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A hardback edition of The Pearlfisher is now available from LULU for the ridiculously cheap price of 14.99 (plus p&p) you can order it here. The price will only go up!!!

Pearlville

Dear readers,

My new blog Pearlville is underway. If you are interested in following my latest adventures as I undergo a gruelling residency and show in Manchester please follow this link .

Further dedications

And thank you to my dear mother and father for allowing me to call them elderly and for not criticising my punctuation in public

Epilogue

The Pearl Fisher is complete. Faithful readers will have noted that one phantom post from the setting up of the Whitstable Biennale disppeared it has been rediscovered in damaged form and is reprinted below.

A complete transcript with some bonus material will soon be published in novella form. (well, within a year)


I would like to take this opportunity to say thanks for reading and a special thankyou for everyone mentioned who put up with my exagerations slurs and downright lies. (apologies to anyone I have failed to mention)

Annabel Dover
Sue Jones
Kate Phillimore
Hayley (Mistress) Lock
David Bethell
Andrew Bracey
Dave Griffiths
Monika Bobinska
Rob Smith
Rebecca Birch
Emma Leach
JJ Charlesworth
Daniel Hinchcliffe
Paul Becker
Nadia Hebson


and of course Mr Gerry Bown and the ladies of Oxford Bingo Club, Whitstable.


The Phantom Post
We have just escaped a term of hard labour. Hoping to see Sue and then trip lightly off into the distance, my companion and I arrived at the Horsebridge centre to find a hive of frantic activity. As is usual, I offered our assistance and soon we were setting up blackout for ......... .......'s video showcase. Mr ........, had no problem telling us exactly what to do. He was kind enough not to embarrass me by treating me as a fêted artist and allowed me to slip into a comfortable menial role. Later, due to my continuing chirpy helpfulness my companion found herself standing in wind and rain applying non sticky vinyl lettering to a dusty container. The "B" of Bienniale came off three times and I fully expect that passers-by may note it's absence tomorrow morn.

If you have enjoyed The Pearl Fisher you might be interested to know that a new shorter blog will be starting soon here:

http://pearlville.blogspot.com/ subscribe now to avoid disappointment.

Ghosts

The sun was now right down over the rooftops and the red gleams fell on my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. My ghosts slowly almost imperceptibly began to grow in clarity as I waited pressed against a wall for people to arrive. I had thought I would surreptitiously record the event on my new camera. However it soon became clear that my understanding of it's controls were somewhat beyond me. At first the flash refused to be silenced causing the occasional passer by to twist suddenly in my direction. Then when I had mastered this I found a torch had lit up shooting a piercing beam through the growing darkness. By now I began to fear that some people were looking at me more than the work (and with expressions that bordered on the hostile). I ran, wandering the streets restlessly, looking for flickering streetlamps amd bulbs that shone like the moon.



Now, seated on a bench facing the blackening sea, every trace of all that has been is blotted out. It is time to go home.



-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

Calamity! My companion has been taken ill. Whether it was bad shellfish or merely exhaustion I am not sure. We were forced to rush back to the hotel where I have tucked her in bed with as many precautions as I could muster. She asked that the window be left open to allow "the soft evening breeze" to sooth her. I saw no harm in it and complied. I wanted to stay with her but she turned to me and taking my face in her hands said: "Alex you must go I could not live with myself if you did not".

So I left her lying abed her breathing shallow her face pale and set forth into the early evening light.



I raised my pace and headed back into Whitstable desperate to reach the centre before sunset.

Whitstable Diary

Beaten back by the cold we have retired to our hotel for a restorative. The end is in sight though and we must venture forth one more time. As the sun sets tonight "Ghosts" will appear in the window of the Horsebridge and I will be cowering in the shadows. It is six thirty now, there are less than three hours to go.



-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

My companion has complained that neither she nor her sister (visiting from the north) have featured significantly in the Whistable diary. Much chided I have resolved to correct this omission.





Lucienne Cole's event at the bingo hall was like a little flash of jolly Lynch. It started before my companion and her delightful sister could avail themselves of the free teas and iced buns, but they were soon distracted and smiling at the raucous brass band's rendering of "Ride of The Valkyries" and the half accompanied half acapella tapdancer. Then it was over, my companion leading the charge to the bar.

