ICON

                                                            



I can't quite believe he's gone.

So many of his songs meant so much to me at different stages of life.

Probably the most memorable - my student den while working on an art project listening to Heroes.

Songs of life: No 3

So, fast forwarding to art college days . . . I've missed out many, many records I played over and over; things that reminded me of early loves, the bus trip to foundation course, terrible discos, etc: classics by David Bowie, The Police, The Stranglers, Rush, Pink Floyd, James Brown, Chic, Bryan Ferry - and on and on, but with trying to keep to the statutory Desert Island number of records, I'm going to zip on to This.
This being Bauhaus: In Fear of Fear, the base line of which made me want to take up the bass guitar (and still would like to) I had a t-shirt with this album cover on which I wore to threads - teamed with skintight jeans, stiletto heals and a Homburg . . .
I could happily prance around in the desert island sand reliving those days of student freedom, shared -house filth, and have the time to experiment with photography, paint, and mind altering substances - if they were allowed as your luxury item(s).

Building No 42

Not strictly a building as such, more a box within a building, but rather than start another sub-blog called Loo No 1-2-3-4, etc, I'll put it into the buildings one.
So . . . 42, other than Dear Douglas Adam's reference to the meaning of life the universe and everything, our loo.
When I was about seven, it occurred to me that keeping a record of every loo that you sat (or stood in) would be quite interesting: the ultimate life-time conceptual art piece. But the idea became overtaken with a diary of tea shops instead (now lost, sadly). I suppose it's the fact that you inhabit these small spaces alone (unless one of those bizarre bench-with-holes type ones which exist on medieval bridges) with just your own bodily sounds and thoughts for company - excepting all the noisy airport/ restaurant/bus station loos one might sit in; but you are still in a cubical, on your own for a few minutes or seconds depending on the type of ablution you are undertaking . . .

Anyway . . .
This is our loo, snapped by a lovely Danish B and B'er and his fish-eye lens who stayed with us a couple of weeks ago. The small rectangular space is a shrine to 1975, the year our house was constructed, featuring: Star Trek, Mud, David Bowie, strange puddings from a book of that year, interior decor of the moment, YFO spottings, and of course, wonderful-terrible fashion from that era of orange and purple.