PARADOX ZURICH PROJECTS

It has taken the human race its whole history to work out how to kill efficiently. We, in tow with our governors, have experimented since the very beginning in every possible way. Yet those nations which, here in the twenty-first century, still impose the ultimate penalty, capital punishment, use methods painful, unreliable, slow, archaic, barbaric...

Opening and pursuing a discussion upon this subject - one ignored or avoided by ALL nations practising capital punishment through history to the present date - is the principle message behind the "12 Piano Thrones Project". One thing must be understood at this point: the theme is "how to IMPROVE EXISTING EXECUTION METHODS whilst demanding new international laws". It is NOT "how to" or "whether or not to" ABOLISH capital punishment completely. For the latter question there is, and probably always will be, fervent dialogue already taking place on this most complicated human dilemma. The artist's position here is precisely this: "as long as capital punishment IS in practice, the METHODS EMPLOYED should be strictly and widely questioned". Which, in the unavoidable fact, they are not. There is more to say on this pivotal theme, but first some paragraphs on the actual "Piano Throne" art-pieces themselves.

Before the Piano Thrones became equally, and later overwhelmingly, execution contraptions, they were objects adhering to another concept entirely, with its own set of rules, innovations and aesthetic.

Since December 2009 conceptual artist and former architectural model-maker Paul Woods (Paradox Paul) has been converting upright pianos into a series of what he calls "Piano Thrones". This became possible since the Broken Pianos Orchestra which he founded, comprising twelve pianos decorated by artists in various styles, had to be disbanded when Gallery Wallywoods was evicted from Berlin's Weissensee Culture Center, otherwise known as the Peter Edel Culture Center (see "Wallywoods" and "Peter Edel" below). The pianos had nowhere else to go and P.P. whose primary artistic theme had been 'chairs' for a decade (see "Big Chairs") began to deconstruct the first of them with the intention of building a Big Chair from the hundred year-old deconstructed parts. Part of the thinking was that it should also be easier to transport away when the pending eviction was enforced. So pleasing were both method and apparent result that he quickly embarked upon the task of turning the twelve "Broken Pianos" into the twelve "Piano Thrones". Thus, at project completion there will be twelve Piano Thrones in all, to be exhibited together in a circular arrangement at gallery spaces around Europe and the wider world; locations with ceiling heights of at least three meters, as all the works will stand exactly three meters high.

Each Piano Throne is made from one complete piano. ALL the separate components are included in a sturdy and usable chair sculpture, i.e. 'Throne', whilst a minimum of new materials are employed in construction. (Mainly brass screws, white wood-glue, 'hot-glue', oils, shoe polish and, for 'touch-up' purposes only, acrylic paint. The heads of necessary new screws will be hidden at the final stage; wood filler is mixed in the traditional method from sawdust coming from the same piano and wood-glue. Incorporated into a Piano Throne along with the major wood and metal pieces may be fabrics and glass, as well as objects discovered during deconstruction, i.e. segments of newspaper, a dead spider, and so on. Nothing is thrown away. In all, the pieces offer endless possibilities to the furniture-maker come model-maker, who with time and imagination is lending at least two Thrones the architectural qualities of a church and a theater.

In early 2010 the fast developing blue-print for the whole project was again adjusted dramatically. Looking at the first work as it approached a stage near completion, P.P. realised that the remaining beams of wood and heavy segments of cast-iron, as well as the Throne itself, the thing seemed perfectly suited for adaption into a working guillotine, whilst equally complying to the original specifications of serving as a Throne made from a piano. Some weeks into the new thinking, P.P. accidentally discovered a fact of critical importance... (text in progress - to be continued)

SALES:  A Piano Throne (1 of 12) can be purchased completed or at any stage of development for 100,000 Euros

P.P. is at last pleased with this website revamp, at least with the new design, completed mid April 2011. But there is a lot more to do since his latest brainwave. Oh boy. Over the coming months the number of projects listed on this page will increase towards a goal of 1001 in total (including this one, "The 1001 Projects Project", which is the 86th project at the time of its conception on April 13, 2011). As challenging as it sounds, P.P. reckons there is enough material to fill the new quota lying around in attics and cellars in various cities plus a small town on the Isle of Wight, as well as deeper in this labyrinthine website, memoirs treading yet deeper into the conceptual artist's restless mind; and also in the imaginations of project partners not even met yet. Why 1001 exactly? Well, why not. If the mountain is there then climb it. Besides which, in our search for a wonderful new arts space in Zurich founded on as little money possible but great energy, a concept is needed to convince the landlords to let us move in for at least 3 months, or better still, permanently. From a thousand-and-one activity concepts (or as many as there are here now) they must like some of them! What's listed below can therefore be seen as the program which begins, not only virtually, at daily workshops, installations and art evenings when the gallery/studio "Paradox World Projects" opens (or "Paradox Zurich" or "Wallywoods Zurich" or "Gallery Woods Malfatti" or "Zurich Big Chairs" or "The Woods" or whatever it will be called) in P.P.'s now official residence, Zurich. Amen.

'Mixed metaphors on cheap paper.' Outline of a half finished short story. Needs illustrating, perhaps as a comic:

"At a historically gruesome benefits party thrown up at Culture Castle, a shirtless, ticket-less, legless young Noname is doomed to spurt unto the universe a boggling picture of itself never before imagined - knocked out in cheap oils, signed across its breadth, crammed into a handy frame. On the journey to his great unveiling, the future master of Arty Farty World would make just two allies; one he would meet in a dirty great limo, the other in a dirty great pit. But way back in the beginning, there in his weedy hovel beneath Waterloo Railway Station, Noname's existence was suspected only among his two enormous brothers, Bigbeard Hammer and Littlebeard Sneak. Risen high above the urban bog these towering symbols of Ego and Fame were irresistible to stick-shaped women and bendy, oily, arse-licking men. Both were as mad as the hats they wore..." More

General introduction to follow. Link test

Selection of supported artists

This mini epic by P.P. was started in 2010 directly on Facebook and progressed there as a work in progress. Still unfinished, it now has its own home, right here. Open for illustration or animation ideas:

"In the cities the people thrived. But out in the country, across the hills and plains to the seas, their cousins began to die. Epidemics of new proportions, animal-plagues, polen-flues, viruses knowbody knew how to cure, terrorised the world in ways no nation could withstand. From this beginning to the horrible end, twelve years later, they flocked to the capitals and growing urban slums. Apparently nature rebelled, over-reacted and over produced, and flooded the Earth with fearful ills. Even a flower brought death.

All we could do was bulldoze and build. And build and build...

They built asphalt roads, miles across, and low-story, region-wide blocks of concrete and steel, into which the human family could safely relocate. And they did feel safe. For a while. The plan, if it was a plan, worked remarkably well. The species, extracted from their natural environment, hardly grew sick. Work was abundant, as all resources were were pooled in the communal effort to literally asphalt the planet. There were wars, of course, but they were short lived, or seemed irrelevant, in the frenzied, unprecedented fight to survive.

The landscape gradually dissappeared. Wildlife was slaughtered, forests were felled, fields were trampled and paved; till one day, all the Earth with all its poisons on every continent, lay buried...

Under the Asphalt Planet.

In the eleventh year, the Cause was discovered, the Thing which had so badly attacked Mother Nature that she, with all her integrity, all her might, could react the only way (...) There is something in asphalt..."

