Thursday, 2 February 2012
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
It's already hung, the price list is under construction, the beers are already on ice. The summer will continue until the end of this week, there will be a roof top after party, there will be hot boys & girls, there will be street drinking and PV wine sipping. There will be fine artworks by Frankie Bricks.
Monday, 4 July 2011
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Guy Verge Wallace
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Monday, 11 April 2011
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Monday, 28 February 2011
Gaddafi had been in power eight or nine years when I went to Libya. It's difficult to say I was in Libya though. I was confined to an oil camp, which, at the time, I compared to an aircraft carrier in a desert sea or Swedish open prison even though I'd never been to one. Sweden in those days was considered lax and the oil camp was lax in respect to its being awash with illegal alcohol and other drugs.
Every night, I hung out with my Libyan friends smoking dope, drinking the colourless moonshine and listening to Arab or Afro-American music. The 'Who' album 'Live at Leeds' was a favourite. A television was often flickering away. Gaddafi appeared a lot and was ignored until someone tired and threw a shoe at the screen. This was the nearest I came to political comment. I soon had the impression Gaddafi wasn't liked but that it wasn't safe to talk about it. My friends were all from the east of the country, especially Benghazi. The seat of government in Tripoli was a long, long way away and the ruling elite was remote tribally as well.
Expatriates weren’t supposed to leave the oil camp except to take leave when you'd fly from the camp airstrip directly to Tripoli airport and then out of the country. However, occasionally I sneaked out of the camp and one night we drove into the desert to a scattered mess of discarded containers and packing cases, which the Bedouin employed as shelters. You knew they were there because of the glow of oil lamps. We stopped the car and there was an exchange of signals by headlights and somebody left our car and returned a few minutes later carrying a load of illegal intoxicants.
Today, Gaddafi accuses the rebels of being high on drugs. Certainly, most of my friends in the old days were often quite intoxicated but they weren't sleepy-heads. They often had science degrees from British or American universities and spoke English, not just with fluency, but often with poetic sensibility. I arrived back from leave once after a lot of flying, North Africa to Switzerland, to England, to Canada and back again to Libya all in jut a few days. I was not only tired and disorientated, but was further agitated because my luggage had disappeared along with my precious Dickens books to get me through the long days. My friend Hassan, Hassan meaning grace, collected me from the airstrip and, when he dropped me at my bungalow, he gave me a copy of 'Under Milk Wood' and said it would rest my mind, especially the prologue.
The loss of luggage at least gave me the excuse of going to Tripoli to look for it. It was a pretty place but the atmosphere seemed austere and subdued. Benghazi, when I managed to sneak out of camp to make visit there, was entirely different. It was hot as chilli peppers, not just temperature-wise, but culturally. At night, the little streets were crammed with cars honking greetings to friends and cousins. Everyone seemed to know each other. It seemed young, vibrant but tense.
The tension may have had something to do with political repression. Maybe it came from a society which, in the space of a few years, had changed from being very poor to quite wealthy and potentially very wealthy. The young people I knew often had, as I said, a cosmopolitan education and were used to money. Their parents on the other hand might have scratched a living from goats and sheep. Before the oil came, Libya exported almost nothing, some dates and scrap iron from burnt out, Second World War tanks dragged out of the desert.
My friend Hassan's family derived its wealth from scrap iron. The family or clan occupied an entire street. Well, it was more an alley than a street. Outwardly it was cramped and mean but indoors and behind the facade, the apartments were spacious and opulent. The quality and quantity of the food I enjoyed there was fabulous. It wasn't the custom to visit the source of the cookery to express thanks. It wasn't straightforward meeting women although we did visit a divorced woman and smoked hash with her. It seemed normal but I think she was an outcast.
We drove to the remains of a Roman city. There was no tourist hub-up, just us. The wind blew in from the desert. There was a screaming silence and as I looked at the colossal wreck around me, I thought of Shelley's poem Ozymandias, and the words, 'Look on my works, ye mighty and despair.' But it was all in vain in the end just, as it looks that way for Gaddafi as I write now.
