Short and sweet today, but I’ve just bought this print for pence from these fantastic people and feel very happy with myself, although clearly not as happy as these devil-may-care rascals. It is also a precursor to an upcoming post on “onions” or “little misters”, which may mean very little to you right now, but soon will.
When buying the print above, direct from the PYMCA gallery, an aged Asian chap popped in and proceeded to baffle both me and the gallery assistant by showing us a card with a picture of a tattooed hand, and then place a small rolled up bit of paper in our hands, which looked at first glance like a miniaturised version of those fortune tellers from school. Anyway if anyone knows what on earth this means I’d love to find out. I think it was some very sophisticated begging, with a soupcon of mindfuckery, but then I am a cynical prick. Perhaps it’s the first stage of my own version of this*, but I don’t know anyone who would spend that amount of money on me just to freak me out. I do a good enough job of that to myself for free every day.
Also, inspired by my favourite Hoffman (sorry, Dustin), I direct you to the “Sans Comic Sans” section of my blogroll, a fairly scattershot attempt at articulating my love of letters, and my hatred of comic sans. And to think, Vincent Connare lives in London, evil truly lurks around the corner. It’s like the reign of Jack the Ripper, if the prostitutes were aesthetically pleasing fonts. Okay, I’ve definitely lost the thread there. And what do you know, not a short and sweet post after all. More like overlong with a hint of morbid Victoriana, to coin a phrase.
*They should remake this, but featuring the rapper of the same name. In fact can anyone think of a film with the same name as its star? I for one quite like the idea of a trailer ending “Jeff Goldblum is Jeff Goldblum in Jeff Goldblum.” Quite the existential riddle.