Thursday, 11 November 2010

Anti-Student Fee protests 10/11 2010

I was there. I am not shocked by the way things have been portrayed in the papers (except the Guardian, who have been pleasing), but have been somewhat dissapointed by the attitudes of my fellow students, especially people in the student union here at AUCB, moaning about how "The thugs ruined it for everyone" and "They weren't even all students". Of course everyone on the march wasn't a fucking student! Have these people ever heard of solidarity?

I feel it's important to publically state that I am in full support of everything that happened yesterday. Anyone who has sympathy for the poor widdle towy pawty getting some windows smashed and cocks drawn all over their headquarters is a fucking moron, especially if they're a student. These people are the fucking enemy, and they're out to destroy higher education and the arts, turn them into even more of gated communities than they already are. What happened yesterday could have been better co-ordinated and managed (the building could still be occupied if things had been done right). I'm not sure on what level it was organised and what level it was spontaneous, but I am pretty sure that if everything had gone to the dickless plan of the NUS (Nice quiet little march round whitehall, shout some slogans, go home) then we would have made page 5 of the nationals and been forgotten about instantly. I don't think we can 'harm' this cause by direct action. I think this sets the tone brilliantly for what this government should expect as they roll out draconian policies that harm the poor, women, the unemployed, immigrants and practically anyone else who's not one of their rich white friends: resistance. I am proud that some of my fellow students in this country still have the balls not to roll over and do and believe everything they're told.


Tuesday, 9 November 2010

Work from Exhibition, other things!

So fucking hell I got a lot of work to show you! First, here is my piece from my first Third Year show.

Koan #1
Ink, acrylic paint, charcoal, digital print

Here are the two bits:

Ink, acrylic paint, charcoal

Imagine There's No Heaven
Digital print

You will notice that each piece has a seperate title. This is because I am playing around with structuralist literary theory and the idea of a title as a sort of metatext. The pieces can be read on their own, but when exhibited they are given one title and thus the reading is complicated! Doesn't really work at the moment because it's too ironic. I am building up two bodies of work, drawings and texts, but since the texts are just happy phrases rendered in naff garish fonts that only look semi-good printed out huge (which costs loads) I will just show drawings.

After Andreas Vesalius
Charcoal, chalk, spraypaint

Tiny Tim
Charcoal, acrylic paint, chalk, spraypaint

Another World, All Dead
Charcoal, acrylic paint, coffee, colouring chalk, spraypaint, fineliner

L'homme Armee #2
Acrylic paint, ink, charcoal

Ink, charcoal, acrylic paint, colouring chalk

Hope it was worth the wait! See you again whenever, I'm a busy bee (bzzzzzzz)

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

ArtSway proposal

University is tiring, hard and time-consuming! But I have some meagre crumbs to show. I had to do a proposal submission for a show of AUCB Student work at a local-ish gallery called ArtSway. Here are my proposed pieces and the supporting images I put in (I don't really expect to get in):

A series of four painted/printed boards, each one displaying part of the text which makes up the title rendered in solid, stencilled white on a muted abstract painted background, realized in acrylic paint and printing ink. The boards to be hung individually in a 2x2 arrangement.


Sic Semper Tyrannis
The work is in the form of a folding triptych, with overtones of an altar piece or icon, made out of simple black-painted wood. The two side panels fold on brass hinges into the central panel, and the piece should be displayed as an object standing on a plinth. The two smaller side panels contain highly rendered mixed media drawings in ink, graphite, charcoal, chalk, acrylic paint, coffee and home-made tempera paint, and each portrays a rotting corpse lying in a coffin, identifiable through their clothing and other details as Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson. The larger central panel contains a drawing echoing aesthetic elements of the side panels, consisting of the text ‘THUS TO ALL TYRANTS’.

Sketches for 'Sic Semper Tyrannis'.


An image made up of 24 smaller images, each the size of a standard piece of A4 printer paper, mounted on a board in 6 rows and 4 columns. These images are all developed from a self-portrait of the artist, using a continuous process of photocopying and over-drawing and painting, so that the images represent a sort of timeline of work, with the number echoing the 24 frames used in one second of a film. Each component image will be in the form of a print made from solar etching plates, developed separately and mounted edge to edge so that no border or background is visible.

Developmental work for Untitled

Monday, 11 October 2010

Some poems, new tumblr

I know I promised artwork with going back to university, but at the present moment I just have no way to record it! I have been busy though, don't you worry.

So, here's some writing stuff, first, a new tumblr which I will hopefully update semi-regularly: Descriptions of Heavy Metal Videos. The concept is extremely simple: I describe exactly what happens during the course of Heavy Metal videos in prose ranging between dry and sarcastic. I hope I do not have to explain why this is funny!

Now I got some poems what I have been writing. Actually the first one I wrote like a year ago, but hey ho. First two short ones, then a whopper. No one reads this shit anyway!

