Via Flickr:
My latest collage/drawing using colour gel pens.
Are there any women out there who want me to design their boots?
Free association styled prose from Julian Cloran, visual artist, writer, poet and agent provocateur. Random musings, which are sometimes cynical, but always intended for amusement, stimulation and entertainment. Comments are welcomed so don't be shy. Simply click on 'comments' to post yours.
Monday, 20 January 2014
MINISTRY OF FUTILE GESTURES
Friday, 17 January 2014
CARRIE K'CHURE
Using silhouettes as stencils to adorn catalogues of kitchen and other utensils,
Carrie K’Chure pulverises radishes to sprinkle over her goldfish.
She is a Marxist-Taoist advocate of Feng shui, Wing Chun Kung Fu, kaolin poultices and the furtive distribution of extreme feminist pornography.
Above her north-facing windows, she hangs the enlarged autographs she inherited from her eccentric aunt: a matriarchal bagel-obsessive who lived on a double decker bus with her collection of Victoriana and a passive simpleton called Russ.
One of the blown-up autographs was Carl Gustav Jung’s, which she proudly boasted about to her women’s circle at the top of her lungs.
Automatically anti-Freudian, she ridiculed every Freudian precept she had always misunderstood,
Emphasising her contemptuous indignation by hitting a draining-board with a lump of heavy wood.
It was her life’s mission to banish all forms of oppression—commencing immediately after the recession—according to a childhood vision she or her, now deceased, friend might have had.
She was keen to get cracking but with the current economic climate it was just too bad,
So she ran Feng Shui and aromatherapy workshops for feminists with learning difficulties and she hoped they were glad.
Inspired by a picture in a magazine of a gladioli she’d seen, she wrote an epic flowery ode to the flower’s imaginary suitor who, as it turned out, was a Marxist toad.
In her tortuous verses the toad was bullied and subjected to the elaborate curses of frogs who were capitalist lackeys.
Eventually, the toad was killed and, heartbroken, the gladioli wilted as a bird sang: ‘It was what God willed.’
She sent her completed work to every poetry magazine she could with a covering letter explaining her inspiration and making favourable comparisons between herself and every great poet she’d never read.
After countless submissions, an extreme feminist magazine called VULVA GRENADES accepted her piece for publication.
The magazine’s editor, Clitty Fist, bombarded Carrie with e-mails requesting photographs of her breasts for a planned future feature entitled: POETS AND THEIR BREASTS.
One day, thinking why not? Carrie complied, sending a jiffy-bag stuffed full of various breast shots wrapped in heavily-scented, empty Atora packets and an old pair of culottes.
A potential lesbian crush did not faze Carrie much,
If anything she enjoyed the attention and felt—aged forty-eight—reassured that she hadn’t lost her touch.
When the pensioner she was sponsoring to have his own allotment died. Carrie felt peeved at first, but soon she cried, and cried lots more when her women’s circle pried.
Asking her what was wrong; they could see she was upset although her eyes were carefully dried.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she snuffled, sobbing on one of her cohort’s shoulders. ‘I know he was old, but still it’s a shame.’ She said. But she’d completely forgotten his name.
£7 a month it had cost her and he’d only been there twice!
He hadn’t planted any fruit or veg in the allotment before dying—wait, that was it, she suddenly remembered the old boy’s name was Reg.
‘Rest in peace, dear old Reg,’ she blew her red nose in an erotically embroidered hankie.
‘Nothing like a good cry,’ someone said.
Personally, Carrie thought, nothing beats a good spankie.
Her orifices moistened rapidly as her mind filled with familiar fantasies.
Involving whip-wielding fishmongers putting her across their knees and spanking her arse just as hard as they damn well please.
Carrie K’Chure pulverises radishes to sprinkle over her goldfish.
She is a Marxist-Taoist advocate of Feng shui, Wing Chun Kung Fu, kaolin poultices and the furtive distribution of extreme feminist pornography.