Libya by Gareth Rees
Photo by Alex Sebley
taken from blogspot- Read 'Rees'
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
A quick look at some of the work BB oid Harry Malt has been doing for his solo show tomorrow night in Print House Gallery, Dalston.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Friday, 3 December 2010
BARE BONES will be in Malta from the 8th to the 17th December, on a field trip to dig up some old Maltese tales and draw Maltese dogs for a forthcoming book being published there UNCOMMON MALTA. As we all like to self harm we've decided to put on yet another show at Ollies (Reed) last pub apparently he died there after drinking 6 bottles of rum 2 bottles of whisky and a beer, Bon Chance Ollie Reed (1938-1999), Exhibition will be on for a week from the 10th Dec to the 16th Dec.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Gareth examines- slur, age and mundane megalomania
A grumpy old man? Well, that's just a slur, isn't it?
To accuse a Welshman of doing unspeakable things with sheep just because he's Welsh is a slur, a racial slur and you could be prosecuted. But why should any slur be acceptable? The intention usually is to take the person out of a person, to de-humanise therefore. You're reducing someone to nothing more than a unit in a category defined by outward appearance? It's cynicism really and not going the loving way which surely is addressing that which transcends the mould, finding the uniqueness in a person, the global soul.
To call someone 'grumpy' is patronising too in the same way as referring to a child's display of ill-temper as a tantrum. A tantrum might be a consequence of overbearing authority but authority relieves itself of any responsibility by reducing the outburst to an aberration you can sometimes expect from someone of a certain age.
Grumpiness is an expression, maybe a mild one, of anger and, if this is so, then it's ridiculous to bracket it with old men because everybody has an anger propensity, don't they? To be born is to be born into a continuous experience of not always getting what you want and this frustration is what leads to anger. Infants get angry. Teenagers get angry. Adults get angry. Old people get angry. Why should old men be singled out for not always being amenable and placid?
Who's got the worst reputation as a grumpy old man? Well, it's God, of course. How many people have struggled with God and maybe ditched Him because they can't get out of their mind an intimidating image of a bearded old man with a sour expression of perpetual disapproval on his stony visage?
Well, anybody with any sense, you'd think, would walk away from someone like this. Abusive relationships, however, are notoriously adhesive and God gets away with it again and again. Maybe some of us grow up with an ingrained timidity. Maybe some of us need the inflexible iron spine of God Almighty to make up for our own spinelessness.
Is there any particular reason for an old man to be grumpy? Well, you look at your once sleek muscles turning to flab and it's not something you want to think about too much because it leads all the way down to the grave. No, I don't want to think about that. I've done everything I could to be a person of significance and to think it all ends in ashes is unbearable. It makes me angry and murderously jealous of youth.
My stony old pride won't own up to jealousy though so I'll disguise it like Abraham who convinced himself he was serving the Lord when he plotted to kill his own son Isaac. And what about those old First World War generals sitting behind the front line in chandeliered chateaux, were they similarly motivated as they orchestrated the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of young men?
Well, I mentioned this viewpoint in the tavern to two old military historians who replay famous battles using lead soldiers. They found the idea of senior officers killing off young men to assuage their jealousy of youth as deeply shocking. It would indeed be so if it was done consciously. But we don't really know to what extent it is the subconscious mind which really calls the tune. My conscious mind might say that what I am doing is for King and country and even God. Actually, however, I might truly be motivated by some inner rage concerning the inevitability of my own decline and demise.
Robert Graves had a wife but I can't remember her name. Maybe this is because she was merely a woman. Anyway, she was asked why she didn't believe in God and she replied, 'Because God is a man, of course.'
How did God become a man I wonder? Well, I suppose if you're the biggest beast in the field and you're a man and you want this state to continue, you might try getting rid of your blood-soaked garb and replacing it with robes. Make out you're the special one, make out you're infallible like god. But it's just mundane megalomania really and the problem with being a bossy boots is that it's so lonesome. You're not going to have any mates. It's all just sycophants and cringers, and with company like that, no wonder you feel grumpy whether you're an old chap, an infant or a harridan.
taken from http://garethrees.blogspot.com
Monday, 29 November 2010
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Thanks to every one for your support here are some pics by Rebecca Thomas, Vandling, and Heretic, if you happen to have some photos of the night we would be happy to see and post them
Monday, 22 November 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
What's the most rubbish thing you've seen?
DAVID CAMRONS FACE
Are you pubes straight?
NO GINGER AFRO STYLE
Did the rubbishmen get too good?
YES WE STARTED TO PLAY IN TUNE
How far is the moon ?
NO IDEA SOMETIMES IT LOOKS QUITE CLOSE
Why are rubbish bins green ?
BECAUSE ITS LIKE GREEN AND THAT LIKE ECO ?
