The Saturday Shot #22: blossoming memories

Such a sight can only bring a new layer of poetry to the English capital. It carries you, the dreamer, away. These days, the streets of London look indeed like a back alley in Kyoto or a Carioca avenue after the carnival. Tones of cherry blossoms are paving the streets like a myriad of pink snowflakes blown away by the wind. Close your eyes. Let the sun rays go through the layers of clouds, pierce your pallid skin and warm your heart of this spring feeling...

Right, the BBQ is ready and the football match is about to start, so let's stop the fluffy non-sense and go back to basics: we have finally past the vernal equinox and it starts to show. So enjoy!

Cultural difference from the tap.

A pint of cultural difference. A shooter of good taste.
When it comes to cultural disparities, you often find yourself on the creative super highways... But also on the verge to lose some of your international audience by communicating on too local an insight, or even get into dangerous ethical considerations.

This commercial for Molson Canadian beer actually managed to capitalise on collective memories, habits, customs... without falling in the dangerous path of nationalism and racism.
So Bottom up. And hats down.

The Saturday Shot #21: the gender gap

For this weekend contribution, I was inspired by the first French actor to win an Academy Award, Jean Dujardin... The reference will be lost for most non-French folks reading these lines, but before become a worldwide reference for his talent as a silent actor, Mr. Dujardin has been a daily companion to most  French households.

Jean Dujardin has indeed been co-staring a daily short TV programme called "Un gars, une fille" (A boy, a girl) which relates the daily intimacy of an average French couple. Hold on dirty minds! When I say "intimacy" and "French", I can already see sparks in your eyes. However, there is no "menage a trois" in this series. This is not a rip off of Sex and the City. The intimacy I was referring to is more about the snoring wife, the hair left in the sink, the old boy friend picture... All dealt with great apathy and humour. It was so relevant to all the couples that it was an almost immediate hit. To the point that the heroes' nicknames have become almost an ubiquitous terminology to describe happy couples. Chouchous and Loulous are to be seen at every corners snugging in the streets of Paris, Lyon, Marseille... It was so personal and intimate that the two actors pretending to be husband and wife on screen... Happened to fall in love for real and have since got married.

Because, life is like that... Unexpected. And this leads me to my concluding quote by Jim Morrisson 1943-1971):

“There are things known, and there are things unknown, And in between are doors”

A mountain dweller on the Copacabana Beach

Let me see the (sun)light.

Despite what I can write every so often, my life is not a pure dichotomy between mountains and valleys. Every now and then I like to explore shores too... Having been drenched in Ireland during what was supposedly a summer break, I was really longing for a proper holiday somewhere exotic enough to finally have a second day of sun this summer. We are fortunate enough to have friends around the world, including a couple who currently live in Brazil and invited us a few times to visit. Sun-starved, this was not to be refused any longer, so there we went.

However before I start, Brazil is such a big country that I will never claim to have visited it. At most I can pretend to have seen Rio and some of its surroundings... That is probably more fair to such a massive geography. And yet that will not prevent me from jotting down some of the fun and puzzling facts that I have experienced during my stay in the auriverde country.

Ordem e progressport

Frankly speaking that should be more appropriate a motto for this nation whose carioca's culture gravitates around the cult of the body. The beaches count more volley ball and beach football courts than towels. The walks alongside them are paved with work-out machines between which joggers and skateboarders slalom half-naked (or half-dressed, depending on how you like to look at your glass).

The number of tattoos is astonishing, but yet again it is understandable when the body is the centre of attention. In a sense, the locals own their bodies. They carve them, develop them, insert a little bit of silicon here, a touch of ink there in order to fully really personalise it. No wonder that in 2011, Brazil was ranked second nation behind the US in terms of number of aesthetic surgery intervention.

Having said that, we are not all equals in this culture of culturism. And I must say that sometimes the flesh on display was not of the greatest appeal. It seems that most of the Rio inhabitants have come to terms with their body, irrespective of how it is And as a result they do not hesitate to put it on display, for the better or the worse:

All good, man.

Well, I say for the better or the worse, but in reality, according to the local idiom only the earlier half of that statement applies to Brazil. "Todo Bom" (e.g. Everything is good) is hammered by everyone all the time. You may even get a double thumb up to accompany that sentence, as if a physical punctuation was required to really land the message.

