Screenshot 2022

Screenshot 20220831 along with approximate location.

This isn't art.

Sylvanian Family Car Crash

 

Like most days it started out well enough for the family. Not too much juice or cereal spilled at breakfast time. All teeth cleaned without any drama or overworked performance. Clothes on in some sort of organised fashion along with the correct shoes for today's outdoor activities. All youngsters accounted for on the back seat. Then calamity struck early on in the journey. A serious collision with a badly parked couch and an abandoned coffee mug left the Sylvania's red SUV somewhat wrecked but the occupants relatively unharmed. Being made of tough plastic is a great advantage in an RTA, unless the vehicle is on fire of course.

In other news: I always accept all of the cookies. I'm hard wired to do so. It's a Fife thing I guess. Home baked Sylvanian Family cookies are particularly welcome.

South Queensferry Daily Photo

 

Nearby to SQ we have the Dundas Estate, where sky, land and water meet. This also happens in other places from time to time, you may also have noticed it. Anyway it made for a very pleasant walk as the swans hissed peacefully into our ears and the ducklings scattered across the surface of the water. It never rains when you're strolling beneath the greenest  and widest of trees. It doesn't even pour. It just hangs in some kind of inexplicable suspension of vapour, space and time. Science doesn't know everything and it hasn't explored all of the possibilities either. I'll leave it there.

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Art v Intelligence

I like playing around with the various free bits of low level AI art creation that are available for home use. You can modify your own images or start from scratch using words, descriptions, prompts etc. to inspire the cogs and wheels somewhere out there in cyber-space. The results are of course variable, often surprising and insightful, sometimes just weird and wide of whatever the mark might have been. It's a free tool but a bit of a blunt instrument in most ways. Real artists must hate these programs I guess but for me it's like noodling with bits of Lego. Anyway I decided to use as prompts the names of some artists, just to see how AI might recognize or render them and of course for fun, here's the results.

This is what you get using the name of the 50s/60s artist Cy Twombly. I was expecting some crazy scribbles and fierce brush strokes, not what looks like cotton plants in a dark room. I'm not familiar with all that is in his back catalogue so it may be on point.

This is Norman Rockwell, pretty obviously despite the sinister undertones. A little distorted and freaky but still true to twentieth century Americana and strangely quaint (almost). Just try not to focus on the fingers.

So this is using Roy Lichtenstein as a prompt, all style but no actual content. Maybe this AI isn't so dumb. Is there a critical and observed piece of machine code in there that likes to comment in it's own wry and subtle way? Pop art but not as we know it. 

Next there's Leonardo da Vinci morphing into a facial mash up that strangely has no background. I expected more, at the very least some sketch work, scrawled writings or a few purple hills in the distance. The hair and the beard are a bit much. Leonardo also has a fierce bum chin.

I thought I'd end on a kind of high by trying Caravaggio, a name that should challenge the sparks and pixels. I got this familiar looking, peculiar but dramatic piece. I doubt that it would ever fool anybody. It does contain a cutting implement of some sort so the normal brooding and violent content is suggested or is it just a medieval cocktail mixer he's holding? The composition isn't bad but the overall execution is as clunky as you'd expect.

Virginia Plain Creeper

 

We don't watch much cooncil TV, we're very selective in our brainwashing options and generally have better things to do (though we don't often do them). The out of control Virginia Creeper seems to have cottoned on to all that and is in the process of carrying out what is known in the electrical trade as the "supportive slow strangulation manoeuvre" of the fine old, rusty but trusty satellite dish. There may be trouble ahead but then there will also be the winter weather pruning event.

Lyrical Thoughts

"The slow exodus by distorted pony from Tumbledown Mountain."

I often think I have a lot of interesting and lyrical thoughts there in the superstructure of my head that I need to share. Then when I reach the point of saying them out loud I realise that they are not quiet what I thought they might be so I just stop myself. Eventually those thoughts just float away, it's a pleasant enough experience. Awareness of self is a useful  property but it can also restrict your range of self expression if you let it. That's not a bad thing.

Move to Bin

More cheap art for the masses, or those who could actually care less: A rabbit that might be a dog sporting a rainbow hair style and extra legs. A cat that never existed but remains smoking hot despite a clear lack of paws. The High Priestess from the Carnival of Idiots Adventure Weekend before and after some kind of substance experimentation. Oh and if you're still curious about the infamous "single whistle" there's an example of a single whistle, below.