What's your favourite part of the bible ?
THE BIT ABOUT THE SAND IN THE FORESKIN AND THE ROCK (OUCH)
Do you own a man tiara ?
NOT AT THE MOMENT I MAYE HAVE HAD ONE AT SOME POINT
What's your favourite song right now ?
THE KILLING MOON
Do you own a car ?
Your opinion on fix wheel bikes ?
A LOAD OF WANK
Best watering hole on London ?
NEALSONS HEAD, BIRDCAGE, THE BLUE POST SOHO ,THE FRENCH SOHO,THE GOLDEN HEART
THEY ARE ALL GOOD
How do you eat your toast ?
Do you believe in aliens ?
Is the world an oyster ?
YES I HOPE IT IS,ONE DAY I WILL TAKE A BOAT TO THE USA.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
In the style of a wandering preacher, Matt Lambert travels the globe spreading the seed of Bare Bones. Seen here in Mother Russia, doing what he does best, casting the spell, an audience in thrall. Recent forrays across this beautiful Europe also stopped in Madrid and Amsterdam. The man is unstoppable. Planning a travelling BB circus/cult to Berlin/Prague/Tallin/St Petersburg for the coming years, setting up shop for a coupla months and seeing what happens. Exciting times are on the horizon, home is where I lay my head, I'll sleep when I'm dead.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Friday, 24 September 2010
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Friday, 17 September 2010
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
'What would I say to the press if I reached a hundred years? I’d say I was good at climbing the rope-ladder up the side of the ship of earthly hope and also good at stamping on the fingers of the person coming up behind me!'
Gareth Rees' has appeared in The Guardian, Contemporary Review, Yoga Monthly and a book of hitch-hiking tales, along with publishing numerous shorts. He was once given a sizeable advance by Virgin for a book he helped write - the true account of a Japanese POW camp; but the book was never published due to political sensitivity between Virgin and a Japanese business associate. A one time employee of MI6, the relationship ended whilst on a visit to Israel after Gareth failed to report accurate information on military movements and instead apprised them of flowers in the desert, with Gareth’s employment soon terminated. He went on to teach english at a Libyan oil field but left after a year. Back in the UK Gareth continues to write. Bare Bones are pleased to introduce his recent work taken from blogspot- Read 'Rees'.
A soldier came back from an ambush, a situation where he killed or was killed. This soldier had come back so it was he who’d done the killing, quite a lot of killing actually. In the course of de-briefing, a psychologist asked, ‘Would you say you suffer at all from delinquent perfectionism?’ The soldier didn’t record his response. Maybe the question stunned him more than his recent experience on the battlefield.
I once passed wilderness time in a shop where the equivalent of an oasis was reached when I sold a Welsh dresser. The owner of the shop, a misanthrope who lived in a dream-world of the rural arts and crafts movement, art deco and art nouveau, and who despised what he called the plastic society of the present day, used to patrol the streets at night checking the contents of skips. An old cupboard was a good find so long as it was pine-wood beneath the peeling paint.
The piece was surreptitiously lifted and spirited back to base in a pick-up where Dr. Crippen would dunk it, along with the tax inspector, in an acid bath to get rid of the paint. The next stage was to do the reasonably easy carpentry job of making the shelves to affix on top of the cupboard. Finally, came the tender administration of bees wax and, and then an ‘antique’ Welsh dresser was ready for a good price for those with good taste and money.
One day, a potential customer entered the chilly shop premises and spent a long time examining one of these Welsh dressers. My blood defied the cold of the ill-heated shop by going hot with the thought of the juicy ten per cent commission. But the woman didn’t buy. She’d found a flaw. Well, of course there was a flaw, I thought. The base of the dresser was old.
The woman went away but she kept returning to the shop when again she would carefully examine the Welsh dressers on show. And yet again, she would find a flaw and would go away looking frustrated and sad as indeed was I, having not made the sale.
At first, I thought the woman was a person of great discernment, a perfectionist. But in the end, I began to see, not a perfectionist, but the very the opposite. Consciously, she was seeking perfection but subconsciously, and actually, she was seeking fault. She could not, would not, accept the invitation to sit at the table of life. She preferred to dither, to procrastinate and the perverse logic of her depression led her to think her lot was like a cosy bed from which she was loath to rise. Maybe the poor woman was a delinquent perfectionist. Or maybe she was simply disappointed by a shoddy finish, the hallmark of a depressed and sulking worker.