I am only sorry that it's a one-off: a series of images starring this naked man would surely rank among the finest art-works ever produced by humanity. Or some such.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
The look
While the colour of the wall tiles is admittedly a little distracting, there is much in this image to reward close viewing:
I am only sorry that it's a one-off: a series of images starring this naked man would surely rank among the finest art-works ever produced by humanity. Or some such.
I am only sorry that it's a one-off: a series of images starring this naked man would surely rank among the finest art-works ever produced by humanity. Or some such.
One off
I never really got into ping-pong, but maybe if it was played like this I would have been more interested:
That's a mighty fine-looking set-up they have there. I'd play with them.
That's a mighty fine-looking set-up they have there. I'd play with them.
Matrices
For the first time in a decade I rewatched The Matrix trilogy, back-to-back.
When I first saw it I thought the first film was delightful: an unexpectedly jolly fan-boy/nerd romp with imaginative use of the latest technology and an intriguing concept (even if it sometimes felt a bit forced). And Hugo Weaving's Agent Smith was one of the best screen villains to emerge for a long time:
I tried not to let my irrational love of Keanu overly colour my critical faculties, but there's no escaping the fact that Neo/Thomas Anderson is a perfect character for Keanu's particular acting style. I found him sympathetic and utterly engaging.
Though there were so many characters that many of them were thrown away -- I loved this pair, enforcers for the Merovingian in Reloaded but who seemed to disappear (were they really destroyed in that explosion on the Freeway? Seems a bit of an easy way to dispose of them):
But, interestingly, my overwhelming perception this time having viewed the films as a trilogy was of the relative unimportance of both Carrie Anne Moss (whose unquestioning devotion to Neo makes her seem less of an individual) and Laurence Fishburne (who becomes a sort of unthinking lunk-head as the series progresses); and, instead, the total dominance, without even seeming to try, of Gloria Foster:
Foster's Oracle is -- perversely given that she's a machine program -- easily the most human and humane character in the whole shebang. Dominating every frame of each scene in which she features, the Oracle is a pervasive force throughout the three films. Which makes Foster's death at the end of filming the second movie all the more tragic.
Her replacement for the third movie, Mary Alice, was faced with an impossible task, and Gloria's absence may have contributed to the feeling of "going through the motions" that, for me, was the dominant theme of Revolutions.
In summary? Pretty much as before: the first film of the trilogy is joyfully exuberant and engaging, while the two sequels are earnest and lumpen.
When I first saw it I thought the first film was delightful: an unexpectedly jolly fan-boy/nerd romp with imaginative use of the latest technology and an intriguing concept (even if it sometimes felt a bit forced). And Hugo Weaving's Agent Smith was one of the best screen villains to emerge for a long time:
I tried not to let my irrational love of Keanu overly colour my critical faculties, but there's no escaping the fact that Neo/Thomas Anderson is a perfect character for Keanu's particular acting style. I found him sympathetic and utterly engaging.
Though there were so many characters that many of them were thrown away -- I loved this pair, enforcers for the Merovingian in Reloaded but who seemed to disappear (were they really destroyed in that explosion on the Freeway? Seems a bit of an easy way to dispose of them):
But, interestingly, my overwhelming perception this time having viewed the films as a trilogy was of the relative unimportance of both Carrie Anne Moss (whose unquestioning devotion to Neo makes her seem less of an individual) and Laurence Fishburne (who becomes a sort of unthinking lunk-head as the series progresses); and, instead, the total dominance, without even seeming to try, of Gloria Foster:
Foster's Oracle is -- perversely given that she's a machine program -- easily the most human and humane character in the whole shebang. Dominating every frame of each scene in which she features, the Oracle is a pervasive force throughout the three films. Which makes Foster's death at the end of filming the second movie all the more tragic.
Her replacement for the third movie, Mary Alice, was faced with an impossible task, and Gloria's absence may have contributed to the feeling of "going through the motions" that, for me, was the dominant theme of Revolutions.
In summary? Pretty much as before: the first film of the trilogy is joyfully exuberant and engaging, while the two sequels are earnest and lumpen.
