Boys, boys, boys.

So I've decided that it is my duty, as a professional, to study boys. Illustratively speaking. In detail. See what I do for you people? Always taking the tough assignments.

This winsomely skew-whiff fellow is the first in a series. More to come.

Pay-pah.

If I were a bird, once I was done with free-wheelin' in the clouds and conversatin' with bees and flowers and things, I would return home to my nest. And what would my nest be made of? Why, paper, natch. Scraps of ancient manuscript and offcuts of pricey lineney stationery and whatever bits of delicious, battered, mysterious parchment I could get my claws into. Would I be a bowerbird? Probably. But then again, it's only hoarding when left unused, stockpiling, right? And I use my paper, every last shred.

The thing about beautiful paper is the drawing often emerges from it. That's half the work done before you even begin.

Why I Heart Free London Museums (# 2687 in a series).

The rap sheet of Pandora is long, the beautiful devilry of her seductive charms blamed for liberating all the evils of mankind. The original femme fatale, she kept nothing on her bedside table but a box full of hope.

Helen had more of the victim about her. Hatched from the egg of Zeus, kidnapped by lusty Athenians, courted by Gods and monsters, and raped by Paris, she now stands prostrate in cracked marble watching the tourist trade glance by.

You can find these heroines, these contradictory models of womanhood, not in Grecian fields of weatherworn ruins, but sitting primly in the great sculpture hall of the Victoria and Albert museum. (Just after ye olde gift shoppe, innit.) No man has flung themselves at their feet for some time. Few look upon them now as the goddesses they once were. From their modern vantage point, it's just a daily procession of list-ticking sightseers and the unseeing galleratti. They're long since used to being overlooked.

Perhaps why they were so happy to be sketched.

Wouldn't you just kill for one of those mythological profiles?

Flawless coverage.

Cheap ass poster paint, when found in the right lolly hue, with an opacity to rival pea soup, and the consistent performance of a Broadway hoofer, is a joy rivalled by no other. And when it's on sale at Cass for the low, low price of ten pots for a pound, well then, it's pretty much Christmas. Check the coverage of that orange, yo.

Seeing the wood for the trees

Branch Immersion is a folksy outfit comprising my dear friend Rix and his chums. Strummy, yummy, thoughtful aural whimsy. I'm working on album art for their upcoming LP release. Check them on myspaz: http://www.myspace.com/branchimmersion

A Courtauld exclusive...

Today I spent one glorious hour wandering the hallowed expanses of the Courtauld Gallery. Contained therein is a bite-sized collection that satisfies like a seven-course banquet. I was positively licking the walls, groaning with culture-lust. And yet there was something far quieter than Modigliani's fleshy females, something more delicate than Monet's dappled waterscapes that caught my eye on the way down the stairs...

Illustration in three dimensions and two timezones...

In the summer time, when the pollen hangs heavy and promise fills London's parks, most folx pass time time sinking extra-strength brews and messing about in boats. Me? More likely to be messing about in hobby shops, I'm afraid. Sad? Or the way of the future?