How are you? Todo Bom! How is the food? Todo bom! Fancy an helicopter flight over the city? Todo bom! Errr, do you have a pilot license? Todo bom! Do you have swimming suits that cover, hmm, a bit more? Todo bom! There is no more milk in the fridge? Todo bom! I crashed your car!? Todo bom! What time is it? Half past two-do bom!

It seems that the Cariocas have simply a very positive stance towards life. Nothing seem to really worry them - to the point that other Brazilians pretend they don't really care about anything. And to a certain extend I can understand that it can put some people off, especially in a business environment. This positive attitude translates into a laid-back stance which easily evolves towards a lack of involvement, an absence of dedication, very loose time commitments, etc.

But on the other hand the absence of stress cannot be blamed, when we all complain that we want to have a better work/life balance. The NGO, suicide.org, was for instance reporting Brazil as only the 73rd nation in terms of suicide rate, with under 4.3 per 100,000 population/per year. That is about a third of the worldwide average.
Why such a positive attitude? Some would argue that it is endemic to folks leaving by the sea, as you find similar traits amongst other insular nations... On the other hand Great Britain is definitely an island and the same positivity does not apply, I can testify. So what next? The influence of sun, sand, s...?  Any of these factors, found in abundance in Rio, may be to blame or hail, again depending on which half of your caipirinha glass you look at (and I must acknowledge that these glasses tend to be too often half empty... Waiter!).

Bottoms up.

Talking about the beverage of choice for any tourist, it is sad to see Brazil being the victim of its own success...
Besides cachaca, a white alcohol derived from sugar cane that is forming the base of the caipirinha cocktail, Brazil is renown for two other sources of beverage: coffee and cocoa. Brazil is in fact the world number one producer and exporter of coffee beans, with over a third of the international trade originated from what is the fifth largest country in the world. Accordingly with the University of Sao Paulo, this has resulted into record breaking revenues for the country in 2011,with 2.8 billions dollars (+43% year on year) being cashed within the first four months of harvest. Similarly it was the 6th cocoa exporter, with over 4.5% of the worldwide trade volumes in 2006.

Good news, you would think, for a country which is willing to accelerate its economic development and diversify its revenue sources... But the problem is that to shine on the international scene, the country exports its best production, leaving its domestic ground with the bitter taste of second tier beans. As such, the coffees served in Brazil are either of mediocre quality or sold at extortionary prices... since they are reimported! Such is the irony of the situation, and the globalisation of the economy.

National pride.

Ironic, but nevertheless accepted by the locals who have to swallow poor chocolate and coffee... But I could not refrain to think that maybe, yes maybe, it may not taste as bad for them as for us tourists? not that their taste buds may be different, or that they are less demanding. The sweetener for them is probably that even if it is a second rated product, it is still a home-grown product, ergo something to be proud of: national pride can make you blind sometimes, look at how East Berliner were proud of the Trabbant for instance! Brazilian are tremendously proud of their country. As a French, I was amazed by the national pride that this country demonstrates. It is a pride that does remind to a certain extend the US or Canada, with flags being displayed everywhere: on masts, on t-shirts, on the beach, on shoes, on the skin, etc.

It is a national pride that does not however translate into obscurantism and chauvinism however. This country knows where it is coming from and what it still needs to accomplish. Yes, corruption is rampant. Yes, protectionism is in place to place the domestic growth behind a wall-garden (random taxes are set up out of the blue on imports, adding 20% to the retail price of a car from one day to the other for instance). Yes, immigration is limited... But on the other hand you cannot help but feel welcome. This may explain why Brazil boasts the largest Japanese community outside Japan for instance. I certainly felt almost at home, maybe too much since I was seeking some exotic if not cultural clashes.

Feeling home in Rio's undergound

Once again judging Brazil through the prism of Rio is probably a pitfall that I do not want to encourage. This country is so vast that the limited exposure that a visit to Rio provides you with is necessarily partial - in all sense of the term. I could not stress more the need to broaden your Brazilian experience beyond the seaside lifestyle and carnival. These are already source of great enthusiasm, but my main take-away is that there is so much more to Brazil than these clichés... Clichés that are true nonetheless.

If you don't believe me, prepare your trip by doing nothing but watching Rio, Disney's latest animation feature, you will be amazed by the accuracy of the carioca details. I already wrote about how these computer animated movie can help boost local tourism, but this film once again proves me right. And if you are not into such movies, well maybe the following pictures I captured during my two weeks will do the trick.

Enjoy the slideshow, enjoy Brazil, enjoy life. After all... TODO BEM!

