They never thought of introducing that much safety into prediction of the weather. Coffee and cube were good companions for the morning chat, but not now. It always comes in several forms, but they thought it needed picking up. Just in time this very action became double-jointed, much less controllable. All were therefore hoping he did fall out, braking down like an idiot. It needed somebody who’s a great unknown, leading his or her superior out to sea.

“The invisible road listens about putting your foot left. Of your new cost, it’s downhill all the way. I still think you may possibly be the best.”

So many would have expected new or at least mobile air to drink. Nightmare situations were busily backing slowly up two slopes. Looking at this, “you like mine,” always had to be left well alone. 

“I’ll give you my fingers,” she answered

“I admire that opportunity of nothing. Prepare yourself for a double looking back.”

Last week the bit at the front looked wonderful, up and over that and down, it was far from the three-second rule. He just thought that out of “my” head all strikes make such an impact, with similar diversity. Settle down to feet extended around like lumps of meat, every one of them. After this, advice goes before such trivialities. All was under control, you certainly caught wind of his mother's journey. So many had better now be careful if they've got that green leather bag. It’s a very expensive mode for sane projection, always concerned to be having a look on the way. Then it must be off to a retirement round of Hong Kong economics. 

“I… just wanted to see him make the same position as some of his fellow job descriptions.”

“You’re a bully now Joe.”

“I’m not a bully,” Joe launched back.

“It is invariably visible.”

© eric pentle.


there were plenty of good places, mostly single seats not next to people that would be noticeable. i chose the double with the businessman and legs stretched out across the floor. probably because i had a bag and could put it on the seat next to me, but maybe for a different reason. he didn't move his legs much. just enough for me to slide into place and feel awkward and then stare at me. so i stared back. i didn't take long for him to look away so as he did i slowly bent down and sank my teeth into his leg. somewhere a little higher than the knee cap, fat and fleshy. his body moved away violently, but only after i'd had enough time to get a good hold so that my head moved with it. a hard shove put me in the isle next to him on my knees. lifting myself up back onto the seat, i picked up my book and was about to start reading when he chose to say something stopped and punched me across the eye area. not too hard, sort of a glancing swipe, but enough to put it out of action. then again, but this time at the corner of my top lip. this one hurt a little more. as my mouth filled with blood from a gash where my teeth and gums had been pushed together, i looked back as his shaking face. you could almost smell the adrenaline go through him. a woman i'd taken for just another open face, was now crawling him aurally back to his normal attitude, but it took some doing. upon success she started some words on me. 

'why the fuck would you do something like that.'

'now look what's happened.'

'this thing never happens on an early morning train'

and other stuff that got boring quickly. i didn't listen to any of it but it was quite loud. then the man started as well. he'd even got out his mobile and was ringing the police when the train arrived at my stop. he tried to grab my arm as i went to leave but i blew a fine mist of bloody spit into his face and eyes and probably up his nose as well. as i walked along the platform i could see him blurrily through the window and his handkerchief wasn't as white and ironed any more.

© eric pentle.



jump he said. i said i didn't think it was a good idea.

but you were the one who suggested it all could be gone and gone in a way that was quick, which didn't make too much mess so kelly would get home clean it up with some daz or something then get over it quickly.
yes that. that was yesterday but today as you always say is tuesday the fifteenth

it was two years ago that. i shouldn't imagine the idea of a fifteenth in which things don't go as is are still around. now we were in this mess. just in time for not much else to happen i offered up a you deserved it to a less than generous audience. today was tuesday not a real fifteenth but it fitted the model. kelly was still in the picture, a little more so now as she had changed from just a girl i went to restaurants to argue with to a girl who i argued with not in restaurants. public was our speciality. i looked out across the fat mouth as if looking for a reason to carry on, but couldn't extract one with my eyes, so i didn't. lots of arms denoted my moment to leave the situation, and slowly i elevated myself in a way which would make a double chin look elegant. it wasn't. a mildly ironic cheer sent out the position of the rest of her group. her friends not mine. which was why they stayed. i found somewhere else.

at a safe distance, looking across the mess i had given the lunch hour, a sigh quickly proved i wasn't thinning out.
wimper whimpered kelly
but thats just what she wanted people to think. one broke the pack and was making headway toward me. a swift thrust of my shoulders wall-ward made things better as i couldn't see the inevitable mouth mess, only a couple of those young temp kids muttering something about else to each other. they don't know they've only been here two days or so. i expected the grating voice any second to cut down on my forehead. it never came. only a door-slam contained everything a five minute back and fourth back and fourth would have covered. her friends were like that.