Humble Plum Pie

A good photograph of Peter Frampton and Steve Marriott of Humble Pie, not pictured Greg Ridley and Jerry Shirley. They were a messy, noisy, self indulgent, loud rock band. I recall nearly wearing out my vinyl copy of the double album, "Performance: Rockin' the Filmore. That was then of course, not heard it in a long time. I always liked Steve's Epiphone Coronet. He hardly ever played it though, it just dangled around his neck but then Frampton was always around to make sure things kept going.

Meanwhile ... a reflection on the fragile life of the common plum. This is half of our 2022 crop.

Scottish Independence

 

Sometime in the future, when a new world order emerges from the soup, I predict that Scotland will see sense and will break away from being a colony and seek independence from our unkind rulers in Australia. Of course, as we're a nation of serfs and cap-doffers we'll need to employ a decent and well inbred royal family to worship and hold up as we inhabit some kind of golden age of deference. So here are my suggestions for their titles (above and mainly going clockwise):

The Queen of Fruit Cake. The Prince of Whales. The Duke of Kirkcaldy (seen here in the form of a mutant sailing ship as he is also a shape-shifter) and of course the spoiled and glamorous Princess Crud. We'll be prosperous, strong and true in their benevolent hands.

"There was a boy, he lived in the hills with his family. Let's say in Glen Glen, near to Ben Ben. He rode around the hills on a small motorcycle. The locals thought that he wasn't quite right, something was either missing or extra. One day he took a bag of blue sheep dye up the hill with him. He emptied the dye into the stream up in the glen. As it turned a bright blue the water flowed down the slope, over small waterfalls, across marsh and heather until it joined a larger river. The stream was now blue. 

When people noticed it they said it was an act of environmental terrorism, or maybe Toryism or perhaps he was just a Rangers fan. The river flowed blue for a while. People took photos with drones and posted them here and there. A blue river running across a dull piece of Scotland and nobody could really agree on it's meaning, if it even had one. Was it just a piece of fun or protest, was it some destructive and dangerous thing? What did it represent?

The press and media asked the boy what his intentions were. He struggled to answer but eventually said that he just did it because he liked blue and blue was Scotland's colour (like the football team) and he liked his blue motorcycle. Eventually they left him alone and the blue dye just faded away in the water, bit by bit. 

In the end nothing was really harmed and the boy didn't put dye into the river ever again. The blue was there for a while, strong and bright but then it was gone, as if it had never been. That's how things go, we get distracted for a bit then settle down again. It's just that people do thoughtless things all the time, and deny and misunderstand the consequences and meanings of their actions. But as for the boy, he is still up on the hills, on his motorcycle, just surveying the landscape, dreaming into the blue yonder."

Painful Tattoo

 

"Once I got a painful tattoo, I'm reminded of it every time I go to the loo."  Leon Trotsky 1879 - 1940.  

Something you wouldn't ever wish upon your sworn arch enemy, should you ever have one. Trust me. Always visit a professional or at least a gifted beginner who has the will to succeed and a steady hand. Don't go ahead based on badly influenced impulses either and always take a moment to consider the possible outcomes.  Try to avoid situations where your tattoo artist and his clumsy assistant are laughing at you and your own low standards behind your back. It's best to follow the money and avoid the pain. Maybe consider just getting a haircut and shave at the shop next door instead and be nice to yourself.

ten nine eleven

"Of all the many strange and whimsical songs out there floating in God's holy ether and entitled "ten nine eleven", this one is easily my biggest favourite." ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rollin' Stoned.

Edinburgh Daily Photo

Experimental piles of festering rubbish act as temporary art installations and health hazards all across the city. Nobody understands their real meaning, not even the vacuous art critics or the numerous rats. It's as if the refuse workers had said to the Council "go fuck yourselves and all your conflicted priorities", and who could disagree? As a social comment, the position of trash in the world of consumer crap and over indulgence needs to be explored. In the background is the old North British Hotel, a bastion of upper class and warped colonial values that dominates the skyline. Long may it do so.

In a strange green space by the Royal Mile's artistic quarter some badly laid astro-turf gets absorbed by real grass and creeping weeds. A welcome if hidden spectacle that confirms my view that nature will eventually win the war against those stupid humans.

What's not to like about an old  Citroen van converted into a well mannered coffee shop at the (badly located and poorly set out) Book Festival?

The famous Waverley Station from a safe and socially distanced distance. Clogged with tourists, travelers and other people who don't know their left from their right. Avoid at all costs unless you need to catch a train or take a short cut.