After the Clocks Stop

There will be singing and laughter
There will be fires and dogs
There will be strange vortices
And black dust
And our fingers will be wreathed in silver
After the clocks stop

There will be revolution
There will be great upheavals
There will be embers
There will be flags
There will be fucking in the streets
And our bodies too will undergo many changes
After the clocks stop

Black Metal For Life

How I miss purity of intent
How I miss certainty of purpose
Photographs taken at night
And oversaturated
Leather studded with nails
Corpse-painted faces
And clothes that have been buried

The happiest moment of my life:
Held aloft above a crowd
In a German field
Drunk, sunstruck, bruised and hoarse
With unfiltered cigarettes
And screaming for Christian blood

I Saw the End of the World on Bournemouth Beach

I saw the end of the world on Bournemouth Beach
Just earlier this evening
And I thought I might as well write something down about it

I was in my room
It was about half ten in the evening
I did not fancy sleep just yet
(I could not achieve sleep)
I rolled three small joints and two cigarettes
I put them in my tin
I filled a bottle with water
I had an mp3 walkman
Loaded with Looking For Europe,
A selection from Current 93,
Andrew King’s The Amfortas Wound,
Panopticon’s Collapse,
Much of In Gowan Ring,
Some Sieben, Down in June,
Ulver, Laibach and
The Legendary Pink Dots.
Poets music, alright
For a certain sort of poet
I had spent the evening reading Lovecraft
I suppose you’re getting some idea
Of how these thoughts come about.
Some people go looking for trouble:
I go looking for some insular, bleak experience
I have looked for it on the hills and woods of my native island
I have looked for it on streets, on mountains
And found it a few times.
I think I found it yesterday evening
(for midnight has now passed)
When I saw the end of the world on Bournemouth beach

Two men had built a fire in a pit
They were Polish, or somewhere east of there
Incredibly well prepared
Bottles of vodka
Stools to sit on
Charcoal for the fire
(The younger’s hands were black)
They were singing some raucous, melancholic song
And making frequent toasts
From behind, standing on the promenade
Only the finest orange trace of their outlines is visible

And beyond them there is

You see, the beach of my mind
Is the beach on the north coast of the Isle of Wight
Where we used to drink and smoke when I was a teen
There the sea is narrow and expensive
A definite northern horizon in the lights of Portsmouth and Southampton
(Sometimes the fog or rain came down
And it became a ribbon of soft light
In a grey haze)
But here, there is no horizon
On one side the stubby, half-hearted pier
Projects out, it’s decking pulsing with coloured light
To starboard, the beach curves round, comes to a point
Then dips back toward Poole
Between these two points one cannot, at this hour
Discern the boundary between the sea and sky
Just an inchoate darkness
With a strip of surf across the bottom and
Far above, constantly being obscured by shifting clouds
Some of the brighter stars
Polaris maybe, Sirius, Algol…
I always mean to learn astronomy properly.

And I remembered once some years before
I might have been sixteen, seventeen.
(I think it was the summer before my first trip to Germany)
All my friends had gone to the Festival
But it did not interest me, and I hadn’t bothered finding tickets
It was a beautiful day I remember
Shimmering with heat
And I had gone down to Ryde on my own
To those rocks on the sea-break at the end of the harbour wall,
With an eighth, some 20x, amyl butyrate and 35cl of the red label
With a vague idea to achieve some sort of
Strange shamanic state
And I had seen what I can only describe
As some pretty weird shit

I saw the Spinnaker towers lights shake and begin swaying
Swinging as if on the end of vast marching arms
And suddenly it took human shape
And it wrestled its legs from the ground
And began to slide around the Pompey skyline
Till I looked away
And it was just the tower again.
So I concentrated on the repeat show:
Once it disappeared entirely
Once a passing oil tanker cut under its feet
And it was suddenly on top of it
In the middle of the Solent
(It sank through the deck)
And one time it even did a sort of dance
Assuming an almost human shape
But by that time I was pretty far away
I got out a thick permanent black pen
And drew the scene from the harbour entrance
On the actual rock
And then I wandered off and did some graffiti
In the shelters on the sea wall up by Appley
Skulls smoking cigarettes, rainbow spitting
Devil women with fucked up eyes
Symbols from Thelema and Wicca, Asatru,
Older things
For back then I still had some vague belief
That there was something beyond ordinary life
(Though I’ve since realised that, thankfully,
There isn’t)

But despite that digression, I don’t want you to think
That the drugs really had anything to do with my
Apocalyptic fancies on Bournemouth Beach
I had no true hallucinogens,
And it was only three very small joints
They were not visions
The sky did not crack
Angels did not unfurl their wings like
Six dead crows in a blender
And fling forth turquoise hellfire.
And nothing rose out of the sea,
Euclidean or not,
And the dead stayed in their tombs
As they inevitably will
For all of time to come
It was just a feeling.

