Back in the books with Tony Cannelloni...at the end of day, always the man. Better Trade...The knock of the Garden gnome. "Eggs Eggs" and actimel. Lunch and dinner. Unbelievably kind. If you my woman, I fly you to moon. I give everything. I say Get yourself a washing machine first. Nothing in return but the thing he can't have. I don't clean his cupboards no more as it sets him a thinkin. You heart is stone. Other people too busy being cool. Walk in my door with 60 dolla tennis shoes and nothin fur me. Fetch your own dinner boy. And pick up a paper too. There's a recession on. Don't come tellin me you got something, but
Italy rules. That was a firm wish I had when I lived there....wishing I had an Italian mama to cook for me.... Felice Storti...translated means Happy Twisted....and how he was. He was the print man at the art school and I was the aquarelle, first stop, second floor. Home together on the weekends making etchings in his attic studio. Is that all? Being served by his mother a series of baked cheeses and pasta and sneezes. Wipe my son's nose as I can't wipe his ass anymore. How these Italian Mamas are stuck on automatic...auto cook, auto clean, auto wash, auto look....look, he's got a fire in his eye...and look...stars dropped from the sky in the form of Tony.
The day we met, he was sunbathing on a slab of concrete in the courtyard with some 1960's speedos that used to be red. Dirty towel with some kind of greasy bullseye I could spot from the sixth floor. Zeroed in. Had to know this man. odd catch. Something for my book of eccentrics. Preferring concrete and brick surround to the grass and trees of Russell Square. But that, being five minutes away, was a distance for him. His circular comfort zone a radius of Soho to The Italian Deli near the post office in Islington, Tescos at Kings Cross for filet steak. Soho to catch up with his chef friends. We spoke in Italian. Che brutta de solito pero oggi....ha bella. Invited me to his flat and took out a twenty pound note to give my son. An informal hello from his dresser drawer. Typical token of affection in the southern regions. Not normal for the British,they choke on hello...but normal in Italy. Someone is normal around here. Overly friendly, but over is better than under.
Just had a thought for the Turner Prize...install a toilet and ask visitors to sit on it and do a shit. Taking the personal into the public realm. Experience that. A ten for absurdity. Just need my nails done and a nice dress. And a few other run up shows...Loo. Foxes running in the National Gallery. That was meaningless. That got some press. I think Banksy and his graffitti was honest and street. Dopo Banksy, de nada. Tracey Emin doesn't have to do anything anymore, so her work has had its day. She could wipe a bogie on a canvas and it would sell for fifty thousand. Her painted wedding dress in Hoxton--no skill, meaningless, no drips, nothing. Looked like it took her five minutes or less. She is talented but she is not challenged anymore. Niki Di San Phalle's wedding dress made in the 80's that I saw in Paris over the summer...that still makes sense. Covered in toys and the trappings of domesticity. Deformed. But weddings can be beautiful. JB and E...that was the best. No sit down dinner. Cubes of foies gras wrapped in
China shop today. Discussion...Who was that this morning? Portugese Skater Boy. A dinner plate, two trinket boxes. Someone bought my soap dish...the one I wanted to keep. Bluesih Paul Klee one. So pretty, So intricate. Josie gets a bit miffed when I say....I didn't want to sell that. Should take photos of these things. It was a regular customer. Someone who always buys my stuff. Kari was there. Her muslim salt and pepper shakers for her daughter in Dubai. And Polly Dunbar who writes a lot of children's books and lives in Brighton. Hamstring problems in Karate. Tai chi is afterwards. Sunday Euston area Karate meet.
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