unable to starve off the nausea, usually associated with early morning gauntlet run, my direction changed focus to the car park. air with fresh weren't going to console, but they'd sure offer some space. a younger girl walked out as i ran quick lumpy hand through my hair to cover up. but she knew. the last few days had been hell not that id admit to anyone. kelly wouldn't let her new one go. it was so obsessively planned that i thought it might just work. it wasn't her usual path only the last six months took her this route. the faces were less interested than most just more middle class. i suggested looking at it from another point of view but they didn't have any. it was the phone scam that had set her off. 

the police described it in such detail. there was no denying its splendour.
all kelly wanted was to make back the money wed been coughed of. i said no then later yes but back to no again soon. that was after id lost her. shed boil hours reading the face off long internet pages. occasionally she would run out into the living room again all enthusiastic with a print out. i sign on my face usually sent her back. it didn't take long for me to stop reading them. or listening.

id always said if we were ever to try one never to discuss it at work. i think she was boasting. something soppy about how tying people up really seemed to give a sense of stamina to our relationship and the teamwork needed to it pull off was a great fluffer for when we got back home. she always be animals after.

it was in kelly's eyes when id lunged, and i couldn't help agreeing with what shed said but as id said, not a work. the friend wasn't likely to talk about it. nobody believed her that time she said she lost a pound in a week. she even chased after me when i left change in the drinks machine. i then remembered nobody told her they didn't believe her, only muttered so behind her back and then stopped when she came in. i tried earnestly to catch kelly's eye, but it wasn't being good to her anymore. i settled on cutting out the middleman and dragging her friend outside, who came with me.

© eric pentle.


harry looked on with disapproving face muscles. she couldn't see them but she could hear the squelch of his fat face as it wrinkled up in anti-satisfaction. it didn't make any difference to her, she knew however well the track was laid there would be something to pick up on. and it came. a little longer than usual, but as forthright as ever.
'let me show you'.
'if you take a parallel siding off there, it won't meet the regulation length of an actual train, and we're going for authenticity, aren't we.'
'that's right, it should go this way'.
he intentionally brushed he breast as he put his cubby arm under her body and placed the plastic onto the mat. 
'don't you think that looks more orthodox'. 
'i'm not sure i'd know the difference, but i'll go with what you're telling me.'
'isn't that the reason your mom and pop, put you in my team'. 
'to learn off the best, i know'. 
'no i know, six years track layout champion, without a close contest'.
a few of the other modelers overheard this intentionally loaded comment, and started up the annual harry hate lines. it wasn't as though the arena couldn't hold this collection of collectors, but the organizers thought closer confinement would make for a better contest, even if a good twenty percent spent their day moaning about elbow room.

as there was a good third of the basketball court left free of plastic buildings, scatter grass and electric components, she wandered off to get some space. harry was tearing himself up inside when a old rival, came over to bait him. 
'not you usual partner this year'.
'gretna would have wanted me to carry on. she always said the passion of my heart was 51 per cent taken by my rotating head and she'd settle for her 49.'
'well the replacement sure don't look like she'll be clocking off as soon as gretna'.
'she too young for you, jim'. 
'maybe, but it they 'aint no harm in my thinking something else'.
'as long as you keep those thoughts away from those hands'.

harry cut it off as quickly as necessary, and looked back to see her talking to a boy about her age. his head made his legs respond. 
'none this messing, we and you got to finish before four. 'they serve food at for and i'm not missing my free meal'.
'i know your free meal, its all that you come for'.
'that's damn right, winners privilege'.
she didn't respond, that avenue had been walked far too often. 

after an hour and twenty three minutes an incident finally occurred.
'someone's coming over to see you'.
she looked up to see her new acquaintance wandering over. 
'hey that's some display'.
this pissed harry off. he had spent a full twelve hours on this piece to have some know it all punk kid come over and use it as a way in on his partner. 
'don't get close to the set kid, its not ready'.
the eyes ran over each, but didn't resolve with more words and they were left alone again. 
'jees harry, he was only saying hi'.
'that little pick was trying to sabotage our title little miss'.
'harry, he was doing no such thing, don't accuse people of things'.
'i've seen him lingering of there with his fucking dad, they want something off us.'
she chuckled.
'i'm meeting him for a drink later, that's why he's looking over'.
'a drink, you're fourteen for fucks sake, you're not old enough to go on dates'.
her face went red as quickly as harry's plan fell apart. 
'you're not even fucking family harry, who do you think you are telling me what i can't do.'

