London’s very quiet this morning, after a heavy snowfall. I haven't seen the latest crop of snowmen yet, but this one's from last year. It snowed heavily one night in January, and the next morning the parks were full of people busily building snowmen. This was one of my favourites.

This is a contribution to the festive spirit made by the Daniel Defoe, a local pub in Stoke Newington. At this time of the year I like walking past a flower shop near this pub, through the little forest of Christmas trees gathered for sale on the pavement outside. As you walk through it you can smell the resin from the trees — it's lovely to be in the middle of London yet transported for a second to somewhere utterly different. Much as I love these trees though, I'm looking for an artificial one this year — one of the worst sights after Christmas is their brown carcasses abandoned on pavements and propped up by rubbish bins.

Several years ago I discovered the Insect Circus Museum. They'd arrived and set up shop in Clissold Park one summer and I spent a very happy couple of hours learning all about the grand history of insect circuses. Inside the Tardis-like mobile museum were costumes (including the outfits worn by the famous performing ants), posters, dioramas and mechanical models from the famous Piper family insect circus, 'featuring such perennial favourites as dancing snails, trained butterflies, wasp tamers and balancing bugs'. I really recommend a visit to the travelling museum page on their website.

The Association of Illustrators has just been in touch to let me know my image 'The Fish Supper' has been selected for their Images 35 exhibition next year. I'm really chuffed by this. Being an illustrator is mostly such a solitary experience, I do wonder sometimes whether I'm beavering away on a fantasy island. So I'm delighted this piece will have a life of its own.

I've just come across the work of the filmmaker John Krish. Steve and I went to see four of his documentaries this week: The Elephant Will Never Forget (1952), They Took Us to the Sea (1961), Our School (1962), and I Think They Call Him John (1964). There's a poignancy in these films, where he observes his subjects with great precision, and he's a generous filmmaker, giving the viewer a great sense of space for their own response. In They Took Us to the Sea he follows a group of children from Birmingham on an outing to the seaside. Though they're from impoverished backgrounds, and for some it's the first time they've seen the sea, he avoids the trap of sentimentalising them. I was impressed by how he succeeds at giving a sense of their inner lives, and I found myself wondering what had become of these children later in life.

I was on my way to see Christian Marclay's exhibition 'The Clock' on Friday afternoon at the White Cube and popped into the Royal Academy. I noticed this at the base of a door, and liked how someone had augmented the image they'd seen in the woodgrain. Is this something peculiar to visual artists, seeing images and patterns in the grain of stone and wood, and other surfaces? And do musicians hear patterns in the everyday sounds of the world around us, sounds that seem random to the rest of us?

I saw A Town Called Panic recently at a cinema just off Leicester Square on a rainy Tuesday afternoon - one of the nicest ways to stumble across a gem, I think. It's based on a Belgian TV show called Panique au Village. It was a lovely afternoon, sitting in the dark and laughing out loud, along with the few other people scattered around the cinema. I like the way it looks so homemade (though actually the result of very skilled animation techniques, I suspect), and I like the fact it's barking mad, whilst creating a convincing and satisfying little universe in which to exist.

Here's a recent acquisition of mine, from my trip to Devon. These two little beauties are a salt cellar and pepper pot. They're originally from somewhere in Eastern Europe I think — a holiday souvenir that eventually wound up in a charity shop in Minehead, to be bought by me. I like their slightly maniacal expressions, and they now sit on my work table, encouraging me with their unfettered optimism.
 

Here's my contribution to Hallowe'en. I enjoyed taking the photos as much as I did carving the pumpkin. The best bit's turning off the lights once the candle's lit, to see the full effect. I read somewhere that the tradition came from Ireland, where people used to carve turnips for Hallowe'en. With the discovery of the New World, the Irish emigrants continued the tradition, but the pumpkin topped the turnip for Hallowe'en for ease of carving. Understandably really — somehow turnips as jack-o'-lanterns don't possess the same dramatic quality.

I've just got back from Lynmouth, a small village in Exmoor, on the north Devon coast. In August 1952 the village suffered a catastrophic flood (two rivers flow down off the moor to meet in the village), with buildings washed away and 34 people killed. One particularly grisly detail was the little boy's body found in the butcher's shop after the waters had subsided. This was a terrible event, and commemorated in a superb model in the village's memorial hall, showing how Lynmouth looked before the flood, built by a local man. I particularly like the way he's managed to depict the turbulent waters of the rapidly rising river. Elsewhere in the village there was a handsome model commemorating a dramatic episode in 1899, involving the village's lifeboat. And then there was the model railway housed in an old shop . . .

