Martin
Sexton - Writer, Artist
James Cauty - Blacksmoke, Artist
Ronnie Kray - Artist
Count Rodo - Artist
Gay Stalker Vs Dwarf DJ - Entities
Rod Dickinson - Artist
Stuart Home - Writer, Artist
Alex De Cadenet - Artist
Jamie Reid - Artist
Arron - Messiah
The Prada-Meinhof Gang - Art Collective
Rebel Without Applause
Aaron and the Jerusalem Syndrome.
He has dressed up as Osama bin Laden and now Christ - it would
not be unfair to say that generally amongst so called 'professional'
comedians - in whose space he occasionally is thought to occupy
- he's universally hated and now officially ignored. The art world
will no doubt view him as an embarrassment. He has spent time
in prison for a seemingly misplaced action. Throwing paint
over the Chapman Bros in a somewhat haphazard fashion - in mitigating
circumstances they had just thrown some over Goya ...but the judge
in question was unclear as to the niceties or complexities of
contemporary art. Aaron is probably best known amongst the
general public for dressing up as Osama Bin Laden and gate crashing
the House of Windsor. I had been thinking about the Jerusalem
Syndrome recently when I received a phone call from Wolfe and
he threw me in at the deep end:
'Yeah great, anyway, look I'm just passing you over to Aaron,
he's an artist, well at least he thinks he his...is that ok?'
'Er...er.'
'Hello. Martin?. It's Aaron.'
Somewhere in the conversation he mentioned 'Rebel Without Applause'
It was so seductive, like an incantation it played on my mind
for several days. It was probably the longest conversation I've
ever had with Wolfe and we spent it talking entirely about Aaron.
Appropriately enough I was standing outside the wolf enclosure
in Regents Park - whilst Wolfe was on the other end of the
phone..somewhere...I looked back inside the enclosure...but I
couldn't see any wolves anywhere. It was worrying, but it
was already too late. There was only one way this was going to
get any better and that was to make it a lot worse. I was walking
up the stairs of Blacks in Soho, behind me was Mark Pilkington
the co-founder of Strange Attractor magazine and a contributing
editor to the Fortean Times, he was having a conversation with
Christian - a black belt in multiple martial art disciplines and
the co-fouder of the Illustrated Ape magazine - I had just introduced
them - they had just found out that they are both Austrian. Something
was about to happen but I was not entirely sure what it would
be - their conversation was ascending along with them to the first
floor. I caught something about a concept for a reality TV show
based on the miracles of Christ. The basic premise being that
a number of volunteers would be stranded on an island and would
somehow perform the trials and attempt the miracles of Christ.
The winner would be declared de-facto Messiah and the world would
be saved, world peace would be declared and we could all rest
safely in our beds. Somehow and in someway I knew this had already
taken place. Aaron had just performed the stations of the cross
in Jerusalem - as far as Messiah potential boxes could be
ticked, his bonifides were good - his father was on the board
of the British Deputies of Jews.
A few weeks earlier with Wolfe we contemplated the photograph
of Aaron being whipped by a faux Roman Centurion whilst carrying
out the stations of the cross in Calvary in Jerusalem - a number
of young Palestinian boys are witnessing it all and laughing.
A few weeks later I'm in Aaron's flat in Kilburn inspecting his
cross with British Airways customs cellotape neatly binding its
beams - Aaron explained that it was too awkward to have been stowed
in the hold..so he had to take it on as hand luggage.....
James Cauty - Stonehenge Vs Auto Destruction.
'Jimmy (James Cauty) spent a year doing a series of large paintings
depicting apocalyptic scenes involving ourselves, the destruction
of Stonehenge, the unleashing of dark forces and the death of
thousands...then he destroyed the lot by sanding the paint off
the canvases, carefully sweeping up the dust and keeping it in
a series of jam jars. One jam jar for each painting. Why? Best
not to ask. We all deal with our moments of doubt in different
ways.' - Bill Drummond 45 (2000)
I arrived at Jimmy's studio somewhere in Brighton - down away
from the tourist machine, past the beautiful burnt out skeletal
body of the old pier - James Cauty's studio lay further down by
the fractured old industry and up on a hill.
I parked the Duridic White Kraut Rock Sampler Henge mobile in
the yard. Jimmy claimed nobody had visited his studio before,
he was warm and welcoming. I asked Jimmy about the pier - we passed
comment on its installation properties. 'How exactly did it get
that way?' I asked. 'Somebody launched a firework into it.' was
the simple reply. I tried not to give Jimmy a knowing look. I
walked around and into the recording room with the black mixing
desk and the gold draped along the wall between the speakers for
'acoustic properties.' Then past the tent where he slept, inside
which was an earthquake bed, constructed by Gimpo, simply and
elegantly from scaffolding poles. Then there it was - a huge painting.