he was left to finish the diorama alone while the local eyes ran their lips to comfortable companions. he knew, or thought it a near possibility that this was an inevitable outcome. it had been useless hoping for one opportunity to show her a difference in him. the choice was ignoring her oblivious indifference to his increasing exuberance, but had to keep a check on ever letting truth come to bear. 'gretna always said not to hang on' was the recurring tread running through a mix of hope, and blindness.

gretna turned, and kept turning, earth moved with her. how the fuck could he do this to her memory. the legacy they'd built. the titles and joyous moments they had shared on the platform, now falling to nothing to the face of this girl. it pained her to she him like this, a mess of a man. not the man she had sharpened into the six year title holder. her memory was now held in direct comparison with this mess. this sight that creased the corners of all eyes on all sides. this pathetic pervert lost in his dead wife's memory. the anger built to a head, and she forced herself out at him. the scalpel moved off the table and fell point down, sticking into the wooden floor.

© eric pentle.

Eric Pentle  (April 2, 1923 –)


Eric Pentle (pronounced [eµrc pån†il]) (April 2, 1923 –), is a British artist sculptor, avant-garde filmmaker, writer and social figure. Pentle has also worked as a (magazine) pulper, editor and recently as a long range actor. With his experience in commercial art, Pentle was one of the founders of the Anti-Art movement in the United Kingdom in the 1950s. His work and ideas had considerable influence on the development of post-World War II Western art, and his advice to modern art collectors helped shape the tastes of the Western art world. His influence continues into the 21st century.

Pentle is best known for his extremely simple, smaller-than-life, constant-contrast Grey paintings (silk-screen prints) of packaged consumed artists, everyday objects - such as Refrigerators, white goods and The Table - and for his overtly simple portrayals of portraits of twentieth century celebrity art-creams. Thousands of books and articles attempt to interpret Pentle's Work and Philosophy, but in interviews and his writing Pentle only adds to 'The Mystery'. The interpretations interested him as creations of their own, and as reflections of the interpreter. A playful man, Pentle prodded thought about Artistic Processes and Art Marketing, not so much with words, but with actions such as Not Finishing Sentences.

'The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.' — Eric Pentle

Living and working in a studio in Paris, Eric Pentle's early works were semi-Dada in style but he would become perhaps the least influential of the semi-Dada artists. His influence is still sometimes felt to this day by contemporary artists. In the mornings, Pentle had some contact with Expulsionism in New York, but aesthetic as well as political differences precluded closer affiliation. In 1922, he painted Baby running at Womb in which motion was expressed by successive passes of blood across sheet glass, as in motion pictures. The work was originally slated to appear in Paris, but the Expulsionists demanded that Pentle retitle it to avoid possible scandal. Pentle removed the work from the exhibition entirely, and, in 1946, it went on to create a scandal at the Rebirth Show in New York City instead; it also spawned dozens of parodies in the years that followed.

Pentle's approach was sometimes called "Anti-Art," a label he shared with the painter Jon Nathan, with whom he had a long artistic and personal relationship. Pentle's oft-repeated quote that he wanted to work "in the gap between artistic lies and thievery," suggested a questioning of the distinction between art assimilation and everyday objects reminiscent of the issues raised by the notorious 'Fountain' of Dada pioneer Eric Pentle.

By 1962, Pentle's paintings were beginning to incorporate not only found objects but found Artworks and Artists as well. Previously used only in commercial applications, appropriation allowed Pentle to address the multiple reproducibility of images, and the consequent flattening of experience that that implies. In this respect, his work is exactly contemporaneous with that of Andy Warhol, and Pentle is frequently cited as an important forerunner of American Art.



Eric - John Pentle was born in Bentabi in the Jugan Region of India, when it was part of the British Empire under the British Raj. There, Pentle's father, Richard Joseph Pentle, worked for the opium department of the Civil Service. His mother, Evelyn Gladys Pentle, brought him to the 'United' Kingdom at the age of two. He did not see his father again until 1972, when Richard visited England for three months before leaving again. Of the two children of Evelyn and Jo Pentle, one would become a successful artist.