I noticed this vehicle one morning earlier this year, near where I live in London. I'd walked past and then thought, 'Hang on a minute . . .' and had to walk back to check. I saw it several more times over the next few months, parked in the same spot, but sadly never saw the driver or passengers. I like to think of them as thin, slightly vague people, not given to any sudden movement or much conversation, but with a general air of amiability.

After last week's post I've been thinking about school days. I started playing around with some old illustrations, and this one came together, as a kind of summary of my experience of school at the time. Still working on the commission, which is nearing completion, phew! So back to work . . .

I've not really had time to put together a proper entry this week, as I've been working on a big commission, which seems to be expanding to fill all available time. So I thought I'd show an old school photo, taken at St James's Middle School, when I was about twelve, as a kind of filler until my next entry. I left that school many years ago, but about five years ago I met a young man in London who'd also been to the same school, and I was interested to learn that the same headmaster was still in place, and still laboured under the same nickname, poor man!

This is an image from a set of Ronald Searle lithographs I acquired called Bouquets garni: Le langage des fleurs. The title of this print is 'Chouchou'. The lithographs were published by Michel Cassé in Paris in 1975, and I bought them from a Scottish dealer a couple of year ago. I'd discovered Ronald Searle's work as an eleven year old in Lancashire on a summer holiday: looking through a stand of books outside Boots whilst waiting for my parents I came across Back in the Jug Agane and was so entranced I spent the whole month's pocket money on this book. My pleasure in Searle's work has not diminished. I'm still impressed by the quality of his line and the economic use of tone, and the way he infuses these with his humour. I enjoy the way Searle's world is such a complete and satisfying one, though not always a comfortable one.

I've been playing around with some old negatives I've had for a while. I tried scanning them the other day to see what results I'd get. I was quite taken with this one, though I've no idea where it was taken or who took it. I quite like these anonymous photos, and have a smallish collection. I like the fact that these images have a power other than that of a record of people or places known to the photographer. I wonder whether any of the photos I've taken over the years will take on a life of their own eventually, unmoored from the people and places I've known.

This is the City of London, made of cake. I found it on a stall at a street fair — it had been created by RIBA students, and I hope they ate it when the event was over. They'd also made a map of the upcoming Olympic site in east London with vegetables. I like this idea of edible constructions. There was a car advertisement on TV a while ago, where smiling bakers made a copy of the company's latest car out of cake, including the engine. No shots of them then sitting in the car or eating it though. I like the idea of something that's edible, but which also functions. Edible furniture perhaps — when you've eaten your dinner and are still hungry, you could eat your way through the plate and into the table.

This is the first image of a series I'm creating about handbags. Some years ago I was helping my Aunt Barbara clear some cupboards in her house. While we were doing this, she told me she'd kept every handbag she'd ever owned — five decades of handbags — a life in handbags. The images aren't so much biographical as about the idea of the handbags themselves. I plan to put together an exhibition of these, along with some of my aunt's bags. Depending on how she feels, I'd like to have some photos of her in the exhibition, and perhaps a recording of her talking about her life. More details to follow as this project develops.

I haven't been on holiday this summer, so I'm posting this photo in celebration of past holidays. I took it a couple of years ago in Greece. In the evening dolphins sometimes appeared in the bay as the light faded. Further along the beach was a fish restaurant, and we'd sit on the terrace, with small scraggy cats gathering round our chairs, hoping for scraps from our plates. The Bulgarian woman who served us would switch effortlessly from language to language, depending on who she served. Looking at this image takes me back there.

I've just returned from the north of England, where I found this shop in Penrith. Penrith's a handsome town, and I especially liked Arnison & Sons' shop front, unchanged since before the start of the twentieth century I'd guess. I like these Victorian shop frontages, especially where the ornate lettering has survived. London, in the grip of the brisk march of progress, doesn't really possess much like this any more (apart from James Smith & Sons, the umbrella shop on New Oxford Street). What I liked so much about Arnison's was the fact that it blended quite comfortably in with its surroundings — no sign of any self-consciousness about being so unchanging, and quietly radiating confidence — along the side of the shop were large signs advertising Arnison's as a 'high class drapers, silk mercers, hosiers & glovers', and providers of 'linoleum furnishings'. Marvellous.

The Sun Has Got His Hat On . . .

This song was one my brother Christian was very fond of, enjoying its silly, playful quality. I've found myself humming it over the past week or so, and thinking of Christian pottering about the house, singing it to himself. This image is for him, to go with the song he liked so much.

