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The Little House Full Of Love

April 17, 2017 12:09pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 30 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Art Philosophy On An Easter Monday!

A tale about the little house full of love.

“Lovebug adults are attracted to light-colored surfaces, especially if they are freshly painted, but adults congregate almost anywhere apparently reacting to the effects of sunlight. Lovebugs help the environment when they are in their immature stage as they are attracted to flowers and are good pollinators.”

I only went out of curiosity more than anything. I didn’t go expecting; I never do. Besides, there couldn’t be much in a field stretching out to further than my eye could see. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you what else happened in that part of town or if there even was a town at all. All I recall is a gas station about half a mile before I got there. And the car journey on the way. I remember that because it was beautiful. Speeding through nature, past buffalo ranches and endless foliage. What I remember most of all is driving through a swarm of bugs. They hit the car front like a million bullets. Love bugs they called them. Hundreds and thousands of love bullets banging into the car like they were trying to get inside. They say you should always pay attention to your journey.

I stopped at the gas station which is why I remember it. I got out the car to straighten myself up. I don’t know why but I felt it necessary. I remember hoiking up my jeans and tightening my belt. Palming my summer top to iron out the driving creases and adjusting my hat. Showing the best you have to whatever is about to greet you on the other side. I needn’t have bothered; judgment didn’t reside in that house.

It wasn’t anything special as houses go. You could pass it by without giving it a second glance. Not like some of the building’s I’d frequented in my time that made a point of their grandiosity: Painted in gold with fresco ceilings; mahogany woods and old stone carvings and windows bigger than doors telling timeless stories. Like I said, looking right seemed to be what people paid attention to.

I knocked on the front door but nothing happened. Thing is, it didn’t look like a door you should open and go into. Not that it was foreboding in any way, just a normal door. I suppose that’s why I knocked first. I waited and looked down at the scuffed toes of my boots pondering on how I would introduce myself and at the same time wondering how it was that I could scratch a new pair of boots within seconds of wearing them. When nobody came I turned the handle and pulled the door slowly. Opening a door like that makes you look more like a burglar than not and is likely to have you facing a side by side quicker than anything, yet it’s still how we open something when filled with trepidation. It’s funny how we act as humans. A lot of things we do make no sense.

The hour was early which made me feel like I shouldn’t be going inside yet but a few people were milling around a long table and chatting. I put my friendly smile in place as I approached and fiddled with the cotton tassels that edged my pretty tunic. I should’ve made sure they knew I was coming, I thought. It might pay me to be less impulsive. Turning up unannounced in places all the time without consideration to how others might feel. I always did things like that and thought about them afterward despite always berating myself for doing so. But this time it didn’t matter because I got greeted with friendly hugs and doughnuts for breakfast. Not just any buns but an array of all different kinds from plain to jam filled and those with icing and sprinkles on top. Each cake of a different sweetness but just as yummy. And that sweetness didn’t dissipate but sprinkled itself all through that room and the next. This house that you might well drive past without a notion contained more love inside than I ‘d ever witnessed. Not loaded with the sugar coated pretense  we often come across but something more akin to warm honey. The kind that mends you from the inside out.

That’s the best I can explain the feeling. I’ve known love and I’ve lost love like we all have the same. But this kind was different. I considered myself impervious to this sort but somehow it found the cracks where the mortar had fallen out and seeped in. I’ve gotta tell you that this scared me half to death. I find myself wary of anything too good to be true. Surely it would find a way to trip me up or turn sour. Losing something wholesome like that only goes to blacken another piece of your heart and leave you tutting at the world with folded arms. Best to stay protected.

But that honey love, well, it stands alone. It neither forces or betrays. It lets you have a taste and leaves the spoon in front of you should you wish to take some more. It doesn’t run out or turn bad and it has no agenda. I think that’s what unnerves me the most of all: I can’t find a way to prove its unreliability or insincerity because it doesn’t give up on you.