One of the men got up laughing,
And went to piss in the sea

Not even that strong a feeling.
I had a religious experience once,
Me who believes in no gods, no souls.
And I do not discount it.
I was on the curtain wall of an old castle
And I looked out upon the countryside
And I looked along the wall, and there was a flower
Growing inbetween two stones
And I got to thinking of the men who had built this castle
Or rather, ordered it built.
Cruel men, powerful men,
Right bastards probably.
And how barely anyone now remembers their names
Except the old dear in the castle museum
And how their mighty, oppressive fortress
Crumbles gently into flowers.
And I felt infinitely small,
Adrift in oceans of time and space.
And yet I felt valuable,
Essential, a crucial component in a vast
Mysterious machine.
Utterly insignificant
Utterly important
Completely at peace with the world
And in that one moment,
I could have gladly accepted death.

Off to one side a group on the promenade in shadows
Illicit teen drinkers I think
I remember their lot well
Big bottles of cider, tiny bottles of vodka
Injury, sickness, embarrassment,
Police harassment,
Desperate furtive sex
Ill advised experiments
With some of the harder drugs
A desperate, pugnacious longing
To be adults and to be free
(Not knowing yet that freedom
Is just something they made up to sell perfume).

And doubtless down along this coast there are other groups
And perhaps other men round even other fires,
North in the town proper the panda cars circle like vultures
As the first round of fighting begins
And perhaps there are even others like me.
A bearded oddity finishing his last cigarette
Flinching from the searchlight stabs of the teens camera flashes
And desperately wishing he’d bought his sketchbook.
So that he could note down his vague impressions.
Of the end of the world on Bournemouth beach

The drugs are just a poetic metaphor, mum and dad. Honests. I am a good boy.

Thursday, 16 September 2010

A quick sketch to mark the historic occasion of the visit of His Holiness Benedictus XVI, Episcopus Romae, to the British Isles

Flakhilfer Ratzinger...
Pens and digital colours

As an aside, I will not that I don't actually believe the pope is a closet nazi, but the visual vocabulary of fascism is much more direct than the fairly vague visual vocabulary of slimy, bigoted, fuckbag enemies of reason, so I went with nazis.

EDIT: I just googled it and FUCK, it's 'flakhelfer'. Wrong both times!

Monday, 13 September 2010

Franz de Byl is still insane

I'm sorry, I can't leave this off. I'm kind of obsessed by this guy. Here is a google cache of a post from a blog he has since deleted (why? Why does this man do anything?)

Lesson # 2:
Using s.b.'s name and trade mark with the intend and purpose to sell commercials or in any other way gain profits is not allowed. Unless the owner gave allowance to do so.
Here are "my" personal parasites hiding behind russian servers or so called community members:
Franz de Byl – Free listening, concerts, stats, & pictures at
Listen free to Franz de Byl: Birthday (The World's Gates), I Got Trouble & more. ... People who like Franz de Byl also like ARCANE V, Albrecht D, Banten.
3 Feb 2010 ... Having another nose around, I found that one of the most obscure of the artists,Franz de Byl, had just recently put up some tracks on his ...
This Mr. Panzerdivision John Candy probably is exactly that fraud who started this "" site and its "tags" and "similar artists" informations. He might be the head of the group "Arcane" or at least of all of the groups what are listed under "similar artists" - but none of those groups have something in common with me or are in any way similar...
It is just using my name to publish own shit.

So now I am a member of a french psychedelic rock band from the 1970's, and I am hiding behind Russian servers. This is fantastic. Here is a quote from one of the comments (by the man himself) which seems to shed light on the root of his mania:

What do you think Discogs and and all the other fucking pirates in the net are wanting? Gain some fucking money, or help out and sponsor all the good and legendary musicians? You are to blame and I don't need to have better lawyers then Barbara - I can do it myself: It's MY NAME, MY TRADEMARK, MY LIFE, MY HOME, MY MUSIC, MY PERSONALITY, MY PICTURES - everything concerning Franz de Byl BELONGS TO ME!! And I give permission or I don’t give a permission.
The reference to 'Barbara' comes from someone trying to explain the Streisand Effect to him, whereby attempting to censor information on the internet generally leads to this information being deliberately sought out and exchanged. This little rant also dramatically expands our understanding of the gulf of Franz De Byl's misunderstandings about how the world functions. The reason I'm interested in this guy, I should add, is because he makes a fascinating case study for the internet age, and for information theory. He's basically engaged in some quixotic battle against the entire way the internet works. The way he's doing it is so muddled and clueless it makes you feel kind of sad for him. For example, Franz does not seem to realise that sites are generated procedurally from the listening habits of users: when people with the plugin listen to music, it creates sites for the artists they are listening to and generates the charts, playlists and connections automatically. He says, wonderfully: had to erase my music data for 10 to 20 times now – but some members are uploading my music again and again...
People are listening to his music. This is what he actually hates them doing. He can't seem to understand that this is why his site keeps reappearing. But yet he says