Above her north-facing windows, she hangs the enlarged autographs she inherited from her eccentric aunt: a matriarchal bagel-obsessive who lived on a double decker bus with her collection of Victoriana and a passive simpleton called Russ.
One of the blown-up autographs was Carl Gustav Jung’s, which she proudly boasted about to her women’s circle at the top of her lungs.
Automatically anti-Freudian, she ridiculed every Freudian precept she had always misunderstood,
Emphasising her contemptuous indignation by hitting a draining-board with a lump of heavy wood.
It was her life’s mission to banish all forms of oppression—commencing immediately after the recession—according to a childhood vision she or her, now deceased, friend might have had.
She was keen to get cracking but with the current economic climate it was just too bad,
So she ran Feng Shui and aromatherapy workshops for feminists with learning difficulties and she hoped they were glad.
Inspired by a picture in a magazine of a gladioli she’d seen, she wrote an epic flowery ode to the flower’s imaginary suitor who, as it turned out, was a Marxist toad.
In her tortuous verses the toad was bullied and subjected to the elaborate curses of frogs who were capitalist lackeys.
Eventually, the toad was killed and, heartbroken, the gladioli wilted as a bird sang: ‘It was what God willed.’
She sent her completed work to every poetry magazine she could with a covering letter explaining her inspiration and making favourable comparisons between herself and every great poet she’d never read.
After countless submissions, an extreme feminist magazine called VULVA GRENADES accepted her piece for publication.
The magazine’s editor, Clitty Fist, bombarded Carrie with e-mails requesting photographs of her breasts for a planned future feature entitled: POETS AND THEIR BREASTS.
One day, thinking why not? Carrie complied, sending a jiffy-bag stuffed full of various breast shots wrapped in heavily-scented, empty Atora packets and an old pair of culottes.
A potential lesbian crush did not faze Carrie much,
If anything she enjoyed the attention and felt—aged forty-eight—reassured that she hadn’t lost her touch.
When the pensioner she was sponsoring to have his own allotment died. Carrie felt peeved at first, but soon she cried, and cried lots more when her women’s circle pried.
Asking her what was wrong; they could see she was upset although her eyes were carefully dried.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she snuffled, sobbing on one of her cohort’s shoulders. ‘I know he was old, but still it’s a shame.’ She said. But she’d completely forgotten his name.
£7 a month it had cost her and he’d only been there twice!
He hadn’t planted any fruit or veg in the allotment before dying—wait, that was it, she suddenly remembered the old boy’s name was Reg.
‘Rest in peace, dear old Reg,’ she blew her red nose in an erotically embroidered hankie.
‘Nothing like a good cry,’ someone said.
Personally, Carrie thought, nothing beats a good spankie.
Her orifices moistened rapidly as her mind filled with familiar fantasies.
Involving whip-wielding fishmongers putting her across their knees and spanking her arse just as hard as they damn well please.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
'2013'
 |
| '2013' JULIAN CLORAN. LINE DRAWING, A5 PAPER. PROBABLY ONE OF THE LAST DRAWINGS I WILL HAVE TIME TO PRODUCE THIS YEAR. THE TITLE IS WEAK BUT APT: I DREW THIS ON THE BACK PAGE OF THIS YEAR'S (SOON TO RUN OUT) DIARY. |
Saturday, 21 December 2013
APE FASHION
 |
| APE FASHION, a photo by Narolc on Flickr. Via Flickr: Collage/drawing, colour gel pens and pencil on paper. Approx: 19cm high x 13cm wide. Emerging from water, man becomes (ex-stream) extreme. Then refined as he develops language to replace his crude grunting. But, on the down side of the evolutionary process, we see those slower at evolving merely being more subtle about their barbarism... Their sophistication is a superficial front. Wise men (represented bottom right) turn their backs on ignorant speculation and reflect on lost forms of magic... |
Sunday, 8 December 2013
SHRINKING VIOLET
Vi was dying of cancer.
Over the recent past months she’d lost a lot of weight.
Her doctor said it was only a matter of time…
Ever since she was a little girl,
Vi wanted to be a florist.