Foxy
I'm not often grabbed by cute animal pictures, but this rather sinister study (of an urban fox caught watching someone waiting on the platform at a railway station) has my total attention.
My childhood dog was a corgi whose face was very similar to a fox's, so that look plugs into lots of my most powerful childhood memories. But when you look a little closer, it's the appearance of calculation and heavy brain activity that is even more compelling.
Great photo.
My childhood dog was a corgi whose face was very similar to a fox's, so that look plugs into lots of my most powerful childhood memories. But when you look a little closer, it's the appearance of calculation and heavy brain activity that is even more compelling.
Great photo.
Random stuff
A random round-up of mostly smallish winkies, starting with this pose -- which never gets stale, for me:
Nothing appears posed about this next delightful shot:
I'm a bit put off by that shaving.
No shaving in this next one, though his socks are putting me off a bit:
While this one is just pure class:
Here's that pose again, though more frontal this time:
And as the sands of time are running out, here's a photo of someone whose sands are, er, running out:
Can't identify the location, which is bugging me a bit, but otherwise I'd say that was pure delight.
I thank you.
Nothing appears posed about this next delightful shot:
I'm a bit put off by that shaving.
No shaving in this next one, though his socks are putting me off a bit:
While this one is just pure class:
Here's that pose again, though more frontal this time:
And as the sands of time are running out, here's a photo of someone whose sands are, er, running out:
Can't identify the location, which is bugging me a bit, but otherwise I'd say that was pure delight.
I thank you.
More Fenland fun
Somewhat disappointingly, my recent subtle hint (that someone might like to send me a million pounds to "invest" in Colony Lake, Welney) has not, so far, generated any offers, so I thought a couple more shots of the property might jog your wallets.
It's a converted farmhouse, set in seven remote acres (a big chunk of which is lake and fishing island -- 30 and 40lb fish are caught here each year. No, I don't know what sort, my knowledge of fish being confined to the more edible types such as Cod and Haddock, and I'm quietly confident that there are no Cod or Haddock in this lake). Apparently lots of fishing fans rent the rooms.
The house has seven bedrooms and has been done up by people with little taste (vast, shapeless leather sofas squat on laminate floors in some of the interior shots, which I have been kind enough not to show you). But it has enormous potential.
It also has a self-contained lodge and permission to build five more (which is where the real money would be). Oh, and there's already a "ten man sauna" on site. So maybe we could also make money by letting it out for porn shoots...?
It's a converted farmhouse, set in seven remote acres (a big chunk of which is lake and fishing island -- 30 and 40lb fish are caught here each year. No, I don't know what sort, my knowledge of fish being confined to the more edible types such as Cod and Haddock, and I'm quietly confident that there are no Cod or Haddock in this lake). Apparently lots of fishing fans rent the rooms.
The house has seven bedrooms and has been done up by people with little taste (vast, shapeless leather sofas squat on laminate floors in some of the interior shots, which I have been kind enough not to show you). But it has enormous potential.
It also has a self-contained lodge and permission to build five more (which is where the real money would be). Oh, and there's already a "ten man sauna" on site. So maybe we could also make money by letting it out for porn shoots...?
Quintessentially English
When I was a very small boy, one of my favourite books was, without question, Paddington Bear:
For reasons too cloying to go into here, I found myself re-reading the very first book earlier today -- still with the original delightful illustrations, by Peggy Fortnum. But I have to say I was shocked to find it had been "modernised" -- set firmly in the late 1950s, the children suddenly started talking about "fifty pence". No, no, no: it should be shillings and pennies.
Later on they discussed pocket money and decided everyone should get a pound each. What? That was almost a weekly wage in the late 1950s!
Once I'd got over that shock, I found the book as charming as I remembered. And, to prove I'm not an old fart who doesn't like change, I even like the more recent colour illustrations produced by an American...
Or perhaps that should be "color".
Anyway, that's probably just as well since I've just discovered a startling fact: twice as many readers of this blog are based in the USA as in the UK.
I don't know quite what to make of that. But I'll make something of it and get back to you...
