vspace funding list (exploratory) on Flickr.
Date = late 1988/89.
V.Space = “Virtual Space”, an (awesome) idea for a magazine developed by Paul Elliman and self.
List = foax we thought might be fool enough to lose money on it!
Doodle = main reason I posted it
I did a bad bad thing.
good news: 2nd-hand booksale across road to become permanent 2nd-hand book section! <—- very bad news also : \
six books in all, £20 the lot (haha all in pound coins) :)
Art & Illusion, E. H. Gombrich <— almost certainly already own this, squirrelled away somewhere :(
D-Day: the Battle for Normandy, Anthony Beevor <—- schlachtbummelerpr0n, yes indeed
Oxford Dictionary of English Grammar <— checking it for silly mistakes obv
Reggae Explosion: the Story of Jamaican Music, Salewicz&Boot <—- work (actually really plausibly)
2Stoned: Andrew Loog Oldham <—- work (and i didn’t buy “the sex lives of the great composers” so shut up) (haha actually wrote “sex lives of the great composters” <— would read)
Visual Dictionary of the Skeleton, The <—- WOT OF IT? KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
Rereading William Mayne: the intractable moral knot of the 20th century’s greatest author for children, examined at Freaky Trigger.
This is the time of year when I require a POLL OF ALL THE POLLS, to diminish the absurdly extensive “end of year” music commentary I am almost certainly never going to get round to reading.
A DREAM: I was in the field behind the house we lived in when I was a child myself, which slopes up to the high dark hedge, before plunging down the riverbank to the Severn. It’s twilight, quiet and very still, and I’m with a small person, perhaps my niece: in the dim yet somehow energised light we’re hiding in a shrubbery cut and fashioned, vertically and in plan, into expanded Tangrams. We’re not hiding fearfully; we’re waiting for something that might be spooked by us in plain view — just as my sister and I hid in this field with our parents decades ago, to catch sight of badgers. I have with me, awkwardly, a set of old books or magazines, or perhaps sheet music, paper brittle and brown with age — I’ve placed it for safekeeping on a low wall a few yards away. We wait, in tense excited anticipation of we know not what.
“Is it a scary face?” asks the small person with me, more in curiosity than fear. The field is now full of small people, with their attendant grown-ups, and I can hear the reply murmured all round my, in adult and childish agreement: no, no, it’s a nice face.
(I woke from this dream open-mouthed with awe at its visual beauty, and scribbled it down straight away so as not to lose or distort it.)
