That difficult second post…by way of an explanation

So apparently the internet runs on something called ‘content’, which you have to shove down its digital throat regularly and you never get any money for it. WTF? Back in ’73 I partied for weeks on a single article I spouted out for Novaya Zhijn about sex in space (difficult, over-rated; did I tell them that? No). Seems those days are over. I’d be surprised if your average NASA ‘naut even knows what sex is, and this internerd obsessed world just don’t pay a spacedog to churn out words.

Anyway, words will come, and here they are. Just don’t expect them too often – inbetween drinking sessions with buddies from the old country, having to visit my sour-faced grandchildren and the odd bout of managing to sleep solidly for up to three days (usually induced by snacking on a particularly well-smeared-with-goosefat-and-vodka bone), where’s the time?

Still, there’s still the art to write about. Which brings us back to sex. Which brings us to an absolutely excellent exhibition of Louise Bourgeois’ works at the Freud Musuem I managed to get myself to. Yep, the Freud Museum, which I’m sure you are aware, is basically the old thinkers’ home in London (after having to leave Austria) preserved in part and kindly turned over to anyone even casually interested in pyschoanalysis. Which Bourgeois certainly was – she spent thirty years, albeit intermittently, in psychoanalysis.

Louise Bourgeois: The Return of the Repressed shows a selection of the artist’s copious psychoanalytic notes alongside a small but well selected collection of her work. The exhibitions claims to ‘explore the artist’s complex and ambivalent engagement with the theory and practice of psychoanalysis.’ Which it does, very well, and so we see snapshots of an extremely intelligent, informed and sensitive artist thinking, analysing and digging around in her thoughts. Bourgeois equated psychoanalysis to being presented with a problem, and that the obvious reaction to this was to dig ‘Anytime you are presented with a problem, you dig. You dig in your mind. We all dig for the truth. A cat will dig in the garden to hide its shit [it’s true, they should just leave it on the pavement, like me]. We all dig all day long.’ (L. Bourgeois, Freud’s Toy’s)…


 …Ok, Ok, halfway through writing the above I trotted off to the fridge for a bite and found a particularly well-smeared stash of bones, and I ate a lot of them, and topped them off with a little something special (paint thinner). And then it was the morning three days later so I had to shave and go play dominoes with my buddy Yvgeny, who wanted to eat smoked sturgeon and drink vodka with me and his sister’s very young girlfriends for the next three months (or so, I forget), and now half a year, all of summer, a US election etc… has passed, and the exhibition closed. But anyway, it was great, and I still think about it, particularly from the close confines of my dreams if I’ve been up half the night reading the very excellent Fantastic Reality by Mignon Nixon, a collection of essays on Bourgeois’ work that I stole from the museum shop.

So, in short, if you’re still reading and want to know what you missed at Freud’s place, and didn’t have the folding money on you at the time to get your own Bourgeois from Frieze Masters (they were there a-plenty, I recall mid domino binge), AND still want to read, buy Nixon’s book:




I’m a spacedog.

I come from the cold east, born a mongrel, and a small one at that (no Adonislike Borzoi was I),  but I had ambition, balls, and a keen nose for snuffling out sausages from places no other stray dog would go – and that got me places. The streets of Krasnoyarsk couldn’t hold this pup for long. By the age of three (months) I’d made it to Novosibirsk (westward and upward-ho would prove to be my directions in life) on my wits alone, where soon I was – what you cosmopolitan Westerners might call – ‘runnin tings’. That’s right, I made it pretty big in ‘Sibirsk, you wanted Levis, you came to Ugolyok (me). Form there, it could only be Moscow, so there I went, ready for anything.

What I got was unexpected. There I was, just stepped off the bus (or the Trans-Siberian, in my case), when along come a couple of blokes with a butterfly-catching net who, mistaking me for a mere toughie stray of no import, whisked me off to Cosmonaut training camp. After nine months of intensive training, trying-on different space-suits and sniffing hot young lab-assistants’ butts, me an’ my new buddy Veterok (R.I.P.) were popped atop Cosmos 110 and shot 62.2 miles into the sky – that’s right, to SPACE!

I am, indeed, THAT Ugolyok, the famed Russian spacedog. In 1966 I spend 22 days in space, and boy did that blow my little canine mind.

I’m retired now, of course (I’m 48!). No more space travel. I returned to a hero’s welcome, they named some Soviet stuff after me, I hold the record, I fucked a lot of bitches, etc. But after the whole space thing, it seemed empty, what next? Art, of course. Or, ‘the next best thing to space’ (– me). I now blog about art, specifically art in London, and you are now visiting my blog. I hope you enjoy it.

p.s. I occasionally let this art-geek John Parton write blog posts. He works in publishing, writes a lot, edits a mean book etc… Fell free to get in touch with me if you want him to write something for you, I’ll take a kickback on any fee of course.

p.p.s. I’m still a goddamn Commie