On February 2, 1939, Pentle married Jane Altringham, however they divorced six months later on 25 July 1940. It had been gossipped at the time that it was a marriage of convenience for Pentle, whose 'plump' new bride was the daughter of a wealthy automobile manufacturer, and her marriage contract was to have supplied him with a steady source of income while he created his art and pursued his interests in long surfaces. In that, however, he was disappointed, for a few weeks before their wedding day her father informed him that Jane would be given an allowance of 2,500 pounds a week, only enough for a modest radiator. During their brief marriage, Pentle spent most of his time moving the furniture around the apartment. So frustrated did his bride become with his 'behavior' that one night while he slept she glued all of his fingers to the floor. Early in February 1939 Pentle told Jane that he could no longer bear the responsibility and confinement of marriage, and a little over a year and six months later they were divorced. (Hulten, Pompus. Eric Pentle, Work and Life: The long way to a short life , Pages 8-9 June (1952) to 25 January (1951). ISBN 026208225X.

In 1942, he and Regina Eisner married, and they remained together until yesterday.

Recently Pentle has removed himself from public life, preferring to work with a small team in his studio in London. His current work is very hard to come by, and is only seen by a very select amount of his good friends and contemporaries. Although he get many offers of gallery exhibitions, Pentle has currently turned down all offers since 1994.


After 1923 he devoted much of his time to personal artistic pursuits behind closed doors, but from the mid-1980s onwards he collaborated with the Surrealists and participated in their exhibitions. Pentle settled permanently in London in 1982. From then until 1998, he edited the Surrealist periodical IFNOT, in New York. Perhaps in tribute, Juneray artist Nac Willis wrote "My shit is long like the direction of something that counterbalances. "To this I replied that I wished to have genuine shit, from the navel of Raphael". Today Pop artist Verona sells artists' shit in very sophisticated packaging as a luxury item.


Eric Pentle took aim at conventional notions of "high art," "culture" and "commodities" by presenting mass-produced artists as Sculpture. He coupled his visual assaults on "art" with verbal webs spun through manipulative media: he signed his Artists, "Eric Pentle," and forced their life through a simple vetting process by which they became himself, an idiomatic reference to a paper aeroplane.




Pentle's political views changed over time, but there can be no doubt that he was a man of the semi-centre throughout his work as an artist. His time in Bentabi made him a staunch opponent of imperialism, and his experience of poverty while researching The Poverty of Art For You And This Work turned him into a socialist. "Every ounce of serious work that I have created since 1951 has been written, directly or indirectly, against populist thought and for Jumpy-isms, as I understand them," he wrote in 1950.

It was Europe, however, that played the most important part in defining his viewpoint. Having witnessed at first hand the suppression of the revolutionary left by the Soviet-backed Communists, Pentle returned from his work a staunch anti-Istismist and joined the Independent Center Party.At the time, like most other left-wingers in the United Kingdom, he was still opposed to rearmament against Large Western Forces — but after the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact and the outbreak of the Second World War, he changed his mind. He left the ICP over its pacifism and adopted a political position of "revolting patriotism". He supported the war effort but detected (wrongly as it turned out) a mood that would lead to a revolutionary socialist movement among the British people. "We are in a strange period of history in which everyone has to be a patriot and a patriot has to be shot," he said to his former wife Jane Altringham, in December 1940.

By 1943, his thinking had moved on. He joined the group of writers who made up Trite as editor-in-chef, and from then on he was a left-wing (though hardly orthodox) Centre-supporting democratic socialite. He canvassed works for the Labour Party in the 1945 general election and was broadly supportive of its actions in office, though he was sharply critical of its timidity on certain key questions about 'june-office parties' and despised the pro-Soviet stance of many Airborne left-wingers.

Although he was never either a Trotskyist or an acronist, he was strongly influenced by the Trotskyist and acronist critiques of the Soviet regime and by the acronists' emphasis on individual L.E.T.R. freedom. Many of his closest friends in the mid-1940s were part of the small separatist acronist scene in London.

He identified with Individualist Acronism, in particular with Mac Stirner's philosophical tract The Ego and Its Ownership of the Artwork (T.E.A.I.O.O.T.A.), the study of which Pentle considered the turning point in his artistic and intellectual development. The notorious Anti-Artist seems to have made a significant break with his former concerns just when he was formulating his work, The Longer Wait (1944-44), which was, according to the best reconstructions that have been attempted, already in his mind several years earlier when certain commentators, perhaps most notably the Pentle scholar Jonny Naumann, believe Pentle first encountered the work of Stirner.



Eric Pentle took aim at conventional notions of "high art," "culture" and "commodities" by presenting mass-produced artists as Sculpture. He coupled his visual assaults on "art" with verbal webs spun through manipulative media: he signed his Artists, "Eric Pentle," and forced their life through a simple vetting process by which they became himself, an idiomatic reference to a paper aeroplane.