Currently theoretical group event based on the PROBABILITY that what is now called 'atheism' will one day outweigh religion everywhere. Encouraged and presented by P.P. and others who support that peaceful and logical goal. Only possible within an open yet well defined atmosphere of discussion, interaction and above all tolerance. Aim is NOT to attempt to prove that overwhelming influence of organised religion is out-dated and detrimental. Rather, it is to offer a stimulating and POSITIVE insight into the fundamental and legitimate belief in HUMAN BEINGS; i.e. merely ourselves, capable of love, compassion and moral strength independent of a God reference. Such an undertaking may never-the-less be considered 'spiritual' by some, no doubt provocative by others, and even insulting to a few - or many - entrenched 'believers'. But organised in Europe for a start, within the parentheses of established democratic system and free-thinking society, the undertaking should hardly be dangerous...

No matter how carefully worded, this text remains as unsatisfactory as the subject is flammable. Even the word 'atheist' with its negative - to some, 'infidel' - connotations needs review. But I shall not cease to consider the concept until it is (or I am) mature enough for further steps towards realisation of an exhibition ('one-off' or otherwise). Input welcome. P.P. April 2011.

Crucified Tank by Woods (tank by Vinzent), Berlin, 2005

When, where and why this was almost written is by now nearly irrelevant. It is a lesson in pen power for would-be writers and other interested people with pens. It is perhaps the anonymous author's least glaring achievement. Besides which Wally, as he was known then, learned to detest poetry slams. Usually because he lost. The others were funnier. Ask Helge der Hinterhofdichter who beat him at Bastard, the bugger. Ignoring that defeat, mild in comparison, P.P. did read this in front of his mentor Mr Bertram Paperfoot, Germany's greatest living writer, and ten other Jedi of the Berlin off-off-poetry scene at Wallywoods in Weissensee earlier this century. What a night. What a nightmare! Here is the poster posthumously to remind us of a potentially majestic event. But Clive the Drunk - yes CLIVE THE DRUNK! - was there to destroy the whole evening before Wally barred him again along with his immortal words as the master readied himself to begin, "Hey Bert, sing some fuckin' rock and roll!". So P.P. missed most of it whilst walking Clive home. By the time P.P. returned to his guests, Bert had left and Clive shortly returned. In short, one of modern literature's stupidest reading evenings. The moral? What a cunt! Below is the original essay, Bad Words, lifted unabashedly from Wally's Log...

"How many uncountable times have I bogged myself down re-vamping again and again, over and over, the ghost of a text which angrily lurks half living, half gasping into my weeping ears, damp wads of nonsense dragged forth from some dodgy plot beyond the Neverworld? (God! What is it? What is this thing?) Polished off a lifetime ago, tis surely the gut of a pretty book: born, butchered and buried there with the others, in near secrecy, near the summit of my fog-shrouded brain. This awful sleepless thing, writing, is digging in midnight grave-mud and laying out in a lofty, fast-sinking chain any bits and bobs which are randomly spewed from the bowels. And Allah bless the stony-faced angels when a splatter of gold, even fool's gold, is rescued from the churning crud! Obnoxious fairy-tales, druggy rantings, cynical love yarns, benefits forms; these and worthier besides, excruciatingly Frankensteined together out of O'level grammar and wrongish spelled words. Maths, I failed; but I can count seventeen endless pages of a weirdish novel colourfully named 'Ark of Colours' which, if I pull a darkly stained finger out, might miraculously evolve into the sun-set of a pop-up comic-book: a thing to present to myself upon retirement or death. Shall I ever meet, in this life or in the next, my comatose cousins Felix & Phyllis in the palid-pale flesh, at peace of a late bednight upon the mass-produced page? Oh, how I yet miss them. However; nothing much dribbled or spat from my creeking leaking pen ever seems finishable, let alone sellable, let alone readable. Very few bits and bobs from the odds-&-sods bin ever have been, or no doubt will be - will they? Technically, a lot of rubbish pops up. Thankfully, it's not all usable. Just occasionally, a phrase will scream up from the dirt to flatter the memory of my dear, long-departed mother concept. Then where am I left? Knee deep in swell ideas, mostly dead above the neck.

Agreed then. Much hard shoveling for a few bad words.

Lo! It is these ideas only I fear, living and hauntingly choreographed as dream sequences in a quaint old horror film, which remain contiguous and precious; pitiably, forever incarcerated within the socky murk, all six feet and so many inches beneath the very peak of my moon-howling mind! Neil looked up one day to say, 'You are not a writer,' then asked once again, proddingly, in the storming rain and more ominous thunder, 'Why don't you stick to painting?' Yet he may be a man of many valid points and barbs, but I write up my sleeve with swelling confidence in his direction, 'Fuck you, man.'

Alternately, poetry is no absolute waste of time. A fool can write a poem. I hope to fill a book one day - if I ever finish one. Even a skinny one! OK. But a successful poem, even a humorous one, is poor compensation for not having it in the genes, or perhaps the balls, to write something containing better quality meat. Oh, to get something - payment perhaps, in this modernish world, even something at the impoverished level of the spirit - for all those long hours tossed away, spent digging away at this, my most perfectly crafted neck-ache! Exactly thus, I began to carve the merest synopsis out of the vision of my famous unwritten 'Novel of Colours'. I do hope to complete it sometime, perhaps before the manuscript itself arrives, chained-up and conspicuously marvelous, on Terry Gilliam's doorstep with the milk bottles and a witty note of desperation. For no fable born of this day can dazzle the contemporary planet till it is churned into a massive, disappointing film by an over-enthusiastic, badly-dressed, hairy-faced director. As for the synopsis: well, I rapidly got bogged down again in the bog of little details like Felix's fungus collection, the colour of the last-surviving rabbit; and how to justify the second half of a rueful, meandering, possibly unnecessary, over-long sentence - leave well alone (I know the reader will) a single, brooding, poetic, lonely, misinterpreted, failed and desperate paragraph! Which leads me to a reincarnated life; one in which I am blessed with more or less average portions of physical energy and/or financial motivation. In one such shadowless life, I might just turn to directing quaint old horror films as a means of shocking my poor ideas into warmly chuckling existence.

To expand for a moment; let us bow our heads beyond neck-pain and remember the film Bucket, in which our hero (Neil again) walked the length of Schönhauser Street with his head in a coal bucket. With a bathroom towel wrapped around his head to keep the bucket on, he would fail to hear that fateful crash, as he barged his unforgettable path among the shoppers and those startled weekend dogs. A childish attempt to manufacture a blockbuster, I cannot deny, or even say. But experiment is the main thing, sometimes a jolly thing; though it must be noted that the abrupt end of that scene killed the project, and perhaps a by-stander, who unfortunately ran in front of Bob's astonished camera into the road of an on-coming truck. Shortly thereafter, creeping paranoia sent the whole crew sneaking into a coffee-shop to remove from the scene the bucket and compare wide eye-balls.

Neil's audition at police headquarters is a better story, but wasn't filmed, nor ever resolved. Not by us, anyhow. In Hollywood, perhaps, one dreadful day. Directing? I had better been off directing traffic!