The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip-hip-hooray,
The sun has got his hat on and he's coming out today.
Now we'll all be happy, hip-hip-hip-hooray,
The sun has got his hat on and he's coming out today . . .

Here's the Banksy I referred to in an earlier post. The 'HRH King Robbo' and white background have been carefully painted over what was a Tesco bag in the original graffiti image. I've since learned that King Robbo is another street artist called — King Robbo, and that he and Banksy have been conducting a feud. I was rather disappointed to learn this, as I quite liked the story I'd invented for myself — of a local Jack-the-Lad sneaking out at night with a bucket of paint and a brush, determined to make his mark on the world, but the only way of achieving it being through appropriating a celebrated Banksy image. And I liked to think of him carefully unscrewing the perspex cover with a quiet snigger and painting in his self-aggrandising nickname with great satisfaction. The idea of two street artists defacing one another's work in a private argument seems a bit drab to me. And it's evidently made the image fair game for other graffiti. I'll be interested to see what happens to this Banksy, as it's the only one I've seen that's had a protective covering added, but also the only one I've seen defaced.

Here's an image from Hayling Island, taken last autumn. English front gardens are interesting places: there's a vast range of self-expression contained in them. Near where I live, there's a large topiary cat that's been watching the emergence of a (smaller) topiary elephant in the hedge of the house opposite over the past two years. Then there are the semi-wild gardens, with lots of alium and wild grasses — the winds of the steppe should be howling through them, rather than a light breeze in Queen Elizabeth's Walk. There's also the intriguing front garden of an elderly couple nearby that is stuffed full of small china ornaments — doe-eyed Disney deer, windmills, teddy bears, tiny houses . . . Alongside that, there's the depressing sight of the front garden that's been covered in concrete and turned into a parking lot for the residents of the house, which is like a sort of absence. So the kind of gardener who produces the exhilaration in the photograph here is a joy for me. Sadly I don't possess any kind of garden in London, but I like to think that if I did, I'd be aiming for that sort of exuberance in my gardening.

I found this image in an alleyway recently, near where I live. The artist had pasted it onto an old advertisement hoarding, and some of it has already started peeling away. It's an arresting image, but beginning its process of disappearance. I like the fact that someone has made something, and they've found a way to share it. I enjoy street art's fleeting presence and the freedom it gives the imagery.

A few weeks ago Steve and I were walking along a street near where we live and began finding these little clay figures dotted around, on walls, and placed in nooks and crannies. I liked this affectionate piece particularly, with its romantic addition of a toadstool, along with the old tin used as a plinth. I enjoyed the care that someone had taken to place them in interesting spots. Further up the street we found a tiny man sitting on top of a bollard reading his newspaper, with a little palm tree on a brick by a drainpipe nearby, and a very small woman with very big plaits waving from a ledge. When we walked back down the street in the evening, they had all vanished.

The Great Shed of Mystery

I've just returned from a visit to my aunt Barbara who lives near Liverpool. Her house is the one we visited during summer holidays when I was a child, and the shed in the garden was a source of delight (my aunt and grandfather never threw anything away). This shed was built by my uncles when they were teenagers, using as few nails and screws as they could, after a challenge by my grandfather. One of the first rituals of summer was to examine the contents of the shed. And many things made it into this shed: worn-out saucepans, still life paintings from my mother's days at art school, 1960s high fashion shoes, the moses basket my twin brother and I had slept in as babies, many, many jars and bottles for which there was sure to be a use one day, my grandfather's green Atco lawnmower with its slightly scary blades, old picture frames . . . As you can see from this, it's also the Great Shed of Memory. It had its own smell as well — slightly tarry and woody, and it's a delight still when I visit to step into the shed on a hot day and enjoy that particular scent again.

I was delighted to have this piece, Tightrope Artiste, selected by Creative Quarterly for their illustration runners-up section in issue 19. It's a piece I did on circuses: I like their combination of danger and kitsch theatricality. CQ is well worth a look, as they publish a good range of diverse work and there are interesting pieces by designers, photographers and artists, as well as illustrators, from all over the world.

I found this building the other week in North London. I like these unassuming structures, their shape and personality created through the uses they've had during their existence. They're quite often tucked away in side streets, quietly evolving over time — it's one of London's secret joys. What I particularly like about the Piccolo Snack Bar is that there's a choice of doors through which you can enter, depending on how you feel. About this blog — I'm planning to update it once a week (generally it'll be a Sunday) with images I've collected as I'm out and about, and also with updates on my illustration work. And like these buildings, it'll evolve over time. So here it is, the first entry, for you to enjoy!