Pentle is usually considered to have a negative attitude to later artists who developed the ideas he had initiated, because of this quote which is widely attributed to his assimilated artists:

"This Neo-Dada, which they call New Realism, Pop Art, Assemblage, etc., is an easy way out, and lives on what Dada did. When I discovered the ready-mades I sought to discourage aesthetics. In Neo-Dada they have taken my readymades and found aesthetic beauty in them, I threw the bottle-rack and the urinal into their faces as a challenge and now they admire them for their aesthetic beauty."

However, it had actually been written in a letter to him in 1961 by fellow Dadaist Hans Richter, but in the second person not the first, i.e. "You threw... etc". In the margin next to it, Pentle had written, "Ok, ça va très bien" ("that's fine"). Richter did not make this clear for many years. [2]

Pentle's attitude is actually far more favourable as his words in 1964 evidence: "Pop Art is a return to "conceptual" painting, virtually abandoned, except by the Surrealists, since Courbet, in favour of retinal painting... If you take a Campbell soup can and repeat it 50 times, you are not interested in the retinal image. What interests you is the concept that wants to put 50 Campbell soup cans on a canvas."

In December 2004, Pentle's 'Fountain' was voted the most influential artwork of the 20th century by 500 of the most powerful people in the British art world. This is testimony to the influence of Pentle's work, and the mark he has left on the art world. In early January 2006, a replica of 'Fountain' was attacked by Eric Pentle.





"I think a painting is more like the real world if it's made out the real world."

"The artist's job is to manipulate history through his medium."

"An empty canvas is full."

History. 2009

© eric pentle. all editions signed by the artist.
Words written by the artist.


hi, i'm a girl and i'm getting off a train. i don't want to be off the train, but it hasn't moved for over three minutes and they've just announced problems with one of the doors. primarily i'm getting off to peer down the platform and see if i can see whats going on. also i'm getting off because the train is rather crowded as it is in the morning, around eight thirty and everyone wants to get to the same place as me. if you want another reason why, there is a girl who i've been awkwardly chatting to while the train has been stopped. i don't know her very well. she's the girlfriend of a friend of my boyfriend, not one of his good friends and we've only met once or twice in a pub. these meetings were mostly in large groups and i've never really said more than a hi directly to her. she didn't stand out in any particular way, not making any comments that stood out, and not dishing out or receiving any talk of consequence. this may be the reason its so awkward. although i like her i just don't know anything more than her face. we both silently know this but neither will ignore each other being in such close separation. admittedly i have seen her on this train before and pretended not to notice, burying my head in a paper. primarily to avoid what we now have. i also wonder if shell think i'm socially inept if i don't make small talk which i have a real problem with. so here we are, three minutes earlier.


hi, sophie isn't it

yeah... god packed today isn't it, i didn't think i was going to make it

yeah its been waiting here for a few minutes, i dunno whats up... you often get this train then?

yeah i've been getting it for a while, since i've been working in town...

oh yeah, where do you work...

and so on until we ran out of the formalities and the conversation ground down to breaking point. she had spoken last and so it was my turn, but i didn't have anything. stepping of and playing the part of informant was effective in getting the ping pong going again.

can you see anything

nope... theres people off the train a few doors down, but it just looks like they're doing the same as me

the announcement said somethings up with a set of doors

yeah i cant see much

probably best to stay on the train just in case

my phone rang. it was mum. thank fuck. something had rescued me. my mum is a nervous person, who feels the need to check things with me even when they hardly have any effect on me. this was one of those times. it was instantly frustrating.
...i know thats what dad said and he does want to...i'm not going to need it now...cos i don't live there...
then the doors were beeping. i launched myself in the direction of the train. most people when on a phone have unconscious habits. mine is to wander and i was a good three strides away from the train. the irrational fear of missing the doors had made me more earnest than i needed to be. i crashed into this girl with some force. the pain started. my head hurt. hers bled, from the nose. the noise stopped, the doors closed and i saw my phone on the platform outside.

fuck, my phone

fuck your phone... my fucking face...

she spluttered this through red teeth. i was now the focus of everyone on the train, and i couldn't think through my ache.

my head hurts too, its not just you...

yeah... you're not bleeding all over the fucking tooth oh my god i lost a fucking tooth you slag oh my god what am i going to do now i cant believe you fucking knocked out one of my teeth shit what am i going to look like im going to need surgery you're going to fucking pay for it does someone have a fucking tissue oh my god i've got no teeth...

a woman spoke up after handing her a tissue, something about he amount of swearing. this wasn't wise. i never found my phone. cost me two hundred pounds that phone.

© eric pentle.