To read further:

• A mountain dweller in the Great Lake valley
• A mountain dweller in the Washington Lake valley
• A mountain dweller in the Þingvellir valley
• A mountain dweller in the valley of Kerry

The Saturday Shot #20: dead leaves

For this week contribution, it was hard to avoid the fact that London is nowadays covered in leaves... Orange, red, brown tones which are reminding me this brilliant trip we made in Japan a few years back. This same scenery is also a nostalgic glance back at my home country. France's contemporary culture has two important contributors in my eyes, the french surrealist poet Jacques Prévert and singer-actor Yves Montand.

Both contributed to one of my favourite old song of the French repertoire: "Les Feuilles Mortes" or "Autumn Leaves" in English. It is a 1945 French song with music by Joseph Kosma that Yves Montand introduced in 1946 in the film "Les Portes de la Nuit". And I just love it... Hope you'll enjoy it too!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Les Feuilles Mortes Jacques Prévert - 1945

In French

...and in English (personal translation)

Oh ! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes Des jours heureux où nous étions amis. En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle, Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle. Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié... Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle, Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi Et le vent du nord les emporte Dans la nuit froide de l'oubli. Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié La chanson que tu me chantais. [Refrain:] C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble. Toi, tu m'aimais et je t'aimais Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble, Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais. Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment, Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit Et la mer efface sur le sable Les pas des amants désunis. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle, Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle Sourit toujours et remercie la vie. Je t'aimais tant, tu étais si jolie. Comment veux-tu que je t'oublie ? En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui. Tu étais ma plus douce amie Mais je n'ai que faire des regrets Et la chanson que tu chantais, Toujours, toujours je l'entendrai ! [Refrain]

Oh! I wish you could remember The happy days when we were friends. In these days life was more beautiful, And the sun burning more than today. Autumn leaves are collected by shovels. You see, I have not forgotten... Autumn leaves are collected by shovels, Memories and regrets too. And the Northern wind blows them away In the cold night of oblivion. You see, I have not forgotten That song you sang me. [Refrain:] This is a song which sounds like us. You loved me, and I loved you And both of us lived together, You who loved me, me who loved you. But life separates those who love, Softly, without a noise And the sea erases on the sand The steps of divided lovers. Autumn leaves are collected by shovels, Memories and regrets too But my quiet and faithful love Keeps on smiling and thanks life I loved you so much, you were so pretty. How could I ever forget you? In these days, life was more beautiful And the sun burning more than today. You were my tenderest friend And I could not care less about regrets That song you sang, Always, always I will hear it! [ Refrain: ]

Family moment of truth

In French we say that the “truth pours out of children’s mouth”… Well, this morning, it was indeed pouring over London and when my 2-year old son saw the water dripping down the window, he proudly said, pointing outside:

“Rainin’…” with a perfect Londoner accent.
“It is raining indeed. In French we say: ‘Il pleut’.” I replied to encourage him to strengthen his bilingual skills.
“No daddy… It’s raining!”

Apparently my son is well more advanced than I thought… He is already capable of associating a word to a culture. It obviously does not rain in French, or in France.

Learn to hear English

You hear me, but do you listen?

School teachers focus on making us learn to speak English... But it is only with a bit more experience and immersion in the local culture that you actually manage to hear English.

Bear with me here, as I am not talking about what is verbally articulated, I in fact mean of what is actually said. There is a significant nuance for a nation that masters the art of understatement and self-deprecation.

The following table for instance has been recently circulated around in my company, probably to help our dearest colleagues in the US translate what really happens in meetings. After all, America and England are two nations divided by a common language...

Enjoy your next meetings with the Brits... Cup of tea anyone?


To read further:

• Language on a life line, David Mitchell's rant about endangered local languages
• The Italian job, a classical on accents and misunderstandings
• A, B, C, Ki , Wi or how to understand the folks from New Zealand

Quote of the day

"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars" Les Brown (1945-)

A, B, C, Ki , Wi

Busy B

I have rarely the time to post on my blog those days with a pretty busy work agenda, and a growing little one... The latter is growing fast and is now on the verge to hammer us with extensive questions about everything in life. He is about to speak.

Fortunately for us, his parents, we still have a few more years to go before he becomes fluently eloquent and proficient in Shakespeare's tongue. It is indeed already upsetting for us that our toddler can already correct your English accent whereas he only master a few words.

Evil plan.