Whitstable Diary

Loud music, bright lights. Crushed into the Oxford Bingo Hall for Lucienne Cole's performance. There are over a hundred people here. All, it seems, equipped with iPhones


-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

A sudden heavy shower from the sea struck us in the open. We sought shelter in a fish shop huddling with customers and other biennale visitors. It was a strange meeting I have noted across Whitstable. It would be a fitting image to characterise the biennale as a Dracula landing in an oblivious seaside town. A foreigner causing a brief unhomely uproar before moving on neither party being certain why he was there at all. So far I have visited a screening of work curated by Mr Dillon including a fascinating display of French machismo and a shooting. The gunfire was aimed at a drumkit emblazonned with the name "Pearl" I felt each bullet as if they were aimed at my heart.



As the gunfire ceased a shower arrived. The filmic rain more soothing than the real.

Next to the British Legion to see "Call" where a small group of art followers and regulars seemed equally confused.

Whitstable Diary

I was disappointed that the coffee at the reception was instant but we were late arriving. We had journeyed from our hotel in a frantic frightened zigzag. Darting down dark alleys and cut throughs avoiding thin black clad figures.



We were able to relax at last seated next to an ex naval diver at Ruth Beale, Karen Mirza's: "The voyage of Nonsuch" demi poetic film study of spatial archives. Afterwards while my companion corralled the diver I looked at the snapshots of Mr Cushing posing in the scenic spots of Whitstable and vowed to visit them before the sun sets tonight.

Whitstable Diary

My loose tongue, and looser wits, summoned a dark messenger in the night. I have offended a man and feel truly terribly about it. Within these pages even I have found it hard to untangle the real and unreal and a monster of the ID has risen to bite me.





The morning light has brought with it a cold tearful feeling behind my eyes. We are to travel first to a morning reception with the Mayor at Whitstable's eccentric and quite homely museum. There to drink coffee and eat cake and enjoy the show.

Whitstable Diary

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

Whitstable Diareze

I have the travelling nerves. My companion is trying to soothe my nerves with calming words and gentle touches but I am wound to such a degree that it is as if she is attempting to smooth the sea with her tiny hands. My condition is not helped by the many stops and starts which entail a constant gathering and ungathering of bags, papers, food, and beverages. Then there is the fear of standing in the wrong place of missing the connection, every instant seems an age whilst we wait.



-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diaries

Our train is due to depart Ipswich at 1208 from thence we travel to Stratford, transfer to Stratford international where we will collect the fast train to Rochester and change for our final destination Whitstable, arriving around three in the afternoon. My companion still obsessed with her buboes has laid out a few things to make my weekend more pleasurable. She is the most kind and thoughtful person I have ever known.

Whitstable Diaries

The morning papers have brought to my attention the timely death of Mr Sebastian Horsley. A thoroughly louche artist of the basest tastes. My companion has fond memories of fending off his attentions at Sarah Lucas' petit hameau in Suffolk.






-- posted abroad

I am cold. Has it rained in the night? It is too early to rise. I am unwilling to draw the coverlet back and face the day so I lie here and write in a cave of my own making.

My companion awakes! Her pale skin ghostly in the grey light. I wish to write more about the coming day but like a morning cat she is in need of attention.



-- posted abroad

Lucia

As if joined by some sort of psychic connection. Sue just texted me to check if I would bring spare DVDs.

I have filled the day with petty distractions so that I would not brood on tomorrow's task. For a long time now I have been hamfistedly building a second bicycle a big sister for 'The Phantom' she is called 'Lucia'. It has not been a straight forward build involving a deal of swearing and expense. However, I decided this morning that enough was enough it was time to bring her to life. I pushed on. Front wheel regreased, clad in shiny black rubber, pedals fitted and bolts tightened and we went for a first ride. I returned to tighten the saddle which was pointing sideways and we went for our second ride. It is always a bit of a risk riding a bicycle built by an amateur as slipshod as myself but generally it went well.



Keen to fill more time I have since replaced the handlebars with narrow courier style ones which will allow me to squeeze between buses. This can only hasten my demise.

My companion has contacted me. I am to meet her at the station very soon. She has fainted on the Metropolitan line after drinking her bodyweight in Belgian chocolate milk. I must hurry.

-- posted abroad

Preparations

I have received several positive replies to my rather belated invitational missives. It seems striking at the last minute is an effective approach. It always amazed me as a youth that those seeking to destroy the vampire would prevaricate to such an extent that just as their mallet would fall so would night.

I am considering packing for my journey to Whitstable. I will
bring my Laptop, and spare DVDs just in case. A disguise may also be useful if my work fails to impress. I have the fear again, a sort of creeping dread overwhelms me. My companion usually helpful in such matters ( largely it must be said by telling me to shut up) is away at a conference in Brighton. Her main preoccupation is with her bites which refuse to heal. One, on her hand, has taken on a crunchy consistency making a clearly audible noise on compression. She has just sent me this image of a staked hand.