Well, that doesn’t fit my script.

And that makes me laugh inside a little and shake my head. In my experience, all that any one of us is looking for is that warm honeyed love. We try and seek it out in everything we do.

Folks tend to substitute other things to make that feeling come about. They buy themselves trinkets or convince themselves that this next thing will be the answer. Now don’t get me wrong, there ‘aint nothing better than a fine pair of new boots to make me go giddy with excitement but in the end it’s just a passing treat. Like most treat’s they are quickly digested leaving you hungry again. The good stuff isn’t found in the pretty toys or the grand facades, it’s found inside. Like I found inside that house that you wouldn’t likely pay heed to as you passed it by.

I’ve only ever been to that building in that field a few times but I think about it often and what I might’ve missed had I kept on driving.  I visit when I can, probably only twice a year because the house I live in is thousands of miles away.  But that doesn’t stop the honey coming or being available like I thought it might. It’s still there for my taking and given freely. Given with the purest of hearts connected together stronger than a chain linked fence.

The love still finds a way to reach me from that little house 4,798 miles away faster and more furious than a swarm of a million lovebugs.

Dedicated to the people of Int’l Texas Cowboy Church, Orchard, Texas ~ The little house full of love.

A Mixed Bag of British

February 22, 2017 12:27pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 23 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday

Four weeks late, dreadfully tardy and woefully lacking in whimsical tales. WELL I WAS BUSY. I thought about you all but I had lots of things to do. It’s very difficult being a superhero come spy come entrepreneur and sometimes I have to sacrifice my whimsy to save the world. You’re welcome.

Mixed Media

Today I bring you a fuddle of delight from the past few weeks. Things that have caught my attention as I stand back and take a hard look at the world around me.

Go green

I went to the village pub to find the Christmas tree still up. I found Cockney Al and had a word.

“Hey, Al, you know it’s bad luck to still have your tree up, right?”
“Jules my little anthrax truffle. See, that ‘aint a Christmas tree, it’s a Valentines tree. And after that it becomes an Easter tree. See where I’m comin’ from petal?”
I have to admit I liked his style. Waste not. However, I think Al will concede to my superstitious point since after that conversation I won twice at ‘Sticky 13’s’ and walked off with fifty, glorious pounds. Nice.

The American Prophecy

I saw it with my own eyes. There, carved in Mansfield stone amongst many other grotesques, green men and gargoyles, a recognisable face standing proud in one of the arches of my favourite 14th century cathedral. A simple stonemason predicted the future some 700 years ago; blinded by the truth and light that shone down through the church spires, he was compelled to reveal the figure that would change the modern world through his simple craft. Oh yes. The truth is stranger than fiction, my friends. See for yourself.

President Donald Trump.

London Calling To The Faraway Towns

I took a little trip to the capital. You can never tire of London. Here’s what I found amusing on my junket.

Telephone boxes are now being used as advertising kiosks for dominatrix girls looking for sex slaves and offering lessons in sissy training. Pffft… pass me a whip… Some of these boxes even host defibrillators. I’m wondering if there’s a connection.

Make your own quilted jacket and avoid designer “rip -off” prices. Smart. London swag.

Or not… Instead become the notorious Vaporiser.

Amusing stickers pasted on windows from Brexiters.

And…the pub never lies. The truth will always out from drunken mouths.

Can someone please explain this to me?

Can I only park here if I’m a disabled tennis player?


The Art Philosopher poses a question.

Despite my skill and authority as the worlds leading Art Philosopher, I found myself befuddled by the following sculptures:

What is this thing? What is it supposed to be saying? It’s a giant orange pretzel turd and I don’t get it. Maybe it’s a misshaped fruit loop that appeals to fruit loops.

But then there’s this. Sat in the foyer of a four star hotel. I analysed it for a while, trying to find its meaning.

Conclusion: We are caged in a world of shit. Think on.