I am in fact starting to think that we may want to impair his development, just to protect what is left of our ego. We already started in fact as we signed him up in a nursery with pan-European care-takers so his accent may be influenced by mainland inspirations. Not really succesful. The next step is probably to dial up the obstacle and get him a nanny from New Zealand. I personally love their accent, it makes me laugh as loud as an exploding Rainbow Warrior boat.

To give you a flair of how daunting a task it is to understand the Kiwis, here is a little guide in the form of a ABC... A song that is now becoming a true earworm.

The Saturday Shot #19: gnomes and gravels

For this weekend contribution, it was hard to avoid making any reference to this week's events in the street of London. I felt thus this picture was perfect: a bunch of hooded gnomes on gravels...

A few times in the past I mentioned that the UK was more and more looking like France, with its too numerous French residents (London is the 7th French city in the world), its growing number of public transportation strikes, its sporting failures... And the riots of last few days can only confirm this trend.

In an earlier article, written on the back of Justice's video clip "Stress", I mentioned the situation in the Parisian suburbs and it is chilling to see the similarity with the current situation in Great Britain. A few differences though: when such events occur on the other side of Channel, the French thugs rampage their own neighborhood instead of moving to the commercial areas which is something that has always puzzled me, especially when they pretend to do that to demonstrate against the disastrous conditions in which they live (and don't get me wrong, they do). Motivations are similar but there are cultural/ethnic underlying drivers to their acts, whilst in the UK this driver is social class...

Different name, different context, different causes yet same symptoms. The youngsters aspire to be more than they can expect to be and see their social background as an inhibitor. Shortcuts to success is seen as a social lift, irrespective of their legal aspects.

This reminded me of a tune by French rap band, IAM. It is called Petit Frere (Little Brother). The original text can be read here, but I loosely attempted to translate an excerpt from this song:

(...)

Journalists set trends. Violence at school existed already
Back in my time: rackets, brawls, rampage,
A bat swinging in the windshield of the teacher car
A cutter kicks in and here is a scar

But covering them in the every evening news makes it banal
It is printed in the retina as normal
And if little brother wants to be talked about
He reiterates what he saw in the 9 o'clock news

Shit, in 1980's these were just acts,
But these journalists have turned them into matter of facts
And I don't think that Little Brother is worse than before
Just overexposed to advertising, to violent chore

For adults, kids are the best lemon
The target number 1, a field for consumer goods
And to be sure that he gets some
Little Brother hangs around with a gun by his side

We know who you are when we see what you own
Little Brother knows that and keeps it in mind
Money would open doors to a shiny blue sky
As easily as his screwdriver opens cars.

High standing is all he aspires to
It simply feels better when you wear Giorgio Armani
Concerned about the others' glances
In spite of his young age, Little Brother smokes to look older

(...)

A mountain dweller in the valley of Kerry

Just back from a week of holiday in the beautiful Ireland, and thought that I would jot down my thoughts from my encounter with the backcountry. I have indeed been a few times in Dublin, but that was the first time I was really going into the deeper countryside, namely the Ring of Kerry. But I am very conscious that this part of Ireland is not Ireland as a whole, and that the following comments refered to as "Irish" facts may not be as representative as I may want to imply. So I hope that the Irish readers of these lines will excuse my cliches... (They are said to be feisty, so I have no intention to get into trouble!)

The drenched Emerald

One of the first things that struck me when I looked back at my 200+ pictures was the green-dominated hue of the portfolio. Nicknamed the Emerald Isle, Ireland has certainly not usurped its reputation. Green fields, green mountains, green signs... Pretty much everything blends in that tint. In fact probably the only thing that denote is the sky... Blue, sometimes, but most of the time loaded with threatening clouds. And like the Irish fighting reputation, these clouds do not pretend, they hold to their promise. When it starts raining, well, it certainly rains like crazy.

These pictures were taken on the same location, within two days. And to put things into perspective what you are seeing here is the Gap of Dunloe's wishing bridge. We are over 200m over sea level, very close to the top of the surrounding mountains and in the middle of July. So the flooding cannot be attributed to the convergence of numerous rivers, boosted by melting snows, as you may encounter in the Alps at Spring. No, here you have tiny improvised streams, pouring down rocks bathed by continuous rain showers, that simply flood the equally tiny gap.

I must say that the Brisith Isles have a reputation for being often drenched, but that was the very first time that I could really see that cliche materialised in front of my eyes.

