WEIRD LOVE

The way we were – apparently...

Sentimental, silly, strange and, sometimes, sinister Valentine's Day cards from older (and odder) times in an age before online dating...

 

  Ah, yes, those were the days!

TRUE LOVE

For this special day: some verses from one of my favourite humorous poets, Ogden Nash.

Written during WWII (hence the reference to the Axis in the first verse) it appeared in book form for the first time in Good Intentions, 1942.

Why not share its simple message with your own loved one...?

To My Valentine

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.

SNOWTIME

The recent heavy snowstorms to assail the east coast of America (despite falling short of the prophesied 'snowmageddon') inspired this week's cover design for The New Yorker by Mark Ulriksen...

In turn, this prompted me to look through my photo files and pull out a few pictures I took in snowy New York back in January 2009, beginning with another dog-walker...

And here are some more – including, it seems, quite a lot of bridges!

 

 

Apart from all those bridges, on any afternoon in Central Park you can see everything from sightseers...

...to sledgers...

...and skaters...

...to posers and poseurs...

 ...as well as some surprising snow-revellers...

But, when all's said and done, this is probably my favourite photo from that chilly visit...

MARC THIS

When cartoonist Mark Boxer died of a brain tumour in 1988, at the absurdly early age of 57, he had, nevertheless, achieved a remarkable legacy in the world of journalism...

He had been Editor of Lilliput, Art Director of Queen, Founding Editor of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement and Editor of Tattler.

Not only that, but he had succeeded in forging a career as one of Britain's most noted cartoonists and caricaturists in a range of publications using the pen name...

Marc's cartoons are the subject of a new exhibition at The Cartoon Museum in London. On show are examples of his 'Pocket Cartoons' that delighted readers first in The Times and then The Guardian. Created with George Melly they use minimalist line and have typewritten captions – a precaution against tampering by editors!

The exhibition additionally features Marc's brilliantly observed caricatures: spot-on pen portraits of royalty, politicians, literary figures, theatre, entertainment and media figures...

Also on show are many of his cover designs for the paperback edition of Anthony Powell's 'Dance to the Music of Time' novels...

 

The exhibition, Marc: The Caricatures and Cartoons of Mark Boxer continues until 22 March at–––

The Cartoon Museum
35 Little Russell Street
London
WC1A 2HH
0207 580 8155

Opening Hours:
Monday - Saturday: 10:30 - 17:30

(including Bank Holidays)

Sunday: 12:00 - 17:30

Admission Prices:

Adults:     £7

Conc:       £5

Student:   £3

Under-18s, registered disabled and carer: Free

(Children 12 or under must be accompanied by an adult)

IT'S CLEVER, BUT...

Contemporary art is such a testing thing... You look, you try to pocket your prejudices and open your mind, hoping to comprehend: neither wanting to to be fooled into pretending to see the Emperor's New Clothes, nor wanting to be the first to giggle at his nakedness in case there is a greater profundity to the nudity than at first meets the eye...

Such moments are not uncommon at the wonderful Venice art gallery, Punta della Dogana, the triangular-shaped building that separates the Grand Canal and the Giudecca Canal, Venice...  

The gallery, part of the Palazzo Grassi art collection is officially described...

As a center for contemporary art, the former customs house of the city presents exhibitions of works from the Pinault Collection, the institution that supported the transition of this masterpiece of architecture, so emblematic for the city, from its eminently commercial function to port of contemporary art and ideal venue to share it with the world.

Currently on show is Untitled by David Hammons (2008). 

The catalogue explains...

Hammons covers the canvas using garbage bags, as if the painting needed to be obscured in order to work its magic and thusly function as an art object. Ironic reference to the mechanisms of how art is perceived, this work actually evokes one of the artist’s main themes and inspirations: the street, street people, street life.

'Thusly'? Hmmm...

Rudyard Kipling's 'Conundrum of the Workshops'...

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?" 

