Hardback version now available!

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.