But to write! God! To write like a writer! Or like a God! Or even like a rotter like that toe-rag Miller, or some other popularist, unshaven, woman-knowing body. And to spell the words correctly first time around and have them spill out in fairly good order, cascading fluidy through the rainbow of my mouth to end up within spitting distance of the perfect ending, close to the bottom of the very last page! Honestly, I seriously imagines I've a rare and nobbling iq-pissabling pyslexia of some orrible de-scribbling!"

Links to be updated: Concept / Posters / 3D / More Chairs

I stopped writing my online diaries when real life finally caught up with my expectations of it, crushing major reserves of energy and changing priorities - yet again. Also, the HTML programming got bummed out due to the minor differences between various browsers and I simply lost interest in performing another tedious website overhaul. But I've started again now and will fill gaps with various texts stored haphazardly here and there, rabbiting as ever, on and on, into a rosier than rosy future (and an eventful past)... Wally's Log

Easy kind of brainstorming. Room for development...

Info to follow. For now here's an early Poster and (coming soon) a link to a rare Recording

Room for development...

Bucket is a short story used as the lose script for a surrealistic film, shot in Prenzlauerberg in Berlin in the late nineties. Filming was never completed due to a road accident which occurred in front of the rolling camera, after which the people involved understandably - and very sadly - lost all interest in continuing. Well, they didn't have a license for filming on the street (Schönhauser Allee) and worried that they themselves were indirectly somehow responsible. After all, project actor N.H. was at that moment walking unguided among afternoon shoppers in a black suit with a bucket on his head, causing no little interest. Paranoia among the crew intensified as it was discovered that plain-clothes cops had actually caused the accident whilst chasing a boy of apparently illegal origin across the busy crossing. He was knocked unconscious to slide ten yards or more along the road in front of the truck which hit him full on. On careful enquiry, emergency authorities refused to give us any information to the victim's situation. To this day we don't know if he survived.

There exists a video cassette of whatever uncut film material was produced before the project was scrapped, but its odd format is a mystery to me and needs copying over onto a more accessible one. (Advice on this would be appreciated.) Meanwhile, the possibility of resurecting and one day completing the movie, in the style and spirit it was then begun, floats on the air like an unfinished ghost:
Bucket / auf Deutsch

Images to come. Room for development...

Room for development...

Information to follow.

Old page, needs updating: CD Cover Design

Would someone some day please donate to me a church, chapel or similarly revered building. Anywhere at all. Meanwhile, a less hallowed dream of mine has long been (at least) the organisation of an interactive installation in a church, chapel or similarly revered building. Thank you in advance. P.P. March 2011.

See also "Decoration" / Contact

If you need consulting on any topic then get in touch. 24 hour service. Reasonable costs. Confidentuality ensured. Satisfaction guaranteed. Send your requirements to: wallywoods@gmx.net

"I've always detested crossing borders. I mean, at check-points between so-called nations." (P.P. 21st century.) Developing idea...

Danny Amos Flynn. Your 'Paradox World Projects' London correspondent. (See top of page.) Awaiting photo...

My primary influence as an 'odd' boy growing up in some kind of self-made solitary confinement in central London was Salvador Dali. Later I understood the unpleasantness of the man himself and have by now almost completely lost interest in the perusal of his works. In my twenties, a visit to the Dali Museum at Figueres rekindled for a while earlier passions. The genius cannot be denied and a certain fascination always remains. Later, my most successful half-endeavour to half-generate money in the former East Berlin was mural painting (see "Decoration" below) and one of the earliest jobs, for the healthy sum of 150 Deutsche Marks and some beers, was this wall in the "Fünf Ziegen" bar (the "Five Goats" which I believe still exists). Below too is a jacket painted for Dali friend Stefan around the same time. Now publicising for decoration & design jobs in Zurich and elsewhere, I am by no means too old or too proud to reproduce whatever Dali image a potential client may want - for at least ten times the earlier price. Contact

Text to follow. Facebook

As an artist in a fast changing Berlin of the 1990's I earned my way with interior decorating, specialising in mural painting ("Wandmalerei") covering a wide range of styles from antique to graffiti... (more to follow) / Murals / Bars and restaurants

Text to follow. Photos 1 / Photos 2 / Interviews: 01.03.10 / 27.11.09 / 05.11.09 / 03.11.09 / 28.10.09

Text to follow. Exhibition

As far as I can see there aren't any. Shame! P.P. (bored spoken word performer) Zurich, April 2011

See "The 12 Piano Thrones Project"

Even before we were married I had the idea with Maya to make someday a small exhibition entitled "Love" (link further down). Later, whilst assembling this list of project ideas, I wanted to balance the concept with a partner exhibit or event, a larger group show or very compact, and name it for now just "Fear" - the opposite emotion in my opinion to Love... (Input welcome.)

Showing two films at the same time. Room for development...

Priority is establishing a gallery-office in Zurich. Funds will then be generated through the sale of works by featured artists, contributions from said artists according to how long they show and what they can afford, participation in external exhibitions, competitions & art-fairs, rental of artworks (for example to offices), exhibition & interior design consultancy, revenue from occasional events, classes (life-drawing, etc), and private donations (see below).

Whilst my wife Maya has the security of a regular occupation, I myself intend to get a bank loan primarily to cover the first three months rental of the location we are actively looking for now. From the opening, the gallery ("Gallery Woods", as it may be called) will exhibit 5 to 10 international artists of the highest contemporary standard, complementing installations and workshops from my own initiative, the Piano Thrones Project.

Meanwhile, if you wish to support, or invest in, the creation and development of our Zurich gallery (and thereby Paradox World Projects generally), or simply need more information, do not hesitate to get in touch. For more substantial contributions, I am happy to exchange ideas on the subject of a temporary or longer-term personal loan. Paul Woods, March 2011.

0041 (0)78 783 0114
wallywoods@gmx.net

For a donation, you can use the following German bank account. We can provide a receipt as required:

Paul Woods
Berliner Volksbank
Account: 7232052001
BLZ: 10090000
IBAN: DE66100900007232052001
BIC: BEVODEBB
Subject: gallery donation

Sponsor required for a workable idea: Contact

Room for development...

I just found this. I think its from an idea Alex Tornado and P.P. had sitting around Another Bookshop in Berlin a couple of years ago. Kind of a sit-com. It's not finished:

FREEZING THE UNEMPLOYED

Comrade Long Term Unemployed Pratt goes to the job centre.

In the office of Chief-Employment-Engineer-and-Long-Term-Unemployed-Pratt-Therapist, Comrade Henkel, Pratt is greeted with accustomed patience and good will.

"Ah, Comrade Pratt. So glad you are feeling better. And so glad we could help with the hospital bills. They treated you well at the Spa?"

"Thank you, Comrade Henkel, yes. Did me the world of good, it did indeed. For a while I could face the world again..."

Comrade Henkel studies some paperwork.

"Yes, yes. Well done. Ah, here we are! Comrade Pratt. Have we found you a job yet?"

"Er, I been to a couple of interviews, yes. Quite excited, I was. Yes. But I didn't get 'em, No."

"No, you didn't, did you Comrade Pratt."

"Er, no I didn't, Comrade Henkel. No."

"And that's exactly what it says here, Comrade Pratt."

"Well, if it says it there, Comrade Henkel..."

"That's exactly what it says, Comrade Pratt."

"So we're all up to date, Comrade Henkel? Then I'll let you get back to your work! (standing up) "Always glad to help." (reaching the door) "Oh, can you send my monthly to my old Heights address. I'm lookin' after my old mum again..."

