terrier from the postal district of Vienna. He didn't play Bach. 

Mis-delivery.

When I was a postman. We had to clock in at 5am six mornings a week. I found that difficult. This morning I woke up at 5am - back then I would be expected to be sorting the mail into boxes and attempting to engage in the bawdy banter (bawdy banter?) flying round the Hampton sorting office. That was a test. Eric Fraser lived in Hampton. Very nice house. Walled garden out of a Victorian novel. Fraser had wisteria growing up his wall growing round  his impressive front door. Large shiny polished letterbox. Big envelopes carrying his illustration briefs for Radio Times and General Electric. His regular postman was Bill Sawyer, peaked cap at a jaunty angle. Bill always looked as if he was in on a joke and might have something of interest to say, but he never did. Bill was a bit dull but he 'owned' the best walk in the postal district of Hampton and Hampton Hill. I was a relief postman and I would cover all the walks of the postal district of Hampton and Hampton Hill when the regular posties were off on their holidays. Bill would panic knowing when any of us relief postmen would cover for him, his was the easiest and most beautiful walk. By the Thames on a summer's morning herons skimming through the  mist raising from the water's surface an all that, ducks having a domestic. Bill would take over two hours to complete his first morning's delivery (In those olden days there would be two deliveries of the Royal mail before one o' clock) and on Thursdays three hours and same again most Fridays. We relief boys might take forty five minutes on a Monday or a Tuesday and maybe an hour and a half on the heavy days. Bill with his peaked cap at a jaunty angle always had a smirk on his face. Dull Bill was a bit of a ladies man. Dapper. Red tie checked shirt and cycle clips. Nice area to be a postman. He didn't approve of our express delivery. He would always hiss advice to  spin out his delivery technique or else Bill would be in danger of having extra postal codes added on to his nice little walk. He was a crafty seasoned pro. Was Bill. Much to learn from.  Hat at a jaunty angle for one.
   
Illustrating Juvenal I found difficult. How far to push the envelope... is that what they say. How far to go in 2014. Not very far.  Drawings at a jaunty angle add a little humour, seduce the ladies. No I have this capacity to make life difficult. I need to be a bit more like Bill Sawyer.

Less beige maybe.......

Less pessimism. More light. More joy. Laughter. More grass to cut. Yes lighten up. More Juvenal. Pen an'ink. Less drink.More ink. 

TRAGIC NOVEL.

The wood pigeons are persistent that's for certain re building the nest in the wisteria every day building everyday demolishing every day. Stupid or what? Go somewhere else yes I live in a house with wisteria growing up it. What is the average length of duration of producing a so called graphic novel? Three years? A fb friend shows an example of his graphic novel  to his fb friends seeking advice seeking comments after three years and still drawing still colouring in. Why do we do it? Is this it? Is that all there is........... What's in this cup of Peggy Lee? 

This is a picture from Juvenal. The Sixteen Satires. Juvenal is not a graphic novel. It is a boxed book by the Folio Society. I got a box in the post last week containing 5 copies. I experienced nothing when I saw the printed version. Nothing. One glance one flick through before closing. The book is contained within it's own black box. Black sleeve. Gold leaf lettering. All the grief from October to February rejection after rejection. Those gentle subtle beige like colours, so polite. Encouragement and encouragement from the art director. Art director needs a medal . Needs a slap. I need a slap. My protests my bleating. Can't I draw Clockwork Orange? I want to draw A Clockwork Orange. Why don't you then? Draw A Clockwork Orange. I started it once. The estate of Anthony Burgess liked my start. Others did not. Others had their opinion. Their sayso. The No's won. It was abandoned. Oranges aren't the only fruit hahahahahahuh - there's more than one way to skin a rabbit. What a fuss. All meat eaters should be made to skin a rabbit. Gut and pluck a pheasant. Stare into the eyes of a condemned pig. 

So they asked for a few words some thoughts about Juvenal. Simon Callow wrote the introduction. Ask him not me. I just draw to order. But I can't even do that draw to order. Juvenal was written in AD94. Aubrey Beardsley illustrated it over a hundred years ago. Something's telling me my time is up. Come in number 16. Your time is up. You've dropped a paddle. You are going round in circles. Come in, it's getting dark. Ink, it's in my blood. Well there's a 6H length of pencil lead embedded in my third finger left hand since 1984. Didn't half hurt. That's it.

Neighbourhood watch...

Just shared a pot of tea with my neighbour Claudia. Loose leafed tea, not bags. She's a bit down in the dumps because of the fire. Her clock tower collapsed. No one was injured. The dogs were safe. No one died. The gurkhas escaped unharmed. They helped put out the blaze. What's going on?  Glasgow School of art, a department store in Fakenham. All up in smoke. Up in flames. Who's playing with a box of safety matches?

We lit a fire in the art school flat in January 1993 with a box of Swan Vestas. It was cold. Miserable and damp. It was the Charles Rennie Mackintosh flat in the Glasgow school of art. On a Sunday night. Depressing. Bill Clinton was president of the USA. His portrait was on the cover of the Saturday Times Magazine that week end. The Dean's husband at lunch had commented that it must feel like the pinnacle of ones career, the ultimate to be on the cover of the Saturday Times magazine. My drawing of Clinton was not one of my best. Early next morning in the drizzle, we went and bought some ready mixed cans of gin and tonic. Walked down to the cinema up the road, the feature film that week was Reservoir Dogs. The cinema I was going to give an illustrated talk in.  Vast, and not quite full, not every seat taken. I swigged two cans of gin and tonic at nine in the morning. Dutch courage, before going on stage and delivering the sermon to the art students and guests at the Glasgow School of Art. Afterwards someone said I was as funny as Jack Dee. I am not as funny as Jack Dee. Jack Dee is a comedian, I was an illustrator. But I accepted the compliment all the same. I am a fraud. I met Jack Dee a year earlier, also in Scotland, at the Edinburgh Fringe. He was funny. Ancient bloody history. A long time ago.

To have work destroyed by fire must be devastating. Perhaps in some cases it is a relief, an excuse to dance around the bonfire. To destroy overworked rubbed out charcoal nudes, the evidence of untalented pathetic conceptual collages of pornographic war landscapes. But I cried for the Glasgow school of art. I'll start a fire tonight burn some rubbish, starting with that Clinton drawing. If I still have it.......

Charles Rennie Mackintosh was accused by the Walberswick locals of being a first world war spy. Because he wore strange clothes and carried a sketch book. Suffolk hasn't changed much really.

Mrs.Florence Entwistle. Photographer

I experienced a strong reading tea leaf moment this morning. Instinct to draw singer Alma Cogan. I have no idea why. I google Alma. She was born this day 1932..........uncanny. This is a photograph taken by Vivienne. I'm setting up a fortune telling booth at the top of Lowestoft pier.

The Hornet.

A loud buzzing. Very loud big buzzing. I turn round to see a gigantic hornet investigating the studio. The hornet vanishes down a tube of rolled up drawings stored in a space situated eight feet up. It disappears. Does it live there? I am gripped in terror. It is huge. I am 5 foot nine. It is two inches or thereabouts.  Silence. Menacing quiet. I return to my desk. It re-emerges a few minutes later. Patrolling the ceiling. Briefly it focusses on it's target ....me and dives and I squeal like a fifties cartoon bee-hive sporting girl. Before it changes tack and zooms back to the ceiling and into the skylight window, seizing my chance I grapple with the pole thingy that is the tool that  opens the window I fumble in panic as I lever the window open and the hornet obliges in a flash and is gone. Drama over. God that was close thing.

Then it returns.............