The fast and furious leprechauns

The Ring of Kerry is renown for its scenery roads. Yet what people often forget to mention is that it really takes skills to get your car in one piece on the other side of the circumference. And to the seasoned drivers who may think that they would be safe, I can assure you that they would not have only to worry about surprising encounters such as leprechauns or wild ponies (these dangers are duly highlighted).


The primary danger consists in navigating through a network of single-laned "roads" which are used in both directions by cars, buses, trucks tractors and other engine-powered vehicles of your choice. The narrow width of the tarmac and the immediate proximity of gaping cliffs are a challenge in themselves, but in addition you have to drive one-handed as your other limb is in constant use for waving thanks at other sweating drivers who kindly gave way and now have to figure out how to get their fourth wheel back on the ground rather than spinning loose over a 50m-high void...

And this is not enough thrill for the locals... First they are so used to the narrow roads that they could drive through whilst dancing the hooley and maintaining a steady 100km/h which is the authorised speed limit (and a pure joke for any sane driver). Second they are locals and as the traffic regulation code clearly states it THEY have the priority - no matter left, right, downhill, uphill or the size of the engine... "Out of MY way" should be printed on road signs in lieu of Yield. Finally, Vin Diesel must have his greatest fan clubs in that province. The roads bear the indelebile marks of Fast and Furious afficionados who tour the roads at dusk, leaving behind melted rubber trails that zig-zag between markings and then draw perfect circles at t-junctions. And I am not talking about isolated cases. Seriously we have seen so many spurs of these joyrides that Michelin is probably a profitable global corporation thanks only to the Irish market.

51st state?

Whilst we are talking about globalisation, I would like to dwell a bit on Americans. If after the great famine, over 2 millions Irish inhabitants had emigrated to the US (about a quarter of the total 1850's population), it seems that their great, great grand children have finally seen the light. I am refering to the lantern at the Áras an Uachtaráin, the official residence of the Irish president where it is left on all year long to guide the Irish back home...
We happened to be in Ireland on July 4th, and stars and stripes were floating in the sky everywhere. I must say that it puzzled me, a bit like when German tourists flame bratwurst in Ibiza considering they are home due to the excessive presence of their fellow-citizens. I appreciate the historical connection between the two nations, but what I was witnessing was more a take-over rather than pilgrimage. I am certainly not hostile to cross-fertilisations, when it is for the greater good. And I must say that a Floridian pink house with its alignment of pseudo Roman columns has nothing to do in such a part of the world (and don't try to pretend it is a legitimate local architectural execution, you could smell the cinamon chewing gums from the road). It is clearly a cultural faux-pas and there were a bit too many to my taste. If your intentions is to return to fatherland, then at least respect the local habits and traditions... You came up with the concept of the melting pot after all.

Space-efficiency, Sport-efficiency.

But let's not get too hung up on this colonial polemic... There is so much to say about the true Irish that it is not worth for me to digress. The Irish are said feisty, maybe, but they are more certainly friendly and welcoming that I can testify. At some point I thought they were also really pragmatic...

That was when I walked past a stadium and peeped over the edge to discover what was a brilliant utilisation of a limited space. In a country that has been badly hit by the recession sport remains most certainly the opium of the people, yet it is certainly costly to build stadiums that can host either football or rugby. There on each side of the pitch were proudly standing posts which, I was convinced, were the solution to the inflation. The woodwork was looking as if football goals had copulated with their rugby cousins to give birth to an hybrid: the offspring looked either like a rugby H with a netted skirt or a football goal with two long antenas (depending on which sport dominates your referential scheme).

Anyway what I thought to be a modular response to the football and rugby cohabitation was in fact a locally brewed sport, Gaelic football, which in essence is indeed the mongrel of rugby and football. A pragmatic mutt though, as manages to finally unite the fans of both sports, and shares his pitch with another inbred sport, hurling (a combination of lacrosse, hockey, handball, rugby and football.... Yep, just that). Ireland may just well be the Ikea of sport!


More seriously, I love Ireland and this little taste gave me tons of reasons to go back. I loved the people (in particular my Irish friends and colleagues who are about to read these lines and wait for me in a dark side of a parking lot), their accent, their welcoming kindness, their sense of humour. I enjoyed the scenery and no matter people think the weather. This stay has made me stronger (in the left arm, the one holding the stirring wheel) and more avid to discover new regions of what is certainly a European gem... Hey, that may well be why they call it the Emerald Isle after all. Here some more pictures about that lovely country. And please note that I did my best to limit the amount of greenery in this selection:





To read further:

• A mountain dweller in the Great Lake valley


• A mountain dweller in the Washington Lake valley


• A mountain dweller in the Þingvellir valley

Splitscreen: A Love Story

One ocean, two countries...