"Comrade Pratt."

"You got it there in your records..."

"Comrade Pratt."

"Comrade Henkel?"

"Would you sit down for a moment longer."

Comrade Pratt hesitantly sits.

"Listen Tom"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Tom, do call me Doctor."

"Dr?"

"They've come up with a new plan, Tom."

"New Plan... Dr?"

"Yes. You know, the fellows on the Board."

"The Board?"

"Yes, you know, the chaps on the Board."

"What Board?"

"Come on now Pratt!"

"You mean.. them on the Board, Comrade?"

"Doctor."

"Er.. Are you on the Board, Doctor?"

"In this case, Pratt, by which I mean, in your particular case, Pratt; I AM the Board."

"I see."

"However. Let's not get side-tracked Pratt. It seems they've come up with a new plan." Pause. "Care for a cigarette?"

"Erm..."

"Quite right. Let's leave that. Anyway, it's no smoking in here, you know that by now. Harmful to your own health, dangerous to others'. Long-since proven. Can't imagine why they still produce the nasty things. Happily, though, science has a cure for all evils."

"Science, Dr?"

"How is your health, Pratt?"

"Health, Dr? Er, nothing to grumble about. Fit as a fiddle, usually..."

Doctor Henkel is back in his paperwork:

"Good. Good. Good to hear it. Still. No luck in the job finding quarters. I suppose, especially in your case, what with the current situation, gloomy world market, threats from abroad, plague, league division disasters, all that... Well, poor fella, you know more than most how absolutely aweful things appear to be. Out there, I mean. All very gloomy."

Pratt follows Doctor Henkels gaze across the sun-drenched room, out through the open window. The greens and blues framed by the window belong to the best of Summer. A warm breeze disturbs the curtain, and they listen to the birds and the insects.

"They say, Pratt, that in twenty years time, it will be easier. A bucket-full of easier. What do you think about that? We're in for a boom, 'they' reckon. And they're not to be doubted. A whopper of a boom. Forget probabliltiies. All comes down to science, and gettin your fractions right."

The Dr pauses, examines Pratt for the first time intently. Returning to himself, Pratt feels he is required to speak.

"Science was my favorite at school..."

"Well, there's Eutopia for you; twenty years off. May as well be two-hundred. As for the moment, Pratt, times are rough and ruthless. Fuckin rough and fuckin ruthless." (Pratt is astonished but silent.) "Figures up 16 percent here, down 60 percent there, plungin all over the fucking shop everywhere. Decisive measures are called for. Do you get my drift, Pratt?"

Silence.

"Let me put it another way: Do you understand what I am saying, Pratt?"

"Er... decisive measures called for, Doctor. I get it."

Else, how should we pay your allowance?"

Pause.

"Is there a problem with my monthly, Dr?"

"Rough and ruthless, Pratt."

"But... But..."

"You're very next employer will pay your allowance, of course, Pratt. And that's what WE are here for. Soon as you get that job! Which, as you rightly suggest, brings us bang up-to-date."

Dr Henkel reaches into a bottom draw to pull out a four inch thick folder of closely typed forms and contracts. He paruses the first page, but seems reluctant to continue.

"Pratt........ I want to retire."

Silence.

"How would you like to sit over here, and... take over?"

Silence.

"Take over what, Dr.?"

"I said I want to retire, Pratt. I'll be moving on some day anyway, and this old seat of mine will be empty... Hard for you to grasp? What about it - theoretically?"

"Er, I see Doctor. Well... theoretically, I believe, er... I would never have the gusto."

Pratt is studied sympathetiacally by the Doctor, who has clearly reached the end of his test.

"All right Pratt, lets get on. You're living at your Mothers now."

"Yes, Dr."

"Hm. No spouse, no family."

"Just my mother. Not on her best legs these days..."

"Eighty-four last month. Impressive."

"Right you are."

(the Doctor to himself): "Right I am." Then, "No other family."

"Not..."

"And no job."

"..."

"Right then!" the Doctor, half rising, pushes the folder across the tables and begins flitting through the pages:

"Sign here... here.... here.. here.. here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here..."

END OF SCENE I

SCENE II

In an adjoining room, decorated only with a desk and two chairs, through a curtain in a doorway, the discussion is overheard:

"...here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. Read through them later, Pratt. Plenty of time. I'm on lunch in five minutes."

The curtain is drawn aside by the Doctor.

"...Fascinating reading, take my word for it. Now, while I get on, step this way and allow Comrade Cribbles to check you out a bit. Make sure everything's ship-shape."

Hardly hiding the panic upon his face, Pratt peers through the doorway.

"Erm, will it take long, Doctor? My old mother's doin chops and parsley."

"Compared to the hours we've sat here together, Pratt, it'll take a jiffy. A fraction of a jiffy."

"And then, there'll be no problem with the monthly, Doctor?"

"Never again, Pratt. Oh, by the way, if you call Comrade Cribbles 'Sister Cribbles' you'll get in her good books a lot quicker.'"

"Sister Cribbles?"

The Doctor dissapears into his office and Pratt takes a chair at a desk. He listens to the birds and the insects through the bright window in one wall. On this side of the doorway he has just come through, he vaguely observes a metal door on rollers - which Sister Cribbles now slides shut. She has a pleasant voice:

"Comrade Pratt."

"Oh, ah, hello," says Pratt without rising. She is a buxom woman and his eye is pleased.

"Take off your shirt."

"Um?"

"Won't take a jiffy. Lunch in five minutes. Come on."

Pratt is unwilling.

"Comrade Pratt."

He removes his shirt.

"Lovely," says Sister Cribbles. Now say "aahhh."

She looks into his mouth while he says "aahhh."

"Lovely."

She sits at the desk and begins quietly filling in forms.

Long pause.

"Er, Sister Cribbles?"

Silence. Pratt looks out the window and listens to the birds and the insects. A town clock rings out and she passes various forms across the table.

"Here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here, please."

"Will this mean... will there be... no problem with my monthly, Sister?"

"Don't fret about it Tommy. Your problems are over."

"Sorry?"

"Look dear," she walks around the desk. "I can't do this for you, you know. Or would you prefer we change places? We've got openings all over the department right now. I could get you a form..."

Comrade Pratt looks equally worried.

"Thought not. Look, sign here and here, then we can all get on. And here and here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here."

"Righto," says Pratt, and he does...

(to be continued)

The beauty of being a conceptual artist who's brain never ceases spawning grotesque as well as fabulous ideas, is that occasionally a work may consist of no more than a title; a mere juxtaposition of ideas. An advantage here as I myself do not need to see any development of such an object. It is, in a way, already redundant. Again a paradox, perhaps, considering my interest in, for instance, one day realising "Gunter von Hagen's Chair" (scroll down) even if that were to involve my bending the man's bones personally.

Ilia Kitup's illustrated Dada magazine in German, English and Russian. Link to follow.

Current headquarters:

PARADOX ZURICH PROJECTS
"Studio for Conceptual Art & Design" / "Atelier für konzeptuelle Kunst & Design"
am Idaplatz
Bertastrasse 26
8003 Zürich, Switzerland

Hours: Mon - Sat: 14:00 - 19:00
Phone: 0041 78 783 0114

Unique in Zurich, 'PZP' is a joint venture by M.M. & P.P.
Drop in afternoons, 2pm-7pm, for coffee, chat, conceptual art...

