This is NOT about the well-established digital artist who works for Saatchi, called Paul Cummings. Find him everywhere elsewhere. We don’t know him.
This post is all about another Paul Cummings, who we met in Avebury at midsummer last year.
HMP by Paul Cummings - Chalk Pastel 835x595 mm
“You reckon that’s pacified your Gods? Cos it ain’t pacified mine”.
Click to read more, and see all the pictures… (more…)
This post is an article, which can be freely distributed on any other website or publication as desired. For an introduction, photographs or recordings, please contact us.
or, how we understand traditional music’s importance.
woodland winter songs
A man from St. Austell once sent us a picture.
We were flattered, because it was of us, and it was very good.
To find out more, please read on…
The best way to make these yourself, is to right-click on them, ‘save the image-as’, then open them and print them yourself. Use medium-weight card, for best results.
Good luck. If you succeed, please send us a photo…
Press More for cut-outs
The first Paul Cummings artist lives in London, and makes digital art. He is closely associated with Saatchi.
His single piece of art, “Road Side”, seen below, is shortlisted to win the £25,000 Threadneedle prize. BBC tell more here.
Road Side by Paul Cummings
The second Paul Cummings artist lives in Wiltshire, and often paints with coffee, toothpaste, and cigarette ash, the only materials available in HMP.
His work, called ‘Lydon’ or ‘We’re So Pretty’ (below) was also in a competition. It was made with chalk pastels, during a period of liberty. and Paul took first prize, to walk away with a cheque for £100. Local papers tell more here.
Lydon by Paul Cummings
SO…the question is NOT which do you prefer, though tell us if you want.
The question is: what puts Paul Cummings the first in position to contend for a prize fund 250 times bigger than Paul Cummings the second?
Two pictures, two artists, one name, and 250 times the money. A very marked difference.
If, like us, you feel a desire to even things out (but unlike us have the means to do so) email us here, and we can arrange contact with Paul 2.
thanks.
This weighty book was given in Tunbridge Wells (Royal).
At first it was unwanted, because we always judge books by their approximate mass and size.
But the back cover blurb revealed it was written with the inspiration from the song “Tom of Bedlam”, a pre-Shakespearian English song which we have just learned.
So the book fitted into our plot, and came along.
This journal is a twisting ride through a mind’s madness, its self-aware out-of-placeness, it’s miraculous inability and rigourous intention to not be at ease. Albion Moonlight is a character who refuses to be anything other than his own most difficult self, he finds his zenith and his nadir, and any truth he uncovers he ruthlessly destroys by his curious and meticulous mind.
Reading this book is like a dose of bluebell root. It is mildly narcotic, and manufactures (uncovers?) a space in the brain that does not feel as though it should be there.
This book does not help promote restful sleep, even as part of a balanced intake. No, this is not easy-reading; it is a challenge to the percieved heart of things, a javelin in the mouth of easy rationalizing.
In small snippets, this book is amazing. But to trapise through it, is hard going, a bitter digestion. Its fairest blessing came with the turning of the last page, when it was all over.
Like the end of a fever, one can look up again, and see that this world and Albion’s are not seamlessly entwined. There is relief.
Read on for quotes:
We were given this book in paperback, and were instantly reassured by its combination of dense text and light binding. We’d been staying with Andrew and his family for a few nights, in the New Forest, when he handed us this volume, and told us it was “of a Canterbury lad”, who walked all across Europe before the second war.
Books are arguably the heavier of the portable luxuries, but they are food of a most golden kind, and we love them. So this was slotted into an already over-burdened backpack, to be chewed at leisure.
And what leisure it did provide. Paddy Leigh Fermor writes with verbal skill beyond our prior ken. His linguistic ability outshines the genre of travel writing, like stars above street-lamps. While perhaps not to everyone’s modern reading tastes, this book proves that taste is a faulty concept. It feels to be from an earlier age of rich mental aspirations, of relative poverty and willingness to share. Its day was prevailingly optimistic, when people believed they could learn greater communication, and more meaning; rather than today’s nihilistic literature of self-critique and reductive analysis. Fermor’s words glory in being elucidated; he has the mastery of a great magician, and the practised calm of a museum curator, informative and spectacular.