Sometimes you see something and well, you are not quite prepared
for it. There in a vast scene lay Stonehenge, being struck
by lightning, and echoing Turner's vision. A huge expanse
of portent sky consumed a large part of the canvas, below, down
from the ignited exploding stones; a camper van, dancing
hippies and caked out festival goers were being consumed
by the chthonic earth; heralding them all down to Dante's world
and a black, red, orange, liquid crust. The point of origin of
the destructive bolt was a large white swastika, floating with
an hallucinatory clarity amongst the beautiful black swept sky.
I think I asked Jimmy a question, he may have even given me an
answer, but by that time it all gone way past the ordinary. Besides
I had a letter on my person from the Royal Mail and quoting 'Palace
disapproval' of Jimmy's gas mask Queens.
We spoke strategies, bankruptcy, and domestic implosion. Inevitably
Stonehenge came up again. The Prada-Meinhof Gang had just recorded
'Hammer of the Goddess' and the Blacksmoke Organisation had supplied
a totemic re-mix. From its inception I had always imagined all
of the women performing this at Stonehenge. Jimmy promised to
supply a map; locating the specific resting place of an 'object'
buried there and now requiring retrieval.... Martin Sexton 2004
Academic Qualifications and the Prada-Meinhof Gang
It was 2002 I had was in the middle of taking an excruciatingly
painful MA in creative writing at Middlesex University. The best
thing about it was the campus. Located in Tottenham, down from
the Broadwater Farm estate. It was a wonderful collection of 20th
century buildings covering every decade and scattered haphazardly
amongst its grounds. The area was pure working class with a predominantly
immigrant population. I felt comfortable in the area - after all
I had grown up there. When I first heard of the course, I naively
got excited, after all this was to be the first ever MA in creative
writing to take place within London - a city that I love. I started
to dream. Yes. It was going to be just like the legendary University
of East Anglia courses. I fantasised about taking acid with Michael
Moorcock and comparing notes with Malcolm Bradbury: He would tell
me about the shagabilty of fellow students and lecturers and I
would tell him that I had once executed a painting of Dr Howard
Kirk in semen. We would talk ideally of the end of realism, get
drunk and shout 'Long live experimentation!' I soon calmed down
quickly enough. The warning signs were all there. I chose to ignore
them. First I had banished from my mind that fact that Michael
Moorcock had long fucked off to Texas, preferring cleaner air
and romantic exile in the desert and that East Anglia was
quite some distance from Tottenham N.17. Then came the news
that Malcom Bradbury had passed away on the first week of term.
The first writing I submiited was a tribute to both of them -
Moorcock's great work on our glorious city -Mother London-
and Bradbury's love of every passing intellectual fad executed
in his campus novels - The History Man. We had been asked
to write about our favourite best seller. My tale concerned one
Phyllis Pearsall, who rose at 5.00am in the morning and walked
18 hours every day, constructing her great work. Her book contained
the names of all the great writers, playrights, lovers, politicians,
artists and architects transversing the metropolis and was possesed
or read by every Londoner regardless of literary capicity. Students
and lecturers alike seemed intrigued by my choice - having no
idea to as what the actual book I was refering to was - Some strange
suggestions were volunteered as to what my choice could possibly
be. Under pressure I revelaed it was the A-Z of London.
'But that's not a proper book' they all cried in unison.
Things went from bad to worse. I dutifully read the suggested
reading list, submitted my critical take when requested, made
the odd diametrically opposed view when bored. The tutor had her
suspicions and chose to deal with it head-on; in that polite
middle class way - she asked if everything was ok at home. I grinded
my teeth and sought solice in one or two of my fellow students.
I decided that somehow like Phyllis Pearsall I would create my
own Physical Literature - map out my own book; intellectual fads
were still in. Psychogeograpy had replaced Geomancy. Except this
time I would create my own walking, talking, living book.
I waited - I placed faith in the Goddess - to cure my depression
i had been constatly re-reading Robert Graves 'The White Goddess.'
I was close to the end of the course and by some happy fate Fay
Weldon had been invited to attend the campus. I was quitely excited
- her new book was receiving awful reviews - i liked it. Practically
everybody had missed the point. Entitled the 'Bulgari Connection'
Fay had managed to single-handedly piss off most fellow writers
and litrary critics. On the rare occasions this happens I always
find it strangely seductive. Fay had commited the cardinal sin
- she had taken cold cash to write a novel with 'product placement.'