Click here to read the whole poem

THE MAGICIAN'S HOUSE

I can still remember the day I first read that address on an envelope that dropped through my letterbox one day in the Kentish village of Chislehurst: '10265, Cheviot Drive, Los Angeles, CA 90664'.

With all the unfettered confidence and temerity of youth, I had written a fan letter to my literary idol, that master of science-fiction and fantasy, Ray Bradbury and he had replied...

For some years I only knew it as an address on the many envelopes that followed the first: envelopes containing long letters and short notes accompanying cuttings and clippings, theatre programmes, flyers for shows and – eagerly awaited every year – Ray's Christmas poem...

Envelopes often embellished with Ray's highly individual line in benign postal monsters... 

Then, the first visit (to interview Ray for a BBC radio series I was making) and the curious feeling of looking at the mailbox with its five-digit house number and thinking that this was where all my letters had been delivered...

Inside, it was a miraculous opportunity to see where Ray lived and dreamed and wrote his fantastical tales of spacemen, dinosaurs, freaks and small, insignificant ordinary people with huge, unexpected, extraordinary dreams and obsessions...

Painted the yellow of Dandelion Wine, the house was an extension of the man: it was the place where he crafted novels, short stories, plays, essays and poetry and it was crammed full of Bradburyness: his own books, of course, but those, too, of the writers and artists he loved, and then, all those paintings and pictures: animation and comic-book art and the work of two of his favourite artists: the mysterious Gothic or futuristic visions of Joe Mugnaini (who illustrated so many of his books) and stunning landscapes by Eyvind Earle, also known as the man responsible for styling Disney's most stylish animated feature, Sleeping Beauty. Not to mention all the toys, trinkets, trivia, nick-knacks ad geegaws...

Ray Bradbury in his basement writing den  in 2008. Photograph: Dan Tuffs/Getty Images 

I went there many times and spent many hours talking books and films and wild notions, and I took friends there who wanted to meet the Illustrated Man and the Martian Chronicler.

I would usually come bearing some addition for his library, a book of Piranesi prints or Victorian fairy art or an exhibition catalogue from his favourite London haunt, the Sir John Soane's Museum: a fantastical building that was featured as a sectional engraving on Ray's letterhead...

For several years I had, somewhat romantically, assumed that this was actually 10265 Cheviot Drive, until the day when I stumbled into the Soane Museum and realised my error. It was a misunderstanding that – when confessed – gave Ray considerable amusement!

Sometimes my gifts would be highly personal: a book of my own, perhaps, or recordings of BBC radio dramatisations that I had made from his stories. Always, I would leave with a copy of a something by Ray – it might be his latest novel or collection of stories, or, possibly, a vintage limited edition of a pamphlet, broadside or poster...

I loved visiting this house and when Ray died in 2102, I was saddened to think that I would never again call at 10265, Cheviot Drive, Los Angeles, CA 90664.

Then, last year, when the house went on the market for $1.5 million, I found myself wishing I might win the lottery in time to bid.

But yesterday... Oh, yesterday, I learned from Mark Evanier's blog, News from me, that the house is being torn down so that the purchaser can build something new...

And who is responsible for this unthinkable deed? According to Variety magazine, the owner of the plot of land that was once the Bradbury house is the avant-garde architect, Thom Mayne. 

Mike Glyer's File 707 has this sad eye-witness report:

There was no ceiling overhead. The dining room wall is now the dining room rug. The living room is the only place that’s remotely intact, but its floor is littered with twisted metal and broken glass.

So–– the temple of ideas, the workshop of words and the emporium of magic has fallen to the bulldozer of progress.

For myself – and for many others – deeply treasured memories of the big yellow house at 10265, Cheviot Drive will remain in tact and unassailable...

...and yet, I am deeply grieved.

Would you like to take one last look around...?

If you can bear to view them File 707 has posted photos of the wreckage.

When Ray died, I posted this tribute to our friendship: Farewell to the Martian Chronicler which includes that first letter I received from Ray in 1974.

Photographs by Brian Sibley © 2003