She used to dream of selling flowers and plants,
And even types of trees—before she woke up in a forest.
But Vi never became a florist,
She never got the chance.
Just as when she went out with friends,
She was never asked to dance.
Instead, Vi worked as a stock-taker in a warehouse,
She remained single and typically drank on her own,
In her flat with a bottle of Famous Grouse.
All her life she’d been lonely and dissatisfied with her job,
She lost her virginity at the age of forty two—raped by a drunken yob.
Getting cancer was the last straw,
But it came as no surprise in a life so raw.
Before she died, Vi longed to sell some flowers,
So, to fulfil her dream, she stole a tray of Remembrance Day poppies.
It wasn’t quite like the real thing, but she didn’t mind.
Even after she was arrested and subsequently fined.
‘If I’m lucky,’ Vi thought. ‘I’ll die before I have to pay!’
Over the recent past months she’d lost a lot of weight.
Her doctor said it was only a matter of time…
Ever since she was a little girl,
Vi wanted to be a florist.
She used to dream of selling flowers and plants,
And even types of trees—before she woke up in a forest.
But Vi never became a florist,
She never got the chance.
Just as when she went out with friends,
She was never asked to dance.
Instead, Vi worked as a stock-taker in a warehouse,
She remained single and typically drank on her own,
In her flat with a bottle of Famous Grouse.
All her life she’d been lonely and dissatisfied with her job,
She lost her virginity at the age of forty two—raped by a drunken yob.
Getting cancer was the last straw,
But it came as no surprise in a life so raw.
Before she died, Vi longed to sell some flowers,
So, to fulfil her dream, she stole a tray of Remembrance Day poppies.
It wasn’t quite like the real thing, but she didn’t mind.
Even after she was arrested and subsequently fined.
‘If I’m lucky,’ Vi thought. ‘I’ll die before I have to pay!’
NELSON MANDELA'S DEATH
While I do not doubt the goodness of the late Nelson Mandela, I am not comfortable with adding to the plethora of posthumous plaudits currently saturating the media. Not least because I feel anything I say may appear pathetically ineloquent; merely paraphrasing the existing repetitive clichés.
Public reaction to the demise of the uniquely influential statesman, Mandela, reflect a trend first visible after the death of Diana—where the loss of a culturally prominent figure receives almost hysterical attention.
This is not to say that the grief verbalised is insincere, however orchestrated it seems. But, at the same time, while listening to the extravagant retrospective praise—virtually deifying the deceased— it may be worth considering how little thought or attention was given to the same people when they were alive.
No one wants to speak ill of the dead. Or be insensitive to the genuine feelings of those grieving. Nevertheless, I cannot help recognising the colossal exaggerations of qualities being ascribed to those for whom we, publicly, mourn. Equally, who really wants to believe—what current rituals appear to imply—that the loss of one person has such a destabilising impact on the whole planet? Or that individuals deprived of their role models will also lose their ability to function morally (through operating choice) because they lack the guidance of personified examples.
Public reaction to the demise of the uniquely influential statesman, Mandela, reflect a trend first visible after the death of Diana—where the loss of a culturally prominent figure receives almost hysterical attention.
This is not to say that the grief verbalised is insincere, however orchestrated it seems. But, at the same time, while listening to the extravagant retrospective praise—virtually deifying the deceased— it may be worth considering how little thought or attention was given to the same people when they were alive.
No one wants to speak ill of the dead. Or be insensitive to the genuine feelings of those grieving. Nevertheless, I cannot help recognising the colossal exaggerations of qualities being ascribed to those for whom we, publicly, mourn. Equally, who really wants to believe—what current rituals appear to imply—that the loss of one person has such a destabilising impact on the whole planet? Or that individuals deprived of their role models will also lose their ability to function morally (through operating choice) because they lack the guidance of personified examples.
Saturday, 9 November 2013
ILL WASTREL
The wastrel wastes Trill overfeeding his caged birds,
His enraged words in his voice shrill,
Reflect the fact that he’s mentally ill.