For reasons too cloying to go into here, I found myself re-reading the very first book earlier today -- still with the original delightful illustrations, by Peggy Fortnum. But I have to say I was shocked to find it had been "modernised" -- set firmly in the late 1950s, the children suddenly started talking about "fifty pence". No, no, no: it should be shillings and pennies.
Later on they discussed pocket money and decided everyone should get a pound each. What? That was almost a weekly wage in the late 1950s!
Once I'd got over that shock, I found the book as charming as I remembered. And, to prove I'm not an old fart who doesn't like change, I even like the more recent colour illustrations produced by an American...
Or perhaps that should be "color".
Anyway, that's probably just as well since I've just discovered a startling fact: twice as many readers of this blog are based in the USA as in the UK.
I don't know quite what to make of that. But I'll make something of it and get back to you...
Cupid strikes
I have an announcement to make... Yes, I am in love:
No idea who he is, but I've posted several of his photos from the last World Naked Bike Ride -- and now, here he is, in a diptych put together by some genius person... and I am in love.
That's all there is to it. Unless someone has his email address, at all?
No idea who he is, but I've posted several of his photos from the last World Naked Bike Ride -- and now, here he is, in a diptych put together by some genius person... and I am in love.
That's all there is to it. Unless someone has his email address, at all?
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Funny old world
I'd been out to Egham in Surrey, to wander around Royal Holloway College -- Pevsner describes it and its sister building, Holloway Sanatorium, as "the summit of Victorian High design".
It is, bizarrely, an 1881 confection based on the Château de Chambord of 1519... But more of that some other time.
Anyway, as a result I found myself leaning against a lamppost at Egham station, waiting for my train home, and I was passing the time by taking desultory photos in a rather half-hearted manner. Like this one:
As the train pulled out of the station I kept snapping -- truly dismal photography, if I may say so.
And then something extraordinary happened: in self-defence, a man who had found himself in my frame started taking photos of me...
I was being so pathetic that, at the time, I didn't notice he had done that. I had seen the pair of them earlier, standing at a ticket machine, and noted the photographer's friend in his tight stretchy top (whose very sexy good looks have not been enhanced by my dismal photography, I'm ashamed to say).
But flip-flop-footed photographer is, now I come to study these images, actually rather lovely. I wonder if he'll see himself on here...?
It is, bizarrely, an 1881 confection based on the Château de Chambord of 1519... But more of that some other time.
Anyway, as a result I found myself leaning against a lamppost at Egham station, waiting for my train home, and I was passing the time by taking desultory photos in a rather half-hearted manner. Like this one:
As the train pulled out of the station I kept snapping -- truly dismal photography, if I may say so.
And then something extraordinary happened: in self-defence, a man who had found himself in my frame started taking photos of me...
I was being so pathetic that, at the time, I didn't notice he had done that. I had seen the pair of them earlier, standing at a ticket machine, and noted the photographer's friend in his tight stretchy top (whose very sexy good looks have not been enhanced by my dismal photography, I'm ashamed to say).
But flip-flop-footed photographer is, now I come to study these images, actually rather lovely. I wonder if he'll see himself on here...?
Friday, 29 April 2011
More Art, Jim
It's been an utter eternity since I featured any Performance Art on here.
God, what am I thinking?
I have no idea what's going on in this sequence, although the preponderance of drool suggests some sort of zombification, possibly.
It's hard to say: my brain is too focussed on the lovely wee jutting cock and dangly balls of this curly-haired lovely...
...with just the right amount of chest hair and a big bushy exuberance...
...though actually his mate is also rather fine. No, very fine, actually:
Performance Art: I just can't get enough.
Any background info would be gratefully received.
God, what am I thinking?
I have no idea what's going on in this sequence, although the preponderance of drool suggests some sort of zombification, possibly.
It's hard to say: my brain is too focussed on the lovely wee jutting cock and dangly balls of this curly-haired lovely...
...with just the right amount of chest hair and a big bushy exuberance...
...though actually his mate is also rather fine. No, very fine, actually:
Performance Art: I just can't get enough.
Any background info would be gratefully received.
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