Flamenco Lesson

This lady is learning how to dance flamenco.

Tapping, stamping, strutting on the heads of nails; rhythmic persistance and tenacious pursuit of expression. Nails in the souls (typo, but I decide not to correct it) of her shoes hammering out their message, and I ask myself–because I know it's there–what have the nails in my own shoes got to say?



A man stopped me yesterday to film me chatting – quick, go! – in response to his question, "What do you think of Banksy?"

I don't happen to love the style of Banksy's work, though appreciate his messages, his work in Palestine, for example. Unfortunately, probably, the majority of his audience will be attracted to the style rather than content, and therefore I wonder how the following question, "What do you think his work does for us?" can be answered in any way except to say "I'm not sure many people who rave about his work are politically articulate enough to know what he's really on about or what their response might helpfully be to affect real change."

Having said this, I have friends with Bansky prints on their walls and have very lovely chats with them about all sorts of things, so take what I say in modest measure. It was a vox pop, I didn't think that hard about it.

And there's me thinking I had nothing to say. You just see, this will come back to haunt me...

Now, where did I leave my dancing shoes?





{Today's soundtrack: Coldcut - Sound Mirrors}