So the whole story about "The similar artists shows the bands people listening to the most who have been listening to you" is nothing but conman's work. I know very well what kind of music my fans are listening to...
I resume, as all those frauds and Lewandowskis don't let me change or erase "my sites" I will never allow them to use my name, my trademark, my life and at least: ME!
It's fabulous. He thinks he knows better than the truth. Most people who listen to his music discovered him via the NWW list. He hates this. But he can't change it, he can't destroy the list and he simply doesn't understand. The impotence and purity of his rage his quite staggering, really. Lewandoski is I believe one of the people who flatly refused to remove the data about the bootleg release he is so upset about from It's worth re-iterating here that Franz De Byl believes that people that are not him writing about, reviewing or keeping record of his music constitutes identity theft.

Another great comment rant:

Jason, you’re nothing but a lemming. I don’t need – needs me. You believe in what is declaring and affirming – I don’t. You probably believe in BP and that there is no oil in the gulf of mexico, it just looks like it – I don’t. You probably believe in your english football team – I don’t. And you probably believe in your politicians and preachers – I don’t.
Like you believe in this curious nww list – I DON’T! I stop this now and make Google remove from the search result site for “Franz de Byl”. Habe die Ehre!
This is in response to someone trying to patiently explain to Franz how the similiar artists system works. Franz appears to believe that are lying about how the similiar artist system works, that the entire website is somehow a scam used to defraud him, and that is some vast multinational conspiracy. Franz de Byl is an INCREDIBLY obscure musician. The idea that someone would be bothered to do this is astonishing, It also plays somewhat in to the theory that Franz may have fanatic type narcissistic personality disorder. The guy certainly needs some sort of medical help. I cannot provide him, but I love analysing him. Maybe I shouldn't, maybe it's cruel, but this is the Streisand effect at work, I think. I want to expose and somehow excise Franz's censorious mania. Also he's a fucking quote mine and no mistake.

Final bonus rant:

The best bit BY far about this rant is that Steven Stapleton's wife is called Diana Rogerson. A google search for "Candice Iverson"+"Steven Stapleton" returns exactly one result on google. I'll leave you to figure out what that result is for yourself.

Friday, 10 September 2010

Fun with Highlighters

Been doing a little doodling at work. Pretty much all I got is fineliners, ballpoints, coffee and highlighters, so that's what I'm working with.

Before we begin, Highlighters really, really do not scan well. Which is a bummer. Ah well.

Cowboy Killer
Fineliner, ballpoint, highlighters, coffee

This Shit Will Fuck You Up
Ballpoint, fineliners, highlighters, flipchart pen, coffee

Golden Skull
Ballpoint, coffee, highlighters, flipchart pen

Fantasy Castle
Ballpoints, highlighters

The last one loses the most, I think.

I'm going back to uni soon, and I plan to update this blog with the artwork I'm producing there, so it should suddenly get a LOT more happening. Though knowing me probably not. Ciao!

Monday, 12 July 2010

Some more comics

Sequels to 'Cat Science' from the last post:

Normal service to resume when the moons are united in darkness, and the dead shall walk the earth once more.

Wednesday, 7 July 2010

Let's go art!

Damn, It's been a long time since I posted anything. Life has been like a whirlwind. For anyone who follows my life news: I got a place back at art college so I can finish my BA. Fantastique. In other life news, I have spent the last four weeks on a mandated course for the long-term unemployed. It is transcendentally dull, but I've met some fun people. To stave off the boredom, I've been doing a lot of doodling. I still haven't solved my 'problem' of when I sit down to draw just wanting to draw space aliens and robot knights and other such 'low art' shit. However, I will have to very soon start pounding forward with some very 'serious', conceptually bold, highly finished work if I ever want to get a 2/1 (and spend at least another year outside the hellish real world doing a masters degree).

Okay lets put some meat on these digital bones. I apologise in advance that many of these images are poorly rendered in cheap, naff biro, supplied to us free (along with bountiful printer and photocopier paper).

First, some general odd images:

Next some general sci-fi/fantasy/horror bits. First a picture of some demon:

Now other stuff:

Here are some sketches from an idea of mine for a comic/roleplay setting/some nerdy shit called 'Hell Patrol'. It is about mad max style officers of the titular organisation fighting zombies (and the electricity hating, mind-devouring entities from beyond time and space who create them) in post-apocalyptic Britain. It makes about as much sense as any intellectual property whose conceptual basis rests on the titles of Judas Priest songs should be expected to.

Also over the past month or so I have been putting together design documents hashing out my concepts for literary science fiction, that I have been developing in my head since I was about 8. This document is becoming truly monstrous (34,000+ words, 91 pages with illustrations) and is only about three fifths done. It may appear on here at some point in the future, I don't know. I have been toying with the concept of taking my various speculative fiction ideas and expounding them in some sort of website form with a many-worlds conceit. Like most of my ideas this will probably come to nothing.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Here is a little comic to send you on your way.