Jeden zweiten Samstagabend offen für Performances, Musik, Kunst-auktion...

Open every second Saturday evening for performances, music, art auction...

Get in touch if you have an exhibition or event idea.

'Guest Exhibition Room' to hire for interesting art, projects, workshops etc., in weekly blocks.

Regular workshop concepts also welcome (still life, nude, drawing, painting, photography, ceramics, meditation, kids, film, therapy, poetry, accoustic music etc). Organisers & co-organisers required.

Latest: PERFORMER-AUCTIONEER(S) URGENTLY REQUIRED!

For events programme see "Events & Exhibitions" above.

Auctions
"Art et Fakt" Auktion für Kunst und Besonderheiten:

Bringt eure eigenen Werke / interessanten Objekte unter der Woche zur Begutachtung bei PZP vorbei, oder schickt Fotos und Informationen dazu. Ansonsten komm einfach vorbei zum Mitbieten und Ersteigern von Kunstwerken und Besonderheiten...

"Art & Artifacts Auction" (every second Saturday). Bring your work/interesting artifact during the preceeding week to the Zurich studio to be evaluated/accepted or send a photo & details. Or just come along and bid on the evening for quality oddities...

***

Documentation / the search for a Zurich location:

Zürich, 28.03.2011

Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren

Wir sind auf der Suche nach geeigneten Räumlichkeiten für unser internationales Galerie-Projekt "Paradox World Projects". Nebst Berlin und London soll in Zürich als dritter und Haupt-Eckpunkt die Galerie "Paradox Zürich" entstehen.

Die Galerie
Dies beinhaltet in erster Linie das Präsentieren von lokalen und internationalen Künstlern, in festen sowie temporären Ausstellungen. Lesungen, kleinere musikalische Darbietungen ev. bei Vernissagen und Performances sollen das Projekt ergänzen. Auch soll der Raum als Begegnungs- und Austauschstätte Kulturschaffender jeder Richtung und aller drei Städte fungieren.

Die Galerie soll täglich (ausser Sonntags) zu bestimmten Zeiten geöffnet sein, um der Kundschaft die Möglichkeit der Auseinandersetzung und Besichtigung der künstlerischen Verkaufsobjekten zu bieten.

Wir finanzieren uns durch den Verkauf, der von uns präsentierten Objekten und durch die Einnahmen der Teilnahme an europaweiten Kunstmessen und Ausstellungen.

Es ist unser Anliegen, einen inspirierenden und offenen Ort für Zürich zu schaffen, dessen vielfältigen kulturellem Angebot unseres Erachtens aber genau ein solcher Raum noch fehlt. Eine Zwischennutzung wäre für uns auch willkommen, wir würden aber eine langfristige Mietmöglichkeit bevorzugen.

Es wäre uns eine Freude, Sie fänden Interesse und sähen eine Möglichkeit, diesem einzigartigen Projekt eine Chance in Ihren Räumlichkeiten zu geben.

Sehr gerne stellen wir uns persönlich bei Ihn vor und verbleiben derweil mit liebem Grusse,

Maya Malfatti Woods
Paul Woods

Über uns:-

Paul Woods
*1964, lebt seit anfang 2011 in Zürich
Selbständiger Modellbauer, Künstler und Galerist aus London, GB
Hat langjährige Erfahrungen als Galerist und Veranstalter sammeln können in seiner Galerie "Wallywoods", welche er von 2004 bis Oktober 2010 in Berlin geführt hat.
Wir verfügen somit über eine lange Liste von international tätigen Künstlern, mit welchen wir schon haben zusammenarbeiten können und weiterhin arbeiten werden.

Maya Malfatti Woods
*1974, aufgewachsen in Zürich
Grafikerin und Bildhauerin, teilzeitangestellt als Polygrafin
Nach siebenjährigem Aufenthalt in Berlin, wieder wohnhaft in Zürich seit 2006

Contact

Now collecting Grandfather clocks to turn into fine-art display cases for various works in various styles. Can collect. Contact

Original & professional design service for gravestones & memorials. From any materials to all requirements. Can deliver & install. Contact

Dear Sir. My name is Paradox Paul. They know me in Berlin perhaps as Mr Wallywoods, although I'm from London, where nobody knows me. Why should they. I invented a functioning Time Machine, an economy for artists, and now build guillotines, thrones and electric chairs out of pianos. I want to patent an idea; I want to patent Mr Body World himself, the guy with the hat. I want his dead body. Unpickled, unadulterated in any way. I want to build from his consenting remains an artwork in the form of a chair. (Chairs have been my thing for a decade. No particular reason). I wish to bend your body, Mr Hat, so it seats one person comfortably. Your very own Self, preserved as tidily as a fellow artist can arrange you. Bent, forever to a new duty...
And you know why you shall one day agree to my terms, don't you Mr Hat..?

Film 2 / Film 3

To set up a group exhibition featuring exclusively the Swastika (in German 'Hakenkreuz') will be no easy feat. So it simmers with P.P. on a distant back-burner.

A very short stage piece by P.P. for two actors and a narrator. They move around an absurd living-room indepently adjusting things, multi-tasking, side-tracked with every newly begun trivial activity. Are they clearing up or packing, beginning the day or ending it, conversing with one another or mumbling to themselves? The narrator is busy too. He enjoys full performance freedom to under or over play emotion and physical dynamics. Only his own though, the actors are not aware of him:

"HE SAID SHE SAID"

HE SAID

EVERYTHING I SAY HAS ALREADY BEEN SAID
THE ECHOES FILL MY EARS BEFORE I OPEN MY MOUTH

SHE SAID

THEN SAY NOTHING
BUT LISTEN TO MY QUESTION

HE SAID

BUT THERE IS SO MUCH I NEED TO EXPLAIN TO YOU

SHE SAID

EXPLAIN TO ME ONLY ONE THING

HE SAID

ALL RIGHT
I FEEL EVERYTHING YOU FEEL

SHE SAID

I HAVE FELT NOTHING SINCE WE MET
NOW ANSWER MY QUESTION

HE SAID

BUT ALL THE OTHERS
YOU TOLD ME YOU FEEL ALL THE OTHERS

SHE SAID

THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU
YOU MUST TELL ME SOMETHING ELSE

HE SAID

I FEEL EVERYTHING EVERYBODY ELSE FEELS

SHE SAID

THAT IS TOO INTERESTING TO BEAR

HE SAID

AND STILL YOU LAUGH AT ME

SHE SAID

I FEEL NO URGE TO LAUGH

HE SAID

OF YOUR URGES I KNOW NOTHING

SHE SAID

YOU KNOW AT LEAST I NEED TO BE WITH YOU

HE SAID

I KNOW YOU DO NOT

SHE SAID

I DO
ONCE A WEEK

HE LAUGHED AND SAID

YOU EXAGGERATE

SHE SAID

BUT WHEN I AM WITH YOU
I FEEL I NEED TO BE ALONE

HE SAID

THAT IS TOO INTERESTING TO BEAR

AND THEN SHE SAID

I NEED TO BE ALONE NOW

HE SAID

BUT YOU ARE ALONE NOW
DO YOU THINK I DO NOT SEE THAT?
DO YOU THINK ME A FOOL?

SHE SAID

HOW COULD I EVER THINK YOU A FOOL?

