Thoughts and Feelings August 2025
The white, much older American sitting with his very young Thai wife at the cafe… where I am writing this diary, wonders out loud how there can possibly be so many ‘obvious muslims’ in France and wonders more how they even got out of their Muslim countries to enjoy a holiday in Chamonix.
1.
Yesterday Morning. Walking with my friend Helen and her little dog through the Gorges de la Diosaz, up and down the perfectly beautiful river path, along a steep, well constructed board walk. There are many beautiful waterfalls to see as well as an outcrop of black slate and glittering quartz to admire. On the viewing platform at the highest point we looked further up the canyon toward a huge rock jammed into the narrowest part of the gorge.
Dramatic and beautiful.
A perfect place to contemplate and relax.
On the way down from the furthest point we were stopped by a young, rather jovial father of two toddler boys. He asked how much further a walk to the summit. I answered his question and asked where he was from.
“Israel”, he said.
My blood ran cold. Who would have guessed this normal looking man was from a country where it is perfectly acceptable to support child killing monsters in the military and the government?
I felt for my life. If I told him I was Iranian maybe he would try and kill me? If I had kids… would he try killing them? How intimidated the Muslim people climbing the gorge would feel if they knew this man was on the same path.
It has become apparent… there are no innocent Israelis.
I was immediately plagued with violent, intrusive thoughts! Imagining him throwing little kids into the gorge. I imagined him killing, killing, killing. Here he was, enjoying the waterfall as if… as if he were a normal young man, not a member of a murderous ethnostate, a citizen of a country who daily mutilates and kill babies, who murders unarmed civilians, whose politicians unashamedly call for more mass murder, who lie compulsively or control the democracies and media of most Western or ‘white’ nations… then accuse anyone who tells the truth about their cruelty and mass manipulation as racist.
My look must have said all of this because in the split second it took me to acknowledge his reply he looked very uncomfortable… even though I said ‘enjoy your walk’ and turned on my heels.
Walking away from him I contemplated this despicable, smiling man and the state of the ongoing genocide… angry and sad just how little I could do to help the people of Palestine. Regular people like me are forced to live ‘genocide adjacent’.
We are powerless. Reduced to micro-protests.
I wondered, after this is all over, after the last Palestinian has been killed by Israel… how I could ever look into the eyes of anyone who described themselves as an Israel supporter or ‘proud zionist’ like our nasty, complicit Prime Minister.
The Israeli man’s smiling face stayed with me well into the night… as I cooked dinner for us all, as I chatted with my lover (now flown home) and fell into a fitful sleep. Palestine will be free. We are all Palestinian, we will be free despite our various governments attempts to silence, outlaw and shackle us. A Free Palestine may not look like we think it should: land returned to the people who own it, a true democracy etc. but those of us who stayed true to the people of Palestine and spoke out despite the threats of imprisonment can live without the shame most should feel for not speaking out.
2
At the head of the Gorges I asked the ticket seller about the impressive rock fall netting. They must be really expensive, I asked.
“Yeah, very expensive.” he said.
At ¢7.50 a pop and over 1500 visitors a day, the Gorges de la Diosaz makes more than enough money to keep the canyon pristine and safe.
Nicola, on her way home from Geneva got caught in a traffic confluence. She thought it might have been some kind of road traffic accident. Nicola saw a little white car with a huge dent in the roof. As it turned out, it was not a traffic accident… more an act of God.
Despite the steel rock fall netting… a boulder, loosened by the heavy rain, had crashed onto the little white car killing two of the four driving home. A terrible tragedy. Makes me think twice about travelling the elevated carriageway from Chamonix to Geneva.
3.
This blog has been my primary artistic practice for decades. I kept a written diary before the blog. I started writing my diary in 1980 as I didn’t want to forget a thing happening to me. Life was so exciting and continues to be.
Then, five years ago, I stopped. I was living in Portugal, taking those antidepressants after my brush with covid death. The anti-depressants meant no writing and no sex. I suppose instagram took up the slack. Picasso said that painting was like keeping a diary. I feel the same about instagram.
Now, I’m writing my blog and having sex. I’ve missed the rough stubble of a man’s kiss. I’ve missed the touch of a man. Chamonix is packed with super fit men, young men with thick, naturally coloured beards. Even though I have one… I really don’t like grey beards.
Writing my blog. Journalling they call it. I like that this blog can be found on-line… if it’s looked for. I’m still a little embarrassed by some of it… however well written it is. Did I really say that?
Over the years I often repeat myself. Mulling over the same anxieties year after year. Some things never change.
Today the mountains are hazy with fog, mist lingering in the canyons. The rain is heavy, thunder and lightening… chasing away the insufferable heat.
I had a fascinating reception to my queer artists blog. Most gay artists, regardless of how similar their work is to others, fiercely defend their artistic uniqueness. They seemed a little put out their ‘originality’ wasn’t so original. One of the younger artists I mentioned in my previous post was a little condescending about our connection as artists and as gay men.
I’m queer, you are gay. They’ll be another moniker soon enough to describe these Friends of Dorothy. The list of homosexual description is very long. Queen, faggot, batty boy, pansy, nancy, fudge packer, arse bandit…. Queer is just the most recent re-appropriation.
Ivan, do you remember the list of words we used to describe our penis… when we made the show? Starting off quite amiably with all the usual: prick, cock manhood etc.… and ending up with ‘weapon of war’?
This blog is my most successful body of work. A continuing expression of my artistic freedom. A set of portraits, landscapes, observations and sketches across time and space.
I’ve noticed recently how I’m less interested in people knowing what kind of art I make. This is the art. This is the art.
www.duncanspark.art
Collating the past years work for my art site… I realise I can’t settle on one style. Each edition looks so different. Who would know the painting I painted were made by the same artist who make the textiles or the installations or the photographs? Let me be candid… each film I’ve made could have been authored by a totally different film maker.
Of course there are plenty of artists who muddle along exploring various styles without settling… like Kippenburger or Mike Kelley. One died of alcoholic poisoning and the other of suicide.
Suicide, certainly something I’ve considered. Death by choice. When the opportunities dry up, or life becomes too boring… when I can’t realistically contemplate a useful or creative future.
I assembled all sorts of work at the RCA, using all manner of materials and styles. I assemble, like I tidy other people’s houses, rearranging, interfering… knowing when not to interfere. Never truly happy with what reveals itself until I hit the sweet spot.
Taking each beautiful element, placing it beside another in the hope sparks might fly from the untapped energy within.