Saturday, 12 June 2010


First, let me apologise for the paucity of updates. A combination of life circumstances and the death of my computer have made these events hard to come by. I make no promises for the future.

Now, on to my purpose.

Let me be abundantly clear first of all that I had already formed very strong opinions about the World Cup, mainly because of this. Indeed the world cup belongs to that special class of international sporting events, along with the olympics, that I especially love. Apart from the common theme in all major professional sports (that they are pointless corporate sponsored orgies of shit designed to do absolutely nothing but part people from money and take their minds off how shit their lives are), these events also have a consistent history of human rights abuses; Vancouver 2010 and Beijing 2008 made particular headlines, but people still watched them and spent money on their merchandise, which is why this shit is allowed to continue; these events are associated with human rights abuses simply because the hosting governments know they're going to get away with it, because people just want to see whatever treasured collection of overglorified playground games they want to watch.

The second reason for my detestation of these events is that they are facist. This is something I had thought before, that was cemented by attempting to watch a world cup game. Here's some leafs from my sketchbook to brighten the scene before we begin:



I really can't be bothered to recap about the aesthetics of fascism. Susan Sontag's masterful essay about Leni Reifenstahl, 'Fascinating Fascism' is probably the best summation I know. Right. Let us consider world cup football. The will of the nation is subsumed into an elite force of chosen men, hand picked by remote economic and social elites. We are asked to support these elite men unconditionally, simplhy because we happen to be born on the same arbitrarily defined portion of the earth's surface as them. Many attach themselves to the group identity by the wearing of uniforms and symbols. The most fanatic even obscure their faces beneath the flag of the nation, destroying all individuality in an ecstatic communion with the mystical, mythical national essence. It all comes together in a great festival, where foreigners and domestic outsiders are shunned, and all come together to give up their individuality, their personal goals, for the greater good of the tiny, elite group of men in their matching uniforms. There is athletic triumphalism, the glory of the body is celebrated, the intellectual component of life is cast aside. People join together to sing special hymns to the glory of the nation and the elites, to celebrate myths of the triumph of our nations elites against the elites of other nations, and so on and so forth.

What I'm trying to say is


Bread and circuses. If you're watching the world cup you're a fucking corporate tool who's supporting the direct and indirect oppression of thousands or millions of people so you can watch a load of fucking millionaires kick around a fucking ball. Fuck you.

(Addendum: This post is mostly a joke, but it contains an uncomfortable core of truth).

Friday, 7 May 2010

I won a prize.

I don't know what to say. I never got anything like this before. I feel blessed.

The citation in full (original here):

All words below are copyright

Franz de Byl
musician & music teacher
Goethestrasse 16A
10625 Berlin

(You should note that this quote is a serious infringement of Franz De Byl's rights to privacy, sanity, dignity, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I publish his words under the principles of fair use, with the above proviso.)

Franz de Byl: Panzerdivision John Candy

I created a new award for NWW suckers and internet wannabe vicious pirates - the name of the award is:
The Major Bedwetter!
And the winner iiiiizzzz:
Mr. Panzerdivision John Candy!
...whoever that is. Look at his blog
If you're also wanting to gain this award some lovely day, you will only have to meet the following conditions:
1. Search yourself a code name in using the name of a well known figure, actor, artist, cuban politician or DJ in combination with a term of the 2nd world war, Hitler or the SS, star wars or World Trade Center.
2. Start a blog and create a profile about your pipe dreams to blow up your virtual person or avatar until you accept it as a reality yourself.
3. Start boring the community with platitudes and commonplaces. You will get a lot of banal comments and grow up and get famous very soon...a star will be born!
4. Enlarge your virtual life - register with new names like under 1 explained for any kind of internet communities, especially those who collect other people like you (, discogs, rateyourmusic etc.). Feel free in all united assholes forums.
5. Try to piss on real people or muggles. Nobody can debar you - because you are and remain as nothing but an anonymous motherfucker at least. Nothing is more fun for a major bedwetter like pissing on s.b. with a real name and existence! Like a fucking dog or a fucking graffiti sprayer do on a fucking wall..
6. Feel like what you are: a hero! You won't have much time left.
Mr. Panzerdivision John Candy (...what a drag-name!) does all that with a maximum of quality and advance!
By the way: Last FM receives a DMCA complaint through Google at this time. So also this issue will soon be forgotten. To be real and to have a real name can be convenient sometimes, Mr. Anonymous Asshole! You will only enter the history books as THE MAJOR BEDWETTER - awarded through
Franz de Byl
musician & music teacher
Goethestrasse 16A
10625 Berlin
By the way: Please feel free to write a comment but notice: I will only publish comments what are sent to me by real persons with a real and legal name and address - thanx
Posted by Franz de Byl at 4/21/2010 01:45:00 AM

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Some digital paintings, just dicking about.