AND THEN SHE SAID IT

I THINK YOU DO NOT EXIST

HE SAID NOTHING

SHE SAID

NOW ANSWER MY QUESTION
- AM I CRUEL?

HE SAID

I AM DEAD

SHE SAID

BUT AM I CRUEL?

HE SAID

WHAT MUST A DEAD MAN SAY?

SHE SAID

I DO NOT MEAN TO BE CRUEL

HE SAID

HOW COULD I EVER THINK YOU CRUEL?

SHE SAID

WHEN YOU SPEAK I HEAR SO MANY DIFFERENT WORDS

HE SAID

MY TONGUE GREW FORKED WHEN IT MARRIED YOURS

SHE SAID

THE CLOSER YOU COME THE MORE YOU INSULT US BOTH

HE SAID

I HAVE BEEN CLOSE TO NO-ONE SINCE I MET YOU

SHE SAID

BEFORE ONE OF US WEEPS I WISH TO LEAVE

HE SAID

YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHAT IS BEST FOR US BOTH

AND HE RAPIDLY ROSE BUT LINGERED TO TOY WITH HER EAR

Written years ago for a funding competition in Berlin. Refused without explanation. In fact ALL attempts at further communication, even the vaguest advice, between P.P. and any of the 'judges' was strictly refused. The reasoning is simple. In those days he knew no-one. Either way, it stands as quite a fun kiddies exhibition idea: Concept

The whole damned Japanese Government. Dangerous Idiots. Refusers of international advice and assistance. Damn them and their cowardice and their sickening policies of secrecy. Criminals, they are. International laws must be changed. (Actually that was last month's. Still studying the headlines for May's most idiotic...)

An endless series, which is hardly conceivable. And assuming they work, of course. But as long as human-kind is around, and as long as it positively develops in at least one secure area of the planet, it is perhaps conceivable after all that one or more lucky (for want of a better word) members of this crazy human club could witness everything we have in store until the very end. Which, examining our undying tendency to play with fire, or nuclear energy, or Black Holes, may be a lot sooner than anyone yet can imagine. We may not even reach that first transplant. Proving that immortality is impossible after all. Indeed, not even our sun is immortal, nor the greatest Sun or Black Hole in the universe, nor even the Universe itself, apparently, and therefore nor even gods, ghosts or far-sighted gallery projects. But the brain transplants thing... why not indeed. Well worth the try... I'm up for it! (P.P. 2011)

Room for development...

Have you heard the one about the Englishman, the Scotsman, the Irishman, the Welshman, the Russian, the Turk, the Spaniard, the Egyptian, the South African, the Pole... (and so on... until all nations and creeds are represented. Then we'll think of a punchline.) (P.P.)

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Yes its a plane. (M.M.)

Once upon a time lived a giraffe called Elizabeth Hitler in a hut in a forest. She loved porridge and lived happily ever after. (P.P.)

Info to follow. For now here's an early Poster and (coming soon) a link to a rare Recording

See "Peter Edel"

Kunstfleisch events

This took place one Christmas in Berlin. Lovely it was too. We should do it every year. Here are some photos at Facebook

Room for further development... For now here is an upright description at Wikipedia

Project by D.A.F. and associates in London

         

         

         

         

"Begun in 1999, the title ‘Letterpress on the Underground’ parodies the official ‘Poetry on the Underground’ and likewise have been produced for slotting into the advertisement frames which run along the top of the inside of the carriages above the seats on the London Underground network of tube lines.

These spurious advertisements, if they can be called as such, mainly consist of simple one or two line suggestions and edicts such as the good advice: ‘Make Time For Stress’ and perhaps the more menacing proclamation: ‘Ah Pook Was Here’. ‘Ah Pook’ being the Mayan God of Death and that particular print was dedicated to William S. Burroughs after I read that he was caught by the New York Subway Police as he spray painted the words: ‘Ah Pook Is Here’ on a wall of the New York subway. “Shame on you! A man of your age!” was apparently the reprimand that Burroughs received at the time.

Their illegitimacy is apparent and whether they are simply removed and disposed of by London transport officials or taken by members of the public is no concern, however the idea that a commuter just might be sat there looking up at one and recognize it to be produced by a specialist time consuming method of printing known as letterpress, now obsolete, is too intriguing a thought to disregard. And should they by chance also notice that there is an additional element of traditional hand gold tooling on them then that would only add more to the perverse pleasure in undertaking the anonymous and thankless venture in such an extravagant manner. It’s an exercise that has been undertaken many times before. Very effective parodies produced by photocopy and computer print out have appeared in the past and stickers are often seen obscuring or interacting with some part of the existing advertisements, although not quite to the extravagant extent that these have gone to. It is a completely uncool form of gorilla graffiti. It couldn’t be further away from that of the nib or spray can.

Each of the prints have been letterpress printed using individual hand set metal and wood type onto 280gsm acid free card. The prints produced are somewhere between 10 and 25 each, enough to adorn a couple of carriages over the course of a week or two."

Library of Bad Ideas / Deutsche Übersetzungen / Paradox Paul live

This children's story has no copyright. Not completely finished, I will work on the text now and again until it is, here online. Anyway, it is offered into the public domain with no reservations. Theatrical adaption would be lovely. There are four parts, as well as village onlookers and perhaps more giants at the beginning, and the story-teller who begins:

LITTLE GIANT
by Paradox Paul


Once upon a time there lived a little giant called Little Giant. He was so little that when he met the other giants they beat him and laughed, calling him Little Git, among other unpleasant names. Not only that, but every day they stole his food, so he always went to bed hungry. No wonder Little Giant was little!

Little Giant enjoyed rubbing his face in pastures of wet flowers, so wonderful were they to him. But the other giants called him Dim Dum and broke his nose for doing it. They broke his nose so many times in fact, that he could no longer smell the pretty flowers, nor anything else come to that, no matter how he secretly tried.

One day, at the end of his tether, Little Giant abandoned his horrible home and set off for faraway Human Town, in search of Love. He had heard that in Human Town the houses were filled with Love, the streets ran free with Love, and for miles around the air was thick with the sickly-sweet scent of Love.

After a lonesome, perilous, dinnerless journey of one year to the day, he at last arrived at the little city wall which encircled Human Town. But when he stepped over it, rather than welcome him beneath banners and bouquets of Love, all the humans screamed and fled for the surrounding hills. All, that is, except for three of them.

A handsome young soldier met the giant crashing down Big Street and opened fire with his musket, hitting him in the big toe. But the musket back-fired and the young soldier was killed on the spot.

A crooked old woman saw through her basement window, the giant's blood-spurting big toe, as it whooshed passed her crooked old cottage. She immediately dropped dead in surprise.

In the centre of town, the Mayor awaited the monster's arrival at the Town Hall, on the ceremonial balcony below the ticking clock. The Mayor's elbows and knees shook so badly beneath his robes that he had to fetch a Big Chair from the Big Hall upon which to sit and assume, to the best of his many abilities, an atmosphere of unchallengeable calm.

When Little Giant literally stumbled upon Human Town's seat of power, he was weeping buckets. Not only had the single little fellow he had come across injured him painfully in the toe, but he felt more alone than ever before. Not noticing the Mayor sitting stock-still and wide-eyed in his chair upon the balcony, Little Giant plonked himself down among the tile-clad turrets of this rather comfortable old building. He folded his face in his arms and wept, and wept, and wept. He wept so hard and for so long, that the sun that evening sank beneath a flooded city.