Originally requested to just mention or drop the brand
name 'Bulgari' into her next novel, Fay had dispensed with this
tinkering and quite rightly decided to mention 'Bulgari' at least
three hundred times and if that was not good enough to title her
book The Bulgari Connnection. Fay had gloriously and monumentally
pissed in the font. Missing the point entirely, one or two hysterical
writers wanted to 'hang the witch.' The premise of the book was
at once very new yet dealt with something that has always been
there - the principle of Art and Patronage.
Fay arrived and sat at the head of the table dressed immaculately
in black, her blond bob was cut beautifully and she was want to
occasionally stroke a large collection of ludicrously large rock
necklace diamonds draped across her neck. She was laid back and
totally in control. Somebody asked her what her next novel
was about. 'I don't know.'she said, 'Maybe I'll write about the
vibes at Glastonbury Tor.' I was in love. My moment had come,
Aurora a fellow student was sitting next to me, I turned
to her and said 'I'll take Fay's book, I'll sample it, construct
a pop song, call it 'Want is Your Master' you'll perform it, we'll
find five more incarnate goddesss. It will be chapter one, but
it will unfold everywhere.' Aurora gave me her 'I want to believe'
look. Encouraged, I approached Fay. Having never having
met her before, I simply explained that I had 'sampled' her novel,
that the Prada-Meinhof Gang had somehow constructed a 'Pop
Song' as a consequence - entitled 'Want is your Master' and that
I would send her the 'lyrics.' Fay smiled, she gave me her
e-mail - but I wanted to her telephone number.
UFOs
'GIVE ME FIFTEEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE'
UFO's. Do you love them? Do you want to believe?
I had been told of an abduction at or near Stonehenge some years
back involving a highly respected internationally renowned writer.
At the time, for legal reasons, I only referred to him as Mr Tiswas
- it was a playful allusion to a character in one of his novels.
Rumours had persisted for some time - encouraged by me - that
following a kind of psychic breakdown, following the publication
of: Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey - a wonderful
book dealing with the spectacle of a religion in the process of
interpreting itself as social order. He had sort solace by the
re-invigorating powers of a small cottage on an estate near Salisbury
in Wiltshire. Not far from Stonehenge.
Some say that his book; which in autobiographical style, plays
out a kind of healing process - in that in discovering a form
and content - the fantasies and posturing of his earlier work
is steadily replaced by a colder and clearer determination to
watch and observe without illusion - of course some would argue
precisely the opposite - in fact the writer himself comments 'I
had discovered in myself..a deep interest in others, a wish to
visualise the details and routine of their lives, to see the world
through their eyes; and with this came..-almost a sixth sense
- of what was uppermost in their thoughts.' Yes. but what was
uppermost in Mr Tiswas's thoughts. Throughout the Enigma of
Arrival little or no attention is played to Stonehenge. He
comments briefly on the Stones - from a distance - as if wishing
to block them out - cutting out the anarchy, the power of
their influence..but of course they are there throughout - playfully
modelling his landscape, as he tinkers methodically with the mantra
like tedium of his descriptive prose.
Around this time Rod with some others, was creating crop circles
in Wiltshire. Although Rod has always maintained that prior to
creating crop circles he once witnessed a UFO in a crop circle.
The writer and ethno botanist, Terence McKenna at a conference
with Rod on the premise of alien life forms made the following
comment:
'But the question still remains; are there UFOs , Flying saucers,
nuts and bolts craft, coming down, abducting hapless victims and
interfering with their genitals? I say not - but there is a tradition
in all times and places, of social commerce between human beings
and various types of discarnate entities, or non human intelligence's.
This could have been as simple as the Celtic farmer's wife leaving
out a pitcher of milk for faery folk, or it could take a more
elaborate form, but whatever form it takes this commerce is expressive
of a very fundamental belief system that seems to be inherent
in the human condition...
Listen I have no doubt that there are entities out there - I've
met them, all you have to do is take DMT (Di Methyl Tryptamine).
Fifteen minutes that's all it takes, give me fifteen minutes of
your life and I'll give you a 20% chance of meeting Alien life
forms. Forget all that horseshit about UFO researchers, hypnosis
and abductions. I wouldn't trust a UFO researcher with my chickens.
Just give me fifteen minutes of your life..'