At a time when French politicians trust the front page of tabloids with their kinky habits, it is good to remind that French lovers are not (only) about S&M, role plays and threesomes... Call me a sentimental, but there is also that weird thing called "romance".

...One love story.

Shot entirely on the Nokia N8 mobile phone, the following video won the Nokia Shorts competition 2011:

Splitscreen: A Love Story by JW Griffiths tells the story of an American and a French who live parallel lives on each side of the pond until they one day collide... Interestingly enough in London.

Beyond the performance of shooting a split screen video (a technique brought back to fashion with the TV series 24) with a phone, there is the refreshing story telling. It may well be the hot summer, but it feels good to see that love is the air.

The Saturday Shot #18: invaders

This Saturday shot comes a good week late... Just the time for a French national newspaper to reach me after my beloved mother did some press clipping for me.

Last weekend, French street artist Space Invader was the guest editor of Liberation, France's left wing, BoHo national. The anonymous artist who usually invades public spaces with his tiles directly inspired by the eponymous video game ancestor was this time around populating the pages of an ink-smirking paper. It is still a public space, but some may argue it is just a sign that after 12 years of underground work, Invader is now sufficiently mainstream to hit the front page...

Banksy did in the UK, so why not my fellow citizen? Personally I don't care. Art, and street art in particular, needs to be exposed and shared. I did for years with Invader's work, looking like a freak in the streets of Paris, NY or London, twisting my neck at every street corner to see if I could spot a new invasion. I had reached such a point that if I had lived in the US I could have considered suing the artist for the neck pains he caused... But I don't live in that country and in lieu of a court audience, I much prefer the acclamations of a street crowd. Their eyes are much harsher a sentence. Excel and you will be hailed, your art will be exposed, plagiarized, extruded and resold on the Internet... Fail to impress and you will simply ignored, falling into air sprayed oblivion.

Space Invader is de facto recognised, even by my mother and my mother-in-law who every now and then send me a snap of a street corner where they discovered a mosaic. It may have reached the inflexion point when Invader's work has become mainstream, yet that does not compromise his artistic approach. I take that as a sign of maturity.

"An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come." Victor Hugo (1802-1885)


To explore further:

• Never stopping evolution, a fantastic street art performance turning walls into a cinema screen.
• An article about underground photographer JR, and his award winning speech at TED on how art can change the world.
• An article about Space Invader, the mosaic which invades your street and TV adverts: Bunn-invasion.
• An article about Banksy, the British artist who now sprays gold out of his cans: Spray the world.
• An article about Banksy, the British artist who now sprays gold out of his cans: Found it, or my photographic deep dive in the streets of London.

The Saturday Shot #17: the wall

This weekend I felt a bit rock and roll...

After months avoiding Notting Hill, my Belle and I decided to pay a visit to Portobello road. And there it was like a Fly on a Wall. No, not the expected power plug delivering AC/DC, but a tape sealed in the Wall. I initially found that an interesting type of street art, quite a novelty to me. And yet, according to Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875) "Where words fail, music speaks." so no wonder that a a tape could replace the good old graffiti.


To read further:

• Bunn-invasion, article about French street artist Space Invader
• Found it, or how to open your eyes to art in the street around you

The Saturday Shot #16: back to the future

After a well-deserved break during which I realised that a growing number of Brits are slowly but surely adopting French best practices like "bridging", I was back in London this week-end. And I loved the sight of this sign. I already wrote about UK's unique relationship to time in an article called "Lost time is never found again", but Jacob Von Hogflug brings it to a whole new level...

To accompany my Saturday shots, I tend to look for an intelligent quote... But I think I will opt for something more popular... straight from the pop iconic musical "Rocky Horror Show":

"It's astounding
Time is fleeting
Madness takes its toll
But listen closely

Not for very much longer

I've got to keep control
I remember doing the Time Warp
Drinking those moments when
The blackness would hit me

And the void would be calling

Let's do the Time Warp again
Let's do the Time Warp again

It's just a jump to the left
And then a step to the right
With your hands on your hips

You bring your knees in tight
But it's the pelvic thrust
That really drives you insane

Let's do the Time Warp again
Let's do the Time Warp again"

Richard "Ritz" O'Brien (1942-)