33 ~ Jules Smith

September 22, 2016 11:54am Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 35 Comments



Jules Smith ~ 33 ~ brings you a collection of thirty -three, flash fiction stories offering a snapshot in time and delving into the many layers of human behaviour. Each tale exposing the rich tapestry of emotion that we all prefer to hide behind closed doors.

There’s nothing quite as interesting as human behaviour. People are all about their public presentation and how well they are perceived to the outside word. But me, well I like to tear through those veils and pull out all the real human emotions and flaws that stay locked within.

Those of you who know me well or have followed this blog for sometime, are aware that I have an odd penchant for photographing doors from around the world. I don’t know why, but I find doors fascinating; particularly really old, weathered doors that have stood strong against the years and been passed through by many.

Some doors stay barricaded; some are always open; some hang on their hinges bearing the tattered scars of life. Doors have stories and so do people.

My new book ~ 33 ~ brings you a collection of thought provoking short stories: sometimes dark, truculent or moving and at other times, cynically humorous. I guarantee there will be a story in here that resonates with you.

33 is a book that is suitable for ages from 20-100 and any gender which means I have thoughtfully got your Christmas presents for everyone all wrapped up. They’ll even gift wrap and post it from Amazon leaving you with spare time to enjoy the festivities whilst everyone else trudges the streets with carrier bags slicing into their fingers. You’re welcome.


If you love me, you’ll buy my book.

If you like me, you’ll buy my book.

If you don’t like me, why are you here? GET OFF MY PAGE! Go to another page – preferably Amazon and buy my book ~ 33.

Good karma comes to those who buy – Bad JuJu comes to those who don’t…

Available now as a paperback or on Kindle from Amazon platforms around the globe.



Awkward Annie

September 15, 2016 4:55pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 19 Comments


Oh, well hello, and fancy seeing you here, big smile, winky face, you need to pull up a chair, dear.
And please, ignore my common mask all painted up and pretty, that’s just to keep you feeling safe, to make you think I’m normal, cos underneath the usual is really rather gritty. The joker smiles and don’t you know, that on the whole, I find it kind of funny – oh there’s a pun! Why thank you, hun, yeah this one’s on the money. No matter if you’re close enough or even really far, I‘ll assess you like a buyer might a classy, pricey car. I’m noting those reflections and the way the alloys spin, and I’ll enjoy the show, cos that’s all it is, charades, charades in buckets and spades, but honestly I’m more intrigued with what’s going on within. So take a pew, just me and you and shoot some whisky with the breeze, keep up your easy, playful style and I’ll pretend so effortlessly, that I can’t see the wood for all the monkey trees. Are you sure…really sure? Well hello, Jackdaw! Tell the barkeep to line me up another full score. Keep it coming, don’t be wary it’s a game of give and give and a dozen Hail Mary’s; a social kind of interactive tennis match of fake, but darling let me tell you that will be your first mistake. Are you strong? Courageous? I implore that you are; like a dirty, jacked – up pick-up truck complete with steel bull-bar. Cheers! Clink glasses, to health and to happy; mundane, mundane and years all the same- I’m bored with all that, care to show me your pain? Let me see you, tell me do, it’s safe in this harbour, OOPS! Did I just spot a chink in your armour or is that amour; let me push this some more. Well, you opened up a crack in the the great guarded door! Good lord, pardon me, did that make you sore, when I poked at your fleshy parts with my double edged sword? But I’m certain I saw it, that glowing red button, and should I press it will I get an almighty explosion, ejection or ejacul….WHAT? You really think I push boundaries without hesitation? And all of a sudden I have your attention. Let’s quickstep this through and I’ll spin you anew, the perfect, whirling, deflective dancer for if you ask me a question you won’t like the answer and I can’t have that and you letting me down, so down, I can feel the frowning despair and I might need to call my emergency clown. I might feel inclined, so very in fact, if that’s how I’m going to get into your mind. Cagey and cryptic, that’s what you spin, but I just took your bishop whilst you played at mystic and now we’re this far, this far but still left in the dark till the night becomes morning but I tend to get restless so don’t leave me yawning; monotonous time and its usual ticking and ticking and twirling my locks when I’d much rather be jumping adventurous tocks and taking my angle from outside the box. Chin chin! to another, has it made you feel dizzy? And whilst you were busy running the gauntlet, I don’t want to flaunt it, but you should have thought or you should have said, oh dear, well here’s to the death of it, ’Off with his head!’ But sure, I’m just playing, here look at my smile, it’s always best kept in a jester style status so that this situation stays inviolatus.
Awkward Annie they call me, but what’s in a name? And my black and white board’s always set for the game.