Built as it was upon a small steep hill, the Town Hall was the last place of refuge to succumb to the tide. As the waters reached the Mayor's chattering knees, Little Giant noticed the soothing cool upon his toe, and slowly ceased his weeping. He rubbed his eyes with house-sized fists, then looked far and wide about him.

He saw in the distance that all the town's people had hushed and gathered to stare, from the surrounding foothills, at their giant new lake, and in awe at the giant himself, illegally squatting in the middle of it.

"'As it been raaainin'?" Little Giant asked himself.

"Yes it bloody 'as!" answered a little voice from one of the turrets.

"Oooh," the giant remarked, more to himself than to anyone. "I wonders if dat's why dey's up and left?"

"No that's not why theys bloody up and left!" came again the voice from the turret.

"I knowwws it!" admitted the giant. "They's left cossa me. I knowwws it!"

"Yes they bloody did!" chirped again the voice, and this time Little Giant looked closer about himself, to see where it had come from. When he spotted the miniscule, brightly clothed figure on the balcony of the largest little turret, he knotted his great big brow and bent closer to look. Just at that moment, the roof of the Big Hall upon which he had half been sitting, creaked and collapsed into the Big Hall itself, and three of the oldest turrets crumbled with it.

"Did you 'ave to do that?!" squawked the Mayor from his perch, so loudly this time one might think he addressed all the surrounding towns people.

"'Owww'd you get to be so little?" asked the giant, forgetting the question entirely.

"'Ow'd you get to be so bloody 'orrible?" retorted the Mayor, bold as his lungs would permit.

"'Ooo told you I was 'orrible?" the giant demanded to know.

"There's 'orrible to be told about, and there's 'orrible plain for the eyes to see!" sniped the Mayor from his cubby-hole, his little red face in a huff.

"I reckons", snorted the giant in a grumbly voice, "yous don't knows wot impolite means!"

"And I reckons," daringly reckoned the Mayor with a raised finger which shook back and forth, quite of its own accord, "You oughts to up an' offs out of it, before I up an' offs you out of it, for you!"

Little Giant, growing fairly cross himself by this time, shifted on his enormous bottom to get a squarer look at this weeny, unlovable fellow. At that moment the chapel roof collapsed into the chapel, the Mayoress's wing collapsed into the dungeon, and three more turrets collapsed into heaps of soot and treasure. That left the biggest turret, and the hysterical little chap in it, the only prominents yet clear above water. Little Giant, now crouched on all fours, placed his big nose on the weakening balcony for a sniff of this nasty midget; but could smell neither fish nor foul, so he set about roasting the Mayor with his eyes.

"Yooous truly de most rudist little fella I's ever clowped me eyes upon. I's could well 'ave 'urts meself jus' den! 'An yooous all goin' on about meees a-bein' 'orrible!"

Feeling the big stones in the big walls creaking beneath his reluctant chair, the Mayor, educated and worldly sharp as everyone knew he was, considered changing strategy. But he could only think of one other strategy, and that was to ceremonially or otherwise, run as far away as his sparrowy legs would carry him. Which, of course, would not be far away enough.

Unable to endure the suspense sitting down, he jumped to his stockinged feet.

"What do you want?!" he pleaded. "What do you bloody well want?!"

There followed a dramatic silence, the likes of which is impossible to describe in words, not-with-standing the many who have since tried.

"LOOOVE!!!" boomed the giant.

There followed a further dramatic silence, again quite impossible to describe in words, nor even songs, nor even Hollywood movies, not-with-standing the very many who have since tried.

"Love..?" mumbled the Mayor.

"LOOOVE! LOOOVE!! LOOOVE!!!" re-boomed the giant.

"And you... you reckoned... to find such a thing here?"

"YES! YES!! YES!!!" erupted the giant, and his big tears began again to waterfall out of his big eyes.

"STOP! STOP!! STOP THAT!!!" exclaimed the Mayor, convincingly at the last, hopping up and down on his disintegrating platform. "Hold your tears at once, and tell me: What within the wide wide World made you think Love was here?"

Little Giant snivelled a bit, then blew his nose and scratched his chin.

"Ain't it truuue den? Ain't dere no Love, a-runnin' in dese streets, a-fillin' up dese 'auses, a-smellin' up dis Human Town air?"

"Who told you there was?" the Mayor wished to know, astonished.

"Why... Evryone knooows it. Even the Dim Dums knooows it. AN' I AIN'T NO DIM DUM!"

"You ain't?" ventured the Mayor, his honesty damping his wits.

"I ain'ts! So where is it!? I wants it! I wants it!! I WANTS IT!!!" screamed Little Giant, and he too jumped up, and crashed down, and jumped up, and crashed down, again and again in a frenzy, in his home-made, waist-deep lake.
For the very first time in his lengthy career in political bossing about, the most powerful human in Human Town could see no solution, clever, quick nor otherwise. As the monster sploshed about peevishly wailing all Doom and all Woe, the Mayor muttered something beneath the din, as much to himself as to anyone:

"If its Love you wants, matey, I'll loves you all right, if you drowns yourself!"

"WOT did you says?" snarled the giant, who, as the Mayor now fearfully noted, wore fearfully big and, by all accounts, superbly functioning ears. Returning to the rude little turret, Little Giant flexed his muscles and clenched his fists and beat the skies and waters, causing some waves and not a little wind.

"Er..." explained the Mayor. "I said..." explained the Mayor. "I mean... by which I mean... "

"Yooou said, 'If its Love I wants...'" quoth the giant, "'an den you said... sumfink else!"

"Er..." explained the Mayor, "I said..." explained the Mayor; and he might have explained something more just then, but he was loudly interrupted:

"Wot did you tell me's to do?" bellowed the giant, and the breath of his fury shook the turret and loosed all the slates in the roof, which fell off all at once, almost relieving the Mayor of his head, which he possibly wouldn't have minded, convinced he was losing it anyway.

The giant shrieked, raised both arms high, and higher still both fists, as want to dash this silly cuckoo-clock and the silly cuckoo in it, into soggy bits of history:

"WOT DID YOU TELL ME'S TO DO!!??"

"DROWNS YERSELF!" cried the Mayor at his end, and he sank in a shuddering pile into the deepest recess of his magnificent chair, awaiting nothing beyond the heavens to end his dread....
(pause)

Little Giant stopped dead in his wake to consider these words. Forgetting his tantrum he dropped to his sides his great fore-arms, and asked, in all genuine curiosity, "Drooowns meself? Why den?"

The Mayor, half-dead with shock, the other half all but given up to it, conceded and blurted aloud as loud,

"IF ITS LOVE YOU WANTS, I'LL LOVES YOU WHEN YOU DROWNS YOURSELF! There, it's said! Take it or don't! And then, for all the Love in my lovely wretched city, leave us in peace forever!"

"'You'll loves me... when I dran's meself..." repeated the giant, as much to himself as to anyone.

"For all the Love in the World!" blubbered the Mayor.