From conversation between artist, Rod Dickinson and author and
ethno botanist Terence McKenna, which took place at "The
Incident', a symposium on art and phenomena, held in Fribourg,
Switzerland, June '95:
Handsome Bastards
'I want to concentrate on the dimmer of the two, Ronnie Kray;
a man whose grasp on reality was so slight and pathologically
deranged that he was able to live out a crude, primary coloured
fiction, twisting the city into a shape of a bad thriller. His
story is an urban morality tale, and to understand it is to understand
one of the deepest of all wellsprings of city life: he shows how
a style, cheaply come by in the emporium of the city may completely
supplant every forecastable reality, every determinable social
pattern. He is city man as wilful artist; and those of us who
live in cities are perhaps a good deal closer to him then we like
to think.' -Jonathan Raban- Soft City - 1974
I was talking to Count Rodo. I had picked him up from the family
seat in Hampshire in the Henge mobile. We were heading along the
A303 passing Stonehenge on our right and I commented that Fay
Weldon lived quite close -
I often think about the unusual coincidence that occurred when
I first met her at her home. I relayed the story to Rodo. On that
first occasion I noticed that in her library she possessed a first
edition copy of 'The Ape of God' by Wyndham Lewis. Her partner
Nick was sitting in there with me and we were discussing books
- my hand was drawn to its spine and I removed it from the shelf
- 'That's strange that you've picked that book' commented Nick.
'Did you know Fay takes that book with her, everywhere she goes?'
It was happening again. I looked at Nick and said - you know I
have a first edition too - it's with me now. 'Exactly how many
books do you have with you?' asked Nick incredulously. Just the
one, I replied. - it's in the Henge mobile, in the trunk. 'The
Henge mobile!?' it was getting a bit too much.
'FAY!' screamed Nick - Fay walked in and explained that as a young
girl she had once unknowingly lived in the former home of Wyndham
Lewis. We walked out to my car and I opened the trunk - I passed
over the copy, I insisted that she should have it - the pair would
make perfect bookends - Wyndham Lewis would have approved, I commented.
I thought about letting her know that I too had a thing about
Apes. Nick photographed us both with our instant Wyndham Lewis
installation.
Count Rodo was used to these kind of happenings and indeed we
had experienced many similar events together. The story passed
without comment. Besides we were about to undertake a new Physical
Literature chapter ourselves - on our way down to Cornwall and
the Earl of St Germans estate. I had in my possession a 1000 piece
jigsaw by Blacksmoke - it would require assembling in the main
house on the estate. Once assembled - Cast in funeral black -
our monarch was reversed in a large mock-postage stamp relief
wearing a gas mask - behind her lay text covering every delineation
of black in a long dark mantra - the figure 4th was writ
large - in some cod echo of the fourth Reich. There was a dispute
as to the legality of the image and the Royal Mail had successfully
forced a London gallery to remove a similar image from its walls
only that week. The construction of the piece would involve the
general public and fellow artists and writers attending that years
Port Eliot Literary Festival. It would take place in the oldest
inhabited house in Britain. Many things occurred during our three
days there - but it was then that Count Rodo, casually remarked,
that he possessed an exceptional painting by one Ronnie Kray.
Jamie ReId
Shamanarcy
A little known fact about Jamie Reid is that his great great uncle
was the arch druid of England. Photographs exist of him performing
ceremonies at Stonehenge in full regalia. Jamie is one of our great
artists who is shamefully ignored by the art establishment - no doubt,
a long way in the future - they will gather and say
how they all loved and adored him in the first place. Jamie was
a founding situationist and punk iconagrapher, so he has been
well schooled in the cynicism of everyday life. Yet Jamie
has never lost his sense of wonder. If you are an artist or a
writer and you do, it's like death. Jamie has shown me some wonderful things, Jamie has created some
wonderful things, Jamie has told me wonderful things. And then
there was the day that Jamie told me about the story of the 'Switching
off of Stonehenge.'
Gay Stalker Vs Dwarf DJ
Thong Genocide
The least said about the above mentioned entities the better.
So I will keep this brief. Needless to say it involves a cocaine
fuelled rolls Royce table constructed by Ringo Starr and subsequently
owned by Freddy Mercury, Elton John and the Archetypes - One Flinton
Chalk and Martin Sexton. To cut a long and beautiful story short - you will just have to
witness this and ask questions later.
The Skull Portraits
I first met Alex at the Feast of Saint Lucia in Brompten Cemetery. The Archetypes had just created an installation
altar for the Prada-Meinhof Gang's 'Submission' film. A large UFO
had just landed on a building and was disguising itself as architecture.
We walked amongst the dead and discussed the radiation of human
skulls. Alex had spent the previous few years radiating quite
a few. Including Tutankhamun and Adolph Hitlers and the Iman of
Regents Park Mosque. He seemed inclined to radiate my skull.
We hung out and talked about changes on the molecular level
- he was preoccupied with numbers - a certain number of skull
portraits had to be laid down each incremental year....
