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EVERYTHING is A SUBSTITUTE: the lie is that there is any real thing – keep it a secret!

the joke’s been made before: amplitude, volume. Fat and loud. J: You can understand why Americans make big disaster movies. It feels like we’re inside some vast beast. It sounds like it as well. The ride to Universal Studios went like this – in a coach you couldn’t

nternational house of panicakes

Greeting you as you turn the corner onto the public concourse, We invented Must See. Some visual cues as to what. But like the injunction to Move forward, it is a direction, is stated, without a, without direction. And We invented it. Whereas we who are about to, can go

… what’s that sound? … I like that sound. I love that sound. … It’s the sound of my shoes …: barcelona-munich-tom bradley lax

A day begun in Barcelona and ending in LA, well, Anaheim, the magic kingdom of Howard Johnsons. A numb departure from BCN, somehow. The thought had been too hard to contemplate that we would be leaving Europe, so that when it came to actually going, it was as if we’

Amor de Barcelona: some images of passing adequacy & a relation from a board by night of regret & an ache at imminent departure

With vodka in mug, down Baluard, past the washing strung along the footpath, which I never snapped, to the almost hundred metre strip of sand beach, where I’m writing this, on the edge of a boardwalk. To my right, the D of the W building, the smaller sister of

Camp Nou, Castell de Montjuic, Fundació de Joan Miró

We went seeking the Camp Nou Experience. Plus. First we had to get to Camp Nou, by way of Collblanc, Metro L5. Tourists flocking through streets where there were a conspicuous number of old people, to the stadium Barca’s home. Which, as it happens, is right next door to

the decorative rules by which ornament proliferates on the surface that grasped like ideas by the generative depths become those structures on which whole works are made

We hired bikes and ventured once more into the arena of Gaudi commercialism. Although it took a long time to get to Park Guell. We went via the Grand Gherkin, where we stopped, hoping to be able to get to the top. Entering through a full security check, we got

La Sagrada Familia, greater than the cult of Antoni Gaudí, Vinçon, Desigual, Entrevidas by Anna Maria Maiolino at The Fundació Antoni Tàpies, La manzana de la discordia

Out into sun, we followed the edge of the marina around to Port Vell, cutting in to catch the Metro at Drassanes, connecting, and popping up at Sagrada Familia. It had crept up behind us, the massive biomorphic slip-cast of Gaudi’s still unfinished Last Citadel of Christendom. It is