Rage and Dissonance

 

So what's wrong with the Velvet Underground and why are they irrelevant?  Nothing really wrong other than that they got old and so did I. We ran out of steam and moved in other directions. Rage and dissonance, atonal noise and even nihilism seem to me to be the territory of the young and troubled. You can't play those dirty chords with the same passion at 55. I remember when the Rolling Stones were seen as dangerous, now they're a performing joke, like some music hall act, conforming to the theatrical traditions. Still thin on the outside but fat inside.

Hearing later incarnations of the aggressive, now middle aged bands ranting and screaming for change doesn't work. The fact they're still at it kind of proves their anger was meaningless. It was a good fit for the marketing. The machine prevails and your noise is just that, noise. Noise that eventually turns into a tuneless grumble and then before long you're shuffling away into the sunset and stuffing your gear into the garage. 

Of course I'm not saying it wasn't effective at the time or even worthwhile. It was, it was just another way of venting for the masses. But the middle aged versions of Limp Bizkit, Korn, RATM and so on can't really cut it. It's a different world. Quit while your ahead or become a reflective, world weary and slightly optimistic singer songwriter and find out if your audience has grown or if they're just audio hibernating, listening only to run their personal clock down in some Spotify playlist stupor.

Velvet Plums

It's been about 50 years since I last sat down and listened properly to an album by the Velvet Underground. In my head they burned bright for maybe a year and then were gone. I find that strange. What purpose did they ever serve and why are they still famous today?

Here are six plums that were forgotten due to an unforeseen bout of DIY. The less said.

Last Days Selfie

In the last days, there was little else to do so people just took selfies. Sitting in small groups under the brighter than usual blue sky, in full sunlight, perched on large stones or rocks or concrete rubble. Empty plastic water bottles surrounded them and glinted in the sun. They clicked and stared into the lenses and screens as the power indicators slowly ran down. 51%, 43%, 27%. 

They watched the falling figures with their dull eyes. There's no signal now, no network to share onto or to call anyone across. No data or conversations. There's no live power outlets to charge from. No infrastructure. No birds and no insects, no fresh winds. The last days are the stillest days we've ever experienced. Looking at myself on the screen I thought I kinda needed a haircut. I saved the shot.

Over in the distance pale columns of smoke were rising up. Grey wisps against the blue. Some things were slowly burning. I was going to point it out to the others but didn't bother. Such events were pretty common. The thin air thick with the heavy heat and a silent pounding that seemed to rise up from the earth like a deep memory. Whatever it is it's a peculiar feeling. 

"This is what you get, when you mess with us."

Swiss Army Knife

I've had this Swiss Army Knife since 1988. The logo has worn away and the tools and blades are a bit beat up but it's still OK. I was trying to work out if it's my oldest physical possession. It's not, turns out I still have some music cassettes and vinyl records that predate it. Nothing else that I can think of though... doesn't seem quite right. I guess everything else was lost in the fire.

Seventeen Apples

The obvious mistake of counting your apples before they're at all ripe: There's six in the picture, the rest are elsewhere on our small and solitary apple tree. Still growing. I'm actually looking forward to trying these as we've had no fruit from this tree for two years. I presume Covid was/is to blame.

Plums seem to lack the stability and serenity of apples, they just want to jump. Undeveloped plums are forever falling from the tree for no obvious reason only to die on the concrete path below, so we're seeing a pattern of diminishing returns from what seemed like a bumper crop a few weeks ago. Frustrating. 

There are a lot of pears on the pear tree. They are stubborn and willful fruits that ultimately will turn into baked concrete, inedible versions of themselves. We have loads and will face the conundrum of what exactly to do with these stony and pretty much tasteless lumps of fruit. It seems a waste not using them but they just need too much processing. In the event of us ever being besieged they would be useful as ammunition for the catapults as we defend ourselves from our attackers. Lethal at 25m I'd imagine.

Dull as Ditchwater

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You're dull as ditch water, you're dumb as fuck,

You're dull as ditch water; up to your neck in muck.

Privilege gets you everywhere, what a piece of luck.

You’re dull as ditch water, you’re dumb as fuck.

Geranium Time

Probably the shortest song in our vast back catalogue of short songs. I'm sharing this now, fully aware that the weather has just broken and that the unfortunate geraniums in our garden are probably going to take a bit of a battering. That's mother nature for you; angry and confused by human stupidity and greed, she's a bit off kilter right now. I'm not wishing for natural disaster but if she struck back at us I could hardly blame her. The trick is to target the correct people and installations. I'm not sure if we're in the firing line or not the more I think about it. We're all using blunt instruments these days.