Just having a play around with a internet based tool I found here. Weird shaped canvas and no erase or copy/paste. A lot of fun though.

I really like the quality of mark. I could see myself incorporating stuff from here into other digital works.

Maybe those promised drawings will surface as well. Maybe soon. Maybe.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

Artists Statement, First Draught

Yeah I know I said I'd upload some stuff. But I've been real-world busy. How does this sound:

We, as human beings, tend to think that we are the highest form of life on this planet. In this, we are sadly mistaken: the dominant life-form of our world is the idea. Capable of reproducing itself without a physical body, of evolving in the blink of an eye to fit any environment, immortal and ever changing. The interaction of ideas, their organisation, their mutation, their reproduction, and their attempted enslavement by human beings is the space where my art exists. I explore how ideas and images can become deformed, how they can be organised and put in zoos by the gawping explorers of culture. I play a game of definitions wherein I attempt to deconstruct the tedious dualisms that plague our understanding: art/not-art, good/bad, clever/stupid, dramatic/melodramatic, inspiration/theft, erotic/pornographic, legal/criminal. My approach is undirected, more alchemy than science. A fuzzy, chopped up, low-fidelity, tenth VHS copy sort of art, where every glitch and malfunction is a happy little accident. Draw a straight line, and observe the jerks and meanders. The body resists all attempts to impose order. From these seeds, the genetic errors in the reproduction of the idea by the human pantograph, further chaos grows, as the results are encoded, transcoded, sent through wires, displayed upon screens, redrawn, and sent on. Braver men than I have taken up arms against the mounting tide of errors, but the process by which order becomes disorder is a physical law, immutable as gravity. Must we all be so quixotic? Would it not be better to accept the inevitable, and bow out gracefully to the new age of the pure, useless idea?

Stupid, right? Well, it's an artists statement, and I've got about a month left. I'd also like to let you know that, obviously, this is not the first draught, it's more like the eightieth draught. At least one of those draughts was largely quotes from Cryptic Wintermoon songs.

Monday, 5 April 2010

Jesus Christ, it's 5 paintings, get in the car!

I have managed to gain brief but glorious access to a scanner. I will release some new stuff slowly over the course of this week (perhaps in three posts) rather than just splurge it all at once.

First, some paintings.

Of Course it Doesn't Taste Good It's Just Been In Your Arse
Acrylic paint

I Wish Your Fucking Mother Could be Here to See This
Acrylic paint

The Figurehead of HMS Warrior
Acrylic paint, black rollerball, coffee, ink

Fire + Ice
Acrylic paint

First Murder (after Argento)
Acrylic paint

The first two quote from Sutcliffe Jügend songs. Little more needs to be said about them, except that the second is much better than the first. The third one is just a little working on a sketch I did during a family trip to the Portsmouth historic dockyard a while back. The fourth is just some fantasy crap that arrived out of playing with colours. Dreadfully sorry about that. The fifth is the first in a planned series. As you can see, it is based on a screenshot from the film 'Suspiria', showing the first of that films brutal murders. I didn't get the colours quite right. The colours in Suspiria are so gorgeous

On Wednesday, I'll post some drawings, then on Friday the properly scanned versions of Bedlam Boys and L'Homme Arme, plus some photoshop stuff.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

The Bradford Exchange

The Bradford Exchange is a website and catalogue company. They may have one or more physical outlets (possibly in Bradford?) but I doubt it: such a place would warp time and space around it to such a degree that one might enter it on tuesday and come out sometime in the upper mesozoic era on Mars. The Bradford Exchange claims to offer 'Innovation, artistry and design of enduring value', which is a lie worthy of the great tricksters of mythology. Their definition of the above phrase encompasses such wonderful gems as The Faithful Fuzzies Military Wall Clock ('Inspired by the Defenders of our Li’bear’ty Collection') The Elvis Presley Jailhouse Rock Musical Doll ('the cutest little jailbird you ever did see') and Adoring Eyes Westie Cradle Figurine ('Features a Swaronski crystal!'). Their entire catalogue is an assault on the senses comparable to seeing a Throbbing Gristle gig in a wheelie bin; not content with mere visual assaults, the Bradford Exchange wastes no opportunity to have their products play music or talk to you. The breadth is astonishing as well. Not content with one mere brand of kitsch, they do their best to bring everything to the table: Elvis Presley, Thomas Kinkade, maudlin militaria, So Truly Real dolls, Disney, native american kitsch that would make a single tear roll down the face of any noble chief, and on, and on, and on. Naturally, this felt like a ripe target for my photoshop, in lieu of being able to provide decent digital versions of my drawings and paintings at the moment.