Not least because he keeps entrapped,
Birds, whose wings once freely flapped,
Yet another species on whom we humans have crapped.
Like a hollowed tree deprived of its nutrition: he’s sapped,
Wearily applauding inanity on which his eyes are clapped,
Vague, blurred shapes flit within his brain,
They allude to the resources that remain untapped.
His enraged words in his voice shrill,
Reflect the fact that he’s mentally ill.
Not least because he keeps entrapped,
Birds, whose wings once freely flapped,
Yet another species on whom we humans have crapped.
Like a hollowed tree deprived of its nutrition: he’s sapped,
Wearily applauding inanity on which his eyes are clapped,
Vague, blurred shapes flit within his brain,
They allude to the resources that remain untapped.
Saturday, 5 October 2013
NOAH
Noah sounds like Goa, but there’s no evidence to suggest that he ever went there!
Or, for that matter, is there any to suggest this Biblical character even existed.
No, rumours about Noah going to Goa are completely ill-founded,
There’s no rhyme or reason to them.
People who circulate these rumours aren’t very well grounded.
Others preposterously assert that Noah’s fame stems from his ‘park,’ rather than the ‘ark.’
This clearly doesn’t hold water.
Although, of course, water is compatible with parks;
Not least those with ponds and lakes.
However Noah kept afloat, we can be justifiably confident it was not as a park-keeper.
The drunkenness of Noah is well-documented; displayed on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
But whether or not Noah had a serious drink problem—not even Michelangelo made clear.
There’s such a drought of real information about the (possible) life of Noah,
It’s certainly inadvisable to jump to conclusions about him.
Nevertheless, speculation about Noah remains rife.
‘What did he look like?’ People ask. ‘How did he treat his wife?’
Was he a popular figure who was good at his job?
Or was he regularly plagued with floods of complaints?
Perhaps he was a wife-beater and something of a yob!
All of this is pure conjecture, in the absence of any genuine Noah expertise.
Having heard the name, many people ‘Know a Noah,’ and that’s as far as it goes.
The dearth of Noah myths and misinformation certainly keeps us on our toes.
As does standing up; a stance I’d urge others to take,
As part of a process of mental vigilance I’d also recommend,
To help us guard against being misled by spurious facts about Noah.
My advice ends here for I’m off now,
I’m meeting a woman who wants to talk about Noah…
It’s alright, I know her!
Or, for that matter, is there any to suggest this Biblical character even existed.
No, rumours about Noah going to Goa are completely ill-founded,
There’s no rhyme or reason to them.
People who circulate these rumours aren’t very well grounded.
Others preposterously assert that Noah’s fame stems from his ‘park,’ rather than the ‘ark.’
This clearly doesn’t hold water.
Although, of course, water is compatible with parks;
Not least those with ponds and lakes.
However Noah kept afloat, we can be justifiably confident it was not as a park-keeper.
The drunkenness of Noah is well-documented; displayed on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
But whether or not Noah had a serious drink problem—not even Michelangelo made clear.
There’s such a drought of real information about the (possible) life of Noah,
It’s certainly inadvisable to jump to conclusions about him.
Nevertheless, speculation about Noah remains rife.
‘What did he look like?’ People ask. ‘How did he treat his wife?’
Was he a popular figure who was good at his job?
Or was he regularly plagued with floods of complaints?
Perhaps he was a wife-beater and something of a yob!
All of this is pure conjecture, in the absence of any genuine Noah expertise.
Having heard the name, many people ‘Know a Noah,’ and that’s as far as it goes.
The dearth of Noah myths and misinformation certainly keeps us on our toes.
As does standing up; a stance I’d urge others to take,
As part of a process of mental vigilance I’d also recommend,
To help us guard against being misled by spurious facts about Noah.
My advice ends here for I’m off now,
I’m meeting a woman who wants to talk about Noah…
It’s alright, I know her!
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
TROUBLE LOOMING
Via Flickr:
Recent collage/drawing on A5 (180 x 210mm) paper. October, 2013. Julian Cloran.
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