I am drawing a cemetery in Dorset, I said to my neighbour Suzanna, who is very English. Excellent place, she said. For a cemetery. I will tell you why I drew the cemetery. I didn't have the article yet, I have only read it just now, a minute ago. I had to call the correspondent to ask him about the village he was writing about. Calling a foreign correspondent on his holiday address is not easy. The newspaper's switchboard, and they need permission, so the foreign desk, but they are out on lunch, then the same thing again an hour later, then the foreign desk can't connect me, only the switchboard can, okay, we will tell them it is okay. Me and my telephone phobia. So I ask the correspondent, are you going to write about any particular people that I can feature in the illustration. No, nothing at all about people. Wow, a little bit odd, but hey, I am not writing. So I do my research and find the angels. Stone people! I can feature people after all! And then like I said, I read the article just now. And he writes about several people, with their names and all, how strange is that.
I just noticed that they didn't print my final version of the drawing. I changed some colours, and uploaded again. Something must have gone wrong there, shit. I should have double checked.
“This (panorama) is the English countryside of one’s imagination”, says former financial consultant Mr. Jackson in the Dorset piece.
And indeed it is: it never existed. A village economy of sorts did, however. It was a very simple system. The Pitt Rivers family owned Okeford outright and the farmers owed the Manor, even for their pints at the not-so-cosy local, as its landlord also owed the squire.
The rustic drooling of retired city slickers, unable to tell a cock from a bull, makes me sick to my stomach. From laughing. The real people who lived their dreary lives in Okeford are right where you drew them. R.I.P.