The Art Philosopher

August 4, 2016 2:00pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 20 Comments


Some of you may know that I wryly refer to myself as the “Art Philosopher” on this here web page.

Firstly because I don’t see why I shouldn’t grace myself with a title that feeds my closet narcissist ( I use the word closet with a smidgen of irony) and secondly because my in depth analysis of the visual results in an accompanying story based sometimes in reality but often times from the wilderness of my imagination.



Perhaps I am meant to be a see and tell person.

Maybe I am gifted in the fact that I am able to recognise something unusual or fascinating in the everyday banal such as doors or manhole covers and even shadows and shapes that play across a structure. Maybe I have an ability to see the story that lies behind the furrowed brow of a man sitting alone in the park or behind the mask of a painted face and a fake smile. Maybe I can see beyond the obvious and have an ability to find the truth in obscure detail.


Or maybe not.

Maybe I am just one of those fortunate people that finds herself presented with fascinating imagery and I’m just lucky like that.

See, most people would go and take a bottle of beer out of the fridge and that would be just it: a simple act of taking out a fizzy container of liquid – no more, no less.

But not me.

Oh no.

I get pictures….


Read into that what you will.

A Modern Day Fairytale…

July 4, 2016 7:08pm Published by Jules Smith in The Art Philosopher 35 Comments



My Mother has insisted that I write a happy story.

I’m here as narrator, to tell you a beautiful, modern day tale. Well, the beginning of one. I can continue if my audience wishes this to be a novella….

Once upon a time (because twice makes it repetitive and thrice leaves us yawning) in a land somewhere lodged between our imagination and our delusions, there lived a beautiful, young girl. Of course, our heroines are always beautiful and never disfigured or hit with the ugly stick. She had long, golden hair, rich in depth with hints of caramel courtesy of L’OREAL 7.3 and the cappuccino wash her hairdresser weaved in. Well, if anyone was worth it, she was. Her eyes were big and round like that of a startled deer and the bluest of blues akin to a Mediterranean sky in the height of summer. Some thought it was down to the coloured contacts, luxury fibre eyelashes and her addiction to amphetamines but it wasn’t like that; she was a natural with just a soupçon of aid from the lip fillers, Botox and biannual face peels. Her figure had an hour glass seem woefully lacking with sensual curves that would make Jessica Rabbit puke with envy. Of course, Daddy had paid handsomely for her double D, pert chesticles in an attempt to save her from social anxiety and they vastly improved her Instagram following. Her waist, so slender, the high school beef cake could get both his hands around it. Of course, the torso shaping corset helped to keep her pencil thin and even though she could hardly breathe or swallow her undressed, rocket leaf salad when wearing it, her sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed. Fainting was an art form and often attracted new, chivalrous admirers and so much more attention.

Dyamontay, the name of our beautiful heroine, because naturally she had a one off, made up moniker that nobody could spell or even believe. She told everyone it was of French origin even though the only French word she knew was Paris which was the name of her biggest, female, high school competitor. However, Paris remained a size 2 despite being proficient at bulimia and could never match the perfect size zero of Dyamontay. In class or social photos, our heroine would make sure she stood next to Paris on purpose for digital proof of her superiority, and after two whole days of water dieting of course. It wasn’t long before the stress of it all got to Paris, who ended up being carted off to rehab with a serious twitch and an expensive addiction, poor thing.