Once more, Little Giant looked far and near about him, an amazing expression taking shape on his big features, reflecting the amazing idea taking shape in his little brain. He gazed at the faraway folks in the hills, who did nothing but humbly gaze back at him. Some held wincey babes in their arms, whilst youngsters played at the water's edge, for the tide had now spilled over the city walls. His big ears caught a bird-like voice there, as it beckoned to another, "Do come on in, the water's Lovely!" He regarded the lake, now soothing and clear, which had so magically appeared to refresh him in his darkest hour; and then again, the wonky little turret and its wonky little master, mysterious and brightly robed - teetering on the edge of existence.

"All rights, me tricksy little chum!" he surmised with a wink, "I's told yous, I ain't dumb," and he thumbed a big thumb at the water. "Dat's where your secret lies, an' I's discovered it! Right 'ere, in dis luvely liquid!" Upon which, under the sceptical gaze of uncountable witnesses, Little Giant suddenly, yet casually, yet even gracefully, strolled away - this time to the deepest part of the lake he could find, where he chanted three words, as much to himself as to anyone. But all for miles around did hear them well:

"LOOOVE! LOOOVE!! LOOOVE!!!" he announced to the heavens and all, and there in the deep, clearly convinced that his quest had been right, he threw himself under.

Unfortunately for the Mayor, still quivering in his electoral chair, the giant's unexpected submersion caused a bit of a tidal wave. Only a bit of a one, but a big enough one to topple that turret and topple it's Master with it.

All through the night bubbles rose from the deep, some from the royal ruins, and some from the monster's last dunk. And the townsfolk held their breaths till next morning, when the sun rose very prettily indeed, and the flood began to diminish.

It took a full fortnight before all and sundry returned to their homes, and when all and sundry did, they learned an agreeable fact. With thrills and sobs of relief, they found that all the mice in Human Town were drowned and gone forever - And, OH, there had been many mice in Human Town! For, as history and legend will show it, that Human Town had long been cursed; by a witch who dabbled in plague. Cursed with hordes of unnatural mice, thieving and biting and cruel, which filled the houses, ran wild in the streets, and stank up the air for miles around!

And as it turned out, that hideous culprit, the cursing witch herself, was dead too. Discovered in her dreaded nook, that basement filled with toxins. Rumour abounded that she had developed the ultimate concoction, to birth the ultimate rodent, nasty and BIG as the World has seen. Like the one she thought she saw through her window that day, its giant big toe at any rate; which hexed even she into death.

The Mayor was drowned, too. But, Lord, had he been unpopular! Tyrant dictator, king without soul, etc, etc. And his son, spiteful widget, dead too! Chief of all the army, hardly out of school. Handsome in the eyes of simple girls; but arrogant, rich and deadly. Now arrogant, rich and dead!

"Not nevermore missed by no-one" the plaque to the both of them read, before it sank in the mud.

"But what of our giant?" the humans perplexed. "Where did he go?" "Is he dead?"

Till an apple-man found him in an apple-field, face down in a crater of sludge. "He's here!" "He's drowned!" "He's dead!" they said, and they set about to eat him. Yes, eat him. For, hungry had they been! Taxed into rags and robbed out of meat, by the Mayor and his brat, whom they would have eaten too, had they found them, which they never did.

Before the supper, they flipped him over, their giant, for a very last glimpse of his face; which they quietly washed, amid prayers and culinary charms. Till there he lay, in that pasture they filled with flowers and veg, his face in a beam of tea-time light, which appeared to radiate outwards.

After the feast, merry with schnapps, a group of the Town's finest craftsmen gathered about and pledged to build a statue. "A big one!" "Enormous!" "Large as the fellow himself!" they announced, amidst cheers and more schnapps. Indeed, they cast it to perfection, out of perfect front-to-back moulds, shaped from those imprints he'd left in the pasture floor.

One year later they raised him aloft, big as he was, now immortal. They stood him on a plinth, atop of Townhall Hill, and inscribed thereupon, in glorious, golden, man-high script:

"LOOOVE! LOOOVE!! LOOOVE!!!"
Our Beloved Giant

For now see "Gallery"

A joint exhibition at planning stage by P.P. & M.M.

Room for development...

This is the only photo I can find showing marionettes I was making in the mid-nineties to sell at art and flea-markets in Berlin. They were too weird ("unheimlich") for most people and didn't sell like hot-cakes. Often I failed even to make the return on weekend rental of the table. But they helped me develop the constitution of producing items from ones one imagination after many years producing architectural models and wot-nots for wealthy strangers back in mainstream London, from which I had at last escaped. More fun than standing in the freezing cold with holes in my shoes for days at a time was a workshop I did with dozens of plaster and paint-splashed kids at the play-center "Spielmobil" in the then alternative Prenzlauerberg district. Here's an old page with more text: Marionettes

Born next door to Paddington Station, London. Grew up a happy "pumerlich" child in Switzerland, attending something in Zurich called "Waldorf"; a rather special school for rather special thinkers. Did pretty well for a kid. Prepared for art school but opted on a career in graphics instead. Diploma in hand, left Zurich due to claustrophobia for Berlin and the promise of a colourful and mundane life. Continued in graphics until study of arts at the FAKB ("Freie Akademie für Kunst Berlin"). Met downstairs the curator of something called Wallywoods and jobbed at a comic shop ("Grober Unfug"). Abandoned the dry and soon bankrupt FAKB for employ at a sculpture studio ("Simon P. Schrieber") in Berlin's up-and-coming Neukölln. Returned to Zurich after seven years absence. Odd jobs included standing at an airport news-stand wearing firm shirts, selling tickets from a tiny over-heated van at a circus ("Africa Africa") and selling books in down town Zurich. Worked again as a graphic designer ("Raffinierie", "Saloon" and "Swisscontent Corp") before landing a secure position in prepress at a local envelope factory. Finally revisited Berlin, rediscovered Wally, and wed back in Zurich three days before Christmas 2010. Currently involved in the quest to co-found an art gallery with the aforementioned and whoever wishes to join in, somewhere in Zurich.

Once upon a time in New London Town there was an architectural model-maker, nicknamed by the guys, Wally. Maggie Thatcher was the Queen in those days and the guys, aka "Presentation Unit" of Glass Hill Street, Southwark, built possibly the finest and most expensive models in England for her mate, Pete Palumbo, as he was known then. Wally remembers using his toilet next door to Wren's little church, which they also made models off (they made models of every building in the City of London around about then); and finding there on the wall at which he tidily stared, two or three tiny Dali originals, which impressed him hugely, himself the hugest Dali fan he knew. (Online memoir, to be continued...)

"Throughout my history of the unpaid endorsement and production of cultural initiatives and happenings across Europe, stubborn non-profit art-making and lowest of the low-paid decoration of pent-houses, restaurants, stairwells and toilets across Berlin, and enthusiastic support of the art-making of creative people from colleagues to interested strangers everywhere over the twenty years since I left England and professional security for a life of adventure and fulfilling occupation as a versatile, innovative and above all penniless conceptual artist, this tiny project is, right now as you read it, ignore it and move on to Google something you found intriguing in a Columbo episode last night, by far the most vital endeavour I have conceived and attempted to drag into reality before I soon enough throw in the towel to join my truest friend in an atheist's after-life, George the accommodating earth-worm... (etc). Please ignore between-the-lines frustration and peruse a little further to the point, which you have possibly guessed by now. Some people, even some artists, are good at making money. I have always been rubbish at it. Too busy making art. The full title of this deceptively honest mini-project is actually 'Money for the Poor Artist'. Below are my details. Thank you in advance." P.P. April 2011