This was my first stab:

Yes, yes, I know. Obvious you say. The more pertinent and wicked among you might suggest that a black metal version of The Bradford Exchange would, in fact, be Alchemy Gothic. This may very well be true, and offers up the interesting possibility that Luis Royo is the flipside of Thomas Kinkade, and that the two men might annihilate each other in a blast of pure energy if they were ever to touch. Also extremely obvious, though, I fear, worryingly close to the knuckle as regards the sensibilities that underly this website, was my second attempt:

I couldn't resist, however. This is a field rich for exploitation; though I am by no means the first to draw the connection, Kinkade (or Bob Ross) style images of the Wolfs Nest or the Nuremberg Rally, in the spirit perhaps of Ron English, might be something fun to do.

For my third, and unfortunately, final attempt (seriously, most of this stuff is beyond parody), I changed tack entirely from the tired formula of 'shove demons and nazis into it' that I so tediously exploit, and, I think, hit the jackpot. I present...TINY PONY KNIFE:

"At the far edge of the paddock, a tiny pony's soulful whinny cuts through the darkness. Its sound touches the souls of all who hear its mournful strains. Now, you can heed the call of the gymkana in a collectable tiny pony art replica knife with a faux bone handle that showcases powerful tiny pony portraiture by renowned wildlife artist Si Spew.
Witness the power and passion of the majestic tiny pony with this Si Spew tiny pony art replica knife, available only from The Bradford Exchange. This collectable replica knife has a custom-pierced blade crafted of fine artist's resin that bears sculptural low-relief tiny pony art. Makes thrilling wall decor or collectable tiny pony art gift. Very small demand is expected, and you won't want to miss out. Order now!"

Seriously, fuck wolves. Falabella's are where it's at. When I am a rich and famous artist, jet-setting with the rich and famous, I will have a tiny field, with a tiny stable, and a tiny tack room where I will store the tiny stirrups and tiny saddle and tiny reins and tiny bit and tiny halter and tiny bridle and tiny girth strap for my tiny pony, and I will hire a little person jockey to ride him around a tiny racetrack whilst I sit on my veranda in a pristine white suit drinking Laphroaig from the skull of St. Francis of Assisi.


Monday, 15 March 2010

Two drawings, poor quality

Sorry for the longish (though not by my standards) absence. My scanner has become unavailable, which I find frustrating as I have been producing work at a fair old lick. In order to try and show something, I have resorted to that bad old standby, my shitty digital camera, which some of you may remember from this blogs earliest days. I improved my chances slightly by blu-tacking the pictures to the wall, but they are still inferior quality reproductions, and you will (all things being good) see much better quality versions of them in the future.

There was a time, when every single drawing I did was inspired directly by a song. I have returned to this theme slightly of late, and here are two of the results:

L'homme armé
Pastels, black fineliner, coffee, pencil, biro

L'homme, l'homme, l'homme armé,
L'homme armé
L'homme armé doibt on doubter, doibt on doubter.
On a fait partout crier,
Que chascun se viengne armer
D'un haubregon de fer."

In english:

"The man, the man, the armed man,
The armed man
The armed man should be feared, should be feared.
Everywhere it has been proclaimed
That each man shall arm himself
With a coat of iron mail."

Or more lyrically:

Oh, the Man, the Man-at-arms
Fills the folk, fills the folk with dread alarm,
With dread alarm.
Everywhere I hear 'em wail
Find a good strong coat of mail
Perhaps you'll then prevail."

Bedlam Boys

"For to see my Tom of Bedlam, 10,000 miles I'd travel
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes, to save her shoes from gravel.

Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonnie
For they all go bare and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

I went down to Satin's kitchen, for to beg me food one morning
There I got souls piping hot, all on the spit a turning.

There I picked up a cauldron, Where boiled 10,000 harlots
Though full of flame I drank the same, to the health of all such varlets.

My staff has murdered giants, my bag a long knife carries
For to cut mince pies from children's thighs, with which to feed the fairies.

Spirits white as lightning, shall on my travels guide me
The moon would quake and the stars would shake, when' ere they espied me.

No gypsy slut nor doxy, shall win my Mad Tom from me
I'll weep all night, the stars I'll fight, the fray will well become me.

It's when next I have murdered, the Man-In-The-Moon to powder
His staff I'll break, his dog I'll bake, they'll howl no demon louder.

So drink to Tom of Bedlam, he'll fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, all brewed with gall, with Mad Maudlin I will travel."

Students of the history of art will notice that the faces in Bedlam Boys are an allusion to the last engraving in William Hogarth's series 'The Rakes Progress', which portrays a scene in Bedlam Hospital, in which Hogarth expounds the belief of his time that dissolute morals and insanity were intrinsically linked, with one rising inevitably from the other.

It is also worth noting that though both these songs are (roughly speaking) traditional, the versions I specifically had in mind when drawing these pictures were not particularly so. I was thinking of Camerata Mediolanense's version of L'homme armé and In Gowan Ring's version of Bedlam Boys. Both of these songs are absolutely fantastic. So fantastic, indeed, that no one has uploaded them to youtube in their entirety. A crying shame.