However, Dyamontay had so many friends it didn’t matter. Her Facebook boasted 2472 of them and her twitter almost double that. Her popularity increased on a daily basis particularly with her in depth posts on the latest designer heels, dressed up pugs and celebrity knowledge. She read all the glossy magazines on a weekly basis, even though it tired her out dreadfully, she’d heard somewhere that reading broadened the mind, whatever that meant. Her dedication to to the important things in life clearly set her aside from her peers. Dyamontay didn’t have time for any other hobbies apart from calorie counting, the art of precision face contouring and practising her most flattering angles and poses in the mirror. Her less attractive friends tried to overcompensate with wit and intellect but they never got as many likes as she did. Boys didn’t care for that sort of thing in her opinion and she wondered why some girls worked so hard to be inappropriate rather than pretty; still, not everyone can be a princess. Boys preferred it when you flicked your hair and laughed at everything they said, even if you didn’t understand them. Most young men followed her around, catering to her feminine whims and offering their help when she found things difficult like heavy, unnecessary text books, bumpy tarmac that played havoc with her Laboutin’s and simple multiplication. Every which way she turned, a young stallion would be there to facilitate her needs and desperately try to accommodate her. All bar one, a rather naturally handsome guy who studied way too much to be normal and had a rather biting wit which completely baffled her. His name was Tom which she found dreadfully boring and chose to call him Tommy. He clearly wasn’t from money with such an unimaginative name and by the simple High Street clothes he wore. Still, it amazed her how well he could pull off a peasant style look with such confidence. He would generally ignore her if she spoke to him or provoke her with complicated questions she didn’t know how to answer. He was clearly mentally challenged and only went on to prove her theory by dating a girl with mousy hair and cankles.

Though this boys lack of sense irritated her to the point of madness, her goal was set on landing Bradley, the high school football star and beefcake, as expected. This didn’t prove a challenge in any way at all as Bradley seemed overly fascinated by the buttons on her pretty blouses every single day. Two simple dates passed by where she pretended to be interested in football and he pretended to know the colour of her eyes and by date three she found herself locked in the bedroom of a beach front mansion, at a high class party. Dyamontay found herself to be a little bit tipsy on the two bellini’s she’d imbibed but knew the level of expectation to keep her beau.

Whilst she had no experience on snake handling she’d made the time to study the art by coming across the mysterious collection of videos she’d found on her Fathers computer when she was looking for his bank balance. It must have been Daddy’s secretary that put them on there when she worked overtime at weekends when Mommy went on one of her many, ‘Ladies days’ and ‘Tennis tournaments’. She looked the sort that didn’t have breeding and her Daddy was often having to take her off in private to have a word with her. He really was far too accommodating.

The animalistic antics that she viewed had terrified her somewhat and made her feel exceptionally nauseous, putting her off the 12 vegetable, lose weight faster, smoothie she usually had as a treat but Dyamontay knew these things were important in order to snag the deal long term. She also knew that just being her meant that half the battle was already won and the situation would likely to be over rather quickly.

Bradley didn’t waste any time fumbling around with her assets which had no effect but to irritate her when he inadvertently dislodged the ultimate lift, bra tape that kept her looking glorious in her backless dress. Thankfully, getting past the high waisted, tummy tuckers would be almost impossible for him since he had fingers the size of sausages. She’d even broken a nail herself getting the darn things on and had to call for an emergency manicure. Dyamontay made it clear to Bradley that she wanted to take things slowly and one step at a time. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her voiced opinion and merely grunted, pretty much like the men on the videos, as he continued to work out how a halter neck undid. She removed the super strength,anti bacterial hand sanitiser from her Valentino clutch and set it to one side. The mouth wash wouldn’t be needed until she had a rock on her finger, then and only then and on very rare special occasions, like needing a soft top Bentley, would that be necessary.

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