Next to the right to create, the right to criticize is the richest gift that liberty of thought and speech can offer. -Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Russian Literature, 1981
'Are you all right down there?' I tipped my chair back. Martina's face, veiled by the hanging brushwork of her hair, inspected me from an upstairs window. 'No,' I said, 'it's heaven down here.'
This is dope as hell..
The Black Ivy (animated) by Gyimah Gariba (2011)
Just came across these drawings from my good friend and animator Gyimah Gariba in my inbox circa 2011 or so, I don’t think anyone has seen these images outside of Gyimah and myself. He is definitely a super talented artist, if you haven’t checked out his work you can do so here
Awesome to see our editorial in animation form.. ha
Oh Christ, the exhaustion of not knowing anything. It’s so tiring and hard on the nerves. It really takes it out of you, not knowing anything. You’re given comedy and miss all the jokes. Every hour, you get weaker. Sometimes, as I sit alone in my flat in London and stare at the window, I think how dismal it is, how hard, how heavy, to watch the rain and not know why it falls.
And now I am one of the unemployed. What do we do all day? We sit on stoops and pause in loose knots on the stained pavements. The pavements are like threadless carpets after some atrocious route of flesh-frazzled food and emetic drink: last night the weather gods all drowned their sorrows, and then threw up from thirty thousand feet. We sit flummoxed in the parks, among low-caste flowers. Whew (we think), this life is slow. I came of age in the Sixties, when there were chances, when it was all there waiting. Now they seep out of school —to what? To nothing, to fuck-all. The young (you can see it in their faces), the stegosaurus-rugged no-hopers, the parrot-crested blankies — they’ve come up with an appropriate response to this, which is: nothing. Which is nothing, which is fuck-all. The dole-queue starts at the exit to the playground. Riots are their rumpus-room, sombre London their jungle-gym. Life is hoarded elsewhere by others. Money is so near you can almost touch it, but it is all on the other side — you can only press your face up against the glass. In my day, if you wanted, you could just drop out. You can’t drop out any more. Money has seen to that. There’s nowhere to go. You cannot hide out from money. You just cannot hide out from money any more. And so sometimes, when the nights are hot, they smash and grab.