Saturday, 6 March 2010

The two steps to successfully updating this blog more often

Step 1: Draw stuff
Step 2: Get round to scanning it

Catland, Sometimes Called Pussydom
Pen and ink, fabric paint

Self Portrait #8

(Possible step 3: draw better stuff)

Tuesday, 2 March 2010

Another poem. Some images to follow later.


The town has roofs of slate
And the town has roofs of felt
There's a line between environments
Both natural and built
From the bench upon the hill
Between the graveyard and the ditch
You can peg out the domains
of the poor and of the rich:
You can see the towns arteries
You can see the towns veins
But you can't see the towns heart
And you can't explain
How the lives of all the people
Combine and interact
Because the lines in the ground
Are just empty facts
And when you get down on the street
All the order dissapears
And the smell of authority
Is the reek of fear
And the fire in the ground
And the fire in the stars
Sends invisible radiation
Through the people and the cars
And it cuts the strands of DNA
Inside the mortal cells
And what edits it is making
Only time and science will tell
And we could torch the naval dockyards
To fix a record of our time
But we're not the greatest villains
Merely amateurs at crime
And the chemist's selling curatives
For STDs and lice
But the medicine is lying
Because life is short and imprecise

You can polish up the tabletop
And repaint all your walls
You can try and clean up every stain
No matter what befalls
But every contact leaves a trace
And living at a modern pace
To build a solid airtight case
The camera eyes are all in place
The fields of view all plotted out
(The blind spots slowly blotted out)
Remember that Old Bill's about
And look before you walk

And I find that I must sing the blues
Because I've got so much to lose
And I don't know when I'll lose it
But I know I surely will
So I scribble petty tragedies
Make mountains of my maladies
And titans of my enemies
And bastards of my friends
I view the world in monochrome
With brightness dialed right down low
And locked into low gamma mode
A stream of utter bollocks starts to flow:

"There's scum in the current
And a breach below the waterline
The rivers flowing backwards
And the fish are drowning in the brine
The rains are coming down like a hail of liquid lead
And the black eyed girl takes rubbings
From the headstones of the dead
The ink is clogging up the pen
The paint won't ever dry
The good are lost to entropy
The bad won't ever die
The tide it keeps on coming in
The cliffs are falling down
And the law of the claw
Is the law of the crown
And the lyrics don't mean anything
The music even less
And the statement was signed
In extreme duress
And the streets look sick under sodium light
And David whispers sweetly of the inmost night
And the horror of the empty space is rising like a flood
And I must fill up these walls with spraypaint or with blood"

But I'm not a violent man
Indeed I'm something of a coward
And though quick with my opinion
I am easily overpowered
And I take offence too easily
'Cos I've had far too much practice
And even I don't know what's really me
And what the clever act is
So I'm not sure what is genuine
And what is for effect
But I'm fairly sure it's true to say
There's nothing I respect
Not the spirit or the letter
Not the graven epitath
Not the image, not the word
Not the monolith or cenotaph
For speaking from black dog depression
(With nature's court in bloody session)
Life holds many savage lessons
And every stone is an expression
Senseless of the senseless deeds
That they cannot remember
Of the wedding in the summer
And the funeral in December
And though the ghosts thus felt aren't literal
They are umbral; They are limnal
And they cannot hear the hymnal
And they cannot see the tears
They are the root of all my fears

The town has walls of concrete
And the town has walls of brick
The town is full of honest folk
The town is full of pricks
And on the bench upon the hill
Between the graveyard and the ditch
I neither know, nor do I care
Which of us is which

If you can't get the metre try semi-singing it to the beat of 'King of Hate' by Snog. I got some images to scan as well, which might turn up later.

Saturday, 27 February 2010

New favourite wikipedia page

Just look how much effort has gone into this. Also consider that it is perfectly reasonable to imagine that every single edit to this page was soundtracked by Cradle of Filth, thus making it the best page ever of anything.

Seriously, think how much effort has gone into this. It puts your life in perspective.

Saturday, 20 February 2010


Two Budgerigars
Rollerball, dip pens, black ink, fabric paint, coffee

Twee as fuck but I'm proud of it.

New favourite sentence on wikipedia.

From Food Play:

"Yeastiality - A sexual activity in which bread or bread dough is the focus of erotic desire."

I am the ham.


I'm drawing a budgie for a birthday present for my aunt. A little twee, but I'll slap it up in a couple hours when I'm done.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

2 Paintings

Well, loosely.

Only Rebel Art Must Be Allowed to Exist,
Acrylic paint, bodily fluids

See whole picture (if cropped on your screen)

Terror Assassins
Fabric paint, biro, black fineliner, felt tips, spraypaint, fragments of newspapers and political pamphlet

See whole picture (if cropped on your screen)

Art is coming out of me thick and fast now. It's crazy.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Metaphor For the State 1

Fairly self-explanatory, I hope. Came to me whilst I was in the gym, funnily enough.